#( come at me if you must - but this is out of pocket on any level ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

midorimooon · 1 month ago

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pages from fiction | hawks x reader

summary - hawks discovers you read smutty manga ... about him. word count - 4k notes - some shameless smut for the new year featuring afab! reader and the birdman :) animated borders credit @/enchanthings-a warnings - smut, use of pet name, biting, teasing, oral (f!), PIV penetration, humor 18+ only!

You have a visitor… Not unwanted, just unexpected.

It’s around noon when you return to your apartment. You only manage to kick off your shoes when you find your friend, Hawks, on your sofa. His massive wings are pinned against the cushions, his gloves, headset, and eyewear discarded on the coffee table.

He must have entered through the balcony door, often left unlocked whenever he wanted to visit or take a break from patrol. It’s not an unusual thing to come home to, so you’re not put off by his appearance. He knows how to keep himself entertained while you’re out. Sometimes channel surfing, scrolling on his phone, or on occasion, napping on your sofa.

Today, he seems to be in the mood to read.

You take a few steps from the door, only to stop in your tracks as your eyes zero in on the book held in his hands.

Your good-natured greeting dies on your tongue, too shocked to process what you’re actually seeing.

It was a mistake, an oversight on your part, but you can’t take it back now. But if you could, you would have never left that book out in the open. Because you never intended for Hawks to find the doujinshi based off of him lying around where he could find it.

Hawks peers up, giving you a friendly onceover, way too calm for your liking that you blurt out, “It was Mirko.”

It was a gag gift from Mirko. In honor of April Fool’s Day that passed recently. Her sense of humor often involved teasing you for your crush on Hawks. So much, that opportunity knocked at the right time and she presented you with an explicit gift.

“Manga?” You had raised a brow at the offering. “A joke manga?” you added, taking it without a proper glance.

She grinned like a madwoman, urging you to give it more attention. “A niche kind of manga. Thought of you when I saw it.”

Flipping to the front cover, blood rushed to your face, jumpstarting your pulse.

Large, feathered wings, a bare chest, bedroom eyes that resembled your favorite Pro Hero with the very suggestive title—

“ A Hawks in Rut ,” Hawks recites aloud, bringing you back to the present. He rises to his feet, leveling you with a mischievous gaze.

You’re guilty, and he knows you are, because it’s the truth. Despite giving Mirko stick for the stunt, you didn’t turn down the gift. Nor did anything stop you from poring over each panel, deep into the night.

Your mind was in overdrive, inserting yourself in the heroine’s shoes as the manga-version of Hawks ravaged every inch of her. You didn’t even know stuff like this existed. Fan-made, X-rated content of Pro Heroes for public consumption? Is this even legal? You demanded to know where Mirko got this, but her lips were sealed.

You haven’t budged an inch, rooted to the spot by the door. Fight or flight, your mind crosses between two thoughts: snatch the manga back from Hawks or flee your own apartment.

Hawks pays your inner conflict no mind. And if he does, then he’s being a little shit about it. Because he approaches with a casual swagger, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other still holding the manga.

As he draws closer, your mind glitches, stuck on repeat. “It was Mirko.”

Hawks croons. “Aww, that’s cute. Giving you a manga using my likeness.”

“It was a joke,” comes your quick response.

“What part?” Hawks tilts his head. “The gift? The story? The drawings of me naked?”

Your eyes widen, mouth floundering. “No, no, no, Hawks—no! I wasn’t—” You weren’t poking fun at him if that’s what he means. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

His voice dials down to a husk. “Oh? So, tell me, birdy…”

Any attempt you make at a rational response is futile. Because hearing that pet name, the same one used in the manga—out of Hawks’s own mouth — turns your mind into cotton. It’s a sin how much you liked it, and it was criminal to want to hear it used again and again…

However, you gather your wits before you lose them entirely, keen to know, “How much of that did you read?”

From the amused sparkle in his eyes, it’s obvious Hawks has read more than enough. He puffs out a laugh. “Not much to ‘read’, really. Unless you mean the dialogue of...pleasure.” Another step closer and he’s haunting your space. “How much did you read?”

All of it in one sitting. Several times you tried to set the book down but couldn’t. Rather you were hooked, flipping through it, a budding warmth dampening the center of your thighs. By the end of it, you were dizzy and breathless, passing out with those lewd illustrations stamped behind your eyes. They invaded your dreams too. Hawks, nude, looming over you in bed…

“Birdy…” he singsongs, voice dripping with honey. “Lost you there for a second. Must have been a page-turner. The kind you read late at night, under the covers, maybe?”

Your pulse beats fast as he plucks your hand. “And this between your legs?” he whispers into your knuckles, warm breath turning into a soft kiss.

Without thinking, your hand reels back, incriminating yourself.

Hawks’s brows reach his hairline. “Oh…someone looks guilty. But what for?” He veers closer, until your back settles on the door.

He takes advantage of that, planting his hand against the wood, a hairsbreadth away from your head.

It’s only now you realize he’s not wearing his jacket. From the corners of your vision, all you see is strong, lean muscle that drags your gaze from his arm to his chest.

You want to have some sense of decorum, but how can you?

Of course, you always knew his hero uniform was on the snug side. Intended for streamlining in the air while remaining lightweight. But you never realized just how skin-tight it was. Like the fabric was painted on. It moves with his chest, sculpting its strength, outlining every inch of him in the best way.

Venturing a glimpse up, you’re met with a golden gaze, both predatory and beautiful, sending a shiver down your spine.

For a long moment, he holds your stare, the intensity of it making you weak-kneed.

“You know,” Hawks starts, flitting his attention back to the book. “Whoever drew these, they’re very creative. They did overexaggerate my eyes, however,” he laughs, turning a page. “Didn’t nail down my wingspan either. Can’t blame them. Too many feathers to draw. Not really the star of the show, right?”

Another turn of the page, the wrinkle of paper sounds like thunder.

“As for my dick…”

He’s shameless, having way too much fun toying with you. Testing your limits, like a predator with its prey.

He nods, contemplative, a look of appraisal. “…I’m flattered, they got something right.”

The mischief in his eyes has you averting your stare, anywhere else, only to brake at something beneath his belt.

It’s a silhouette at first, but as you gawk further, the impossible-to-ignore bulge strains within the confines of Hawks’s pants.

His eyes drop to his crotch, and he hums, “Speak of the devil.”

Nerves tie a knot in your throat. In classic Hawks fashion, he’s playful about it, blurring the line between seductive and casual. His serenity only leaves you more flustered as your imagination runs rampant, envisioning the details of Hawks’s cock.

But he’s not done yet. Hawks carries on, flipping through the book once more. “This looks like a fun position. Got to be really flexible to pull this off.”

This time, he turns the manga to your sights, and you almost swoon.

An entire, singular panel spans both pages. Hawks and the heroine on her bed, him hovering her very, very vulnerable form. Legs folded so tightly with her knees nearly touching her shoulders. And the only dialogue in the panel coming from Hawks: I’m gonna breed you like this.

You remember drooling over that panel for so long you needed reprieve before bed. The page was even dogeared because you were such a fucking perv.

He looms over, leaving a scant gap between your bodies. Move one inch and you’ll nudge his front. You’re stiff, doing the worst at ignoring his erection.

“And about my rut,” comes his voice again, sensuous as silk.

You swallow hard, skin prickling with heat that gathers between your thighs.

Up close, Hawks’s smirk only makes things worse or better…you’ve yet to decide. Regardless, the flash of his Colgate-smile, conspiratorial, pours sparks down your frame.

He tuts, the sound reaching your ears like a purr. “That silly rumor.”

You blink, pulled out of the fantasy for a moment. You were privy to the alleged spring rut that Hawks experienced. Or so you thought. You had boldly asked Mirko about it once, and she seemed to have more intel.

“That’s why he’s always on ‘special assignment’ for a few weeks,” she had alluded.

Social media and the tabloids were no different, publishing stories about how Hawks was once again missing in action from public hero events around April. The speculations circulated on the streets too that Hawks entering a rut every spring was practically decreed fact.

Except it might not be fact after all. Just fodder?

You look up at him, deeply curious, and mildly disappointed… “A rumor?”

You half-expect Hawks to burst into laughter. Perhaps even to bemoan the public’s misconception of him. But what you see instead is the look of a hunter striking his gaze.

You stammer, “So, it’s not true—?”

It happens in a flurry. You’re swept off your feet one second, and airborne, over Hawks’s shoulder the next. And the rest of your apartment glides past your sights.

Hawks drops you onto your bed, fingering the hem of your shirt.

Red feathers flutter around to assist. Hawks is hasty, dragging your shirt, while something sharp and swift cuts the back of your bra. The world is nothing but cotton and rustling fabric until your shirt is disposed.

You flop back onto the mattress, tits to the wind. Next, your jeans and underwear are dragged off without fanfare, And Hawks…despite his hurry, takes a pause, blowing out a wolf-whistle.

Sharp eyes rake your chest. “Look at that…there’s a fox hiding under those clothes.”

Your mind goes static with anticipation, entranced with the way Hawks shamelessly appraises your body.

There’s a dark and raptorial shift as Hawks’s gaze snaps to yours. He drops forward, wings flared out, casting a crimson eclipse from above.

“Hawks?”

His hand skims up your stomach, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake before palming your breast. You mewl as he squeezes your flesh.

“You’re so soft,” he rasps, crawling over you, a predator ready to strike. “I can’t wait to leave my marks…” He seals that oath with a searing kiss.

It catches you by surprise, you try to keep up with his pace, but it’s all-consuming. Sloppy and hungry, a faint whimper falls out from your lips, but Hawks hears it.

He pulls back, a tendril of saliva breaking apart. “You want that too.” He grins, a growl scraping against his throat. “I can tell. Just fucking look at you. Naked, sprawled on your back, and…”

He trails off, eyes doing the same until they reach your center.

You’re so wet for him, the arousal leaking from your pussy long before he brought you to the bed.

Hawks bares his teeth like an animal. “Shit, you got yourself so messy.” He drags his nails up your plush thighs.

Your skin shivers under the possessive sting. “Hawks—I thought it was a rumor?”

“It is. But everything’s a rumor until proven true." A carnal edge curls around his words, leaving you clueless. “So—” you breathe. “Are you—are you really in rut—”

The details of the manga’s story are hazy now, you can only recall a few details.

Hawks requesting the heroine’s assistance in his lust-filled affliction. From there it went from zero to one hundred fast.

As you stare at Hawks now in the flesh, it’s like the pages from fiction have come to life.

“Hawks—” you gasp.

“ Keigo ,” he cuts you short, voice tight. “If you want me to stop, call me Hawks.” That playful side to him from earlier is nowhere to be seen. It’s been swallowed up by something else. “Call me by my real name…and I’ll keep going. Say my name, and I won’t stop .”

The choice is yours, hanging in the stagnant air. Your breathing is labored, dizzy, an ache gnaws at your stomach. From the way Hawks watches you, his chest stiffening as he sucks in a sharp breath, his willpower is withering.

You’ve always been careful using his real name. Security reasons, and because ‘Hawks’ was sewn tight within his identity. If you utter his actual name, you won’t be able to undo whatever he has planned.

It’s a thought you should consider. Rethink how this will affect your friendship with him going forward. How it will affect your own feelings. Despite the circumstances, he’s giving you the option, handing over the reins before he takes them back.

However, those principles elude you, overshadowed by your own selfish desire.

Your fate leaves your lips in a forbidden whisper, you’re not sure he hears it. “Keigo.”

But Keigo does, smug as he presses his lips onto yours in a passionate kiss. “That’s my birdy.”

You whine at the affection. Impatient, you weave your hands into his hair to draw him close. He indulges you for a moment, sliding his tongue inside of your mouth. He tastes of sweet coffee, the stroke of his tongue akin to a shot of espresso.

He releases a guttural moan. “Fuck…you’re a great kisser.” He deepens the kiss, stealing the air from your lungs.

Caught between half-breaths, your head spins.

“Stay still for me.” Keigo nips at your jaw before falling back on his haunches.

You comply, watching him peel at the neckline of his shirt with precision. Even so, he’s quick with it, wings folding together so that he can slip it off. It’s like an art form, the way his torso stretches, the deftness in his fingers working with the fabric, and the bend of his wings. By the time he’s shirtless, there’s more to see.

Toned muscle, a six-pack carved into the planes of his stomach, a happy trail sinking past his belt. All that hero training evident in his body, you imagine the same applies to his stamina. At least you’re soon to find out.

Keigo’s shirt lands somewhere in the room, humored to find you admiring his physique. “You’re the judge. Tell me, better than those drawings?”

The cockiness is distinct in his tone, a signature trait of his that you’ve always adored in secret. If the circumstances were different, you wouldn’t feed that ego of his. But pinned beneath him, a hot frustration simmers in your belly—you don’t care.

Mouth agape, you nod. Not an ounce of shame left in you.

Keigo lowers to kiss you again. From the sting of his teeth, you feel blood rushing to your lower lip. He scratches kisses on your neck then, sucking harshly at the skin, leaving marks by your pulse.

True to his earlier promise, Keigo takes a bite out of every part of you. Your throat, your collarbone, like he’s desperate to devour you before he misses his chance.

When he reaches your breast, you arch into him. “Keigo—”

You catch the low rumble in his throat, slotting your nipple with his mouth. He sucks harshly, the lewd noises spilling into the air, joining another gasp of his name from your lips.

He pulls back a little to grab your breasts in both hands, pressing them together to give them as much equal, hungry attention.

After a moment, Keigo’s attention skates downwards, thumbs pressing into your hip bones, wet kisses smattering all over your stomach.

Despite the sloppy pace, there’s a reverence in the way Keigo spoils your body. Almost ritualistic and innate. His touch searches and finds the right spots with ease, even parts of your body you didn’t realize were sensitive. Like your rib cage. He sinks his teeth there to leave a loving mark.

His pace dials down the lower he sinks, then stops when his eyes are reunited with your wet heat.

You can’t describe his expression beyond calling it a trance. Flushed cheeks, lidded eyes, a gaping maw scorching your pussy with his breaths. More surprising, is the loss of his silver-tongue. He licks his lips, but says nothing, like words would fail him if he tried. A certified yapper silenced.

Then his wings open up, feathers ruffling in light tremors. A few shake free and one lands between your breasts. You take it, running your thumb along the quill.

Keigo shivers. You lift a brow, stroking the feather again, watching him bristle. You don’t recall this happening in the manga.

“Keigo?” you utter and it’s like his senses snap together.

He blinks, eyes crawling up to meet yours. A predacious grin forms around his gaping mouth. “Still here, birdy. Just admiring this beautiful pussy of yours—”

Whatever restraint he had left fades in seconds. He tugs you closer and spreads your thighs wide. Dangling his tongue, he gives you another heated look. You watch a dribble of saliva meet your clit, the final warning before Keigo plunges his tongue deep inside of you.

Pleasure sparks under your skin, glimpses of stars enter your sights.

It’s all tongue, swiping and thrusting, while Keigo’s talons pierce into your thighs to keep you still. You tremble, already so close to reaching your peak, something Keigo seems privy to.

He switches to give your clit the most attention, demanding, “You better cum on my fucking face, birdy…”

That authority sends you spiraling, pure ecstasy bursts in your vision, cumming on his tongue. “Keigo!”

“That’s it, that’s it—” he chokes on a grunt, wings tense in the air. “That’s my birdy—fuck—make a mess!”

He slurps every drop, groaning like the pleasure is equally his.

Thigh twitching and muscles numb from being pinned down, you’re mindless as Keigo laps you up with an endless greed.

You’re not sure how much time has passed. Minutes? Or maybe only a few seconds, because Keigo gives your pussy a gentle kiss before he rises to look at you.

He smirks. “Still with me?”

You puff out a weak laugh. “Still here…”

Keigo crawls over, takes your jaw, rewarding you with a fiery kiss to the lips. His front nestles between your thighs. At the press of his erection, a whimper breaks loose from your throat.

“Not enough for you, huh? Want me to fuck you? Need me to stuff you with my cock?”

“Mhm…” is the only thing you manage.

Thankfully, Keigo doesn’t torture you any longer. He chuckles, sliding off the bed without looking away. “Make sure those eyes don’t roll out, baby,” he says in preamble, unbuckling his belt.

You prop yourself on your elbows, eager to watch him strip the last of his clothes. You don’t care how much of a voyeur you’re being. That ship has sailed.

Keigo slides his pants and boxers off in a hurry.

His cock springs out and a wave of renewed arousal washes over your body.

It’s…far better than the illustrations. Far better than your own fantasies. It’s impressive, it’s endowed .

It’s beautiful… Hard and thick, a vein wrapped around the shaft. The tip is flushed a deep red, topped with a pearl of pre-cum.

Keigo returns to the bed, casting his form of yours. His eyes ride up your stomach, over the valley of your breasts, then finally screech to a halt at your gaze.

You wonder what you must look like to him because a reflection of your own carnal desire stares back at you tenfold. Keigo’s sharp eyes, pupils blown in a dark vortex, pulling you in deeper. Beautiful, slick lips, agape as he takes a staggered breath.

He’s always been a master of control. But seeing him in this state triggers a new level of desire within you. For that resolve of his to chip away—to witness a raw, animalistic layer unravel.

The tip of his dick slides across your center. Rock hard and so fucking heavy, your hips buck up for more friction, turning you into a mewling mess.

Keigo, however, is no better than you, lust weighing his voice down like iron. “You ready for me?”

Another pitiful whine pours from your mouth. Words are difficult. Your mind has gone static, too frustrated to think.

A sharp hiss echoes from above. Keigo bites down on a grin. “Fuck…you’re a vision like this.” Strong hands press down on your thighs, a delicious ache, eclipsed with the feel of Keigo’s dick stroking the seam of your pussy. “Can’t hold back anymore.”

Desperation is caught between Keigo’s lidded eyes. A feral kind of hunger that matches a beast's after staving off for too long.

“Keigo…” you whine, your hand skims downwards to your pussy. Fingers splay out your folds in a plea.

“Oh…” Keigo groans, a shudder running from every feather down to his spine. “My name belongs in your mouth. Say it again.”

“Keigo.”

“Fuck…just like that.” He meshes his lips to yours with bruising force, consuming your moans. When he pushes off, he takes your legs, folding them at the knees to crush them between your bodies. “Gotta give you the real, authentic ‘Hawks’ experience,” he growls with a hint of humor.

His dick nudges your opening. Your pussy flutters, hoping to catch him. But Keigo does the rest, too impatient to wait, he pushes himself in. “Count the inches, baby.”

One...two...the stretch is intoxicating.

Three...four...his length pulses in your heat.

Five…six…seven…you lose count of the rest as Keigo buries it all to a hilt.

Together, you moan in bliss.

Keigo waits a moment for you to adjust and for him to bask in the way your walls suck him in. When that moment passes, he says, “Moving now.”

Your arms enfold around his neck as he pulls out fully and thrusts back in.

He fucks you with unbridled fervor. Keigo mutters a string of curses, reaching your ears like a melody. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.”

On impulse, your hand slides down to the base between his wings. You press into it, fingers knotting in his feathers.

“Ah—baby, my wings, yes, play with my wings—touch them—”

Between his thrusts inside of you and his pleas, your hands are clumsy brushing through the plumage. You lack any sort of technique, but Keigo responds in favor, moaning in your ear while his wings bristle at your touch.

The animalistic display sends a spark down to your center and you clench around his length.

Keigo chuckles, though it’s strained. “Shit, the way you just got even tighter now…fuck...you feel so fucking good—”

While his pace starts to lose rhythm, the stamina has yet to fail him, nor does he ever miss hitting your sensitive spots. Each sharp thrust brings you closer to your climax.

Keigo can read your body, gauging how close you are. “Let me feel you cum on my cock—please cum on my cock, birdy, fuck—”

It’s nothing but babbling from him now. He looks at you, a hint of vulnerability hidden in that feral vortex. And with a few more harsh strokes your senses bubble over and fizz into euphoria.

“That’s my birdy,” he rasps into your mouth, praising you with a loving kiss before he bucks his hips a few more times, triggering his own release.

He spills inside of you, warm and sticky, you savor the feeling as you both catch your breath. You also take the moment to cherish his appearance.

Dewy skin, pink cheeks, slick all over his lips and chin. Some strands of his classic windswept hair cling to his forehead. You brush them away, meeting his gaze.

He leans into your touch, slipping his arms beneath your back to draw you in and rain kisses all over your face.

Your laughter echoes in the room, your senses fluttering back like a loose feather.

Keigo gulps, taking another deep breath. “Well…that's my kind of page turner.”

You snort, bristling at the new onslaught of kisses on your neck. “Nothing compares to the real thing.”

Keigo coos into your pulse. “A book can only show you so much. It can stir that imagination of yours, but…” He kisses you on the lips. “It can’t fuck you. That’s what I'm meant for.”

After this, you doubt you’ll be able to look at the doujinshi the same way. That version of Hawks may have been a fun fantasy, but Keigo is much more special.

Without warning, you’re flipped over. You only register your face pressed into the sheets before Keigo hikes your hips up so that your ass is on full display. He rubs the tip of his dick against your slit. It’s already hard again, leaking against your folds.

He brushes the hair from your nape, folding over to whisper in your ear. “That was round one, birdy. Still got to mark up this pretty, delicate back of yours.”

You shudder with excitement, hoping you’ll be able to keep up with Keigo’s stamina. However long that lasts.

So, it’s true? He has a rut? He's in rut?

Keigo takes your hips in his hands, and you brace yourself, grasping onto the sheets. Whether it is or it isn’t, you don’t care to know.

..............................................

Mirko sends off the civilians she just rescued with a wave. The authorities will handle the rest as she returns to her patrol, maybe even grab a quick dinner beforehand.

She fishes for her phone in her suit’s pocket and considers maybe meeting up with other heroes if they’d like to join.

Tapping at the screen, she’s met with two notifications.

[You – 6:40pm]: Did I ever thank you for that manga? 😉🙏

[Hawks – 7:06pm]: I owe you one!!!

Mirko cackles. No questions, no explanations, no text replies needed. At least now, she knows to rule you and Hawks out for dinner plans tonight. “Pervs."

a/n: adding to the pile of 'hawks in rut' stories with my own twist! hope you enjoyed! and happy 2025!!

#bnha x reader #hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo x you #mha x reader #mha smut #bnha smut #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #keigo x reader #hawks

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luveline · 2 years ago

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losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

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wavypotatochips · 10 months ago

Text

Elevator Mishap || Central Cee

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : CentralCee x Female reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 : You find yourself trapped in an elevator with a mysterious stranger who turns out to be the famous rapper Central Cee in disguise. [FLUFF/ LIGHT TENSION]

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: HIIIII GUYS omg so much stuff has happened personally in my life but I am back and better!! Central Cee is so fine and I just always wanted to write something with him lol. Its been a while since I have wrote something, so bare with me c': I have no requests, so feel free to send some in!

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ♥

"I find it hard to believe I'm actually here," you murmur under your breath, a mix of disbelief and disinterest coloring your tone as you wait for the elevator to reach your floor. While most girls would gush with excitement at the prospect of attending a Central Cee concert in the UK alongside their best friends, Stacey and Rosalina, you find yourself unable to share in their fervor. The trio, inseparable since middle school, practically dragged you along when they scored free tickets to the concert, complete with all expenses paid. Despite their infectious enthusiasm for Central Cee, you couldn't summon the same level of excitement, feeling rather indifferent towards his music. Meanwhile, your best friends are back in the hotel room, immersed in making TikToks while belting out Central Cee's tunes. You made an excuse about needing to run down to the convenience store on the ground floor to grab a snack, eager to escape the impending festivities. As the elevator doors finally slide open, you step inside, your mind already elsewhere, contemplating the potentially underwhelming night ahead, especially given your lack of interest in the artist.

Absentmindedly humming to yourself, you press the button for the ground floor before casually leaning against the elevator wall. A brief moment of panic strikes as you pat your pockets, realizing your phone must have been left behind in the hotel room. Before you can fully process this inconvenience, the elevator lurches upward, and a figure clad entirely in black, sporting a ski mask, shades, and a hat, enters. You brush off the peculiar attire, attributing it to the chilly weather outside, but a faint sense of unease begins to gnaw at you as the elevator door closes.

The person does not press any buttons, signaling they were also going to the bottom floor like you were. You tried not to stare at the person beside you, but the clothes they were wearing screamed wealth. You look at their shoes as the elevator begins to go down. Suddenly, the elevator comes to a stop with a shake. You widen your eyes as anxiety kicks in, confused on what is going on. You look over at the stranger, not being able to see their expression before walking over and pressing the first-floor button again. This time, the elevator doesn't seem to budge nor is it telling you what floor you two are currently on.

“There's no way,” noticing the elevator may be stuck, your heart sinks down. The stranger walks closer to you, giving them a try themselves to press the buttons. You step back to give them room. Noticing the buttons will not budge for them either, you sigh and press the red button that signals a representative. A few minutes pass before someone speaks, “Hello? Is everything alright?,” the statically voice states.

“Yeah, ummm I think the elevator is stuck. We also can’t see what floor we are on,” you respond.

“Okay, please remain calm we are sen-,” the voice cuts off.

“Hello?,” you question, “HELLLOOOOOO?,” spamming the button again.

“Lady we can't hear YOUUU!,” You state pressing the button.

“You should stop before you break it.” The voice of the person speaks with a deep British accent, you now know they are a male. You turn to look at him, continuing to press the button a few more times before stopping. You sigh, sitting down on the floor.

“Just great,” you mumble while lowering your head in defeat. You are not someone with claustrophobia, plus the elevator was a decent size so it's not as if you were scared you were trapped. Only annoyed. While your head is low, you hear clothes shuffling causing you to look back up. The man begins to take off his coat and hat, probably also realizing we are not going to be getting out anytime soon. You shift your legs so you are now sitting criss-cross on the floor, your back against the wall as you look up at the elevator's ceiling.

“Don't worry, I bet they will come soon,” the man speaks once again with a reassuring voice. You keep your head up, “I know, it just sucks. This is my first time in the UK and I'm spending my first night trapped in an elevator with a stranger, no offense.” You hear a chuckle, ”None taken. What are you in the UK for if you don't mind me asking?” You can tell he just wanted small talk, and you didn't mind. I mean after all, you are stuck here for who knows how long.

“My Best friends and I are here for the Central Cee concert,” you respond, continuing to study the French painting that is plastered on the ceiling of the elevator.

“Are you excited to go?,” he questions, resulting in you shrugging,” I don't care too much about him. Nothing against him, but you know, not really my taste.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the intercom and the faint hum of the elevator's mechanisms.

"So, what brings you to the concert if you're not a fan?" he asks, curiosity evident in his voice.

You offer a half-smile, considering your response. "Honestly, I'm just here for my friends. Stacey and Rosalina are huge fans, and they practically begged me to come along. Figured it would be a fun night out, even if the music isn't really my thing."

He nods in understanding, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. "Ah, the sacrifices we make for friendship," he muses, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. “Maybe after the concert you will be my fan.”

His unexpected comment catches you off guard, and you find yourself momentarily taken aback. With a furrowed brow, you glance down, your eyes widening and eyebrows raising in confusion. And there he stands, Central Cee himself, his presence suddenly filling the confined space of the elevator. His pearly white teeth glint in the dim light, a charming smile gracing his lips.

If your best friends were in your position, they probably would have passed out by now. But you? You simply let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Mmmmm I don't think so. Your music just isn't my type,” you reply, your tone casual yet resolute. You glance back up at the ceiling, your interest clearly elsewhere.

Central Cee seems momentarily taken aback by your nonchalant response. He had perhaps expected screams of excitement or frenzied fangirling – or perhaps even both. But your composed demeanor only serves to intrigue him further. He closes his lips, the smile still lingering on his face, his gaze lingering on you with newfound curiosity.

"Really now?" he questions, a playful glint in his eyes. "What exactly is your type, hmm?"

“Not you, so it doesn't matter,” you respond with a casual flick of your gaze, focusing on your nail as if it holds the answers to the universe. Impatience begins to creep into your movements, prompting you to rise from your seat and stride over to the control panel, where you futilely press the buttons at random.

"Well, I would like to know," he persists, closing the distance between you with a deliberate step.

"It doesn't matter," you retort, your tone edged with determination.

"Yes, it does," he insists.

"No, it doesn't," you counter.

"Yes, it does."

"No, it do—" You cut yourself off mid-sentence, the absurdity of the situation dawning on you. "Wait, why am I even going back and forth with you?" The question is more to yourself, but Central Cee decides to respond.

"Because you do like me."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I—" You catch yourself falling into the same cycle, causing him to chuckle.

"You know, you're cute when you get mad," he remarks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His words elicit a soft blush from you, prompting you to turn away and face the wall. "Leave me alone," you mumble.

"Awww, I'm sorry, love. Let me make it up to you," he responds cheekily.

"Make it up to me by getting this damn elevator to work," you grumble under your breath.

"If you can admit that I am your favorite artist, then I will make that happen," he confesses, catching you off guard.

You raise an eyebrow, turning to face him. "How?"

He tilts his head to the side, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Say it, and I will make it happen."

You exhale heavily, skepticism evident in your expression. "Why does it matter to you so much?" you question.

He shrugs, smiling. "Simply because."

You glare at him, his grin only widening in response. You decide to humor him, considering his celebrity status and the possibility of connections. "Fine. You are my favorite artist."

He raises his eyebrows, amused by your half-hearted admission. "I don't think that was sincere enough for me."

You let out another small breath. Stepping closer to him, you meet his gaze head-on. "Oakley, you are my favorite artist. I love your music so much; you are so talented."

His demeanor softens, his eyes meeting yours with sincerity. Something about saying his real name seems to have an effect on him. Whether it's your beauty or simply the use of his name, it stirs something within him, making him feel... nice.

You find yourself studying his features, admiring the way his light tan skin complements the arch of his eyebrows and the depth of his chocolate eyes. His small smile draws your attention, and you instinctively take a step back, coughing lightly to dispel the tension.

"Uhm... okay, I said it. Now, do your magic."

"You're right," he responds, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

"YOU HAD A PHONE THIS ENTIRE TIME??" you exclaim, incredulous.

"Yes," he simply responds, unlocking his phone.

You sigh. "Why didn't you say something?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Who wouldn't want to be trapped in an elevator with a beautiful girl like you?"

You open your mouth to reply, but the fluttering sensation in your stomach leaves you speechless. Despite your indifference towards his music, you can't deny his charm.

For a few moments, you find yourself lost in thought, your gaze dropping to your shoes. His voice interrupts your reverie, causing you to lift your head.

"Damn. I don't have any service," he says, raising his arm in a futile attempt to get a signal.

You watch as Central Cee furrows his brow in frustration, tapping futilely at his phone screen in a desperate attempt to find a signal. Despite the annoyance of being stuck in an elevator, you can't help but feel a strange sense of camaraderie with him, a shared bond forged in the confines of this metal box.

As the seconds tick by, the silence between you grows heavier, the tension palpable in the air. You glance at Central Cee, taking in the way the dim light of the elevator accentuates the contours of his face, casting shadows that dance across his features. Despite your best efforts to ignore it, you can't deny the flutter of excitement that flits through your stomach at the sight of him.

"Anything yet?" you ask, breaking the silence with a voice that comes out softer than intended.

Central Cee shakes his head, his expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Nothing. It's like this elevator is in its own little world, cut off from the rest of the universe."

Central Cee chuckles softly, the sound echoing in the confined space. "and here I thought being a famous rapper would exempt me from getting stuck in elevators," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You smile, appreciating his attempt to inject a bit of humor into the situation. "Guess even celebrities aren't immune to elevator mishaps," you reply, your lips quivering in a half-smile.

He returns the smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. "At least I'm stuck in here with someone interesting," he says, his tone laced with sincerity.

A blush rises to your cheeks at his compliment, and you quickly avert your gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. "Thanks," you mumble, "I guess you aren't so bad yourself.."

Central Cee's smile widens at your response, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment," he says, his tone teasing yet genuine.

You chuckle softly, feeling a sense of ease settle over you as the tension between you dissipates. "Consider it one," you reply, meeting his gaze with a shy smile.

As the moments pass, you find yourself drawn into conversation with Central Cee, the topics ranging from trivial matters to deeper discussions about life, dreams, and everything in between. Despite the unusual circumstances that brought you together, you can't help but feel a sense of connection with him, a feeling of understanding that goes beyond mere words.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity but is likely only a few hours, the elevator lurches back to life with a groan of protest, the sudden movement catching you off guard. Central Cee reaches out a hand to steady you, his touch warm and reassuring against your skin.

"We're moving again," he says, a note of relief in his voice.

You nod, a sense of anticipation building within you as the elevator ascends towards the surface. “Finally,” you say, though a pang of reluctance tugs at your heart. Deep down, you wish the elevator would stay broken, prolonging the fleeting moments you've shared with him. In the brief interlude of confinement, you've come to appreciate not just Central Cee, but the person behind the persona, Oakley. As the elevator hums back to life, you resign yourself to the inevitable parting that awaits you both, returning to the separate paths your lives had veered from.

Central Cee begins to adjust his attire, meticulously covering his features with the ski mask and glasses, returning to his "disguise". “Don't worry," you assure him, offering a small smile, "I won't breathe a word of this to anyone. It'll be our little secret.” Before he can respond, the elevator doors glide open, ushering in a flood of light and fresh air. Eager to break free from the confines of the elevator, you step out quickly, wary of being trapped again.

“Hey,” Central Cee calls out to you, his voice laced with a hint of concern, “I’ll see you tomorrow,yeah?” A flicker of something indefinable passes between you, a silent understanding that transcends words. Though you yearn for a deeper connection, you suppress the urge, unsure of what you truly desire. With a small smile, you nod in acknowledgement, “Yeah.”

As you both walk away, your steps leading you in opposite directions, you can't help but feel a sense of resonance, a shared moment that binds you together in thought. Despite the divergence of your paths and the separation of your lives, in that fleeting instant, your minds are aligned, fixated on each other, entwined in a momentary bond that defies explanation.

#central cee #centralcee x female reader #central cee fanfic #centralcee imagines #central cee x y/n #central cee x reader #fanfic #imagines

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icyg4l · 4 months ago

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October 2024 Predictions

Hello beautiful people! Today’s pick a card reading is going to be what you can expect from October 2024. If you resonate with this reading, please don’t hesitate to book a reading with me. Refer to my guidelines and my booking site before doing so. Please help a broke college student out, if you can lol! But anyway, let’s get on with the PAC. Without further ado, please select your pile!

Top Left-to-Bottom Right: (1-4)

Pile One: Somebody’s gonna be having a lot of fun. I can tell that you need moments of relaxation, but also to party! You will get invited into a Halloween party, but please do not get shit-faced. You may end up in the hospital. I feel like you’ll be playing around with different methods of manifesting, if you’re actively manifesting something tangible (a car, new clothes/makeup, etc). You should not get too specific with their manifestations. Leave the why’s/how’s up to the Universe or whatever you believe in. Some of you could be wearing a Santa Muerte necklace or worship Santa Muerte. You may have a dream in which she sends you a message, telling you not to worry. She’s got it. This pile needs to practice safe sex!! Some of y’all are celibate but will soon be giving it up, lol. If you have a partner with a penis, you may find yourself being more fertile than usual. If not, then you should still practice safe sex. Be communicative with your partner’s and thoroughly wash yourself and any objects that you may use during the act. And of course, have fun! Also, some of you will have a dream that will spark a new idea. I get major Pisces energy from this pile. Why are y’all so horny lol??? Don’t lose sight of reality this month. Curveballs will be thrown but you just have to stay put.

Cards Used: Ace of Cups. 2 of Discs. The Hanged Man. 9 of Cups. The High Priestess. The Moon.

Pile Two: I heard the word “glorious” as I was shuffling for this pile. Pile Two, you are free to do whatever you please. After a time of trials, you will finally feel triumphant. You have been waiting for this moment: to feel uninhibited and abundant. You are going to meet someone that will help open doors for you so that you can receive more clientele, if you are looking to start a business. For others of you, you will meet someone who is well-connected to different people and you may find a few friends/a lover. If it’s a lover, it is something that will be short-lived. This connection will help you get more comfortable in a new environment. Some of you could have moved to a different state/city (congratulations!). It feels chaotic right now, but right now you have to remember that help is on the way. Do not try to do everything on your own. If you do, then you will feel overwhelmed. This month, you will get more familiar with traveling in your downtown area/around the city. Be sure to keep something on you (bear spray, a pocket knife, graffiti spray, amulets, Nazars, etc). Be prepared for what is to come but don’t stress out over the small details (especially if you’re working on a project that will benefit you monetarily). It’s easier said than done, I know. Your plans will come into fruition as long as you keep your eyes on the prize. By any means necessary.

Cards Used: Princess of Swords. Queen of Swords. Wheel of Fortune. 2 of Cups. Death. The Emperor (RX).

Pile Three: Someone is about to level up! While you are doing better for yourself, some people will not be able to be in your presence anymore. You must cut them loose. If you have a hunch about a friend, specifically if they have any Aquarius placements, then it’s time to cut them loose. You’re too good for them and you know it. I feel like this is a friend outside of your friendship circle. You were warned about them before. Aside from the friendship drama, this month will be a great month to romanticize the little things. Fall may be your favorite season. Being in tune with nature will help you manifest more beauty. Staying grounded = staying beautiful. This month will go by very quickly for you. Some of you will be baking cookies and spending more time with your mother figure. Some of you may have to give advice to an impulsive, younger person to prevent them from making a huge mistake (possibly involving their friends and/or their schoolwork). There is nothing wrong with playing the role of a nurturer. Embrace it. And lastly, if there is anyone or anything that brings you chaos, it is time for you to leave it behind. Starting anew can be scary but this will change your life for the better by making room for what is to come. Out with the old, in with the new!

Cards Used: 3 of Cups. 7 of Swords. 5 of Wands. 6 of Cups. 8 of Wands. The Empress.

Pile Four: Are you catching a coach flight via Southwest/Spirit Airlines? Are you taking an Amtrak train soon? I can tell you’re really over the bs, lol. I heard “catching flights, not feelings”. But unfortunately for you, you will be catching feelings. Be open to being in a loving relationship. It is safe for you to love. They could be very reminiscent of your loving father figure. You may meet this person as you are traveling. It is possible that you are moving to wherever you plan to travel to. If you are, then you will feel content with your decision. Right now, you are in a waiting period. The momentum is about to pick back up for you. Consider the reality of where you are going and compare it to your head. At this time, you could find yourself being anxious at times, questioning if you are ready, and you in fact are. Things are aligning for you. You could find that people in your position are landing on your for you page on TikTok. You could find that people are wearing/successfully obtaining what it is that you want. A lot of you want a new house/apartment. This will help you gain the confidence to fully pursue your goals and dreams. Don’t put them on hold for anything or anyone. I am channeling the scene where Fiona finally leaves Chicago in Shameless.

Cards Used: The Lovers, The Emperor, Prince of Cups, The World, 8 of Cups, 4 of Swords.

#tarotreading #tarot #manifesting #pick a card #pick a pile #divination #astro notes #free tarot readings #18+ readings #daily tarot #free divination #free tarot #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #witchblr #viralpost #cartomancy #icyg4l

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rebelwrites · 1 year ago

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IM HERE FOR THE FLASH FIC!!

I’ve been craving some Jax Teller. I need something tender and sweet, but in character. Something to make me feel safe and wanted, but not simply desired. Idc what you write or how you do it because I know it’s going to be 👌

You Aren’t Meant To Be Back Until Christmas Eve

Jax Teller x Reader

This is a flash fic so it hasn’t been edited. It’s also good to be back writing again 🥺

It was the week leading up to Christmas and to say you were rushed off your feet was a complete understatement. This was your favorite time of year, even though your stress levels were through the roof, you practically lived off coffee and energy drinks and hardly saw your boyfriend Jax. You knew he understood why you were so absent in the run up to the festive season, the small bakery had queues running down the street from mid October.

Leaning against the stainless steel counter, you took a deep breath looking at the stack of cookie trays that were cooling waiting to be iced ready for the morning rush. Your body ached to where all you wanted to do was sink into a scalding hot bath, not moving until the hot water eased your aching muscles.

The sound of your phone echoing around the industrial supplied kitchen pulled you from any thoughts, you knew it would be Jax, it always was this time of night. No matter what time you were working he would always drop you a call to see how you were getting on, even when he was on runs with the club he would always make a point of calling you. Brushing the flour on the front of your jeans you grabbed your phone, quickly answering the call before pressing the device against your ear.

“Is it a late one again Darlin’?” Your boyfriend hummed, you could hear the tiredness hanging from his words, this last run for the club must have taken more of a toll on him this time.

“I think I’m still gonna be here come opening,” you sighed, letting your gaze fall to the countertop. “Don’t get me wrong I love Christmas and the bakery but I just want to spend time with you.”

“The money is nice as well,” he chuckled, causing the corners of your lips to tug into a small smile. You knew how much the bakery meant to not only Jax but the club too. This was one of the first legitimate businesses that was set up, Jax surprised you one day by showing the vacant lot and the new sign he had designed, from that day the “From Anarchy, With Love” bakery was born.

“How was the run?” You asked, pulling the phone away from you ear, putting in on speaker so you could be free to move around the kitchen.

“Long as fuck,” he groaned, you knew he would be running he hand across his face as he spoke. “I am so fuckin’ done with the muling, it is just getting more risky with each run,” he mumbled, with each word he spoke you could hear the pain in his voice.

Before he could carry on the sound of someone pounding at the front door gained my full attention. “Hold on baby, I swear someone is trying to put their fist through the front door of the bakery,” you huffed in annoyance. It was probably one customer trying their luck to see if they could get their order early. But that didn’t stop you from reaching into the cupboard by the doorway of the kitchen, grabbing my hand gun, flicking the safety off before tucking it into the bank of my jeans. One thing was for sure when it came to being Teller’s old lady, you was never without protection, whether this was in the form of a 9mm, a member of the club or Jax.

As you moved through the building, the knocking got louder and more persistent. “Bloody hell, don’t punch my door in, it never hurt you,” you scoffed, fishing the keys out of the pocket of Jax’s hoodie.

You felt myself fumbling with all the locks, once again thanks to Jax being over protective, soon enough the door was finally unlocked and the moment you pulled the heavy wooden door you dropped the set of keys on the floor as you saw your boyfriend leaving against the brick entrance.

“Hey Darlin’,” he hummed, quickly closing the gap between the two of you, engulfing you into his arms. The feeling of his muscular arms wrapping around your body caused all the stress to dissolve. “Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered against your hair, guiding you further into the shop before kicking the door closed with his foot.

“You aren’t meant to be back until Christmas eve,” you breathed, pulling back slightly so you could take in the look of your tired man. Somehow you freed one of your arms, allowing you to reach up brushing your fingers against his cheek. “Not that I am complaining nevertheless, what happened Jaxy?”

The fact you were greeted with a moment of silence told you everything, you knew things were rocky with Clay, no one knew the toll that everything was taking on the blond nuzzling his face into your shoulder. He wouldn’t let the outside world see him like this, but with you he felt he could let the walls come crumbling down, allowing him to process all the emotions he was feeling, and he knew his feelings would be taken seriously.

“Clay is going off on one again, his hands are getting worse and he has gone behind all of our back and the club is now in a deep hole with the cartel,” he had a wobble in his tone as he spoke, he was angry about the whole situation and I couldn’t blame him, I would be to. “I just needed my girl.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest at his words, to the world he was the vice president of a violent club but behind closed doors he was just a puppy wanting love.

“I know you need to work so I can’t take you to the Christmas market I know you want to go to but I have brought take out,” he hummed, holding up the plastic carrier bag you had completely missed when he first came into the bakery, “and I thought we could spend the night icing them amazing cookie, like we did when we were getting this place ready for the opening.”

Tears threatened to spill over your lash line, you had never been with someone who would abandon everything just because they wanted to spend time with you, even if that meant that they would be working till the sun came up.

“You know I want the cookies to be edible and sellable right?” You smirked, cocking your brow at him.

“Shut up and get your ass in that kitchen, Darlin’”

@chibsytelford @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @pumpkin-spice-hate @talicat713 @band--psycho @little-diable @i-love-scott-mccall @fourthwallhateclub @withmyteeth @theysayitscrazy @rosieposie0624 @choochoo284 @meteora-fc @beeroses @princess76179 @darklydeliciousdesires @the-jer-bear @princess76179 @extraneousred @youflickedtooharddamnit @lmao-liz @babypink224221 @daddysgirl2857 @bravo-four-seal-team @garbinge @pedrohoe04 @littlekittymeow @nichia88-blog @zozebo

#sons of anarchy #jax teller #jax teller x reader #jax teller imagine

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reocidal · 6 months ago

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photographer suna — marriage proposals!

for @akaakeis <3 sav i'm so sorry for terrifying u in dms. u probably don't need any tissues. ily, thanks for being my inspiration for like, the third time this week. :)

cws — gn!reader, crying. sobbing. crying. fluff, ew. not proofread, its 3am. wc — 748

ever since you and your boyfriend started dating, you've modeled in so many things for him and his beloved cameras.

not only photos he posts, though. there are pictures of you with smudged makeup, and pictures of you drooling onto his chest as you sleep, and blurry ones of you smiling and laughing and just being... you.

and you don't really notice any differences this time. well yeah, maybe he's a little bit more excited than usual, and it must be more important because he's doing it in a venue instead of his studio.

you're wearing fairly casual clothes, nothing too fancy, but you look good. not that you don't look good in anything else, rin is quick to assure you. he's exceedingly careful today, and also... stricter than usual?

"smile, y/n."

you flash your prettiest smile at the camera, but he shakes his head. "try again?"

you obey, but he sighs, almost exaggeratedly. "this isn't working, y/n. it's not genuine enough."

he doesn't give you time to react as he continues. "i have a solution, though."

he presses something on the camera — are his hands shaking? — before putting it down on a side table and turning to you. "y/n, i love you."

you giggle. "i love you too, rin, but is that all?"

you're joking, but he shakes his head. "nah, there's more. you are my best friend, the love of my life, and everything i could ever want in a person."

you're definitely smiling now; he doesn't seem to notice. "these past few years with you have been the best time of my life. y/n, i adore you. we've been together for four years of my life, and i want to spend the next four with you too. and the four after that, and the rest of my life, so will you marry me?"

and he's getting down on his knees and pulling a box from his pocket, and your vision turns blurry as you nod frantically. "yes!"

at some point, you get down to his level, and he slides the ring clumsily onto your finger before his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs shakily wiping away your tears. it's not like he's faring any better, though, because he's crying as hard as you are — if not harder. your hands find his face before he kisses you, and the two of you fall back so he's sitting on the ground, you between his legs.

"i love you," you gasp through your sobs, and he smiles stupidly at you through his own tears.

"i love you too, you don't even know—"

"i do, i do," you whisper before he kisses you again, and then he pulls back, a dumb laugh escaping his throat.

"god, we look so stupid right now— i mean, you don't, i do, oh my god, the camera—"

"what about it?" you ask. you've both stopped crying, and he leans back to let you dig through his pocket for a tissue that you use to gingerly dab at your face before you turn on him.

"it— stop that, i look fine, it recorded everything, oh my god, y/n, stop—" he tries — in vain — to dodge your accursed tissue, bright red hues spreading across his cheeks as you laugh at him.

"bet you didn't expect to cry," you tease, poking his warm but damp cheek. "you love me sooo much, you just had to!"

"yeah," he says, and it comes out softer than either of you expected. "i do."

"you better say the same thing at our wedding!"

our wedding. ours. his heart skips a beat.

"i will, damn."

the ring on your finger feels both foreign and familiar, you note as rintarou gets up to collect his things. it's gotten colder since the two of you arrived here, and you shiver. rin gives you his jacket to wear as the two of you head to the car; he zips it right up to the collar before using it as leverage to pull you in and kiss you again.

"better get to planning the wedding, hmm? can't wait to have you forever," he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"you already have me, forever," you tell him, and once more, you reduce the blank-faced, 6'3" photographer into a stammering, blushing mess. he says nothing, but you feel him squeeze your hand as he looks away, trying to hide his flushed face.

"shut up before i kiss you again."

thank u for reading ! <3 likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated. i almost cried writing this, too much fluff might throw up. also, i appear to have a medical condition where i can only write about suna and no one else. there'll probably be a part 3 for the wedding, btw.. no promises

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avoxrising · 1 year ago

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The Feral One • Ch 12

Finnick x Y/N

Series Masterlist Link

Another chapter as promised. Prepare for Finnick to enter his trust issues era…

Content Warnings - people were tortured, someone canonically attempts to kill Katniss (Peeta *cough cough*)

You wake up on a hovercraft, unsure of what happened. Peeta, Johanna and Annie are also in the room, but only you are awake. Was Annie also in the capital? She must have been. You’re thankful she looks unharmed.

Peeta and Johanna did not seem to get the same treatment as you and Annie. Peeta is extremely malnourished and is covered in cuts and bruises. Looking at Johanna, you would have thought she was dead if it wasn’t for the slow rise and fall of her chest.

One of the soldiers notices you are awake and slowly approaches you. It’s not till he does that you notice they cuffed your hands and you’re chained to the wall.

“Miss Y/L/N,” the man states as he crouches down to your level. "My name is Boggs and I’m from District 13. We rescued you and the other tributes from the capital and are bringing you to 13. Do you have any questions?”

“Can you take these off?” you ask him, holding up your cuffs. He looks a bit surprised at your question.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he states. “Based on your file it states that you are to be restrained as you may be a danger to others, especially when waking up.” He seems to be reading this information from an electronic tablet he’s holding.

“I bet it also says I don’t talk,” you mutter.

“That would be correct…” he says, realizing that you are talking to him.

“Well I don’t need these anymore,” you state. “I’m not a danger to anyone. The capital fixed me. I’m completely harmless.”

“I’m afraid my orders state you must remain cuffed until you are cleared by the doctors in District 13,” he replies.

“And how long will that be?” you ask.

“We will be landing in an hour,” he responds.

An hour feels like eternity when you are waiting for your freedom. Boggs confirmed to you that Finnick is alive in District 13 and somewhat well. Apparently he’s been having a really hard time coping with your absence and is excited for your return. He really missed you.

District 13 is chaotic when you land. Annie is allowed to walk off of the hovercraft on her own but Johanna and Peeta are loaded up onto stretchers and whisked away to the hospital.

Even though you tell them that you can walk just fine, the doctors make you sit in a wheelchair so they can chain you to it while a soldier pushes you. Nobody here trusts you not to act out.

“Where’s Finnick?” you ask the soldier pushing your wheelchair.

“Not sure,” he grunts. “They won’t allow you visitors until they decide you aren’t a threat.”

You arrive at your room and they transfer your restraints to the metal bed.

“Oh I’m not the one you should be worried about,” you tell the man. “Peeta on the other hand…”

You’re cut short by the sound of someone yelling out for you.

“Finnick?” you yell back. “Finnick!”

The blond comes sliding into view when he’s held back by two District 13 soldiers. You want to cry at the sight of him. He looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days. His fingers are bloody from the rope in his hands and he looks like a lost puppy.

“Y/N!” he calls out. “Let me see her!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Odair,” one of the guards says. “She is not allowed visitors until she has been cleared by our doctors.”

“Oh god doctors?” Finnick asks. “She hates doctors. If anyone is going to set her off it’s a doctor. She killed two of them in the capital.”

The soldiers radio for backup, thinking you’re even more of a threat.

“Let me see him!” you yell. “I won’t hurt anyone. They fixed me.”

“I’m the only one who can calm her down,” Finnick explains. “If she gets out of hand I’ll sedate her. Give me some sedatives.”

The doctor outside my room agrees to Finnick’s plan and the soldiers finally let him in. He shoves the sedatives into his jumpsuit pocket before bursting into the room.

“Finnick!” you exclaim, holding your chained arms as far out as they can reach. You need to hold him, to make sure he’s real.

“Y/N,” he sobs, finally breaking down. “I’m so sorry. I missed you so much.”

“Come here,” you tell him, motioning for him to sit on the bed next to you. He hesitates before reaching out to gently touch your hand.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes now get over here,” you state, nearly yanking him on top of you.

He climbs into your small bed and you nuzzle up against him. The cuffs dig into your wrists but you don’t care.

“I’m so happy,” you hum.

Suddenly chaos erupts down the hall and a soldier bursts into your room, gun pointed at you.

“Mr. Odair,” he states. “Step away from Miss Y/L/N.”

“No,” you state, holding Finnick closer to you. “He stays.”

“Something is wrong,” the soldier tells Finnick, ignoring you. “Mr. Melark just tried to kill Katniss.”

Finnick tenses up at this news before slowly climbing out of your bed and backing away from you.

“That’s because the capital trained him to do that,” you try to explain. “They didn’t do that to me. I’m not going to kill anyone.”

“There will be no visitors to any of the rescued victors until they are individually deemed safe,” the soldier states. “Mr. Odair you are wanted in command.”

Finnick gives you a worried look as he leaves, wondering if you might turn on him at any moment.

Taglist:

@randomgurl2326 @mystargirl-interlude @uther-pendragon-is-an-ass @yourdailymemedelivery @americanprometheuss @l3xi3luv @noisyalmonddreamer @nordicvxid @teaganthemorningstar @samatokisunfinishedcigarette @justtrying2getby @heytherellala @notplutos @innercreationflower @nexxus13 @kachelleee @helluvafire @haymitchabernathyslover @memeorydotcom @frostsword @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @giverosespls @honethatty12 @just-levyy @dd122004dd @nekee-lilac02 @impeterporker @nox-the-gay-nerd @redsakura101 @hopefulatrocity @eddiemunson4ever @fangirlvibez @kittimbo @zucchinimalfoy @sleepy-roman @secretsicanthideanymore @writerofadream @vsnrly @mayonesavegana @lilifl0wer @finnickodaddy @abbersreads @fox-bee926 @ginger-swag-rapunzel

*if the tag didn’t work please check your settings to make sure other blogs can tag you

#hunger games #finnick odair #hunger games fic #the hunger games #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick odair angst #finnick #thg finnick #finnick odair fanfic #mockingjay #the feral one

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gingernut1314 · 1 year ago

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Confidence: Zoro

Roronoa Zoro x F!Reader

Summary: You have never been defeated. No man or woman to have ever partaken in your challenge have come out victorious, only further solidifying your reputation. That is, until Zoro comes wandering into the bar you have set up your latest challenge in. You're confidence and his inability to back down from a challenge has Zoro feeling rather--weird toward you. A weird feeling that has him staying around you longer than he knows he should.

Warnings: tiny bit of angst, heavy alcohol use, mild talk of age difference (everyone in this fic is 18+), smut (dom x dom, p in v, hand job, fingering), very, very mild anime spoilers, Zoro not knowing what emotions he's feeling for 6K+ words

Word Count: 6.9K (Oops--my hand slipped)

A/N: This is my first time writing for Zoro soooo please be nice to me 🫣 I tried my best lol. And you already know I'm sorry about the word count--this whole mini-series was born from an inability to control the word vomit I type down, so the same thing happened here 😬 This is the 2nd part in the requested 'Confidence' series and I hope you all enjoy!!!

↞ to Confidence Masterlist and original request | to One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠

“She has never been defeated. No man or woman alive can best her.”

“She’s as strong as a man.”

“No--as strong as ten men.”

“Ten--” A scoff, “try a hundred men.”

These were the whispered and bewildered words of the patrons of the bar Zoro had wondered his way into. Words that piqued his interest as he made his way towards the bar, eyeing the gathered crowd of men just off to the side. An interest that was stifled when a mug of beer was placed in front of him--beer he’d been itching to have since he hoped off the Merry and onto the docks

Just when he had taken that first, refreshing sip of the wheaty drink, his name floated amongst the whispering. His name, his recent bounty, and his skill--skill they bet would take down whoever you were.

And Zoro was completely uninterested, a deep sigh huffing through his nose as he took another large, gulping drink. This would mean he would have to leave the bar he had just found. Leave because his name would only gather unwanted attention to him and his crew who had been trying to avoid attention of any sort.

You tucked a handful of berries into your pocket as the man before you cradled his arm, which you had so unfortunately snapped. Had just readied yourself to take on the next man who sat eagerly down in front of you when you caught a flash of green hair--of three swords strapped safely to a hip.

Roronoa Zoro.

He was a man you had heard rumors of throughout your travels through the Blue Seas. For an ex-bounty hunter, alleged demon, and holder of a hefty bounty he looked awfully--young to have gained all those titles and glory. Titles and glory that come with hard work--years of training. Years after tortuous years you had undergone to get to the level of skill you had achieved.

You were proud of your achievements and no man, young or old, would make you feel any less…but it didn’t stop you from needing to challenge him. To test your power against his and see if he could finally beat you after all these years.

“A man carrying that many swords,” You called, silencing the crowd who gasped collectively, parting to allow you a better view of the pirate who was making his way out of the bar, “must be making up for something rather…small--weak.”

Zoro stopped in his retreat, unwittingly taking the bait you had thrown at him

He turned his eyes, which were as dark as the night sea, onto you, looking like your remark hadn’t affected him--a remark you’ve known to throw many a man into a wild rage.

“Hardly.” He huffed on a blink. He watched you grab the man who sat before you by the scruff of his shirt and throw him out of his chair, sending him rolling onto the floor and nearly knocking over another who got in his way. Watched you gesture toward the now-empty seat before you.

“Then prove it, pretty boy.” You said, confidence and ego dripping from your every word. Dripping from the way you held yourself to the way you kept your features in that of cool, collected, confidence. It was a confidence and ego that called to Zoro’s own--called to it in a way he could not ignore as he usually would.

You smirked as he made his way over, sitting down in his seat--sitting down in his seat in a proficient way that anyone else in this room would have thought normal. But it was far from normal. You saw it for what it was--a call to his true abilities.

“How will I do that?” He asked you dryly. You placed your elbow on the worn, wooden table and raised your hand to silently let him know to take it. The famed swordsmen did no such thing, only eyeing it. “An arm wrestle? That is hardly a challenge.” He all but scoffed at you.

“Oh? Scared?” You teased, making the man narrow his eyes the slightest bit at you. “Thought you weren’t making up for something?” Zoro grasped your hand in his, steadying his elbow just a little ways before your own.

Zoro noted your hand was strong and calloused just any decent sword wields would be--but it also sported elaborately painted nails in a beautiful shade of purple with gold detailing.

He liked those colors was the next thought that crossed his mind before he could shut it down.

“If I win?” He asked, knowing better than to take your bait twice. Your eyes lit with excitement as a chuckle spilled from your lips. A chuckle that took him utterly off guard.

“If you win, I’ll buy you a drink and let you do as you wish to me. Whether that be death, a task needing to be fulfilled, berry, or a quick fuck in the alley. You’re choice.” Zoro’s gaze fluttered over you again. Confidence--such confidence that had their hooks buried deep in his flesh. Hooks he knew he needed to rid himself of before something bad came his way.

“You buy me a drink and show me to the docks.” You nodded at the fair wager. “And if you win?” You let your eyes wander over the swordsman’s body--over his strong stronger, calm features, and lips that you could tell were just full enough to be perfectly kissable.

“If I win, you buy me a drink and give me one of your earrings.” You said eyeing the three, golden earrings dangling from his ear. Ones that had hardly moved as he walked over to you. Hardly moved as he sat and took your hand in his own. It was all call to the skill you were about to pit yourself against.

Your response surprised Zoro. He’d taken on many challenges and won many duels, but never once had someone asked him such a thing. Such a strange request.

It only made those hooks dig deeper.

“I agree to your terms.” He said, readying himself to take you on.

“And I do yours.” You spoke on honey-dripped tones that had few men around the room huffing in flusteredness.

Berry was passed around as bets were made. Whispered words laid just under the surface of the silence which had fallen over the bar. Whisper about who would win, how they would win, and what in all the gods’ names was Zoro thinking for just asking you for directions and a drink.

Zoro and you gave each other a brief nod before your challenge began.

You knew in an instant he had earned his bounty as such power bore down onto your arm--power that had your excitement whirl around in your chest, a laugh you couldn’t control spilling from your lips.

Zoro knew just as quickly that you had earned the reputation he had heard whispered around the bar. Knew that you weren’t worth ten men--not even a hundred. You were worth a thousand.

But Zoro was, unfortunately for you, worth two thousand men.

Arms shook, sweat pooled and dripped down brows, the wooden table whined and shook until--

Your arm budged. Budged and struggled to regain what little space you had lost. Another cheerful laugh flew from your breathy lips.

A laugh that had Zoro’s chest feeling all--weird.

Why were you laughing? You were losing?

Another inch was lost to you. And then another and--

The table snapped in two beneath the power roaring around the two of you. You were pulled from your seat and all but into the lap of the man you had nearly lost to.

You cursed, angered at the cut-off challenge only to find a deep, rumbling chuckle spill from Zoro’s lips. A chuckle you instantly liked and wanted to hear more of. A chuckle that rumbled through you as Zoro leaned in close, his breath brushing against your cheeks in a way that had your body heating.

“Let's get that drink.”

You both ordered a round for the other. A round that turned into two, then three, then four, until it was turning into another full-on challenge. One the patrons around the bar fed into by buying you both shots and drinks.

Berry once again flowed. Bets were made and whispering dealings on who would win floated around the now music-filled bar.

Zoro finished his eighth beer when he turned to find you finishing off your own eighth, flashing him a smug grin that had that strange feeling stirring in his gut.

“Slowing down?” You teased him, grabbing for your fourth shot given to you by one of the men sitting closest to you.

“Hardly.” Zoro scoffed, ordering himself the same shot you had been given. “Just let me know when you need a break, princess.” He said in that dry wit he teased you with.

“Princess--I like that. I think if I win, instead of buying me a drink, you’ll have to only refer to me as a princess.” Zoro raised his shot glass for you to click yours against. The liquid warmed your throat as it flowed downward, a warmth that spread through your body again when your eyes caught sight of the swordman’s strong throat bob on his swallow.

“Fine. I still want a drink. But you’ll buy me a bottle of sake instead. A nice bottle of sake. Top shelf.” You nodded, pushing your empty shot glass away and replacing it with your ninth beer. Zoro was quick to follow.

“Of course. Only the best for the great Roronoa Zoro.”

You two had five more beers, two more shots, and a tiny cup of cheap sake before most of the partons left for the night, defeated. The bar closed soon after the last handful left and you two were kicked out, ending your second challenge before it truly began.

“What bar closes before one?” Zoro gruffed as you two walked through the all-but-deserted streets of the port town. Only a few drunken men stumbled home, singing off-tune shanties and relieving themselves against the sides of buildings.

“The kind whose clientele should have gone home an hour ago.” You huffed, placing a hand on the sword at your side absentmindedly. “I will show you to the docks. I assume your captain is waiting for you.” Zoro eyed you again like he wasn’t sure what to make of you. “Tell me…how did the mighty hunter become the prey?”

“I am still plenty the hunter.” He said with that smugness that mirrored your own.

“Oh of course. A 60 million berry bounty doesn’t come from just laying down and being complicated.” You said, all but purring his way. It had that feeling in Zoro’s gut fizzing again. Made him want to challenge you again--over and over until a victor was found.

“You tell me since you seem to know so much about me already.” You huffed, turning your face away from Zoro. He watched the moonlight make your eyes sparkle--watched your painted fingernails tap over the hilt of the sword at your side. One he could tell from the hilt was of strange make and good caliber.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Roronoa Zoro. Your name has been whispered in the wind for a long time now. Your face now posted everywhere one can find space.” You said pointing towards the nearest building, where a few wanted posters had been plastered onto.

Sure enough, there was Zoro’s face and bounty just next to Luffy’s goofy grin.

“Stories of what you did in Alabasta are told in many a bar I’ve conducted my challenges in. I have good ears. Nothing more.” He almost would have believed you had the corner of your mouth not twitched. Had your painted nails not tapped over the hilt of your sword again.

“Who are you then? Bounty hunter? Marine? Pirate?” Zoro’s gut clenched as you turned your gaze back onto him. A gaze that pierced through him like a dagger. You chuckled. A chuckle that tickled at Zoro’s ears in a pleasant way that had his gut unclenching, only to clench up again like some fist.

“I am merely looking for the one who will finally win my challenge.” Zoro wanted to know more. It was almost like a need to know who you were. Had you been a pirate once? A bounty hunter, just as he had? Who had trained you and how long would you be able to hold out against Zoro’s own blades?

And it was all very--weird. Weird that you were making him feel all strange inside--making him want more of that feeling.

You came to a stop at the entrance to the docks, Zoro stopping with you, his eyes hardly leaving your features.

“I am sure you will be able to find your way back to your ship from here?” Zoro huffed, scanning over the docks, easily spotting the ram's head of the Merry just a little ways away. “Then it has been an honor to challenge you. May our paths cross again.” You said with a small bow of your head before starting off in the opposite direction of the Merry.

“We haven’t finished the challenge yet.” You paused, looking back to Zoro with a small smirk.

“I have more sake on my ship if you wish to continue there. I doubt any bar for miles will be open.” Zoro scanned over your features once more. Over your body which you held so confidently.

He shouldn’t. Not when everyone in this town and the next knew what his face looked like--what Luffy’s face looked like.

He needed to get his crew out of here before the Marines came sniffing around…but your smugness and ego and confidence were pulling at Zoro in a way he had only felt once before towards Dracule Mihawk, but this--you were different than the great swordsmen. You with your shining eyes and painted nails adorning his favorite colors of purple and gold.

He should go. Leave you and your challenge…but Zoro had never been known to make good decisions before.

And he never backed down from a challenge.

“Sake it is.”

Your ship was tiny compared to the Merry, but seeing as it was a vessel manned by one person, it made sense. It was cozy and filled with trinket after trinket. Swords, daggers, and all sorts of weapons hung on the walls. Rings, necklaces, and all sorts of treasure sat on shelves blocked off by glass--and was that a finger bone sitting next to a golden goblet?

Zoro came to realize these were trophies from your wins. Trophies his earring would surely join if you won against him--which he thoroughly doubted.

You requested that he remove his boots before fully entering the inner workings of your vessel, just as you had. He obeyed the request without questions, not wanting to disrespect your hospitality.

He watched you move around the small kitchen area, pulling two, wooden o-choko cups from the cabinet and then grabbing a bottle of sake from the fridge.

“Let’s make this fun.” You said, sitting down at the kitchen table, gesturing with your hand holding the sake bottle for him to join you. “I have three more bottles after this one. Every time we finish a bottle and a victor hasn’t been granted, then we get to ask the other a question and you have to answer.”

Zoro hesitated at your request. He knew better than to share details of his life with anyone. Hell, his own crew hardly knew much about his past…but he came this far. Had already boarded your ship and accepted your hospitality, he couldn’t leave now.

And he couldn’t refuse the offer of free sake.

“Only four bottles? Please, that’s nothing.” Zoro said sitting down across from you, taking one of the wooden cups and holding it out in sign to fill it. You poured the liquid into Zoro’s cup before passing the bottle to him, repeating the process but with your own cup. When both cups were filled, you lightly touched your cups together before taking that first sip of the fruity, apple-hinted sake you had purchased just the other day.

“If you're that eager for me to ask you a question, then might as well just skip right to the chase.” Zoro huffed in something like mock amusement.

“Get to drinking, princess.”

You both sat, sipping on your sake and passing the bottle back and forth to refill each other's cups. You both made idle, yet engrossing chit-chat about different types of swords and their capabilities before you finished that first bottle of sake.

“Tell me your name.” Zoro requested as his first question.

“I feel like that is a waste of a perfectly good question.” You mused, rising from your seat to grab the second bottle of sake stored in your fridge.

“You have to answer, remember? Your rules.” You chuckled, filling Zoro’s cup with the freshly open bottle of sake. But you told him, family name and all. A name Zoro repeated low and slow, rolling it over his tongue as his brow furrowed in thought.

“Sounds familiar.”

“I can assure you, it’s not.” Zoro let it go with a casual shrug as he took the sake from you and filled your cup. You both clicked glasses and took your first sip. Your eyes scanned over his chest, which his shirt hung open to expose. “How did you get that scar? Pretty nasty.”

Zoro took another sip from his glass, watching you closely. Scars were seen by most as failures--as defeats. Gods’ know how many times you had scarred one of the men who had challenged you just to see the devatated look on their faces.

“I challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel. Lost.” He said simply like it was hardly a big deal. He said it simply even when that name shot through you like a hot iron. A name that had your anger rising in your chest.

Zoro took note of the anger that flashed through you at the mention of Mihawk. An anger that looked more like wrath than mere anger. He wondered what that was for? What had happened to make you hate the man so much…maybe that would be one of his questions.

“Why--” Zoro cut you off with a shake of his head.

“Keep drinking, Y/N, and if you make it, you can ask.” You huffed and continued to sip on your sake.

The second bottle was finished much quicker than the first, mainly because you had been chugging your cups like an utter fool so you could ask your question.

“Sake is meant to be enjoyed you know.” Zoro gruffed at you as you stood.

“Ask your question.” You commanded. Zoro blinked his eyes at you, amusement flashing in them as you opened the fridge door.

He liked your anger. It was fun to tease out of you.

“What’s with the finger?” He asked, shoving a thumb over his shoulder. That seriousness and anger that had overcome you banked the slightest bit at his question. You’re shining eyes gleamed in excitement at its mention.

“My first trophy. He lost his challenge to me and instead of paying up the berry I had asked for, he tried to kill me. Took his hands for it.” You mused, eyes unfocusing as you remembered back. “Lost them both along my travels. His pinky is the only thing that remains.” You said, wiggling your pinkie at Zoro who laughed. A laugh that was hardly above a chuckle, but a laugh all the same.

It was--stunning. And hardy and fit him so well. One you wanted to hear again and again.

“What a pity.” You shrugged as you sat back down across from the swordsmen.

“Why challenge Mihawk?” You asked, pouring Zoro more sake. He found that seriousness began to seep back into your features. “That man walks with death herself. She shadows him--sponsors him like some god would their chosen champion.” Zoro took the bottle from you and returned the favor.

“Because I made a promise to someone a long time ago that I would become the world’s greatest swordsman. Mihawk is the holder of that title. I thought I would win. I was wrong.” He said simply yet again.

Said it so simply--too simply, like he hadn’t gone up against Dracule Mihawk and left the encounter alive. Went up against the hawk-eyed Warlord, who had hadn’t always been as such. Who had once hunted those very marines he now served. Marines he had slaughtered regardless of who their deaths might hurt. Zoro had walked away from that true demon alive and was playing it off like it wasn’t a big deal.

“I do enjoy myself a man with a vow,” You said, trying to lighten your mood, before clinking your cup with Zoro’s. “And a death wish.” Zoro held your eyes as you took a sip of your sake and he a sip from his. Eyes that dug into him deeper than any had before.

“Any swordsman worth their weight in the steal they carry has one.”

“I’ll keep drinking to that.”

You both finished the third bottle in the span of half an hour. A bottle that merely had you feeling full rather than anything more fun. You found you were able to withstand the effects of alcohol the more you learned how to control your body in ways others never would. Ways Zoro seemed to understand as well.

“What are you? Truly.” Zoro asked as you pulled the last chilled bottle of sake from the fridge.

“I am nothing now but a lone traveler…” You said shutting the fridge door with your hip. A movement you saw Zoro track with those deep, dark eyes of his. “but in a past life one might have found me selling teas in my mother's shop.”

Zoro watched closely as you sat down before him, something like pain flashing through your eyes. A pain he himself had felt once before. “Until death knocked on my door and changed that.” Your voice dipped dangerously low as you poured sake into Zoro’s cup before passing the bottle to him. “Then I did a quick stint as a pirate.” Zoro filled your cup, placing the bottle in the middle of the table.

“That’s how I know you. You had a bounty.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Had. A long time ago.” You huffed, “Why the three swords?” You asked, changing the topic and pulling that calm and collected mask back on. Zoro’s hand came to rest on the three swords at his side when brought to their attention once more.

“My vow--I made it to a friend.” He said, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to tell you of his childhood friend. At least just vaguely. It wouldn’t hurt when you had told him just as vaguely of your pain. “When she died I was gifted her sword. I then crafted the Three Sword Style which I have been perfecting ever since.”

The fourth bottle was finished off just as you two had gotten halfway through discussing the ways you both had trained in swordplay, which took a pause as you poured the last half of the sake into Zoro’s cup.

“Why seek out defeat?” He asked, taking the bottle from your hand. His fingers curled around yours, holding them there as he leaned forward. Fingers that all but made your skin sizzle like you were touching fire. You slide your hand out from under his, trying to forget about the feeling of it against yours. “You are the strongest woman I have ever come across. Why look for your skills to be diminished?”

“Why seek out fame?” You asked back on a near snap, which the pirate hardly seemed to pay mind to your tone. “Why seek out titles that are only words to be spoken? Why seek out a title that will only have silly little boys, like yourself, hunt after you and inevitably kill you?”

Zoro blinked at you. He ignored your jab at him once again. A jab that was only meant to rile him to anger. He was collected enough to not take your bait for a third time that night.

“I have a death wish, remember.” He said, taking his cup in his hand, leaning in closer than he needed to fill your cup. “Your turn.” He said with that gruffing voice. A voice that had your body growing warm. A warmth completely unrelated to all the alcohol you had drank.

“Because I’m tired of winning.” Zoro watched you raise your cup for it to be filled. He watched your eyes as he filled your cup. Eyes that shined brightly yet held a dullness to them that called to that exhaustion you claimed. He placed the sake bottle down and raised his cup for the last cheers of the night.

“Are you sure you’re not ready to tap out?” Zoro asked, keeping his cup just out of reach of yours. Asked in that dry humor of his that had you narrowing your eyes at him.

“Hardly. Are you?” Zoro chuckled. A chuckle you paused your riling emotions to listen to. To memorize dispute only having just met the man.

A man who could beat you despite your continued challenges. You knew he could--had felt it during your first challenge. You were big enough to admit defeat when it came time for it. When someone truly earned it. And Zoro had earned it…but you couldn’t help but want to keep his company a little while longer.

“Hardly.” And your cups met each other in a gentle kiss before you both took that first, last sip. “What now?” He asked, leaning back in his seat heavily.

“I don’t know.” You said on a shrug, taking another sip as you leaned your forearms on the table. “A drawl?” The room fell quiet--a quiet that lasted all of two seconds before the both of you were laughing at such an absurd idea.

“I didn’t know you to make jokes,” Zoro said as his laughter evened out.

“Oh, I’m sure I have pulled a chuckle or two from you tonight,” Zoro smirked, sipping his sake. “This table is sturdy enough. We could try arm wrestling once more?” He eyed you long and slow. Eyes that danced over your face and down your neck.

“Finish your drink and then we can resume your first challenge.” You smiled, excited as you set on sipping your sake faster than you knew it should be sipped. But you couldn’t help it. Not when you were eager to get back under that power that rolled off him in waves. To press your own power against it and feel it wane against his fire.

You both slammed your cups to the table and had your hands clasped together hardly a minute later. It seemed you both were eager to complete this challenge.

Zoro gazed into your eyes and you gazed into his on a pause. A pause and a nod of the head before the challenge resumed.

Once again, you were reminded of his power. Of how good it felt to feel your strength weaken against his.

Arms shook, brows beaded with sweat, and heat pooled in your abdomen. A heat no man had been able to stir for a long, long time. No man had been worth its sizzling flames.

A little noise spilled from your lips. A noise that had Zoro’s attention pulling from your shining eyes to your lips. Lips that hung parted on that small noise that had that weird feeling grow and thrash about in his abdomen.

“Fuck.” He cursed on a deep rumble that had you clenching your thighs together against the frustration building in you.

“Fuck, Zoro--win.” You all but begged the swordsmen, whose teeth were clenched so tight you thought they might fracture under the pressure. “Win, win, please.” You continued.

Despite your pleas for him to win against you, you hardly gave up your hold on his hand. Hardly gave into his power. You fought against it, just as he fought against yours. A fight that your arm had just begun to yield under when Zoro cursed yet again.

Zoro couldn’t focus. Not when you were making those little noises and begging him to dominate you. Couldn’t focus when you looked just as bright as your eyes--when your painted nails were pressed flush against the back of his hand. Not when that weird feeling wanted him to win against you in another way.

The alcohol. It was the alcohol making him feel this--needful for you.

He knew that wasn’t it. Knew he was hardly even tipsy. He knew he had felt this way as he had drunk his first beer.

“Fuck it.” He hissed, reaching across the table to grab your cheeks in his free hand. You sucked in a breath as he all but pulled you across the table, lips pressing harshly against yours. You fought back against his lips in a fiery kiss that any outside might have thought looked more like two dogs mauling at each other's faces than any true kiss.

But it was a kiss you felt your body ignite against--that you could taste the sweet, fruity sake you had drank on his tongue and lips. One that made your pussy throb and your limbs grow fuzzy as you climbed onto the table, knocking over the empty sake bottle as you crawled over it.

He all but pulled you off the table into his lap where you moved so you could straddle his waist and press your kiss down onto him.

Hands grabbed at clothes and relieved the other of their shirts, which were tossed to the ground before lips were rapidly moving against the others. Your hands smoothed over his hard-earned, muscle-lined chest, feeling the slight raise of the scar Mihawk had given him.

Zoro’s calloused hands moved from where they grasped your hips upwards, sending goosebumps rising along your skin.

He felt a scar along your hip bone, one that cut up your side, and another he felt just under the edge of your bra. But never once did he feel a scar on your back.

You were a true swordsman. A true warrior.

It had him grabbing you tighter. Had him hosting you up as he stood before pinning you on the table, fingers unbuckling your belt and unbuttoning your pants.

Zoro yanked your pants down your legs, trailing hot, opened-mouth kisses along your scarred skin making a huffing moan escape your lips. You ran your fingers through his green hair before grabbing for your pants which he wasn’t pulling off fast enough.

You yanked them off, grabbing him back against you and claiming his lips harshly as you rose off the table onto your feet.

Zoro’s back hit the wall, making the swords and other various weapons rattle upon impact. You wasted no time in going for his belt, which fell away from his hips under the weight of his three swords.

They had just fallen to the floor with a dulled clatter when Zoro was turning you so that he could slam you against the wall, throwing his skillful power into you which had you moaning in gleeful pleasure. A throwing star, which had been hanging just beside your head, fell to the ground and embedded itself in the wood there.

You wanted him to do that again. To move you despite your own power fighting against him.

Your hands grabbed for Zoro’s pants again as his hands grabbed for the clasp of your bra, which he fumbled with and found he couldn’t figure out the mechanics of. One last harsh kiss was given to Zoro before you pushed him away, going for the clasp behind your back.

“Pants.” You grit at him. He huffed at your commanding tone, but did so regardless of his want to ignore it.

His breath hitched in his throat as you threw your bra off, your breasts falling from their confines and making his mouth water at their heft. You yanked your underwear off just as Zoro had finished pulling his pants off, leaving you both bare to one another.

Your eyes scanned over his body shamelessly. Scanned over the scars he bore--the large one cutting across his chest, another smaller one on his shoulder, and two more rounding his ankles. Scanned over the sheer amount of strength that radiated off him that you needed to grab and feel against you all over again. Scanned over his cock, which twitched in the open air, precome already spilling for its tip.

Zoro looked over your body just as you did. A body that was strong--well-honed muscles built throughout it from the years of training he knew you had gone through. Muscle that did nothing but enhance your utter femininity. From your hair to your shining eyes to that shade of purple he found your toenails were painted as well.

Zoro thought you might have been the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on.

You were grabbing at Zoro just as he was grabbing at you. Lips caressing in that harsh manner that had your abdomen burning. Bare bodies pushed and pulled and felted at the other in a way that had your head spinning.

You slammed Zoro into the door that led to your chambers, his teeth finding your neck in a pinching bite that was sure to leave a bruise as your lips pulled away long enough to open it. You shoved Zoro through the open doorway, his hands grabbing for your arms to pull you with him.

He used the momentum of your shove to switch positions with you, lips claiming yours as he guided you back toward your bed. When the backs of your legs hit the frame, you climbed onto the plush mattress before he could shove you down, not wanting to give your position up quite yet. A position you wanted him to fight you for. He climbed in after you, lips hardly leaving the others.

That push and pull began again. You tugged at Zoro who tugged right back. It was a continuation of the challenge you had been waging to see who would come out on top--literally now.

Your fingers brushed down his strong stomach before wrapping around his hard cock, pumping him nice and slow in a way that had him hissing out a breath. You watched his brows furrow under your admissions--watched as the corner of his lip twitched in a near snarl as your thumb passed over his dripping head. Your touch spurred his hips into motion--thrusting into your hand with each pass of your thumb.

“I think I like this type of wrestling much better, don’t you?” You teased, tightening your grip just that much more around him. His fingers dug into your skin. Dug hard enough you were sure it would leave a mark. You wanted it to leave a mark. “I think I like the idea of having you come all undone first, looking so, so pretty.”

His hips halted their mindless thrust, eyes narrowing down at the smugness that had filtered into your bright gaze.

“Is that--” He hissed, finding your hand stilling working him in a way that was tortuous. “Is that a challenge?” You smirked.

“Should it be?” You continued to tease, eyes fluttered to look at his parted lips which huffing breaths floated out of.

“Same rewards?” He asked, making you nod.

“If that’s all you still wish for, then yes.” You lulled, leaning up to brush your lips against his. “But I think you’ll find it a harder challenge to win then--” You sucked in a shaky breath when a finger dipped into your needy folds. A finger that had found your clit in seconds and was applying just the right amount of pressure and type of touch to have your hips moving to get closer to such pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” He huffingly teased back, pressing your chest flush against his as a shit-eating grin plastered itself onto his kiss-puffed lips. Your hand paused its working of Zoro’s cock at the sudden sparks he sent shooting through you. “What were you saying?”

“How--how did you--fuck,” You cursed, grabbing hold of his shoulder for balance. Jolt after jolt of pleasure rushes up your body. Pleasure you had only even been able to fully give yourself.

“I think,” He gruffed brushing his lips against your ear, making a shiver rush up your spine. “That I’m going to have you coming all undone for me, Y/N, and then enjoy myself the best sake this little island has to offer.” His gruffing voice rang in your ear.

“In your dreams.” You huffed, swallowing a moan that wanted to escape.

Zoro grunted as you resumed moving your hand up and down the length of his velvety cock. A movement that had Zoro stopping the circling of your clit only so he could shove your thighs open wider, all so he could sink a finger into your dripping pussy--and then another. He curled and pressed them into that spongy spot up in you that had stars flying across your vision--stars that grew in number when his thumb found your clit once more.

Huffs and pants and grunts and cut-off moans between near-violent kisses filled the space as you fought to get each other off--to get the other to lose the challenge you had been trying to finish the whole night.

You pulled away once more when Zoro gave a deep-chested moan. A moan that had his brows knitting together and his hips jerking against your hand as if to pull away because--oh yes.

“It’s okay, pretty boy. It’s okay. You can come for me. Yes, yes, please come for me.” You comforted, placing a gentle kiss on his flushed cheek and picking your pace up just that much faster. “So strong. So powerful. Come on my hand and let me taste just how--” Your words were cut off as Zoro pulled his fingers out of you only for them to wrap around your throat in a tight hold. A hold that nearly had you coming right then and there.

He pinned you to the bed, your hand slipping from his cock in the process. But it didn’t stop you from wrapping your legs around his waist and rubbing your dripping, needy pussy against his twitching and as equally needy cock.

“You talk too much.” He hissed, the hand not pinning you to the bed running down your body so that he could reach for his swollen cock. “I’m gonna make you come so hard around me you won’t remember how to speak.”

“Yes--please.” You panted out as he pressed the tip of his cock against your fluttering entrance. A pant that turned into your own deep-chested moan as he sunk himself into you, inch by glorious inch. A moan was met with Zoro’s grunts as he bottomed out in you, your pussy flexing around him as it worked to accommodate his size.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up enough to claim his rough kiss once more as his hips began to move his cock within you.

His pace gradually began to quicken. A pace that grew so brutal, that tears brimmed in your eyes at the pleasure he pounded into you. And when his thumb found your clit again--oh gods you knew you might not win out against him.

And as lust and pleasure fogged your brain, you found you wanted him to win. Just as you had wanted him to win against every other challenge you threw his way that night.

“Zoro--oh fuck, Zoro keep going. Please, please, please.” You begged against his panting mouth. He kept up his wicked pace, the sinfully wet sounds of your pussy getting utterly destroyed filling your ears and adding to the pleasure that was rolling through you.

Sweat slicked over skin, bodies buzzed and shook, lips moved frantically and hungrily. And that release your body begged for built and built and built and you had just began to tip over the edge. Your finish just a breath away--hot ribbons of come shot into you.

Zoro had come just seconds before your pussy was clenching around his twitching cock. Just seconds before you were moaning his name and holding him close as you’re finish rushed through you. His solid body fell on top of yours, chests full of uneven and choppy breath.

“You win.” He huffed into your neck. You sighed deeply, running your fingers through his green hair.

“I was only teasing--” Zoro pulled his face away so he could look into your eyes. Deep, dark eyes that never looked away from your face as he unhooked an earring from his ear lobe, holding it out for you to take.

“You win, princess. Fair is fair.” You gently took the gold earring from his hand, brushing your knuckles over his cheek. A touch the swordsmen leaned into, his lips leaving a burning kiss to your writs. “Put it next to the finger.” You laughed, leaning forward and placing the softest kiss of the night to those lips of his. Lips that kissed you back just as soft--slow. A kiss that had your heart beating against your ribs.

“Just for you, pretty boy.”

Tags: @lostfirefly

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defectivevillain · 1 month ago

Text

the slow surrender

pairing: Chishiya Shuntaro & Reader

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

“Number 10.” You quickly turn around, only to find Chishiya—the No. 11 player from the Beach. There's a note of something unreadable in his voice; his hands are shoved in his pockets as he takes a leisurely step forward. “The deserter.”

word count: 2.4k | ao3 version | chishiya playlist

warnings: Alice in Borderland manga spoilers; canon-typical violence, existentialism

author's notes: Chishiya/Reader is the focus of this fic, but there’s nothing explicitly romantic. I mean… canonically, he hardly has any feelings, so it felt out of character to write anything too crazy. Leaning heavily on the "Strangers to Begrudging Allies" theme here.

Look at this man and tell me he isn’t 100% gay, though. YOU CAN’T. This fic's really for the gays and theys.

The title of this fic is from Should I by Sir Chloe, because I'm obsessed with their music.

Since the moment you first arrived in the Borderlands, you have given yourself one rule: keep other players at a distance. You arrived to this strange land alone; and, if things go according to plan, you will leave alone, too. In the Borderlands, friends are nothing more than a hindrance. And you were quickly convinced of this fact after emerging from your first game, 2♥, entirely alone.

But then you hear whispers. At your fourth game, 4♣, you manage to overhear a conversation between a group of four players, who made reference to a place called ‘the Beach.’ You were equally curious and wary; you didn’t exactly want to trust other players, but you also knew getting more information would give you an advantage in the coming games. With that in mind, after you completed 4♣, you started looking for this ‘Beach.’

Unsurprisingly, your journey was not exactly straightforward. It took you a few days of searching to find a map of Tokyo, and subsequently realize that ‘the Beach’ wasn’t genuinely a beach, but instead a hotel called Tama Pacific Beach. The moment your eyes found the hotel, you knew it was the place you heard about.

You only wish it was a little less… Well. It’s hard to organize your thoughts as you stare at the sprawling hotel. The sparkling waters of the swimming pool glitter in the mid-morning sunlight; people lounge about on beach chairs and soak up the sun; there’s the faint hum of music filling the air. One thing’s for sure: this place doesn’t look like it belongs in the Borderlands. It’s everything you didn’t expect: there’s laughter, joy, amusement, sloth, gluttony. It’s some sort of dreamscape, away from the reality of the games.

Your arrival doesn’t go unnoticed, however, and you’re soon given a tour of the building by the No. 1 ranked player, Hatter. You learn almost an overwhelming amount of information in a short span of time. First, players are ranked according to their skill level and participation in games. The top nine players are considered “Executives” and given more authority. Then, each night, players are sorted into optimized groups according to their speciality and sent to finish games. Next, every new card earned upon the completion of a game must be given to the No. 1 ranked player. The No 1. ranked player will collect all 51 playing cards and, according to Hatter, be able to escape the Borderlands. (You’re very skeptical about that part.)

It’s frighteningly easy to ascertain the truth of the Beach. Players are lured in with the promise of security, entirely unaware that they will be exploited for their playing cards. From there, they’re free to live a life of “luxury” while being occasionally called upon to complete games. Assuming they don’t die, they will slowly rise through the ranks of the Beach. It’s all a rather transparent ploy. Yet… you fell for it, didn’t you? Now you’re trapped here with no real means of escape. After all, the third rule of the Beach—“Death to all traitors”—was established to prevent people from leaving.

And while you have no desire to stay any longer than you need to, you know escape will be a dangerous and difficult affair. Just a simple stroll along the boardwalk is enough to confirm that the players are serious about the third rule: corpses are piled up so high that they nearly block the water’s flow. It’s a sickening sight that reminds you of the cruelty lying hidden underneath this utopia.

You have no choice but to play along. And, for a while, you do. You participate in games when you’re assigned to them; you comply with the rules of the Beach; and you keep your head down. Slowly but surely, you ascend the ranks of the players. Your victory in the 8♥ game is particularly impactful; as the only remaining survivor of the group, you quickly shoot up the ranks to find yourself at the No. 10 rank. And while that attracts some attention, after that, you make sure to be as forgettable as possible. You fade to the background in any subsequent games you’re called to play in. You make sure to keep to yourself. You don’t speak to anyone. You avoid leaving your room whenever possible. And slowly but surely, people start to forget about you.

Still, you need a more concrete plan of escape. In an ideal world, you’d make off with the stash of playing cards before leaving. That kind of thing would be possible if you were No. 9 or higher. But since you’re not an Executive rank, you don’t have access to the penthouse where the cards are kept. Although, if your suspicions are correct… the playing cards aren’t nearly as important as they’re said to be. After all, Hatter was the only one to assert that they were the key to escaping the Borderlands. There is no one else to verify his claims. And you get the feeling the cards aren’t genuinely important; rather, they’re a construct. With the playing cards, the players at the Beach all have a common goal—which eliminates any unnecessary conflict. They’re nothing more than an empty promise.

Accepting that the cards are useless provides you with more freedom. Combined with your efforts to slip under the radar, you think you will have a decent chance at escaping. After all, there’s no one to stop you from sneaking out in the dead of night, when even the wildest of party-goers have gone to sleep (or, more accurately, passed out). And that’s exactly what you do one night. The Beach is quiet at such a late hour—while everyone seems to behave with reckless abandon in the daytime, they still recognize the importance of a full night’s sleep. A player needs to keep their wits about them if they want to win the games. You sneak past the pool outside, quietly closing the gate behind you before breaking into a sprint. You want to put as much distance between you and this place as possible. Your heart almost seems to roar in your ears as your feet hit the pavement. You’re not sure how long you spend running before you finally take a quick break, ducking behind a wall and attempting to breathe with your hands on your knees.

In the following few days, you’re very careful. Fortunately, you succeeded in a higher difficulty game the same morning you left the Beach, which gives you some more time to lay low and ensure you don’t draw attention to yourself. And you soon learn that your timing was particularly good, as you see smoke rising through the air in the distance. Something happened. Are the players at the Beach in a game right now? You don’t want to think about it. But, then again, maybe a game would distract them from your absence. You’re secretly hoping they’ll just forget about you.

You certainly don’t expect to be cornered by another player a day later, when the smoke clears in the air.

“You.”

You turn around to find yourself met with a cunning, scrutinizing gaze. Your eyes widen as you recognize the guy standing across from you: Chishiya Shuntaro. He was one of the higher-ranking players at the Beach, just one rank below you. He stands before you wearing a simple collared shirt and slacks; his long light hair frames his angular features well.

Chishiya seems to recognize you too. “Number 10.” He says, a note of something unreadable in his voice. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he takes a leisurely step forward. “The deserter.” You roll your eyes at the title. You thought you had slipped away unnoticed, but Chishiya’s presence here disproves that notion “They’re still looking for you, you know.” He hums casually. He’s regarding you expectantly, as if waiting to study your reaction.

You stare at him for a long moment. Your heart instinctually jumps at his statement, before you remember yourself. “I don’t think so.” You frown, thinking back to the pandemonium you heard from afar. Despite the fact that the smoke cleared from the air, Chishiya has still been the only one to find you. “They died in the game, probably.” You then say. He's playing mind games—or, at least, attempting to. What reason would he have to lie to you, other than to provoke your fear or test you?

Chishiya raises a brow, suddenly appearing intrigued. “How do you know that?” You suppose his curiosity is justified, since you left the Beach several days before the next game occurred. It’s been a few days since then.

“I listened.” You settle for saying. Indeed, it was hard not to hear the agonized screams and cries of the victims. The Borderlands are rather quiet, without sounds of the crowded city and hums of electricity to disrupt the air. Many people died during that game, as far as you could tell. Their anguish was audible; not to mention, the disgusting smell of burning flesh pervaded the surrounding area. You shudder in remembrance. The foul odor still lingers heavily in the air. Just how many people died during that game?

You break out of your thoughts to find Chishiya staring at you warily. You feel like some sort of specimen under a microscope. After a moment, he speaks again. “You’re interesting.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you remain silent. You get the feeling that his interest is rather dangerous.

“What games are you best at?” He scrutinizes you for a moment, gaze wandering across your form. “♥, I assume.” At your nod, he hums. “You should’ve stayed for the game at the beach, then. It was 10♥: Witch Hunt.” You frown. Witch Hunt? That rather ominous name only confirms your suspicions regarding the many casualties and few survivors. That isn’t exactly a good omen for whatever game will come next.

As if sensing your thoughts, Chishiya continues. “Let’s play the next game together.” He offers. There’s a long pause where neither of you speak; and you just stare at him. He looks back at you, raising a brow. “You seem skeptical.” He then observes with a dangerous smile. You hoped silence would make him lose interest; if anything, Chishiya’s gaze has only intensified.

You decide to abandon pretense. There is no real need for it in the Borderlands, after all. “You don’t seem the type to ally with someone out of the goodness of your heart,” you say. While you kept to yourself at the Beach, you were still sure to study up on the higher ranking players. Chishiya was No. 11, the number directly beneath your ranking as No. 10. And he was always regarded as a slippery, enigmatic individual who prioritized himself over all else. “You’ve probably betrayed everyone you’ve met so far.”

Chishiya doesn’t seem offended by the statement. Instead, he lets out a strange choking sound; it takes you a few seconds to realize he’s laughing. “I was right,” he says inexplicably. “You are interesting.”

You frown; the two of you are locked in some sort of staring contest. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him—he is too dangerous for you to feel comfortable doing so. Chishiya seems unable to look away from you, either—although you don’t quite believe he’s threatened by you. As time passes, your conversation slowly turns into a game of its own. You ask a question; Chishiya answers; then you answer. Then Chishiya asks a question; you answer; and so on. It’s a strange cycle of wariness and mistrust, perpetuated for what feels like infinity. But at some point, the two of you have exchanged enough information to begrudgingly trust one another.

And soon, you reach an unspoken agreement. When you turn your back and head off in the direction you were planning on going, Chishiya is at your side. The two of you are silent as you traverse the city pavement. There is little fanfare as you search buildings for supplies and shelter.

“Have you been alone this whole time?” Chishiya asks later, as the sun begins to climb further down on the horizon. You nod. “Impressive.”

“It’s easier that way,” you say. You think back to the 2♥ game you participated in on your first night; to the seemingly inseparable group of girls who promptly turned on each other at a moment’s notice. This is not a place to make friends. You get the sense Chishiya feels the same. Indeed, he nods in agreement at your statement.

There’s a comfortable silence in the air for a while. Then, unexpectedly, Chishiya breaks through it. He’s staring up at the starry night sky. “What do you think is the secret of the Borderlands?” His voice is quiet but steady. You wonder if he’s genuinely searching for the answer, or if he’s just curious about your perspective. Hell, maybe he’s just asking to pass the time. Regardless, you attempt to answer anyway.

“It could be anything,” you sigh. Every single player here is plagued by thoughts of just what secrets this place could possess. But those thoughts are often far too distracting. In the time you spent looking for any one answer, you were dominated by fear and unease. “The Borderlands defy rationality.” You continue.

“You’ve stopped looking for an answer.” Chishiya analyzes.

You nod, your throat burning. “I feared I wouldn’t like what I found, if I were to keep searching.”

“Yes, it is quite a dreary affair,” Chishiya says. “Virtual reality, temporal displacement… There is no convenient, safe explanation.”

“We don’t even know what we’re fighting for,” you remark. If your voice sounds particularly raspy or hollow, he doesn’t mention it. “Life could exist outside of this place. Yet we fight tirelessly, under the conviction that death here is the end.”

A slight nod, then silence. “I never felt alive,” Chishiya admits after a moment. You chance a sidelong glance at him, only to find his gaze is still fixed on the limitless expanse of sky above. “Before.”

“Me neither.” You admit. “Life seemed quieter before. Safer, but also boring. I grew complacent.”

You shake your head. “There is no explanation for the Borderlands,” you finish. You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince. Chishiya’s gaze falls to you; for a moment, the silence almost seems to buzz. The air is chilly yet stiff. You struggle to keep your composure under his watchful eye. Just what is he looking for? What does he want from you?

“I don’t think I quite mind that.” Chishiya says after an immeasurable amount of time passes. Somehow, the admission feels far more vulnerable than it sounds.

“Me neither.” You eventually answer.

You both look up to the sky once more, a sense of tranquility washing over you amidst your newfound companionship.

thanks for reading! <3 wishing you a happy and healthy 2025! 🖤

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

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#defectivevillain #Alice in borderland #Alice in borderland manga #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #chishiya x male reader #the fact that a chishiya x fem reader tag exists just INFURIATES ME #RAGHHHH #gn reader #transmasc reader #male reader #chishiya x gn reader #chishiya x transmasc reader

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yourstru1y4ever · 1 month ago

Text

June 22, 2018: White Chrysanthemums

Pairing: (eventual) Satoru Gojo x F!Reader Content: canon-compliant, Fluff, tiny bit of angst, it's a slow burn folks, Reader is Yuji's Aunt, the Elders are assholes but what else is new?, canon-typical fighting Word Count: 2.9k << Previous Chapter | Thicker Than Water Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

A/N: heyyyyyyyyyy. . . so it was bold for me to say that I would post updates once a week, especially when it's the holiday season. . . forgive me (ᵕ´╥﹏╥`) aside from that HAPPY NEW YEAR YAAAAAAAA!!!! also this chapter was not beta read so uh we die like Wasuke tonight (￣^￣)ゞ

You stare out as a high pitched ringing fills your ears, Yuji is cursed now. It wasn’t even a normal curse, it just had to be Sukana, so under Jujutsu regulation he must be-

“Executed.”

“Secretly executed.”

“He’s a danger to our society!”

A shrill voice calls out, “Itadori was your responsibility, was he not?”

You blink and look up at the lighted door, a silhouetted figure tilting their head to the side, waiting for your response.

“He is.” You spit out.

An older voice finishes the thought, “And you were aware of his lineage.”

Your jaw tightens at his implication and you try to keep your voice level, “I thought I made myself clear about the danger of Sukana’s finger-”

“At his school,” A voice finishes.

“Yes,” A third voice tiredly agrees.

Someone scoffs, “You’ve mentioned it more than once.”

“Then I fail to see how the blame lies with me.” You try to clarify.

“Because of Yuji Itadori, Ryomen Sukana is now incarnated. Because of that simple truth Yuji Itadori must die.”

Your gaze sharpens at the voice, feeling the elders pulse from behind the door. There’s a roaring in your ears as one of your hands twitches as you have the thought that you could easily kill them out right now-

The thought leaves your head as you snap your focus onto Gojo who waltzes into the room. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, and he leisurely strides to your side. “Why kill him now?” He asks as if the answer was simple.

“Satoru Gojo.” A voice warns and Satoru lifts up his head, his face stern. You can feel the weight of his technique adding tension in the room.

“Yuji Itadori is one in a billion right now and we don’t have any other way of getting rid of Sukana’s fingers.” Gojo smirks as he pulls one of the fingers out of his pocket, “If we let kid consume all of Sukana’s fingers-”

Voices overlap, “Absolutely not-!”, “How dare you-!”, “Satoru Gojo!”

“The boy must die.” A voice loudly states overtop all of the other voices. Gojo looks towards the voice, his smirk getting wider.

“Then wait to kill him once all of the fingers are consumed.” Gojo states bluntly.

“There’s no guarantee that the boy can keep Sukana under his control.” The voice fights back.

“He’s my responsibility.” You step towards all the lighted doors, “He will keep Sukana under his control. If he’s unable to, then I’ll use my technique against him and kill Sukana myself.”

You can feel Gojo’s gaze at the back of your head but you choose to ignore it. You were classified as a first grade sorcerer with your technique; cursed blood manipulation. You’re able to physically manipulate any curse due to their blood but a caveat is that the higher grade a curse is the harder it is for you to control them. You’re also able to manipulate your own blood, increasing your speed and agility that would not be physically possible for a normal person. It comes at a price of reverse curse technique not working as effectively to heal you when you're injured, since you yourself have cursed blood.

Even in Sukana’s state right now, you know the Elders are questioning your ability to physically manipulate him. He’s a special grade after all, and the last time you used your technique against a special grade you ended up in Shoko’s care, but you did exorcize the curse.

Silence lingers in the air as you watch silhouetted figures look at each other and mutter under their breath. You hear Gojo whisper your name but you don’t look back at him. This was all his fault anyway and you had to clean up his mess like always.

You stand your ground and hold out your hand, offering a handshake to the Elders, “Let’s make it a binding vow.”

The silhouetted figures' heads snap towards you and you’re met with silence while they consider your offer.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The sun shines brightly as you walk down the path to the crematorium. It had only been a few hours since the meeting with the higher ups and you still felt weighed down by everything that happened in the last 24 hours.

You didn’t have a lot of time once the meeting finished to get all the necessary funeral arrangements but you did your best. You quickly went back to the Itadori household and grabbed the first picture of Wasuke that you could. There was a local flower shop that you used to pass by when you were a child, the owners nodded their heads solemnly when you mentioned that you needed a few white chrysanthemums. You hold onto those chrysanthemums tightly and sigh as you near the building.

Your phone begins to ring just before you enter. You answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“Yes?”

“Are you with the second years?”

“Well hello to you too Yaga,” You say sarcastically, “No I’m not with them quite yet, I need to take care of Wasuke Itadori’s ashes. I messaged Ijichi to have the kids meet me at the train station in Sendai then we’re going to Sakata.”

He makes a non-committal noise and there’s a silence that follows.

“I noticed you did Satoru’s paperwork for his mission last night.”

“Well given that Fushiguro is in no place to do that paperwork, and how Gojo spent most of his mission sightseeing, I filled it out.” More silence, you break it. “Any word on Itadori’s classmates?”

“Setsuko Sasaki has been discharged, but Takashi Iguchi needs more critical care. They would’ve been in a worse condition if you weren’t there to save them.”

You breathe through your nose and out through your mouth, trying your best to keep calm. “I see, thank you.” You hear rustling in the bushes and you look out to the sea of trees out in front of you. Of course there would be a third grade curse at a crematorium.

You blink and focus on the blood that’s flowing in the curse. “Also I’m unsure how this happened, and frankly I don’t want to know, but the Elders have a lot of missions lined up for you.”

“Do they now?” You say, looking away from where you located the curse. You balance your phone between your head and shoulder so you have one free hand. And of course if you kept making yourself look distracted then the curse would-

“Visit! Visit me! VISIT ME!!” The curse cries out while its long spindly legs start tripping over itself before it can even reach you. Poor thing, you think.

You lull your head to the side, your attention back to the curse, and snap your fingers. The curse doesn’t get a chance to react before it implodes. You wave your hand to the side, manipulating the blood to go on the ground and not all over your outfit.

“ -am I understood?”

You stop balancing your phone between your head and shoulder, “Yeah of course Yaga, I’ll be sure to do what needs to be done.”

You hear him sigh on the other end, “Satoru will cover the missions you were assigned to until you get back with the second years.” He reiterates.

You scratch the back of your neck, “Oh. That’s what you were-”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, I was dealing with a third grade.”

“I’m sure you were,” You can practically feel his eye roll. “Take care of the second years’ mission, keep them safe and return soon.”

“You can count on me Yaga.” You tell him and you hear him huff on the other end. You hang up the call and turn around to return to the crematorium. When you turn you see Yuji looking at you with his jaw wide open and Gojo failing to hide his smile.

Your face flushes with embarrassment, “How long were you two-?”

“That was so cool!!” Yuji grins, “I mean, how did you do that? You didn’t even need to lift a finger to kill that thing! I wasn’t sure why Gojo didn’t want to fight that curse but then he told me to wait and watch what you did and that was amazing! I didn’t know you were a jujutsu sorcerer too Auntie!“

“Well-”

Gojo grins like a cheshire cat, “She keeps a lot of secrets, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Yuji nods, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at your boys, “If you could hide being a sorcerer from me, what else could you be hiding?” Yuji teases while giving you a suspicious look and you shake your head at him.

“Don’t worry about that,” You say, patting his shoulder, “Let’s head inside.”

“Actually, we’ll meet you in a second,” Gojo tells you and you give him a questioning look, “There’s something we need to talk about for a moment.”

“Then I’ll meet you in Wasuke’s room,” You say, your back turned to them while waving goodbye.

You notice the simple decoration of the main lobby as you enter the building. You walk over to the front desk and ask which room to enter. They lead you to a door and tell you that you can take as much time as you need. You simply nod before heading inside.

The room is fairly bare, the window in the middle of the room stands out to you. It’s perfectly in line with where Wasuke’s remains are laid on a table. You notice there’s a spot for you to set up a picture of him and the flowers you had gotten. There were two vases on either side by the photo stand where you put the flowers in and take the picture of Wasuke out of your bag along with a wooden carving of Wasuke’s name and age of death.

Once everything is set up, Yuji and Gojo walk in with somber expressions. You and Yuji stand on either side of Wasuke. When you look up at him, his jaw tenses but he reaches out to grab one of the sets of chopsticks. You follow and help Yuji pick up Wasuke’s remains to put in the urn.

Gojo stands towards the door, quietly observing you both. He knows how much you care for Yuji and how much you’re willing to protect him no matter the cost towards you, but he wonders if the same could be said for Yuji. Afterall, eating Sukana’s finger means that Yuji has a responsibility to either consume all of the other fingers or die now.

That wasn’t an option either of you were willing to let him make.

Yuji speaks up, “Auntie, if I ate all of Sukana’s fingers would that mean there would be fewer curses?”

You continue to pick up the remains, “Yes, but that doesn’t really guarantee there wouldn’t be a worse curse than Sukana to be reincarnated in the future.”

“What?” Yuji puts down his chopsticks and you hear Gojo tsk.

“There’s a cycle,” you explain, “At least one that I’ve noticed when I was about your age. There will always be a balance like Yin and Yang. One cannot survive without the other and recently there’s been an influx of jujutsu sorcerers who are semi-first grade or higher. It’s only natural for curses to also increase as we do with our abilities.”

“But eating all of Sukana’s fingers will reduce the amount of curses significantly.” Gojo adds. You nod in agreement.

“It won’t be an easy task,” You warn as you put the last bone in the urn. Yuji places the lid down and looks up at you, then Gojo.

“So have you got that finger?”

He couldn’t be serious. You look over to Gojo who is just holding out one of Sukana’s fingers. You tense and look back at Yuji who solemnly takes it. He is serious.

You want to run up and snatch it out of his hands, your hand tenses by your side but Gojo tugs on your sleeve. He shakes his head no, knowing what you want to do.

When you turn your attention back to Yuji, the finger is already gone. A moment passes and all of a sudden black markings appear on his arms and face, his hands flying up to clutch his chest. Your eyes widen and you feel Gojo’s grip on shirt tighten.

Fear. That’s all you can feel. Anxiety claws itself through your chest up to your throat, tightening around making you gasp for air. The boy that you’ve raised for more than ten years is suffering and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Gojo moves his hand to the small of your back, and you can vaguely feel his infinity wrapping around you.

You hear laughter in the distance, one that you’re not familiar with and you reach out to Yuji, unsure how to get him back.

He stumbles his way towards you both and his head hits against the wall, the laughter slowly returning to one you’re familiar with. You breathe a sigh of relief, leaning into Gojo’s touch slightly.

“I mean, it’s so gross that it’s funny!” Yuji says while gagging.

Gojo grins and you can practically feel his excitement about Yuji keeping Sukana under his control.

You step towards Yuji, Gojo’s hand no longer on your lower back. You feel confused for a moment when Gojo drops his hand but you don't linger on that thought, “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine, only Sukana won’t shut up. My internal monologue is forever ruined now.” He whines. You huff a laugh and hug him tightly. He hugs you back with the same intensity, letting you know that he’s not going anywhere. When you pull away you rest your hand on his check and neither of you can stop smiling.

You hear Gojo clear his throat, “You’ve chosen your fate then?” he asks.

“Not at all. I’m still not sure why I have to be executed, but I know I can’t do nothing.”. There’s a newfound determination radiating from him. “I’ll eat every part of Sukana, after that I don’t care.”

Yuji looks at you and Gojo, “As far as how I’m going to die, I’ve already decided.”

Your face drops but Gojo grins, “My guy! I love fighting guys like you! A fun time in hell awaits.” You roll your eyes at Gojo as he walks up to the door. You look down at your watch and swear under your breath.

“I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but you need to go home and pack.” You walk over to the urn and pick it up. “And then you’ll be enrolled at Jujutsu High.”

“Where’s that?”

When the door fully opens, it reveals a tired Megumi standing on the other side. “Tokyo.”

“Fushiguro!! Looking good brother!” Yuji smiles and gives a huge thumbs up.

“You think this is looking good?” Megumi asks.

You clear your throat to get Yuji’s attention, “You’re going to the school where jujutsu sorcerers learn how to use jujutsu properly. I’m one of the teachers there along with Gojo.”

Speak of the devil-, he puts a hand on your shoulder and lifts up three fingers, “That’s right and you will be one of three first years at the school.”

“Only three?”

“Yes Yuji," You walk up to Yuji and give him one last hug. "I have to leave now, but I’ll see you at the school in a week or two.”

“I'll see ya later then!” When you pull away, you see Yuji smiling. He’s definitely unsure of a lot of things, but you give him a reassuring smile back.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

“She’s late,”

“She’s grieving, Maki,”

“Salmon,”

“I know but-!”

“I’m here!!” You yell across the busy train station. You find your students waiting by one of the station entrances. There’s a few bags by their feet, which you assume have some different cursed tools inside, but mostly clothes since the mission will last for a few weeks. You can see that Panda is wearing a charm that Yaga made for him to appear like a normal human in front of non-sorcerers.

You try to catch your breath once you reach your students. “Forgive me, I had to help Gojo with a mission and now. . .” You straighten out and they look at you expectantly.

“Now?” Maki asks.

You mutter under your breath, “I don’t know how to actually explain this. . .”

An announcement comes through the speakers, saying that a train will be arriving to track 2.

“That’s ours! Come on guys, we need to hurry! We won’t make it to Sakata in time if we miss this train!” Panda says as he picks up one of their bags.

“Hey slow down Panda!!” Maki calls out, trying to chase after him.

You laugh and help Inumaki grab the rest of the bags. “Mustard leaf?” He asks and you pat his shoulder.

“I’ll explain it while we’re on the train, okay?” You smile at him and you can tell he smiles back.

It’s going to be okay. It has to be.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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percki · 9 months ago

Text

on my knees

tags: 18+, mature content, MDNI, Gale x reader, f!Tav, 2nd person pronouns, act 3, semi-public sex, porn w/o plot, lap dance, explicit consent, bondage, restraints, dom/sub, switch Gale, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), lap sex, hand jobs, overstimulation, orgasm denial, praise kink

ao3 link

“Urgh.” Rolan stands up, wiping a smear of Lorroakan’s blood off the sleeve of his robes. “Your aasimar friend is… violent.”

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Rolan. We can clean everything up –” You glance around the upper level of the tower, at the holy fire, congealed mud, pasty mixture of water and ash, and a fair amount of blood. At the wizard’s broken body, his face swollen with bruises, his mouth agape, sprawled at the foot of his throne of books. “– Um, but it might take a while.”

Rolan waves one long-nailed hand in your direction, his discolored face grateful – if not a bit exasperated. “Don’t worry about it, my friend. You have already done so much for me – consider my debt forgiven, and all will be well.” You smile at that, watching the tiefling wizard grunt with exertion as he hauls Lorroakan’s body towards the portal. “And, erm – help yourself to any treasures you come across, of course. I’ll be… downstairs…” He pushes the corpse through the shimmering portal, and sends you one last earnest, sharp-toothed smile over his shoulder. “...Burying a body.”

With that, Rolan pushes up the sleeves of his robes (sorcerer’s robes, trimmed in silver, unbefitting for a wizard, but they suit him well nonetheless) and steps through the portal, no doubt bracing himself to break the news to his new employees. ‘Hey, so remember those adventurers that just came in? They killed Lorroakan, violently, and I’m your boss now. Surprise!’ You’re sure the staff at Sorcerous Sundries have endured worse surprises; working for Lorroakan sounds akin to an eternity of torture in the Hells.

Aylin sheathes her sword and crosses over to you, removing her helmet. Her ash-blonde hair spills over her shoulders, and her gold-streaked face glistens with blood and sweat. “I shall be at your camp, if you have need of me,” she declares, and inclines her head in gratitude. “You fought well – as you have before. I remain thankful for your assistance.” Less wordy than usual – Lorroakan’s death must be weighing on her. You don’t blame her.

“Thank you, Dame Aylin,” you say, and bow in respect. She smiles at that, silver eyes gleaming.

“Ooh, wait!” Karlach runs up to you, her arms full of wine bottles – no doubt pilfered from Lorroakan’s hidden stash. The woman has a nose for alcohol – she could find a bottle of Baldur’s Grape blindfolded, disoriented, in the middle of a rainstorm. Shadowheart is close behind, a new cloak slung over her shoulders and a fair amount of gold filling her pockets. “We’ll probably go back to camp, too – Fringe and I have to try all this wine.”

“To make sure it isn’t poisoned,” Shadowheart adds, green eyes twinkling with humor. “You can handle yourselves without us, can’t you?”

You grin. “Save a bottle of Mermaid Whiskey for me.”

“Blech. You can have it all.” Karlach sticks out her split tongue, her smile wide. “See ya!” She bolts through the portal head-first: dangerous, with the amount of alcohol in her arms and the fiery infernal engine in her chest. You hear a distant crash, and wince.

Shadowheart follows close behind, calling, “Save the Tyche Pink!”

You hear the rush of wings and look over – Aylin is gone, too, a flash of silver in the clear blue sky. You watch her fly, the wind buffeting her white wings – deva-like, altogether unnatural, inhuman, beautiful in an untouchable, deadly, frightening way – as she soars. The sunlight seems to collect around her, like a remnant of her celestial mother’s power lingers, still, even after the heat and rage of battle is done.

“And then there were two.”

Gale’s voice snaps you out of your reverie. You look up, meeting his eyes. Dark brown, deep, gentle, shining with a light all too familiar. He’s standing by the throne of books, his right hand resting on a copy of Folktales of Faerún: The Angelic Aasimar.

You kneel over the ashes of the water myrmidon, sifting through the remains for treasure. Nothing. “I suppose Rolan will take a while…” You look around the tower once more, keen eyes picking out chests, display cases, bookshelves – anything that could hide a nice new set of robes for Gale, or a dagger for Astarion, or perhaps some armor for Wyll… “Will you cast Feather Fall? I want to look on the lower levels…” You trail off, reading something in Gale’s eyes. His fingers flex on the spine of the book, his shoulders thrown back, his lilac robes fitting his form well. Is he… posing? You smile and straighten, dusting ash off your sleeves, and move to his side, twining your left arm with his right, leaning comfortably against his side. “The Annals are in the vaults,” you say, knowing his primary objective here, halfheartedly attempting to lift his spirits. Thoughts of the Crown are dangerous – you have seen how easily the lure of power can corrupt, a thousand times (with Kagha in the Emerald Grove, with Minthara at the goblin camp, with Ketheric and Gortash and now Lorroakan). But despite your reservations, you know his ambition fuels him, that it drives his fire, that thoughts of greatness and respect do raise his spirits. “We could go down ourselves…”

Gale turns into you, resting his forehead on your shoulder, his beard scratching at your neck. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, and sighs deeply, inhaling your scent – blood and smoke and sweat, and the faintest hints of his cologne lingering on your skin. “I… Not yet,” he says vaguely, and kisses your neck again, deeper this time. Your breath hitches as he trails long, searing kisses up your neck, along the line of your jaw, leading up to your lips.

“Gale…” You whisper, voice low. “I –” He nips at your bottom lip, smiling against your chin, and you can feel your face heat up. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says devilishly, oak eyes sparkling, looking up at you through thick, dark lashes. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and you can feel the vibration of his voice against your skin, sending a chill down your spine. “I can’t believe…” He blinks, as if waking from a dream, and cradles your jaw with his hand, straightening to his full height.

You kiss him, this time, tasting blood on his lips, and you stop, examining his face carefully. A bruise is forming at the bridge of his nose, blood tracing a path down the apex of his lips to his chin. You frown, brow creasing in worry. “You’re hurt.”

“Hm?” Gale touches his face gingerly, delicate, careful fingers prodding the quickly-purpling skin. “Oh. Yes. That. It’s quite alright –”

“It’s not alright,” you reply. “Let me heal you.” You take his shoulders in your hands and guide him into a seated position on Lorroakan’s throne, his back reclined against a collection of Ramazith’s annotated tomes. You kneel before him, positioning yourself between his legs, and summon a simple healing incantation, your hand hovering over his nose, the blue glow of the spell reflected in his eyes. “Te curo,” you murmur, and watch as his skin knits itself together, blood drying, swelling fading, the bruise vanishing beneath your fingers. “Better?”

“Better,” he admits, and looks at you with intent in his eyes, his gaze dark and focused on your features. “My love,” he starts, then hesitates. His face turns a delicious shade of pink.

“Yes?” You lean forward, hanging onto his words. He adjusts his legs, his thighs bracketing your shoulders, and you feel the slightest thrill at your compromising position, you in your armor and him in his robes, you kneeling before him like a supplicant at an altar.

“Rolan may not return for some time,” Gale says. “We could…” He stops again, biting his lip.

You guess his meaning immediately – your thoughts are remarkably in-tune. You can’t deny that you hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t wished for… Well. For Gale. Your peaceful nights since arriving in the Lower City have been few and far between, interrupted as they are: by vampires, by nightmares, by Orin’s ministrations. It’s been some time since you and Gale had time to yourselves.

And now, it seems, you have all the time in the world.

“Do you want to?” You question, and his eyes darken, his pupils expanding infinitesimally. You lean forward, cupping his cock with your hand, and smile to feel him already half-hard beneath your touch.

“I – yes,” he breathes, and raises his hand to cast Mage Hand, the incantation on his lips, when you catch him by the wrist, holding him still.

“No magic,” you say breathlessly, and straighten back up to your full height, smiling down at him. “As mortals do, remember?”

Gale watches you intently as you undo the first few buckles of your armor, leather slipping between your fingers. He sits up, reaching out his hands to help –

And you push him back.

“Don’t move,” you warn him, and plant one hand securely on his chest, holding him in place, as you draw a piece of silken fabric out of your pack. You hold it up for him to see, and upon realizing your intention, his eyes widen, pupils expanding impossibly wide. “Do you want this?” You ask, and he confirms with a nod of his head. You narrow your eyes and lean in, your face centimeters away from his, your breath ghosting on his lips. “Say it, please, love.”

He swallows thickly, eyes locked on yours, and says, his voice a rumble in his chest, “I want you to tie me up.”

You smile, and reward him with a bruising, biting kiss. “Good boy,” you murmur, and relish the way his face reddens, his jaw going slightly slack at the praise. “Lean forward for me?” He acquiesces, already holding his hands behind his back, and you climb up into his lap to twine the silk around his wrists, your touch featherlight and gentle. You test the knot, and smile. Not too tight – but he certainly won’t get any ideas about spellcasting. “Does that feel okay?”

“Yes,” he says into your shoulder, his voice muffled by the layers of your armor. You stand back up and step completely out of your clothes, metal buckles and buttons clinking as your many layers fall to the floor, and then you stand before Gale in your undergarments, your skin rising with goosebumps from the cool air, his eyes roving a path up and down your figure.

You feel a little warm from the intensity of his gaze, but you steel your nerves and continue. You reach out with your senses, using the knowledge of the Weave that Gale taught you of so long ago, and you can feel a soft tinkling at the edge of your perception, the distant sound of music, and you pull it towards you. In one of the pleasure dens far below, a slow, sensual number starts up, and you filter the sound through the available space, filling the tower with music.

Gale’s lips part as he realizes your plan. “Love,” he starts, “I haven’t –”

You feel a twinge of self-doubt, standing there near-nude before a man who is completely clothed. You have no experience with this whatsoever – apart from what you have read and seen – and you’re not sure that Gale loves you enough to forgive you if you make a total ass of yourself. “This is okay, right?” You rush to ask, holding your hands out for his before realizing that he’s still tied. You tuck them behind your back, straightening your posture. “Um – I know this is probably unusual, but, you know, in the Quarta Sune –”

Gale grins, his dimples making a rare appearance, and the sight of it pulls at your heartstrings. “You are perfect,” he promises, lifting his dark eyes up to your face. “This is perfect. Please, keep going.”

The slight rasp of his voice goes straight to your core, and you step forward before you’re entirely conscious of your movements, looping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. He leans into you with a groan, and you can feel his shoulders move, his hands resisting the bindings, and you pull back. “No touching,” you say softly, “right? This is about you.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, his expression adorably resentful, and you laugh and kiss the bridge of his nose.

“Later,” you promise, and with that, you stand up, and turn away from him, facing the windows, the setting sun illuminating your skin. The music restarts, strings amping up, and you sway your hips to the tune, letting instinct take over. One, two, three, you breathe, feeling the rhythm run through you, and as the music crescendos, you drop down onto Gale’s lap, your ass just brushing over his thighs, hoping your undulating body looks sensual rather than spasmodic, and your efforts are rewarded with a delicious, blinding groan from behind you. You turn back around to face him – one, two, three – and lean in close, your scent intoxicating, his body warming your skin, and bracket his legs with your knees, one hand carding through his hair and the other slowly unbuttoning his robes, your knuckles barely brushing the velvet-soft hair on his chest. You slide your hands down the planes of his torso, and then, just as he’s leaning forward, again, anticipating your lips on his –

You step back again, turning, lifting your hands over your head and letting your hair down, smiling to yourself as you peek over your shoulder at his exasperated face. One, two, three. You let your ass ghost over his lap again, closer this time, holding there for a few moments longer than he considers tolerable, and just as his patience goes and his hips buck, you return to your starting position, looking down at him chidingly.

“Please,” he whispers, and you raise your brows, your hands going to the clasp of your bra. He watches, rapt, as you slide the fabric off your breasts and let it fall to the ground atop your discarded armor, your nipples peaking in the cool air. You repeat the motion with your panties, and you’re sure Gale catches sight of the soaked fabric as you toss it aside: his face turns a flattering shade of crimson, his arms straining against his silken ropes.

“How can I deny you?” You say, and with smooth, uninterrupted movements, you slide onto his lap, rocking your hips back and forth, tantalizingly slow, atop him. His robes slip open completely, and you can feel his cock straining against the fabric of his undergarments, barely brushing against the skin of your thighs. Your hands roam along the skin of his chest, thumbs swirling careful circles in the dips of his collarbone and shoulders, your palms warm against his skin. “You’re doing so well,” you praise him, and lean forward to kiss along the line of his clavicle, then slowly up his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, tasting his sandalwood cologne, his soapy shaving cream, the sweat and salt lingering there, your tongue pulsing against his jaw. “So good for me,” you continue, running your hands through his hair, “you’re perfect, Gale.”

And then, surprising him, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees, slotting your body perfectly in between his legs, and in one swift motion, you free his aching cock from his undergarments and lean forward once more, fitting your lips around the head.

“O-oh,” he moans, straining to keep still as you take him deeper, your hands tracing patterns on the skin of his thighs, reaching up to his hips, your nails scratching lightly, and then, as you adjust yourself and push him back so as to get more leverage, you wrap one hand around his shaft and devote the other one to palm gently at his balls, still a touch too gentle. “Mmm – more,” he sighs, and you obey, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock and then fitting it back in your mouth, deep enough to brush the back of your throat, pre-cum salty on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, looking up at him through lowered lashes, and his mouth falls open, releasing the most pleasurable moans and groans, sighs and mewls slipping between his lips, chanted noises that may be words – you catch the sound of your name, and please, and yes, in the chorus of sounds that escape his chest, rising and falling in octave with every swipe of your tongue and bob of your head. “P-please,” he says again, “please, let me –”

You guess his meaning, and reach behind him; the movement sending his cock to the very back of your throat, and his back arches in pleasure; and pull the strings of his bindings, untying his hands. The moment he’s free, he takes your head in his hands, cradling your jaw, and lets his fingers twine in the strands of your hair as you suck with renewed eagerness, sliding back nearly completely only to take him in fully again, the feel of his cock in your mouth dizzying, intoxicating, sending white-hot shivers through your body –

You glance down, and through the haze of pleasure, through the shadows of sunset, through the sweat and slick on your body, you see a flash of blue cupping your cunt, and you can suddenly feel the gentle, not-quite-there brush of the Mage Hand’s fingers against your clit. You war between pleasure and indignation for a moment – and indignation wins. You pull back, Gale’s weeping cock inches away from your mouth but still suspended in midair, and he huffs, putting his hands over his eyes, his pleasure cut short just on the path to climax. “Why did you –”

“No magic,” you repeat, and you can feel the Mage Hand dissolve. Gale peeks out from through his fingers, caught, and not the least bit ashamed. “Do I need to tie you up again? Completely, this time?”

“I –” His cock twitches, beads of precum leaking from the tip, stunning the both of you into silence.

You let a devilish grin slide across your face. “Oh. You want me to tie you up, love? Top to tip, completely trussed up for me?” You pull away from him and reach in your pack for more ribbon. “Red or purple, my sweet?”

Gale manages an arrogant smile, his face still flushed red. “Purple, of course.”

“Good choice,” you grin, and stand, running the ribbons through your hands reverently. “This will only take a minute,” you promise. “Why don’t you take those bothersome clothes off before I get started?”

He does, and you let your eyes run over his figure appreciatively for a minute before going to work. Hands on the ‘arms’ of the throne, the ribbon secured around a stack of encyclopedias. His legs against the respective ‘legs’ of the throne, straining slightly against his bonds. You stand before him, and he angles his hips up slightly, his eyes pleading.

“So cooperative,” you murmur, running your hands gently up his thighs. “So patient. So good.” You lift your hand to your mouth and spit on your fingers, holding eye contact, and he breathes shakily as you wrap your hand around his cock, leaning forward, mouthing kisses along his neck and collarbone. You start slowly, tantalizingly, pumping your hand along his length with a careful, measured speed that makes Gale’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Please – more,” he moans, his lips chasing yours. “Faster.”

You acquiesce, moving quicker, twisting your wrist the way you know that he likes. His breaths come faster, too, a mindless stream of yes and please and more coupled with your name falling from his mouth. You kiss him with bruising intensity, feeling his cock twitch in your fingers, his body straining against his bonds.

He comes with a muffled yell, his eyes rolling completely back in his head, and you kiss him fiercely as his come paints your stomach and thighs where you sit atop him. “Please – gods – please, untie me, let me –”

You smile against his lips and loosen the ribbons, yelping when his arms encircle you with surprising strength, lifting you up by your thighs and laying you out on the tile floor of the tower, the ground cold on your skin, your head canted back as Gale trails kisses down your thighs. “Ah – Gale,” you sigh as his fingers whisper up the inside of your legs, your skin rising with goosebumps. “I can’t –” You try to lift your head, to see where he is and what he’s doing, but your neck won’t cooperate. “What –”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Gale murmurs into your thigh, his hand lifting your leg to his lips, his beard tickling your skin pleasantly. “There’s only so long I can go without magic, my love. I thought –” Here, his tongue slides up to your cunt, tracing around your lips gently, and you moan, your boneless body arching in pleasure. “I thought you might enjoy feeling how I felt. Constrained. At my mercy.” His tongue winds a circle around your clit, and your breaths come faster, your thighs shaking madly. “Do you?”

“Do I – ah – what?”

“Enjoy it,” Gale says into your cunt, and the vibration makes you shudder.

“I – yes, I – please, I want to touch you, I want to –”

“Mmm,” Gale hums, his tongue working careful, restrained circles around your clit, dipping down to taste your slick. “Not yet.”

It’s been less than two minutes, and you’re already shaking, riding high, your eyes unfocused, as Gale takes you apart with his tongue. The painted constellations of the ceiling dance in and out of focus, and your moans echo around the circular tower, a mix of yes and please and Gale falling from your mouth, a reminder of the way you coaxed Gale’s orgasm from him with delicate fingers not five minutes before. “Gale, I – oh, gods, I can’t – please, I want to see you, I –”

The spell breaks, and you lift your head to see Gale’s face completely buried in your cunt, his sweaty hair spread out on your thighs, his eyes closed in ecstasy, and the image is enough to send you over the edge, a scream in your throat, your legs shaking wildly as you come, Gale’s tongue still working at you gently, until the sensation is too much and you kick him softly, signaling get off me, because your vocal cords aren’t working at the moment.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, and crawls up to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his tongue, salty-sweet and heady. “But we should probably go before Rolan comes back. I suspect we won’t have an opportunity to take advantage of his hospitality again.”

“Gale…” You wind your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, your eyes fluttering shut. “You might have to Dimension Door us out of here. I don’t think my legs will move.”

“I’ll carry you,” he smiles, and helping you stand, he laces his robes back up and aids you in buckling your armor. “Now come. There’s a bath at the Elfsong that’s calling my name.”

You sigh softly, leaning your head into his shoulder, and watch dreamily as he conjures the portal. “Wait – what about the Annals?”

“Oh.” Gale looks down at the lower levels of the tower. “I suppose we’ll have to come back tomorrow.” He looks almost downcast, but then the expression fades, and he’s just Gale again, smiling at you. “Let’s go.”

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