#Aldo Busi

[yourdailyqueer]

Aldo Busi

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: 25 February 1948  

Ethnicity: White - Italian

Occupation: Writer, translator

[lunamarish]

A volte penso di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, il sogno nel cassetto aperto nel momento sbagliato, il dormiveglia di una dalia d’inverno che lascia i suoi petali alla brina che l’uccide grata di conservare intatto il suo cuore, il cuore del cuore per la primavera alle porte: àprile tu, o tu, o tu, aprimi tu, o tu, o tu… Tu?

Che come me, pensi a volte di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, un’altalena occupata che qualcuno si è dimenticato di spingere: spingila tu, o tu, o tu, spingimi tu, o tu… Tu?

A volte penso di essere una foto con l’autoscatto venuta fuori trasparente che non si vede bene, che si vede niente, un nastro dimenticato annodato sul letto che da solo non sa sciogliere questo nodo: scioglilo tu, o tu, o tu, scioglimi tu, o tu, o tu… Tu?

Io non ricordo più come fu, che tu, o tu, possiedi le dita delle mie mani, le labbra della mia bocca, il cuore che usa me, per battere in se, per battere in te… O tu, o tu, o tu… Tu? Pulsalo tu, o tu, o tu, pulsami tu… Tu?

A volte penso di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, o tu, o tu, o tu… Tu?

Ma poi non ci penso più…

Aldo Busi, da “L’amore trasparente”

[la-scigghiu]

A volte penso di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, il sogno nel cassetto aperto nel momento sbagliato, il dormiveglia di una dalia d'inverno che lascia i suoi petali alla brina che l'uccide, grata, di conservare intatto il suo cuore, il cuore del cuore per la primavera alle porte: aprile tu, o tu, o tu, aprimi tu, o tu, o tu, o tu, o tu...o tu? che come me pensi a volte di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, un'altalena occupata che qualcuno si è dimenticato di spingere: spingila tu, o tu, o tu, spingimi tu, o tu, o tu, o tu, o tu...o tu? A volte penso di essere una foto con l'autoscatto venuta fuori trasparente, che non si vede bene, che si vede niente, un nastro dimenticato annodato sul letto che da solo non sa sciogliere questo nodo, scioglilo tu, o tu, o tu, scioglimi tu, o tu, o tu, o tu, o tu...o tu? Non ricordo più come fu che tu, o tu, possiedi le dita delle mie mani, le labbra della mia bocca, il cuore che usa me per battere in sè, per battere in te, o tu, o tu, o tu... o tu? pulsalo tu, o tu, o tu, pulsami tu... tu? A volte penso di essere un sogno che qualcuno si è dimenticato di fare, o tu, o tu, o tu...o tu? ma poi non penso più...

.🦋.

🔸Aldo Busi

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque]

Per la scrittura io ho fatto tutto, mi sono ridotto persino a vivere.

Aldo Busi, Sodomie in corpo 11.

[mayolfederico]

John Ashbery - Autoritratto in uno specchio convesso

Parmigianino, Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, 1524, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna Autoritratto in uno specchio convesso Come lo fece Parmigianino, la mano destrapiù grossa della testa, spinta verso l’osservatore e graziosamente in rientranza, come a proteggere ciò che mostra. Qualche lastra piombata, vecchie travi, pelliccia, mussola arricciata, un anello di corallo concorrono in un…

[ghosts-of-love]

oh dear

[monicaalexandraaa]

👀👀👏

THE COUNT | {vamprry} a preview

Series Summary: Count Styles lives on an island you’ll not find on any map. He’s lived in relative solitude for ages and is happy to have the rare occasional guest who accidentally runs into his small slice of the world, though they may not be as thrilled by his intentions once they find out what he is.

When Y/n's weather vessel crashes into his island one stormy night he greets her and offers her shelter in his castle while she waits for someone to help repair her boat. She soon comes to adore the strange and charming man and grows a worrying attachment. But she cannot help herself. No matter how much she learns about the Count and how strange her world has become she cannot seem to pull herself out of the haze of his alluring spell.

Even when her life depends on it.

..

Short preview below.

NOTE: this is from part 2 (which has not yet been posted on Patreon)

. . .

Pressing her ear closer to the door she closed her eyes and there was a distinct male voice, a sobbed moan that, after a loud thud, turned into something like a pitiful crying. But then she heard another voice and there was something familiar in the way it cooed and teased almost. She could not make out words but the sentiment was clear. There were two people in that room having sex and one of them was Harry. The other sounded to be a man.

Stepping back from the door she realized her mouth was hung open in surprise. Perhaps the Count was into men. Well, he was quite pretty. She could imagine that she supposed. Before she could even turn around the sounds behind the door stopped and the silence that suddenly surrounded her had her heart picking up a beat. Had she made a noise?

She swallowed and turned her head to see her door open down the hallway and wondered if she could make it quickly before anyone knew that she’d been listening in.

But the moment that thought popped into her head the door opened up and there was Harry in a long white cotton pijama, the top unbuttoned and nearly draped off his shoulder. She glanced over his frame and back up to his eyes but he was different. His irises were almost black and his mouth was set strangely, like he had swollen gums, “Would you like something, Y/n?”

Shaking her head she stepped back, “No. Sorry. I… heard something… nothing. I’m going back to bed. Sorry!”

She turned to move away but he stopped her, his hand wrapped around her upper arm, making her twist back to face him, “Are you sure don’t want anything?”

She darted her eyes behind him to the room he’d been in and it appeared to be lit by a fireplace. She saw something move across the doorway but couldn’t make out what (or who) it was.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you. That… I was just worried…”

He smiled, his lips covering his teeth as he closed the door behind him and stepped in dangerously close, holding her arm to keep her from inching away. He looked down at the dirtied material tucked under her arm and he grunted softly, “Oh my. What is this?”

Letting go of her arm he plucked the defiled sheets and nightgown from her and dropped the sheet to the floor, his hands crumpling around the white fabric, thumb dragging into the slippery wetness where her arousal had dripped.

She felt herself flush hot with embarrassment as she watched the Count inspect the damage she’d done to her nightgown. It was obvious what it was he was looking at.

“Poor, Y/n,” his dark eyes met hers as he lifted his thumb to his mouth and ran the pad of his digit against his tongue, eyes fluttering closed when he swallowed.

All of the breath in her lungs was caught and now the flush of heat was forming in her tummy as she watched him enjoy the taste. Her taste.

His jaw clenched as he opened his eyes and looked down at her, dark irises raking over her frame and then back up to her face, a deep exhale escaping his chest, “We’re all carnal beings, Y/n. There’s no shame in the body’s natural reaction to an arousing dream. All you have to do is call for me next time and I’ll make the emptiness go away. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

She couldn’t blink or look away from him. She was trapped by his haunting gaze as he drew a finger from her jaw up to her temple and then back down until he’d gently scraped his nail over her pulse point, pressing in just enough to make a small indent bite into her flesh, before lifting and pushing his nail in crosswise against the same spot.

“X marks the spot. Doesn’t it, Y/n?”

She gulped, “What’s that mean?”

Harry lowered his face close to hers. He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, “If you ask politely,” he wrapped his hand around the side of her neck, thumb dragging against her jaw, “I’ll show you what it means.”

. . .

Part 1 of this series is out now on Patreon only. If you liked this preview, consider joining my Patreon for more exclusive content like this.

xoxo

[quinnlarrabee]

Macron's fiery Sorbonne speech targets summering American Millennials

It’s no coincidence that Emmanuel Macron gave a fiery speech about the threats facing Europe the same week that American Millennials in New York, LA, and Miami began talking about booking their one-way flights to the continent. "There is a risk our Europe could die - we are not equipped to face the risks," Macron said, referring to the dietary allergies, alternative milk needs, and tedious conversations of trust-funded, unemployed young adults who will begin their summer in Paris to attend a museum benefit that spills into a large dinner party with several professional photographers before traveling to Puglia, Comporta, or Ibiza where they will subsist on ‘beautiful tomatoes,’ flat whites, and MDMA. 

Europe has struggled with illegal immigration for decades, and there is no more pressing illegal immigration threat than American Millennials who have decided that being unemployed in Europe is less distressing for their parents than being unemployed in Williamsburg. Google searches for ‘how long can I stay in EU without passport’ spiked in late-April among Americans who have not yet bought a Portuguese passport from a guy who used to run a turnkey Burning Man camp who is now running a Golden Visa scheme in Lisbon. “Our Europe today is mortal,” Macron said. “It can die and that depends solely on our choices,” the choices being whether or not to search and detain for ketamine at customs and how to clearly define tipping protocol in restaurants. 

“It used to be enough to spend a couple weeks in Italy in July,” observes Coco, a 34-year-old retired gallery founder who is on the board of several art-related non-profits that she instructed her unpaid interns to start. “But now it gets so hot in Europe in July that everyone is going in June and even like, May.” Coco has several weddings and dinner parties in various coastal destinations in Europe in June, but she has not yet RSVP’d nor has she booked any travel. “I know I’m going to go, but I’ve just been too busy to look at the dates or book anything,” she says, absently picking some kind of beige matter from the left eye of her toy goldendoodle. Macron at one point asserts in his speech that Europe is “too slow and lacks ambition,” referring directly to Coco’s ambivalent European travel plans. 

Uncertainty permeates the vibe in Europe right now, not because of a military threat posed by a giant, angry country with cocked nukes driven by a weak-minded Cold War relic, but because every Millennial in New York, Miami and Los Angeles has expressed their intention to occupy Europe without declaring the targets. 

“Is very stressful,” says Aldo Melpignano, the proprietor of Borgo Egnazia, a trendy boutique hotel in Puglia that for Europeans costs €120 a night and charges 30something Americans visiting from coastal zipcodes $970. “I see the hashtags on the Instagram, like, I’m coming for your @borgoegnazia,” he says. “Va bene, Allison, when you gonna come for us, and are you gonna come with that stupid capello?” says Aldo while making a pinched-fingers emoji with one hand and pointing to his head with the other. Hotel, coffee shop, organic market, and narcotics purveyors all over Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal have echoed this desire for more resolute planning and fewer hats from the demographic that funds the less productive but more desirable EU countries.  

"We must produce more, we must produce faster, and we must produce as Europeans," Macron said, a rallying cry to European DJs to sample only vocals that were recorded in native European languages.  

“Europe must show that it is never a vassal of the United States and that it also knows how to talk to all the other regions of the world," Macron said, refuting the irrefutable fact that Europe has become a summer camp for unproductive younger Americans and suggesting that they be immediately deported to Bodrum or Izmir upon landing at CDG, MXP, and LIS. 

“This is a betrayal of our values that ultimately leads us to dependency on other counties,” Macron said, making an observation about Europe’s frustration with having to work between May and August in order to show American Millennials how to correctly tap their credit card on puzzling European payment terminals.

“Europe must become capable of defending its interests, with its allies by our side whenever they are willing, and alone if necessary,” said Macron, in defense of French baristas who do not like working with oat milk. Taking a hands-on approach to ensuring the EU’s “ability to ensure our security” Macron and his wife will begin their Summer at a wedding in the Aeolian Islands in early June, float around Sicily or Puglia the following week, head to Bonjuk Bay for an appearance of prominent LA-based DJ, RICHE, and then couch-surf in Santa Gertrudis de Fruitera the rest of the summer.

[sunflowerzyk]

Royal Guard Simon Riley x Princess Reader

Part1. Part3.

SFW Part2.

Knight! Simón who is an exceptional watchdog, assists your aldo in all your royal duties by taking the place of your mother as queen. Budgeting for decorations, banquets, festivals, palace maintenance and making appearances when your father was unable or too busy to do so.

He came to all of that.

Even though he knew it would be extremely uncomfortable for him, Simon agreed. Because of you.

He could have sent one of his subordinates or even some of your maids to keep you company.

But he was a selfish bastard who wanted to be there, by your side, to make sure his little princess was okay.

His. Keeping away the gazes of the vultures that watched your tender, calm flesh.

He was willing to put up with your tantrums and tantrums when you asked to go out to tea parties and he denied you.Willing to listen to your little gasps behind the door that only he guarded. Listening to your little discoveries like how ants, no matter how small, would commit more war crimes for an insignificant piece of bread.

He would accept anything just to see your eyes fixed directly into his without fear. Without hesitation.

Your voice although sometimes awkward in connecting your tongue with your thoughts, you never failed to be direct and look at him as.... Perhaps if a terrifying man, but he had understood that you were strangely uncomfortable.

"Stop looking at me like that, princess" he asked quietly, standing in front of your bedroom door, not allowing you to leave. "I said you're not going to the orchard today."

You glared at him, protesting your excuses for going to check on your little new sprouts, downplaying the threat your father had given you for doing things for lower-class people. You didn't mind getting reprimanded by your old dad.

But Simon did. It made his blood boil to see you with your head down. Always.

"Wait until the waters calm down," he asked in a gentler tone. Which definitely confused you, taking the frustration away from your face.....

He liked that expression too.

[probablyasocialecologist]

One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise.

Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

[abiiors]

cruel summer - ross x reader ˚˖𓍢ִ໋`🔆:✧˚.🍉⋆𖧧🐚

a/n: sufjan stevens summer?? maybe?? slightly, if you squint. cw: CHEATING (if you have problems with it, this one's really not for you), brief mentions of the death of a parent, one extremely brief mention of a slap, SMUT wc: 12.6k (wtf!)

the first day of summer is always dull at the villa. 

it’s the summer solstice—something the owner used to believe in, and so you keep the tradition, moving all your belongings to the little caretaker’s cottage for the next three months. it’s hard work, taking care of the guests, taking care of the villa, but it’s fun. there’s your seventy year old fisherman aldo who greets you with all the grandfatherly warmth in the world. he promises help should you need it. (you suspect you do, it’s your first year doing this alone after all) 

there’s marta, the cook who’s worked here since before you were even born, excited to get back to work and try out some of the new recipes she’s perfected over the course of the rest of the year. her son helps out too. enzo helps with the cleaning and the more manual tasks, helps you make sure the place is spotless. then there's the more seasonal staff, people who want to spend a summer abroad doing menial jobs and traveling. they never stay long but they're good help.

all in all by the time the villa is open for business, you’re confident that it’s going to be the perfect getaway for any couple that chooses to rent it, specifically the one who has chosen to rent it—for four whole weeks. not that you don’t get long stays from people, it’s an absolutely gorgeous property after all. but four weeks is rare. 

you suspect it’s someone on their honeymoon—high on newlywed bliss and disgustingly in love. 

mr and mrs macdonald.

“we have a booking under macdonald?” is the first thing he says to you. 

hastily you look up from your phone (which you shouldn’t have been on in the first place, but the only people you’ve seen here today are a few tourists dining at the restaurant adjacent to the villa and the locals dropping by for a catch up) and nod.

macdonald. yes. that’s a name you know. 

you stand up to your full height and come up to about his chest, craning until you can meet his eyes…or well, the sunglasses, in his case. he looks like every other tourist you’ve seen—a white linen shirt, sunglasses, suitcases, slightly pink in the face. but that’s not all. 

a chain peeks from under his collar, resting delicately around his neck. his sleeves are folded up to the elbows, forearms littered with tattoos, and you suspect there’s more of them that you can’t see. the top two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, giving you a generous view of his chest. 

not that you should be noticing any of that. 

he is holding hands with his wife right in front of you after all… a wife that has her eyebrow raised at you at the moment. 

“right!” you clap, putting on your best customer service voice, “the honeymoon couple.”

she makes a sound at the back of her throat, something that’s almost like an incredulous laugh. the man, however, smiles and shakes his head. 

“not honeymoon, no. just a vacation.”

inwardly you cringe. the owner would have never outright assumed something like that. the owner, incidentally, would have also had the perfect comeback. you awkwardly toe the rug under your feet.

“oh, sorry about that. let me just, uh, let me get you checked in.”

mercifully they say nothing after that. they wait, holding hands and looking around the lobby of the villa, making little comments about the decor and the vibe. from the corner of your eye you see him rub his thumb on the back of her hand, then you see her put her thumb on his, stopping his motion entirely. he doesn’t try again after that. 

“leave your bags here, i’ll send enzo to get them. he’s our helper, by the way.” you look around for any sign of enzo and find him gone, probably helping around with other things. quickly you explain some general things, let them know where to find stuff they might possibly need. 

“and do you live here?” the man asks, catching you off guard. it clearly catches his wife off guard too because she stops looking around and stares right at you. you suspect if it weren’t for her sunglasses, she’d be openly glaring daggers at you. 

“not here,” you laugh, slightly awkward, “the cottage adjacent. it’s right by the edge of the property if you take the back entrance.”

“ah! we’re neighbours.” it’s the first time the wife speaks directly to you, startling you a little. you nod dumbly. 

“i guess we are. have a good stay mr and mrs macdonald!”

the wife is about to thank you when the man waves his hand, “please! it’s ross and ava. we’re staying in your house, after all.”

“ross and ava,” you repeat weakly. any other time you would have quickly corrected him, not my house, but with all his attention on you it’s like you’re tongue-tied and on auto-pilot. only capable of nodding and smiling. 

“thank you,” the wife—ava—says softly, and then she holds her husband’s hand, pulling him along with her. ross gives you one last nod and follows her inside. 

you make your way outside, trying to find enzo, and ignore the “seriously?!” that echoes from inside. 

“handsome man,” marta side eyes you while making a breakfast spread the next morning. you sit on the counter next to her, legs swinging, swiping a fresh muffin while you wait for the coffee to brew. 

“handsome married man,” you deadpan. 

she tuts. “they don’t seem that much in love.”

“nonna!” you jump off the counter, a little flabbergasted, but she only shrugs. “none of our business, okay?”

flustered, you gather the breakfast trays, balancing one in each hand and pushing the door open with your hip. the villa has old servant's passageways, still functional albeit dimly lit, but it’s faster to use the main hallways. 

besides, it’s seven in the morning, you doubt either of them is awake. 

quickly, you make your way to the dining hall, balancing the trays at each turn and making sure to dodge furniture and other decor until you take one more turn and feel your foot getting caught up in the rug. 

fuck how did you not see that?! your eyes widen, body struggling to not flail and drop the trays—the muffins and frittatas can’t fall, there’s no time to replace them if they fall. 

panic surges in your body as you lose your balance entirely until—

“careful!” an unfamiliar voice calls out. an equally unfamiliar arm wraps around your waist, his other hand coming up to stop the trays from falling. somehow you manage to salvage the other, and quickly set it down. he follows suit and sets the other down next to it. 

“fuck, you alright?” his voice comes from right next to your ear—ross. here. with his arm around your waist. 

and like a starstruck idiot you do absolutely nothing to step away. 

“sorry! yeah, yes!” you mumble quickly, scrunching your eyes shut and taking in gulps of air. a moment later, he’s the one to step away. 

you open your eyes and smile tightly at him but the moment you look at him properly, it’s like all the air in the room vanishes. suddenly, it’s a million degrees hotter. his hair is in the same bun they were yesterday, but now there are a couple flyaways, plastered to his sweaty forehead. his t-shirt sticks to his body, damp with sweat and perfectly moulded to the contours of his chest. it’s not hard to make out the precise shape of his arms and shoulders and chest. 

the gold chain is only half visible, resting comfortably on his collarbone. 

he looks like a statue carved out of marble. 

“th-thanks,” you stutter, belatedly kicking yourself for checking him out so blatantly, something that’s definitely not gone unnoticed. his mouth curls up into a smirk, his dark eyes that you hadn’t seen yesterday, stare at you with a kind of intensity that makes you want to melt away right there on the floor. 

“you’re welcome. it would’ve been a shame to let all that go to waste.”

“it would have.”

ross points at the muffins. “you made them?”

“me? oh no, i can hardly cook much less bake. marta, our cook…”

“ah…” he nods an wipes the bead of sweat from his forehead. an errant thought enters your head—one that contains your tongue and his chest and sweaty bodies moving against each other. you cough and bite your tongue. hard. 

“i’m sure you’re hungry after…”

“my run? yeah,” he smiles, “starving. have you had breakfast yet?”

“what?”

“have you had breakfast? or do you not…?”

“no no,” you take another step back, wondering if it’s wise to stand that close to him, “i mean yes, fuck. sorry.”

he snickers, “‘s alright, love. breathe. i was only asking if you’d like to have breakfast with me if you haven’t already had it yet.”

if your jaw hadn’t dropped before, it sure does now, eyes wide and trained on him to make sure he’s not making fun of you for some reason. he wants to have breakfast with…you. 

“mrs macdonald—”

“ava won’t be up for another two hours.” his voice is firm, it leaves no room for argument. “besides, she doesn’t really have breakfast. and i think… if it’s okay with you, that is, i’d like to have company while eating.”

the cacophony of thoughts rages on in your head. this is so improper! god, what would the owner say?! but then again your job is to keep the guests happy, isn’t it? it’s not like you’re inserting yourself in other people’s businesses. he asked—

“well?”

his expectant gaze makes you realise you’ve been staring at him absently for the last minute. he’s clearly waiting for an answer.

and it should be no, you should say no. 

but when you look at his dark eyes and alluring smile somehow the ‘no’ gets lost on your tongue. all you can manage is to pick the trays back up and murmur a quiet ‘yes’.

“rome? that’s your favourite?”

“yeah, what’s wrong with that?” he crosses his arms in front of him, playfully defensive. you observe more keenly than you should. the black tee stretches over his arms, emphasising the precise shape of them. satisfaction runs through you when you see the tattoos on his arms—the ones you hadn’t seen yesterday. you were right, there are so many more…

“it’s just so…cliché,” you giggle and take a sip of your coffee. it’s lukewarm now, that’s how long you’ve been sitting together. “so touristy!”

“i am a tourist!” he retorts. 

“you’re right, you’re right. i just… there’s better places, y’know? smaller, hidden gems that get overlooked so often, it’s unfair. and rome’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, there’s a reason it’s such a tourist destination but…”

“but?”

“it feels…synthetic? i think that’s the case with a lot of big cities though, so i can’t blame rome solely.”

ross leans forward and rests his chin on his palm. his coffee cup sits on the table, long forgotten, and his gaze is focussed solely on you, studying, curious. 

“so what feels like home then? if not rome… don’t get me wrong, i don’t mean it in a bad way but you don’t sound…italian?”

you take another sip of your coffee and set the mug aside, a little further away from his. this is not a conversation you were prepared to have, not with someone who’s virtually a stranger. not with someone you’ve known for a grand total of one day. 

“i am…italian,” you pause, feeling your way around the words you’ve just spoken. “but also not really? i have grown up all around the world essentially, whatever struck my mum’s fancy. but i’ve always spent my summers here in the villa. with her.”

“did she work here?”

you trace the rim of the mug, nodding slowly. “something like that…”

“and your dad?”

“not in the picture. never knew him really,” you interject quickly before ross can assume. “bit of a mamma mia situation. my mum had her fun, i suppose. good for her.”

he’s quiet for a bit, letting his eyes roam all over your face—not in a way that would suggest anything, but you suspect he’s thinking, ruminating over the information you just gave him. 

“you didn’t answer my question. what feels like home?”

“that’s a bit personal,” you scoff and immediately go red in the face. he’s a guest not your friend. “i’m sorry, i didn’t…that’s not…”

“‘s alright, love,” he laughs and leans back once again. “it was a bit personal. someone needs to call me out on my nosiness every once in a while.”

still, you sputter out a couple more apologies until ross places his hand on top of yours, startling you into silence. “stop with the apologies, will you? you haven’t said—”

“ross?” 

if you weren’t mortified before, you certainly feel it now. your face, red just a moment ago, pales quickly, as ava—mrs macdonald—comes into the dining room. 

her hair is in the same loose curls it was yesterday, perhaps slightly messy, and even then it looks effortless and gorgeous. her pyjamas are monogrammed with her initials. and her platinum band glints on her finger when the sunlight hits it directly. 

worst on all, she’s staring at you, at your hand under her husband’s—who looks barely fazed at the moment. all calm and collected. 

“good morning, sweetheart,” he gets up from his chair and walks up to her. your skin buzzes where his hand just was, and you look away as they kiss, mortified of intruding on them like this. she’s the first to pull away. 

“you had breakfast,” she says, her tone flat and matter of fact. 

quickly, you scramble off your seat. “let me get you something to eat, mrs macdonald.”

“no need,” she smiles at you, but it’s almost as icy as her glare—mechanical and devoid of any warmth. “i don't have any appetite.”

you nod and smile, keeping your eyes locked on a vague spot on the wall behind her. it’s only when you’re about to leave that you see him from the corner of your eye, grinding his jaw and looking nothing like he was just a few moments ago. 

“i have a favour to ask of you.” it’s ava who approaches you a week later. 

the entire week you’ve stayed away, only talking to them in the capacity of a host—making sure they’ve had all the meals they requested and given them any and all information about the town they might need. you’ve even made sure to speak directly to ava when you can help it. ross, for his part hasn’t made it any easier. 

every morning you run into him in the hallway—some days he’s in the same black tee, others he’s in a tank top that shows off his toned and (now) tanned arms. it’s the same time every day, and yet you do nothing to change your route and take the servants’ passages for once. this is easier, you tell yourself. it’s the faster route. 

fortunately, you don’t trip on the rug again. rather, you make it a point not to. 

he asks you to be his breakfast companion again, and once again the next day. you waffle off some excuse and hurry away before he can protest. on the third day he stops asking. when he passes you in the hallway, he greets you with a polite smile and a nod and then keeps walking towards his balcony. 

“a favour?” you ask, and ava nods. 

this close, she’s absolutely gorgeous, like a face straight out of a magazine. “i wanted to plan something special for ross. a nice dinner perhaps?”

“that’s…” you swallow a strange emotion, “that’s a great idea. how can i help?”

“is there a way i can rent a boat for the day?”

“for…dinner?”

“yeah, i’ve, um, i think the ocean looks quite nice out here. peaceful. ross would love to have a romantic dinner out on the ocean instead of just on the beach.”

“right, yeah.”

“oh, and money’s not an object,” she interjects quickly. “i’m willing to pay well for it.”

money is the last thing on your mind, but you nod and smile at her. 

“i’ll get you the details by tomorrow.”

she nods and smiles too, much more excited that you, granted. but you expect her to thank you and leave it at at. what you don’t expect is for her to grab your hand in hers and hold it tight. 

“thank you. this…this holiday is important to us, to me…” her smile turns mechanical once again and she nods some more. like she’s trying to convince you and herself. “i need this to be perfect.”

“it will be, mrs macdonald. i’ll make sure of it.” 

it’s only when she leaves that you have to resist the urge to bash your head through the wall. who the fuck promises something like that to a stranger, to a guest?! without even bothering to make sure you have the resources you just promised. 

there’s only one person you know who even has access to a boat. (even though it’s nowhere near the right type of boat but at this point what’s the harm?)

aldo is laughing along with the other fishermen when you reach the dock. the sky is darkening, almost dark blue with just a tinge of red and orange. aldo greets you with open arms. 

“i need a boat!” you pant, panicked and half out of breath. 

he laughs wholeheartedly. “take your pick!”

“no, not that! i need…i need a romantic boat.”

the gaggle of seventy-odd-year-old fishermen giggle like a bunch of teenagers. “we romanced our wives plenty on these boats,” one of them pipes up, another round of raucous laughter follows suit. 

you wait for it to die down before you practically beg aldo. “it’s for the guests at the villa, please. i don’t know anyone else—”

“carissima…” he puts a hand on your shoulder, “i was joking. i know what you mean and yes, i can ask a few friends if they have something available. i’m sure they do.”

relief floods through your veins, and you practically sink to your knees onto the cobblestones. instead you pull the old man into a tight hug. “thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“you’re handling it well,” he declares in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “your mother would be proud.”

you pull away at the mention of her, giving him one last tight smile. “thank you, aldo. call me with the details please.”

once he nods you leave, trying not to dwell too much on what he said. 

that night you lie in bed, staring up at the same plain ceiling you’ve stared at every summer and you think. 

you think about ross and his wife. 

you think about ava and what this holiday means to her. 

and you think about the owner, wonder if she ever slept in this exact bed and thought of things she shouldn’t, thought of people she really shouldn’t. 

and when you do eventually fall asleep, much past your bedtime, you dream of him—on a boat in the middle of the ocean, kissing you by the candlelight. 

it’s a beautiful summer evening, perhaps the best one of the season, when you wait for the macdonalds at the beach. it’s warm but not unbearably so, the light is still golden, almost angelic, and the boat looks perfect. you hope it’s exactly what ava had imagined, hope that it won’t leave her wanting for anything. 

you check your watch. 6:37 pm…

it’s fine, really, it’s not super uncommon for guests to be running a bit behind. they’re on a holiday after all, but you would have hoped for a call or a text or something. besides, you’ve been busy enough today to not know whether ross and ava went out or stayed in—not that you should be dwelling on it too much. and yet, here you are, checking your watch once again, wondering where he—they—got caught up. 

you look out at the ocean, calm and quiet for tonight, and then up at the golden horizon. it should be beautiful, everything should be perfect. 

exactly nine minutes later there are footsteps. 

one set of them. 

eagerly, you turn, your face ready with the polite yet friendly customer service smile, but it drops the moment you see ross. 

he’s alone. the sleeves of his linen shirt are rolled up to his elbow, his hair is down too—it comes up to about his shoulders. it—

something’s wrong. you realise it about two seconds before he comes to a stop right in front of you. too close, he’s so close. and yet you don’t take a step back. you simply crane your neck up to stare at him and part your mouth, about to say something but the look on his face stops you in your tracks.

his eyes are cold, flat. his mouth is pressed into a straight, unimpressed line. his hair is all over the place too—messy and tangled like he’s almost been pulling at them out of frustration. 

this is not the time to let your mind wander, but for once you let yourself imagine what he might do to get rid of his anger, his frustration. how he might…take care of things. 

“you’re alone,” you blurt out, voice barely above a whisper.

“ava’s not coming,” he swallows roughly. for one insane moment you think his gaze dips to your lips, but that’s a desperate thought. one that is strictly not real. “i want to use the boat.”

“w–what?”

“i want.” he stops between each word, “to use. the boat.”

“i thought it was—”

“a surprise? please!” he laughs, sardonic and borderline cruel. heat rises up your cheeks. “i want to go and have that dinner that was planned for me. i refuse to waste any more good evenings.”

“yeah,” you swallow roughly, “yes, of course. right this way, it’s all—”

“and i want you to join me.”

it’s like the sand beneath your feet shifts with one sentence. your jaw drops into a gape, eyebrows flying into your hairline. you imagine if ross weren’t so angry, he’d be laughing at you. still, this is wrong. on so many levels. 

“i can’t!”

“will you get in trouble for it?” he challenges, and you shake your head dumbly. no, nothing of that sort. not anymore really. “then i insist. i don’t like eating alone, love. don’t sentence me to that, not when it’s so gorgeous outside.”

the image sharpens in front of you then, ross out on the calm, peaceful ocean, watching the golden sunset, drinking straight from the bottle of champagne that’s on board. the food behind him would grow cold eventually. you don’t think he’d eat it if you sent him out there alone now. 

“your wife—”

“doesn’t care,” he says firmly. “she’d be here if she did.”

and that’s not something you can argue with really. so you nod. it’s just to keep him company, you tell yourself, it’s good service which is what you’re supposed to do. the owner would have done the same, she would have gone above and beyond.

“are you sure about this?” 

“yes.” the one word answer leaves no room for argument. 

you look down at yourself—a cotton t-shirt and a pair or breezy shorts, comfort over style for when you have to constantly run around. if ross notices this inner dilemma, he doesn’t let it on. he simply gestures for you to walk. 

“after you,” he says and gives you something that vaguely resembles a smile. on him, it’s still gorgeous, still makes his dimples appear and his eyes crinkle, and for a brief second you simply want to stand here and stare at him in the dying light of the sun. 

instead you nod and turn towards the boat, trying not to wring your hands together. 

it’s only a couple hours. it won’t change anything. 

it’s excruciatingly awkward in the beginning. 

you suspect if ross were in a better mood, he’d be up for a good conversation—and you’ve had those, at least once you have. a good conversation over food while he’s all sweaty and his t-shirt sticks to his body. 

you suspect if ross were in a better mood, he’d be here with his wife. 

“you won’t ask me what happened?” his question startles you. because of course, you want to ask! you just didn’t think he’d appreciate it.

“i didn’t want to pry…”

“you won’t,” he sighs. “you’d be doing me a favour.”

“so i’ll act as your therapist then?” you quirk and eyebrow and ross cracks a tiny smile. “breakfast companion, therapist, makeshift date, what’s next?”

you regret it as soon as the words tumble out of you. what were you fucking thinking?! this is not a date. you and ross, on a boat in the ocean, with fancy champagne and a candlelit table… it’s not a date. it’s two people having dinner so it won’t go to waste. you’ve worked too hard on it to throw it away like this. 

“i’m sorry i—” you sputter, shaking your head wildly, “that’s not what i meant, that’s—”

“we’re separating.” 

it shocks you so much that you gape at him. it’s a sudden confession, one that you would have never expected him to say out loud. not to you, a complete stranger. then again, maybe it’s better to talk to a stranger anyway. 

“but you seem so happy,” you hesitate, wondering if that’s something he’d even want to hear. 

it turns out not. ross rolls his eyes. “oh come on, darling, let’s not lie. we have been here two weeks and we’ve already fought thrice. this was supposed to be a last ditch effort, did you know that? this holiday. after this,” he swallows, looking off into the ocean, “when we go back to london… i’ll call my lawyers and she’ll call hers.”

“oh…”

“yeah.” 

silence settles over you, uncomfortable and sticky. you wonder if he wants comfort, sympathy. if he wants you to agree with him or challenge him, if he wants you to be a sounding board and just let him vent, if he wants this to be a conversation. 

“sorry,” he shakes his head, “a lot to dump on you isn’t it?” 

“yes…” you turn to him, taking your time to look over his face. it’s so much more tanned than before, a bit more freckled too. there’s a hint of sunburn poking through his shirt collar and suddenly your mind flashes images of ross on the beach in front of you. ross, shirtless, lying in the sun with those annoyingly hot sunglasses covering his eyes, ross coming out of the water, dripping wet and fucking dreamy. “but i don’t mind.”

you clear your throat quickly, cursing in your head for sounding so breathy. 

ross raises an eyebrow. “you tell me something.” he turns and grabs a bottle of expensive champagne. you expect him to get the glasses next, instead he opens the bottle and takes a swig directly from it.

“a secret,” he winks, “for a secret.” then he extends his hand and offers you the bottle. 

at first, you hesitate. it isn’t for you, none of this is for you. but you’re here now, aren’t you? so you grab the bottle from him, trying your hardest not to dwell on the brush of his fingers, how you both linger for just a moment too long. 

you take a sip of the champagne and think, feeling the bubbles all the way down. 

“this is my first year running the villa alone…”

“is it?” ross sounds surprised. you wonders if he means it as a compliment. 

“it was, um, it was shut, last year. my mother used to run it. she’s not…alive anymore.”

his eyes widen. “oh, that’s–i’m sor—”

“no please,” you interrupt before he’s had the chance to finish it. “i’ve heard that far too much. i’d rather not be offered condolences ever again.”

for a moment he is quiet, then he nods like he understands something. “you’re a natural at it. everything has been so good for us so far. i mean look at this fucking boat, this food. you’ve planned everything so well.”

a wave of uncharacteristic shyness floods your brain. “it’s not just me,” you smile bashfully, “the entire staff she trained still works here. they do more than i ever could, honestly. i’m just…learning the ropes.”

“and do you like it?” ross takes a sip of the champagne and leans against the railing. you mimic his pose, looking off at the horizon. 

“honestly? yes! i never thought i would and now��� it’s like i know why she loved doing this. growing up, i’d always feel like a ghost haunting a mansion, and now i finally get it.”

“a ghost haunting a mansion,” he smiles and hands you the bottle, “you were pretty dramatic as a child.”

a laugh bubbles up in your throat because he’s right, you were dramatic. perhaps you still are deep down under all the grief. ross must have sensed the sudden shift in your thoughts because he expertly changes the subject. 

“have you always had the villa in your family?”

“oh that’s a funny story, if my mum is to believe anyway.”

ross turns, his back pressed to the railing and his eyes focused entirely on you. he’s so close. golden light reflects on his skin, in the hollow of his throat and over every bit of exposed skin. with his hair tied up now, you can once again see that gold chain, dainty and pretty, and you wish you could trace it with your fingertips, feel it against you somehow. you watch ross swallow some of the champagne, how his adam’s apple bobs and a drop of it clings to his lips and suddenly it’s like your cheeks, no, your whole body is on fire. you look away and continue.

“so the story goes, and mind you i don’t know how true it is, she was travelling around england. my father was, turns out, some minor aristocrat with a useless title, no one important really. but he had an estate, a whole lot of money and an ego the size of britain. 

“his mother never liked that he was with a ‘filthy commoner’ like my mother and oh she made that very known…” ross makes a face and you laugh, feeling a bit lighter than before. 

“and then she fell pregnant, my mum. she was so happy, wondering how to tell him, getting scans to show him and whatnot. somehow his mother got the news first,” you wince and ross leans forward, his face rife with interest and so much closer than before. “that woman made her a deal—leave now and never contact my father again, they will set her up with a small house and some money in any country of her choice so she won’t have to worry, as long as she stays far far away.”

“generous,” he whistles low. 

“it is, isn’t it? she didn’t take it though, she fancied herself in love. that night she told him about me. turns out he was only ‘fucking around’ and ‘did not want a child’. he told her to get rid of it, she said no and they fought. and when she raised her voice, he slapped her. my father slapped my pregnant mother…”

ross gives you his rapt attention.

“she didn’t run though. she stayed there the night, shared a bed with him even though they stuck to their corners. in the morning she went back to his mother and accepted the offer.”

ross laughs, sharp and surprised, and then clamps his mouth shut. “sorry i–it’s not funny, i know, it’s just—”

“no, it is,” you interrupt quickly, “we used to laugh about it.”

“and the house…?”

“is the villa, yes. the small ‘house’ they promised her.”

“seems like his mother had more integrity than him.” ross extends you the bottle of champagne again. gratefully, you take it. 

it’s half-empty now, gone in the flow of the conversation. you feel it too, the bubbles flowing through your blood, buzzing through your head in a way that almost feels soothing. that, combined with the gentle rocking of the boat… you close your eyes and inhale the ocean breeze, take another swig of the champagne. 

“this is nice, isn’t it?” you speak, eyes still closed and tipping your head towards the champagne.

“‘s amazing,” he murmurs. his voice surrounds you like it’s floating on the breeze, like he’s so close and so far away at the same time. his cologne, too, is suddenly so much stronger. 

your heart beats in your throat. you know what you will find when you open your eyes—ross, so close and irresistible, in the dying light of the sun, more tempting than the damned apple. an involuntary gasp escapes you when you feel his breath on your face, feel the fabric of his trousers brushes against your leg. his breath quivers. 

“if i kiss you right now, would you kiss me back?”

you swallow, wondering if it’s a yes or a no. “why don’t you find out?” 

a moment later you feel his hand on your waist, holding you just tight enough to send butterflies fluttering in your stomach. it’s slightly cold from holding the champagne bottle, not that you particularly care. a second later, ross crashes his lips against yours. 

it’s not soft like in the movies, it’s not a kiss of love or tenderness. 

it takes you precisely one second of hesitation to give into your instincts and kiss him back—you hand in his hair and the other fisting his shirt, wrinkling it, leaving your mark on him even if it’s insignificant and ephemeral. you kiss him back with just as much hunger—all tongue and teeth and roaming hands. 

ross’ hands moves from your waist and comes to rest on your ass, hitching your leg up, wrapping it around him. his hand spray across the back of your thigh, rough fingers trailing up smooth skin, it’s all too much, too much for you to hold back a moan. 

you moan into the kiss and somehow that undoes him completely. 

air whooshes out of your lungs as ross flips you both, trapping you between him and the railing. the bottle of champagne falls and rolls away, dripping the last of its contents on the floor, but it’s so insignificant, so inconsequential… not when you have this burning need coursing through you to feel him everywhere all at once. 

involuntarily your fingers fidget with his trousers just as his mouth moves to your jaw. he stops you though, lightly swats your hand away and pops open the buttons of your shorts instead. you let him, mostly because when they touch your stomach it’s like lightning exploding right under your skin, crackling, buzzing, you simply want to feel so much more of him, of his fingers. 

“ross…” you moan, not sure if you want to beg him or stop or let him take charge completely. 

“i know, darling,” he breathes, kissing you again. tentatively he dips a finger inside the waistband of your underwear, asking for permission.

“please, fuck, pl–please.”

you throw your head back, whimpering when his teeth graze your neck and his finger presses into your clit. it’s heady and intoxicating and all you want to do is be greedy and ask for more and more and more. you don’t have to ask though. his fingers work against your clit, creating a rhythm just perfect enough to weaken your knees, and you hold on to him tight, your nails digging into his back. 

would they leave crescent moon marks on his skin? just dark enough to stand out, just dark enough to be distinct. will his wife look at them and know what they are?

his wife…

and just like that all your ecstasy turns into nausea. 

you falter, a small hesitant movement. and that’s all it takes to shatter the moment entirely. 

“we can’t,” he pulls his hand away abruptly just as he’s about to push his fingers inside you. you stare at him in surprise, gripping the railing to stay upright. it’s hard not to pant and breathe hard, especially when he’s breathing heavily too, guilt written all over his face. 

his lips are swollen, wet. red enough to almost make you go back to him and kiss him all over again, thread your fingers through his hair—it looks so lovely and effortlessly messy. the top three buttons of his shirt are undone, gold chain fully on display, gleaming against tanned skin. you swallow. fuck. 

“we can’t…” he repeats, and steps away completely. 

you imagine what you must look like—t-shirt almost off your shoulder and the buttons of your shorts undone. not naked and yet so exposed and vulnerable. you wonder if his mouth left any marks against your neck. 

“what…” humiliation burns through you. what the fuck were you thinking, throwing yourself at him like this?!

ross looks like he’s trying hard not to lose control, jaw set, eyes firmly on you and pupils blown out so wide you resolve almost weakens. but the ring on his finger glints and just like that the nausea is back. the guilt, the self loathing, all of it is back with a vengeance.

“i’m married.”

and that shuts you up thoroughly. surely the captain of the boat heard everything that happened just now. surely…

you hurry as far away from ross as possible, turning around and fixing your clothes. ross stays where he is, his back towards you, hand trembling by his side.

the food stays untouched. 

the awkwardness from before is nothing compared to what you feel now, completely unable to meet his eyes or even turn around to look at him, not even to check if he’s still facing the other way. maybe throwing yourself into the ocean is the best course of action right now.

in a moment, you will gather strength again and tell the captain to take you back to the shore. in a moment you won’t have to share the space with him, you will finally be able to get a full breath into your lungs. for now you stay still, ignoring the fire still burning low under your skin and right in your belly, lust coiled like a snake. for now you simply look out into the ocean and will your body to stop shaking.

“enzo, would you set up breakfast today?” you find him in the gardens bright and early the next day. not that it matters how early it is anyway, not to you who hasn’t slept a wink the whole night. you’re sure there are dark circles under your eyes to give that away instantly. 

enzo looks down at his hands and then back up at you, slightly apologetic. they are covered in soil, of course. he’s been helping with repotting some plants. of course he can’t just leave all of that and do your job instead because you’ve fucked up and made a giant mess. of course not. 

“right…” you trail off and back away. 

“it’s okay, i can—”

“no,” you cut him off, a little sharper than you intended, “that’s alright. i’ll do it.”

and you will. you can act like a professional and do your fucking job. you will be in and out as quickly as possible and not look anyone in the eye. you will nod and smile and get the fuck out of there. 

absently, your hand trails over the faint hickeys on your neck. hopefully, they’re well covered by the concealer you slathered on at 5 in the morning, hopefully the collar of your shirt helps disguise it too. not like ava would be there to see it, she’s yet to be in the dining room for breakfast. and yet you don’t know what would be more mortifying, her seeing it or ross seeing it. 

“good morning,” a voice greets you the moment you step foot into the dining room. a pit opens in your stomach. 

ava sits at the head of the dining table, still in her night clothes with a dressing gown loosely wrapped around her body. it’s… she’s…

“i know i’m up early, and in here” she laughs, “not very much like me.”

her fingers are curled around a fork in a tight grip, knuckles almost white, tines digging into the place mat. it takes you a second to find your voice.

“morning, mrs macdonald.” the words burn like acid on their way out, and for the first time you look at her properly. she looks exactly how you feel—circles under her eyes, a sallowness to her face, like her skin is stretched thinly over her face. she looks like she’s been up all night, tossing and turning. “is r–mr macdonald joining you?”

“no,” her voice turns sharp. “he says he has a migraine. just me today.”

“ah…” you nod, rooted in the spot awkwardly. 

“champagne hangover, i suspect.” 

a quick hot and cold flash runs through you, like she’s caught you directly in a lie. and maybe she has…how much did ross tell her exactly? did he tell her? 

ava smiles, cold and hollow. “i’m starving, though.”

“yes, of course,” you avert your gaze, eyes firmly on the ground. fuck fuck fuck. she knows. bile churns in your stomach as you move on autopilot, doing the same thing you’ve done every day for the last three weeks. except this time there will be no joining ross for breakfast. 

through some miracle of fate, ava doesn’t bring up the boat or the dinner or the champagne again. she just thanks you and digs into her breakfast, eating like absolutely nothing is wrong. the ring on her finger is still there, just as shiny as before. 

you leave her be and get out of the dining room. there’s no air in there anymore, there’s no air in this entire villa anymore. your breaths turn into pants, footsteps echoing in your ears and the rush of blood almost drowning them out as you run run run through the corridors. you need to get out of here, out of this place but there’s nowhere private enough to go but back to your own cottage, and so that’s where you turn. 

soundlessly, you slip out of the back door and run on the little cobblestone path until you get to the door to your cottage. it’s unlocked, to your utter relief. silently, you thank your past self for forgetting to lock it because all you need right now is to shut the world out and rot in bed. 

the moment the door thuds shut, you feel your lungs filling with air again. it’s quiet here, it’s silent. 

and your bed looks cosy at least. 

you close your eyes and release a deep sigh once you settle on top of the covers. does ava know? you wonder if she’s somehow guessed it… if she somehow saw the marks you left behind… 

the memory comes back to haunt in full force—your thigh hitched around ross’ waist, your hand in his hair and his in your underwear, touching and teasing and making you taste insanity. against your better judgement you close your eyes and clench your thighs together, wondering if your hand can replicate the feel of his. it can’t, you know it can’t. nothing ever will. and yet…

slowly you hitch your dress up, bringing it up to your thigh and all the way past your hips until it’s bunched on your stomach. your pale pink underwear is next to go, discarded carelessly somewhere in the room. 

there’s not much ceremony to it, just your fingers gently pressing against the bundle of nerves as you close your eyes and think back to yesterday, to the roughness of his hand and the hardness of his body… fuck. it doesn’t feel the same, it feels nothing like it did, no matter how hard you try. the only thing you manage to do is get frustrated finding the right angle. 

fuck this, a pillow should work just fine if not your hand. 

and it does, it’s better once you have a white pillow clenched between your thighs, slowly moving your hips against it, feeling the friction, the familiar feeling. it’s a slow build, but it’s there, it’s something. 

inside your own bedroom, you barely hold back moans. unintelligible, lustful sounds, maybe his name slips out once or twice too. if anything, the thrill of it adds to the feeling. you’re sure there’s a wet spot on the pillow now, a slick little stain where you’ve been grinding onto it. your thighs tremble from the effort and it’s only just starting to feel good, feel so so good—

a sharp rap on the door scares a yelp out of you. 

shit shit shit, what were you thinking?! it’s probably enzo or marta coming to check on you, wondering why you weren’t in the villa. 

“coming!” you yell out, voice shaking, hands shaking even more. 

the person doesn’t go away. instead, another knock follows. 

cursing to yourself, you get off the bed, and smooth down your dress again. you’ll find the fucking underwear in a minute, the dress isn’t transparent. 

“what’s—” you stop abruptly, coming face to face with ross who looks like he hasn’t had a moment’s worth of peace all night. great, that’s all three of you then. 

“let me come in,” he breathes, almost urgent. “please.”

your heart's in your throat, thudding and thudding, fast enough that it might just leap out of you completely. and here you are in front of him, trying to stay cool like you weren’t just touching yourself to the thought of him mere seconds ago. 

ross’ eyes scan you, from your messy hair to your wrinkled dress. can he tell something’s wrong? 

wordlessly you step aside and he enters, closing the door behind him. 

“your wife knows.”

“she suspects.”

“and?”

“and what?” he whirls to look at you. “what if i said i no longer care if she does.”

“ross!” your voice rises. your back is pressed to the wall, as far away from his as possible even though the room feels like it’s a tiny cardboard box at the moment, “you can’t say things like that. not after–not…”

“after what i said yesterday?” he takes a steps towards you, you stay rooted in your spot. “what if i changed my mind?”

another step, he’s barely four steps away from you now. 

“what if i changed mine?” you challenge, which is perhaps not the wisest thing to do right now but…

“have you?” he asks, boldly taking two more steps.

if you had, you wouldn’t be standing there right now without any underwear on, desperately wishing he’d find out and fucking do something about it. use his hands again, use his mouth too maybe. 

you turn your face to the side, trying not to whimper as he finally closes the distance between you and stands close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his body again. 

“can i find out?”

saying no would be wise, you know it. and yet… it’s you who kisses him first. unlike last time he lets your hand roam wherever you wish. unlike last time his t-shirt is first to go—the only time you briefly break the kiss to get it off him and somewhere on the floor. his tanned skin is warm under your hands, freckled chest that you instantly touch all over. 

his kisses turn feverish as his lips move along the hollow of your throat, your collarbone. “you are so perfect, fuck.” 

his words, spoken in a low whisper, travel straight to your core. heat pools, or rather intensifies, as his hand comes to rest on the back of your neck. ross doesn’t need much strength to hold you in place, to stop you from squirming and firmly against him, tits brushing against his naked chest.

his mouth travels lower, ghostly kisses trailed to as much of your cleavage as the dress offers. 

“ross,” your fingers tighten on his shirt, “please, i need—fuck, need you.”

he can most definitely hear the blatant desperation in your voice, whiny and practically begging to be touched, to be fucked. 

“anything you want,” ross groans. “jump.”

it doesn’t take you another second before your legs are around his middle and his big hands are gripping your thighs, under your ass. rough, calloused fingers digging into soft flesh while you tug at the hair at the nape of his neck and make him groan. he really is fucking beautiful, especially in the morning sunlight streaming into your room.

you kiss again, urgent and desperate. somewhere at the back of your mind you’re aware he’s walking, taking you to the bedroom, but you’re too engrossed with how his tongue feels inside your mouth. how his tongue might feel between your legs. 

but a foot inside the room and ross comes to a stop, his eyes widening. 

he takes the room in and you wonder what he sees, craning your neck to look around as well. and there it is, your pale pink underwear dangling carelessly from the bedpost, the pillow in the middle of the bed, sheets wrinkled. it’s not that hard to guess what happened in here…

that much is confirmed when you meet his eyes again and see pure lust in them. they look so much darker than before, so much dilated. ross all but throws you on the bed, climbing up after and practically on top of you. 

“what was happening here…before?”

“does it matter?” you raise an eyebrow, hoping he doesn’t see the flush growing rapidly on your cheeks. the chain dangles from his neck, so close now, practically touching your skin. you hook a finger in it and tug him closer. 

“did it feel good at least?” ross smirks, and you suspect he already knows the answer. 

“not even close.”

“and what do you want now?”

everything, really. 

you want to feel his fingers like yesterday and his mouth between your legs. you need him inside you and in your mouth and everything in between. 

“why don’t you get on your knees first?”

ross raises an eyebrow. so this is how it’s going to be then… 

the anticipation of it makes your pulse raise, makes goosebumps scatter all over your body. he can definitely see you trembling on the bed, back slightly arched, nipples peaking out from the thin cotton of the dress, hair a complete mess. the room burns a million degrees hotter now or maybe it’s just you, dying to be touched.

“let me take care of you then,” he whispers, “just relax for me…”

his words affect you immediately. your toes curls and hands fist the sheets in anticipation of the sounds you know he will draw out from you. 

“was thinking about you,” you confess as he trails a finger over your leg, starting from your ankles and up your shin and thigh until his fingers at your hip, resting where the band of your underwear should have been. 

involuntarily, you lift your hips up, making the fabric of your dress slide away a little more. 

“i could tell” ross teases, a cocky tinge to his voice. then he leans down, his lips dangerously close to your stomach. "come on, darling," he purrs, “spread your legs for me.”

something like a whimper and a moan echoes around the room and ross drags a finger through your slit, lazily collecting the wetness, coaxing you and spreading you open while his mouth presses kisses all over. your lower stomach first, then your thighs. meanwhile, his thumb finds your clit, and just like yesterday, he works it up in a lazy rhythm. 

“shit, ross,” you whimper as a jolt goes through your spine, skin burning wherever his hands touch. the build up is a sweet torture. 

you gasp when he sucks on your clit, unexpected and quick, letting his teeth graze it gently every once in a while. your thighs tremble under his hands, your muscles shift and ross doesn’t stop you at all when you squeeze your thighs together trapping his head between them. his hair is already a mess, all over the place, and his beard tickles the inside of your thighs. 

“oh god,” you moan loudly. “fuck, just like that…” your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging and pulling while you squirm and against his face and ross takes it all. his tongue laps at your folds, his nose pushing against your clit. 

his hand pushes under your dress, pinching and squeezing your nipples at almost a bruising pace, it’s all too much. and yet there’s no way in hell you’d stop him when he meets your eyes from between your legs—eyes dark and intense, beard glistening with your slick. 

you clench around nothing then and for a moment ross looks like he’s going to come undone right there, staring at your with his mouth parted. his eyes have a little glazed-over quality to them, like he’s in a trance. 

you’re so close now, rocking your hips against his face, and your thighs squeeze his head harder. you’re so close you can almost taste your release in the air.  

“so perfect,” he urges and lets his teeth drag over your clit again. “let me taste you, darling, yeah? i know you’re close.”

“so, so close…” your trail off and ross places a kiss on your thigh, utterly out of place from everything he’s been doing so far. in the middle of everything filthy, that one soft kiss feels chaste—a request maybe or even a way to coax you. 

“let go for me then,” he breathes and pushes his thumb against your clit. his tongue thrusts inside you again and you mewl his name. louder than before.

“don’t stop, ross, don’t—” and you feel it then, feel yourself drenching his lips and his chin. feel the spasm of your thighs and your ragged breaths reverberating through your body. 

just like you requested, he doesn’t stop. he laps up every last drop you have to over, fucks you with his tongue till you’re completely done riding out your orgasm. 

once ross straightens you’re met with the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen—his lips raw and red, his beard wet. his hair is almost out of his bun now and that damn gold chain around his neck. it’s all so beautiful, you almost beg him to come up to you. and ross obliges, his arms on either side of you and his body between your legs while he kisses you so thoroughly, you can taste all of you on his tongue—every want, every desire, down to the last drop of lust running through your blood. 

“i need to be inside you or i will die,” he says, his voice more like a growl. and yes it’s so full of want and desperation but that just eggs you on more, makes the heat in your belly flare up all over again. 

“there’s condoms in the drawer,” you moan, trying not to whine when ross gets off your for two seconds to find them, and comes back with the silver square. 

it doesn’t take another second before your legs are around his middle again and his big hands are gripping your thighs. rough, calloused fingers digging into soft flesh while you run your hand through his hair and make him groan. 

“fuck, love” he breathes on your skin and lets you pull the trousers off him. “i couldn’t think of anything else all night. just you…”

“me too,” you confess, a shameful secret, but ross tilts your chin up and kisses you all over again, slow and gentle. 

your hands trace his spine and ross shivers

“want to be inside you,” he groans, letting you hook a finger in his boxers. he wraps his hand around yours too, getting rid of them completely. 

once they’re off him you can’t hold back the shameless gawking. he’s big, fucking huge and hard and leaking with precum already, you’d die to get a taste of him but that’s not what’s important right now. right now you need him to destroy your insides until you can’t remember your own name. 

“like what you see?” he sounds smug, tearing the foil with his teeth and spitting it aside. you blush, and pry your gaze back to his face. 

“let me,” you take the condom off his hands, dying to touch him first. and he reacts just the way you want him too—a hiss when you wrap your hand around base and a moan when you twist it, run it all the way to his tip and back down. 

“stop being a tease,” he grunts, and you decide it’s enough, decide to finally roll the condom down on him. 

there’s barely any words after that. the room is far from silent though—it echoes with moans and sighs and the sound of your laughter when ross nips at your skin. it’s like a little rhythm—he bites softly and chases away the sting with a kiss. he leaves a mark and rewards you with a kiss. he even sees the marks he left before, kisses over them like he’s appreciating his own art. 

his hand inches between your legs and finds your clit once again, fingers rubbing lazily over it, almost in circles, slow at first and growing faster until you’re squirming for more—more friction and more of him and this and ecstasy and ross definitely knows whatever he’s doing isn’t enough but just this once you aren’t opposed to begging. 

“stop being a tease,” you whine, repeating his words from before, and he laughs at your desperation.

finally, ross decides to end this misery. for you and for him. the need is probably driving him insane too. 

when the first thrust comes, hard and fast—and without warning—your eyes roll back in your head. you whimper something, curse softly and hold onto him, legs locking around him so you can take him in deeper.

“shit baby…” he moans too. 

he’s stretching you open with his cock, thrusting into you again and again until the buzz in your head grows so loud, it drowns out any other thought. all you can focus on is his breath and the chain brushing against your chest, cold metal against sweaty bodies. 

that errant image from that first day comes back to you, your tongue against his chest, and before you can over think you do exactly that—trail kisses against his collarbone, his neck, letting your tongue roam over his skin too. you don’t dare use teeth though, you don’t dare leave a mark. no matter how tempting it is. 

your eyes flutter shut, unable to stay open any longer as his hips slam into yours, his hands grip onto your waist tighter. ross tuts.

“open your eyes,” he nudges, “i want you to look at me when you cum.”

and so you oblige, looking him in the eye and moaning his name softly with each thrust, lifting your hips to meet his and grinding your clit on his pelvis. 

the pressure inside you builds with each thrust, your entire body feels charged and taut and a current runs right under your skin. on top of you, he’s as electric as a live wire. 

“look at what you do to me,” he breathes and you feel your thighs begin to tremble. 

he can probably tell you’re close now; you’re certainly acting like it—nails scratching his back, teeth softly sinking into his shoulder so you don't scream loud enough for everyone to hear. (if it weren’t mid morning, you would have liked to scream out his name though.)

your hips thrust upwards, trying and failing to match him. you’re erratic, almost manic. there’s no rhythm to any of your movements, only lust and desire and so much want for him that you feel a wave of it run between your bodies. 

you shudder and gasp, trying to keep your eyes open, to keep looking at him still “gonna cum, f-fuck!”

he opens his mouth to speak too, about to say something but you’re already there. your body goes tense as you squeeze around ross, so tight it practically sends him into a frenzy, fucking into you faster and faster, rougher, harsher. you take it all, trying and failing to keep your voice down to a minimum. ross thrusts into you as the orgasm hits you hard. a second later you hide your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in and feeling him practically emptying himself into the condom. ross doesn’t stop you, he holds you just as close, for just as long as you want him to.

it’s almost 10 in the morning when you lift your head off his chest in a sleepy haze. ross tries to protest but you kiss him quickly until all his complaints die on his lips. 

“you should go,” you bite your lip, guilty, and thumb the chain around his neck again. if he’s noted this particular fascination with it, he doesn’t mention it. 

“i don’t want to.”

“but…”

“i have to, yes, i know,” he sighs, deep and almost sad. 

it’s a silly thought to want to stop him. the cottage might feel like it’s detached from reality entirely but it’s not. once you step foot outside of it, everything will come crashing down on you. you can easily explain your disappearance away—the farmers market in town, some other errand, whatever excuse that comes to mind. what does ross plan on saying?

you don’t ask, mostly because you don’t want to manufacture and discuss one more thing and make this more morally depraved than it already is. 

wordlessly he gets up and walks around the room in search of his clothes. his nudity doesn’t bother him in the slightest, doesn’t bother you either—for one, you finally know all the tattoos on his body, something you’ve been dying to find out since day one. you let your eyes roam over them for as long as you can, try to commit them to memory before they get covered by his clothes. 

he finds his t-shirt in the living room and comes back to the bedroom wearing it, fully clothed now while you’re naked under the sheets still. 

“right then…”

you smile, a little sad. is this the first and the last time? do you want there to be more?

“let’s just…” you clear your throat, “i’m going to go use the bathroom…”

“and i’ll be gone by the time you come back…”

you nod, already getting up. the sheets fall of your body too but what’s there to care about? he’s already seen all of it now. still his breath hitches in his throat and a jolt of satisfaction run through you. 

“kiss me one last time?” you ask, and ross closes the distance between you, pulling you so close to him you’re almost crushed into his chest, held like he doesn’t want to let go. 

you try not to dwell too much on that kiss—it’s a fucking kiss, not your first and it won’t be your last, there’s no point in reading too much into it. it’s not a lovers kiss. it’s a kiss. because you asked for it. 

and yet his hands cradle your face and you can almost feel him smiling, almost, before he pulls away. then you turn around and practically beeline to the bathroom. 

by the time you’re out and ready to get dressed once again, the cottage is empty, silent. a silence that almost echoes with lingering sounds, but you stay in for the rest of the morning, only venturing out when you can’t ignore your growling stomach any longer. 

marta looks at you suspiciously before feeding you a bite of her orzo. it’s delicious; it always it, her food. but you still refuse when she offers to make you something. you just want to be alone, not in someone’s company and answer a million questions. 

to her credit marta lets you be. 

you don’t see the ross or ava at all for the rest of the day. or the day after.

it’s the end of their third week when ross finds you again, well… a handwritten note finds you, a crumpled piece of paper stuffed through the crack in the cottage door. 

meet me at the beach tomorrow at sunrise? 

the entire night you toss and turn, wondering if you should even go. you haven’t seen him in days, only glimpses of him and his wife. every time he’s in the room your eyes linger on him, stealing glances when he’s stealing them right back. it’s like an unspoken rule between you—no secret meetings. not again. 

and now he seems to want to break it. 

you know which beach he’s talking about—the one where you had a boat waiting for him. at 4 in the morning you give up on sleep completely. you should still have about an hour and a half till you’re supposed to meet him. and you still don’t have a decision. on autopilot you get up and brush your teeth, take a quick shower. no one’s awake yet. maybe marta, but she certainly won’t be out of bed this early. 

by 5, when the mug of coffee in your hands is almost empty, you decide you want to go after all. what’s the harm? it’s not like you’re going to end up fucking him again so publicly on the beach… 

and so you leave the cottage, strolling down to the ocean on the sandy path. the twilight is giving way to some light. the sun’s probably almost on the horizon. still, you reach the beach before ross, before the sun comes up. so you linger, sit in the sand and collect the little shells left there overnight. 

there’s no one here, just you and waves crashing on the beach. it’s peaceful—perhaps the first time you’ve truly felt any peace all summer. and yet somewhere in the back of your mind you can’t shake off the anticipation of meeting him. five minutes have already passed. maybe he changed his mind. 

maybe he’s not coming. 

just as the thought is about to solidify, you hear a set of footsteps. he’s here. and still you don’t turn until ross walks up all the way to you and sits next to you in the sand, his body pressed against yours, thighs touching. you lean your head onto his shoulder, taking in a deep breath. 

“is this a rendezvous?” you almost laugh. it’s a lame joke but ross cracks a smile anyway. it lasts about a second before his face falls again. 

“i’m leaving.”

“i know,” you close your eyes, “next week.”

“no. today.”

a pit opens up in your stomach and you bolt upright. “today?! what…?”

his smile turns sad, and you have a sneaking suspicion that it’s not just because he’s leaving, it’s something else too. you look at his face, properly, at the deep lines etched onto his forehead and the hints of grey in his hair and his beard. his arms, just as gorgeous as usual. his hands, hands that you haven’t stopped thinking about, his fingers…

your eyes linger on them. there’s no ring. he’s not wearing a ring. it’s just pale skin where it used to be.

“our plans changed,” he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing to happen. you remember what he’d said to you all those days ago on the boat. when we go back to london, i’ll call my lawyers and she’ll call hers. so that’s happening then. 

“what time?”

“around 10.”

around 10… five more hours. 

“okay,” you nod and go back to how you were, resting your head on his shoulder. this time ross rests his head on yours, both of your eyes trained on the horizon where the sun rises slowly and the beach turns golden. the water shimmers, gorgeous and like it’s out of a painting. you can’t bring yourself to move. 

“will you have breakfast with me one last time?” ross breaks the silence after a while, and you wonder if it’s a good idea. what’s the point? it won’t lead anywhere, will it? 

“i don’t think it’s such a good idea,” you swallow the lump in your throat, still unable to fully look at him. 

“i see…” more silence follows. you wonder when he will decide this is enough. you wonder when he will get up and leave you here to be rooted in this spot until the sun blazes high in the sky and you can no longer sit outside. instead ross presses his warm fingers to your cheek, and gently turns your face to him. 

“can i at least kiss you one last time then?”

now that… that you can’t say no to. and so you press your lips to his. just that, no movement, nothing—just your face cradled in his hands and your lips against his until you taste salt and realise you’re crying. maybe just a little teary. only then does he properly kiss you, moves his lips against yours until it feels like the sand beneath you is shifting. but it’s going to end anyway, it has to. and so you pull apart, take a deep breath to store his scent in your lungs for as long as you can. 

“i’m going to go stare at the ocean now,” you laugh, teary-eyed. his eyes are tinged a little pink too. 

ross chuckles. “and i’ll be gone by the time you look back.”

and that’s where you leave it. no goodbyes, no hugs and promises to come back. just you staring at the blue sky while his footsteps become quieter and quieter until you can’t hear him at all. 

enzo checks them out. you don’t know if they say anything to him, and he doesn’t mention anything out of the ordinary to you. just that he’ll send someone to clean the room, to which you protest, let him know that you’ll do it. 

the room isn’t unfamiliar, of course not, you’ve been in here a thousand times now and you will a thousand times more. still, something about it looks different. for one there’s a piece of paper folded on the bedside table. something that looks like a note. you hurry to it, not realising that there’s something inside in your eagerness to open it until a gold chain falls out. his gold chain… the one you’ve spent all of summer being fascinated by. and now it’s yours. then you unfold the note. 

thank you for the summer, it’s the best one i’ve had in years. 

ps: the chain is yours. don’t think i didn’t notice.

with trembling fingers, you put it around your neck. the metal is cold of course, and yet it reminds you of sun warmed skin and the sweat between your bodies. you clutch the note close, and sit on the bed. it has to be his side, it smells like him. maybe it won’t hurt to curl up there for just a moment. there’s no one to occupy it for another week after all. 

and so that’s what you do. 

a moment turns to an hour, to several hours until you decide you don’t want to strip the linen just yet. until you decide you want to sleep here for the night. for the rest of the week until you have to give up the villa again. marta raises her eyebrow when she finds out, but you wave her off. 

“it’s my house, nonna, i can sleep wherever i want to,” you say, confident in that statement even though it feels a little foreign. it is your house. it is. 

she just leaves it at that. 

the rest of the summer passes just as you’d planned. 

first there is an actual honeymoon couple—utterly in love and completely inseparable. you find them making out in all corners of the villa, in nooks and crannies like they can’t get enough of each other, like there’s no one else for them but each other. and maybe there isn’t. 

then there’s a week long bachelorette party. the girls convince you to get drunk with them too, to let loose a bit. it’s then that you’re most tempted to look up his number in his booking information and call him, wine drunk and slurring, in the middle of the night. 

what will you say?

what will he say?

it’s a terrible terrible idea. the worst one you’ve ever had. worse than sleeping with a married man and letting yourself feel something for him. maybe you even hate him a little then, just a little bit of resentment tinging the memories of your summer.

a summer that ends within the blink of an eye. 

three months gone just like that. 

and yet you stay. a ghost haunting a mansion like you’d told him all those months ago. now truly alone. none of the staff stay the rest of the year, just some locals who check up on you once in a while. aldo and his fisherman friends who call you over for dinner some days. other than that it’s just you. 

alone all over again. until…

six months later the villa’s phone rings on a cold morning. it’s rare, you think. almost as rare as it is for you to be still here this time of the year, but this year you haven’t felt the desire to go anywhere. this year it’s like you’re froze in summer, trying to chase that which is long gone. 

“hello?” you put on your best customer service voice, cheerful and vacant. 

“is this the villa?” 

the moment you hear it, your heart stops beating. the receiver almost falls. it’s one of those old-fashioned landlines, something you never thought you’d have to change. the chord wraps itself around your finger. a moment later your heart comes back to life, racing twice as fast. 

“yes…” you breathe, voice almost wobbly. 

“is it booked out for the summer yet?”

a smile blooms on your face, just as tears threaten to fall from your eyes. it’s ross. it’s his voice, it’s really his voice. all soft and lovely and already making its way around the insides of your skull. 

“not yet,” you laugh. it’s a watery sound. “you’re early. we don’t start taking reservations this early in the year.”

“oh?” the smile in his voice is clear. “i was hoping you’d make an exception for me. it’s only a party of one…”

you grab onto the chord of the receiver, tightly twisted around your fingers. 

party of one. party of one. party of one. 

“hello?”

“i’m here…”

for a few seconds, he doesn’t speak. but you imagine he’s smiling on the other end. you imagine his dimples on display and the crinkles around his eyes. “and will you let me come?”

involuntarily you clutch the gold chain around your neck, the one you wear every single day. the one you haven’t taken off since that very first day. it’s warm now, just as your skin is. just as his skin once felt under your hands. the tears you were barely holding in fall on your cheeks, and yet your face splits into a wide grin. 

“party of one, you say.”

“it could be two,” he laughs a small, secret laugh, “if you’ll allow it.”

you do a little jump in place, giddy and practically acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. then you clear your throat and clutch the receiver closer. “why don’t you come find out?”

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They Mates - with Y/N Pt 4

Summary - Hybern’s a problem (but when is he not), and this whole Cauldron situation… Out. Of. Hand. Based on Ch 19 of ACOMAF

Notes/Other Warnings - ‘Vulgar gestures’, language, my grammar. As always lines/plot points directly or heavily inspired by the series itself. 1.4k words. 2nd pov again for a more intimate look into Y/N and Az’s relationship.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Masterlist

You stood with Azriel near the window in the sitting room of the townhouse. It was snowing lightly outside, dusting the outside world. Cassian lounged near the fire, next to Mor. He felt tense, like an animal waiting to jump out of its cage after spending too much time cooped up. Amren was not present—where she was, you did not know. You all were waiting for your High Lord and Feyre to return from their trip to the Bone Carver for information. 

As you watched the snow build up outside your mind wandered back to earlier that morning. Nearly five-hundred years Azriel had been your mate, and still every morning was utter bliss. You could still feel his teeth scraping lightly across the shell of your ear and his lips trailing—

“Amren’s right,” Rhysand said.

You snapped out of your thoughts to see him standing in the threshold. Feyre stood next to him.

“You are like dogs, waiting for me to return home. I ought to buy treats for the lot of you,” Rhys continued.

Cassian flipped him off, the tension in his system still evident. You stepped forward to smack Cassian’s shoulder. The general gave you a withering look. The High Lord of Night narrowed his eyes at the pair of you. You stepped back as Feyre, who looked chilled headed for the armchair near the hearth. You returned to your spot next to your mate who stood in contemplation, a constant for him.

“How’d it go,” Mor asked to quickly glance between Feyre and Rhys, who had finally stepped into the room. 

“The Bone Carver,” Rhys said with a sigh, “has too much time on his hands considering how often he likes to pry into others people’s business.”

You reached for Azriel’s hand, unsure of what to do in the moment. Your mate didn’t protest, his shadows swirling around your wrist for a few moments. You could see Feyre’s eyes dart to the sight. The mortal said nothing.

Cassian broke through the silence, his hands falling to brace his knees. “But…?”

“But, the busybody can be useful, when he chooses,” Rhys replied with another sigh. “He informed us that the Cauldron was originally hidden at the bottom of the frozen lake in Lapplund, but vanished a while ago. But three of the feet on which the Cauldron used to stand were cleaved from it, in an attempt for power. Each foot was hidden in a different temple.”

You didn’t exactly need Rhys to spell out the rest for you. People were after the Cauldron, after its power again. “Shit,” you murmured. Cassian, to your surprise said nothing, only sat up a bit straighter.

“Cesere, Sangravah, and Itica,” the high lord listed out. “The King of Hybern seeks to return the Cauldron to its full glory.”

It was a suspicion most everyone in the room had. You could sense the grimness of it all, the way the room shifted even though most were expecting it. You glanced to Mor who looked back at you, giving a well this isn’t good look. 

“The mortal queens have one part of the Book, Tarquin the other,” Rhys finished.

You sucked in a breath before Azriel stepped forward, his shadows lightening from around his form. “I will contact my sources in the Summer Court about the other half of the Book of Breathings on where it is hidden. I can aldo fly to the human world. See if I can locate their half before we ask them for it.”

The High Lord of Night shook his head. “I don’t trust this information, even with your sources, Azriel. Not anyone outside this room, except for Amren.”

“They can be trusted, Rhysand,” you defend as Azriel’s shadows grew thicker for a moment before lightening up. Az let go of your hand, fists curling slightly, staring at his high lord. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“I, we, are not taking risks where the Cauldron or the Book is concerned,” Rhys responded calmly. Rhys returned his spymaster’s stare. 

You reached for your mate’s hand, and his fingers slowly uncurled, eyes drifting away from Rhysand’s face and back to your own. You gently intertwined your fingers with his.

“So what do you have planned,” Mor asked. 

“Well,” Rhys responded as he picked at absolutely nothing on his leathers. A habit you had noticed he got when growing up. “The King of Hybern sacked one of our temples for a piece of the Cauldron, which, as far as I am concerned, is an act of war.”

“Of course he wants war,” You interjected more strongly than you had anticipated. “For the Mother’s sake we were an ally to the humans during…the War. He would never dare sway you at risk of revealing his plans.”

Cassian nodded in agreement before adding, “Amarantha’s cronies likely reported to him Under the Mountain.”

“Hybern and his forces successfully infiltrated our lands, without detection. I have every intention of returning the favor.” Your high lord straightened himself up slightly.

“How?” Mor asked, before you could. 

“We go to Hybern to bring the Cauldron back or go to nullify it.” 

You thought you might just laugh at that. “Hybern would already have countless wards to protect it.” 

You could feel Az’s thumb over the back of your hand, gently rubbing as if to try and ease some of the tension from your body. “Y/N’s right. We would need to find a way to get through them, undetected,” your mate added.

“Then we start, now while we hunt down the Book. We do it swiftly, so by the time we have both halves we can get through without word spreading quickly,” Rhys said like it was the simplest solution possible—the simplest task possible.

“And how qre you planning to retrieve the Book?” Cassian added.

“These objects are spelled to each high lord and can only be found using their power.”

You looked to Feyre, almost apologetically. Thrown into this life and world and she was being asked to find pieces of the Book of Breathings itself using powers she received because she died. A shuddering feeling went through you. As if in defense of the girl you looked at Rhys. “You don’t know that it will work.”

Rhys smiled slightly. “True—but there is a way to test it.”

“Mother’s tits! Here we go again,” Cassian grumbled from his place besides Mor. 

Your eyes danced over to your mate whose eyes had narrowed slightly, your fingers still intimately intertwined.

“With your abilities, Feyre ,” Rhys began, ignoring his Inner Circles words, “you might just might be able to find the half of the Book in the Summer Court. To be certain, to make sure when it counts, when we need it, when we need you, we’re going on another trip… see if you can find an object that I’ve been missing for quite some time.”

You let out another heavy sigh knowing exactly where this was going, Az still rubbing his thumb over your hand.

“Shit,” Mor groaned, covering her face with her hands.

“Where,” Feyre asked tremulously.

“The Weaver,” Azriel responded. His thumb stoped rubbing your hand. 

“Who is the Weaver,” the new fae asked.

“An ancient and wicked creature,” Azriel responded with a sharp exhale, that tickled the back of your ear. “Who should remain unbothered,” thr spymaster shot in Rhysand’s direction.

Rhys pushed on. “I want to see of Feyre can identify the object amongst the Weaver’s trove.”

“Oh! By the Cauldron!!” Mor exclaimed. You couldn’t disagree with her.

“The Weaver,” Feyre began to press, “the Bone Carver. Can you just call someone by a name?”

You let out a soft chuckle with a slight angling of your head. She had a point. Something in the sound your momenary joy eased the shadowsinger. 

“What about adding another name to that list?” Rhysand asked Feyre who had finally seemed to warm up.

A few grumbles sounded about the room, including your own.

“Emissary,” Rhys said ignoring the room. “For the human realm,” Rhys clarified, looking to you as if ensuring you weren’t about to be fired from your position.

Good, Azriel thought to himself. You needn’t make any more travels than you were doing at present as Rhysand’s emissary in every other aspect. One less place for you to be caught in something dangerous. One less thing to pull you from his arms in the morning, and leave half of the bed empty at night. Truth was, even after nearly five-hundred years together, all he wanted to do was lay in bed with you and never leave the comfort of your embrace. Too bad the world had other plans.

Taglist: @lilah-asteria, @5onedirection5, @emryb, @azrielrot

[curtsycream]

My Heart Lingers in Italy

In which James Potter visits Italy for a school trip just to meet two girls that change him forever.

This is pretty short but it is only my first installment of this series if you want to call it that. It will be part of my summer project for my writing. So updates may be a bit slow but quality over quantity right? Anyway I hope you enjoy, it wasn’t beta read this time I wanted to get it out before I rewrite it completely or just scrap the idea. Also when they trade IDs it was supposed to be for Line and such like that but couldn’t find a face social media maker for that one, so yeah also English is not my first language so if my grammar or spelling is off I apologize in advance.

“Lily, where are we going?”

The two girls held hands as they weaved through a crowd of tourists. The streets of Verona normally weren’t so packed but it was tourist season. Smiling Lily tugs Y/N forward as the two girls walk, “Remember you said you’d go to Piazza San Zeno with me. I explicitly remember telling you last week when you were busy talking with Sienna.”

Y/N smiled broadly, “don’t tell me you were jealous again. You know you never have anything to worry about, she just wanted to know if I would be applying to universities outside of Italy. I told her I’m going wherever you go,” she whispered.

Ducking her head down Lily tried to use her hair to hide her reddened cheeks. “You’re so annoying sometimes, come on!”

The two girls, one smirking and the other blushing made their way to the open flea market. It was packed with locals and foreigners alike. Y/N waved to any and everyone she knew running different stalls. When Lily stopped walking she bumped into the shorter girl’s back.

“What’s the hold-up, Donnina?” Y/N glanced up to notice a group of teenagers. All about the same age as the two of them. But what stuck out the most was a group of boys playing around near a booth. Their playful nature was animated and rather funny.

Grinning she wrapped an arm around Lily’s shoulder, “oh I see it’s those tourists. They’re rather cute I’ll admit,” she commented.

“What do you think about that one?” Lily asked pointing at a bespectacled boy with dark hair.

Squinting Y/N finds herself analyzing the boy from his charming behaviors to his handsome looks. “Attractive,” it was simple but for someone like Y/N, it meant a lot.

Lily and Y/N knew each other inside and out better than most people did. So a simple compliment from Y/N meant she wanted to get to know him too.

“Should we talk to him?”

“What about that thing we rushed here for?”

“Aldo will be here next Sunday with the book I want to look at, should we talk to him?”

The urgency in her voice was clear, it hinted at her fear of passing up on what could be a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Nodding her head Y/N nods her head in his direction, “Let’s go.”

Pulling Lily along she smiled softly when standing in front of the boy. Up close he was much more handsome than she gave him credit for.

James was listening to Remus explain the difference between the two books in his hands to Sirius. He knew Sirius only did this to rile him up. Looking away from his friends he noticed two girls walking towards him. One was short and flushed and the other tall and grinning.

He would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel something. They were opposites of each other yet they looked so good together. Like that of sunshine and rain where together they equal out to rainbows. A balance is what they represent one that he wanted to be a part of. It was a strange feeling but it felt meant to be.

“Ciao,” he said without thinking.

The tall girl smiled with a laugh, “Ciao.” While the shorter one looked away before looking back at him with a smile, “Ciao.”

“I, I didn’t really pass Italian just enough to end up on this trip,” he explained. He felt as if he had to as if he owned them something.

“No it’s fine, we know English. Your accent British?” The tall one asked with just as much interest as a puppy. Her accent is thick as she speaks fluently and confidently.

“Yes, I guess the accent was very obvious,” he joked.

“That among other things,” the words from the shorter girl made him grin. Her voice was lithe sneaking up on his ears with agility. While the taller girl’s voice felt like velvet wrapping around his eyes blinding him with mystery. Both were opposite but equal in the effects they were having on his senses.

“Oh, what are these other things?” He asked leaning forward enough to smell figs and jasmine on her. A floral and fruity scent that made him lean back some.

“If I told you so easily it wouldn’t be as fun,” she told him.

“She’s always like this if you’re wondering, you’ll have to pry her secrets from her cold little hands to know.” The glint of amusement in the taller girl’s eyes was evident. Just like the smell of mint and lemon when she stepped closer to whisper that to him. The crisp and citrus scent was exhilarating like a cool breeze sweeping over him.

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we meet,” he tells her.

The confidence in his tone was enough to cause Y/N to look away. Lily found herself squinting at him, “who said we would meet again?”

“I can’t say for sure but I hope so,” he says. “You’re both really interesting.”

“We’ve said less than five sentences each,” she tells him. All he did was shrug a look of certainty on his face. His expression revealed it all as if he knew they would.

“Then let’s trade IDs?” He asked them.

“How do you even know we have the app?”

“I don’t, but I’d like to hope you do, red.”

Laying in her bed whilst looking up at her ceiling Lily sighs. Sitting up she glanced over at whom she deemed her other half. The other girl was sculpting something with clay her headphones probably blaring some loud music.

Each time Lily tried to sleep her mind would wander to the bespectacled boy they met. His charisma was refreshing in a way she had not expected. Though she denied it on the trip back home she did enjoy his company.

His words so easily teased and left her cheeks red. She couldn’t understand how he so easily did so. Before she could think longer about the British boy she felt arms snake around her waist. A head resting on her chest, “What are you thinking so hard about, Donnina?”

Weaving her fingers through the taller girl’s hair the ginger sighs. A look of contemplation on her freckled face. “That guy…the British boy. He’s not easy to forget,” she uttered.

Mulling over Lily’s words she agreed, “I get that..he’s very charismatic in a way. But under all that, there is this heart tug where you can’t help but enjoy his company.”

“Exactly!” Lily exclaimed as she brushed hair out of the other girl’s face. Her finger trailed down her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. “I wonder if that’s normal…to feel that way about someone you just met.”

Humming softly Y/N’s fingers ghost over Lily’s sides before resting on her hips. “Maybe it’s a British thing? To be so charming and have people eager to see them again.”

“I thought that was the French?”

“It’s all relative, or how do people say Greek to me.”

Lily snorted shaking her head, “I think this is why you shouldn’t skip out on your literature classes.”

“Why would I stop when I have such a beautiful tutor to teach me when I don’t show up for classes?”

“You’re such a flirt.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, donnina.”

Verona was beautiful at night, James remembered Remus telling him it was the city of Romeo and Juliet. A lovely Italian city where lovers can go and enjoy the sights around them.

Lover or not he had to admit that the city was more than he expected. The town with its medieval architecture and the meandering Adige river. It was hard for him to stop looking out of his window as the moon reflected perfectly upon it.

He could hear Sirius and Remus’ hushed tones within the room. The two had spent the day with James although James made it clear he was okay alone. He didn’t want to ruin the time his friends could have in such a romantic place together.

But he was grateful, sighing he glanced down his eyes finally leaving the river. People were still walking about outside conversing. he expected the nightlife to not be as active. From the morning and afternoon being busy with bustling marketplaces, piazzas, shops, and gardens. But from the way people were chattering and laughing it seemed there was more to the city.

For some reason he found himself watching a duo of two women. One tall and the other short both of them laughing and clinging to each other in their drunken state. He wondered if they did similar activities, or rather he wondered what they were doing now.

A small ding left his phone, his hand dived into his trousers pocket to retrieve it. A message from Y/N appeared on his phone, eagerly he opened it.

Typos are on purpose because they are messaging in English. To better clarify when it’s just Lily and Y/N speaking together it will be in Italian. I’ll better indicate that in the next installment, but Y/N is terrible at English but she tries. I’m such a sucker for this trio already.

[whiteskullofroses]

I'm using google translate so I'm sorry for any mistakes so could you do another imagine of dieter of inglorious bastards him fucking a spy caught by SS in the car and then he lets her go

A/N: Thank you for the request, sorry for the long wait! Hope you enjoy:)

Warnings: just regular smut, nothing too crazy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Your accent, its terrible."

(Dieter Hellstrom x reader)

It was a hot summer day. People were going on about their business, just as you did. Although your task for today was nothing but seeking into other people's businesses. Today you had one mission and one mission only. To gather as much information about the planned cinema burning and the killing of Hitler.

You and Shosanna had been friends for a long time, and after she told you of her genius plan, you befriended Aldo, who took you under his wing and gave you the task of being a spy for his group.

As you walked through the French streets and desperately tried to find Shosanna, you figured that the best place to find her was indeed, the cinema.

Walking past numerous posters of the Movie premiere and countless Nazis, you turned left and right, and after about 15 minutes finally reached the cinema.

Letting out a sigh of relief as you saw her spelling out 'Stolz der Nation' in black letters on the building, you quickly crossed the road and called out for her.

She turned around carefully on her ladder and recognized your voice: "Y/N! How are you doing?"

Walking closer to the ladder, you gave her a look and spoke quietly, still out of breath from all the running around: "We need to talk."

Shosanna slowly nodded in return, recognizing it must be something regarding future events.

"Listen, Aldo sent me here an-" You were suddenly cut off by an unfamiliar voice: "Emmanuelle Mimieux?"

Silence

You turned around to see two young men, one an SS officer, the other a regular, looking at the two of you seriously and with a hint of curiosity.

Glancing up at Shosanna, realising you were so tempted to reach her you completely discarded your surroundings as The SS officer grabbed you by your shoulder.

Giving a stern look to the other man and then leering his gaze back up to Shosanna: 'tu la fais monter dans la voiture.'

Your friend's breath caught in her throat as she heard his words.

The man motioned to her, obeying The SS officer's orders to get her in the car.

"Deutsch?" He asked you, slightly loosening his grip on your shoulder once he got a good look at your face. All you could do was shake your head, you weren't German, you were American for God's sake! You knew some French, but German? Hell no.

He sighed and put a hand on the small of your back, pushing you into the back seat of the car as Shosanna sat in the front.

The car started and there was dead silence. Both of you were scared, you didn't know why you were there and why they took the two of you, but you knew that resisting an SS officer was like committing the most heinous crime in the German owned lands.

The Officer turned to you and gave you his hand to shake. Taking it as he introduced himself, you felt a pang of unease joit through you, like you were about to throw up from the anxiety. Swallowing hard you used the little French you had to return the gesture.

The more you looked at him, the more you eyed his form in the unifrom, the more handsome he started to become.

Clearing your throat and faking a cough, quickly shaking the thoughts away with slight guilt, you shifted your eyes to the window and waited for the car to finally stop.

After about 20 minutes you arrived at the destination, which appeared to be a fancy restaurant, decorated with swastikas and various plants. As the officer opened the door, you followed him, but he stoped you in your tracks.

"Non," smiling charmingly: "tu restes ici." With that he got out of the car and lead Shosanna into the restaurant, his caullege following shortly behind him.

Your mind was racing, feeling like your brain was about to explode at any second. Why would he let you stay in the car? You figured you could just walk out and leave, but that would be far too risky. In his mind, you hopefully, didn't have any reason to run and hide away. Suspicion would rise and you would soon be heading to your own execution God knows where.

Turning on your spy side of the brain, you decided to stay where you were, as you were barely able to move a muscle from all the stress.

You saw the resturant door open and was met with Dieter stepping outside. He slowly made his way to the car and opened the driver's seat, starting the car and setting off.

Saying you were afraid was an understatement . Gaining the courage to speak up, you asked politely where he was driving to: "Je suis desole, ov vas-tu?

He looked at you in the rear view mirror and announced loudly: "Oh don't worry sweetheart. Were going somewhere you'll enjoy..."

oh shit.

Now you're in deep deep shit.

His accent was almost perfect as he spoke, which caught you off guard, but that wasn't important, your life could be over at any second. Every minute passing by could be your last.

"How did you know?" You question, honestly surprised at how quckly he figured you out.

Dieter laughed out loud, his laugh piercing your ears: "Your accent, darling." He lit a cigarette with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel: "Its terrible, i'm not French and i even know that."

Shaking his head lightly and glancing back at you: "Now tell me," taking a puff of his cigarette and exhaling the smoke: "What's your name name. Not the one you were forced to give me, american doll."

"Y/N." You proclaimed coldly, clearly seeing how much he was enjoying himself: "Y/N Y/L/N."

He stopped the car at a wooded area, out of sight to everyone, except for the few cars driving by now and then. You could immediately sence the coldness of the forest with the windows rolled down. The gentle breeze like a balm to your soul, soothing you while knowing this was your end. He got out of the driver's seat and opened the door to the seat next to you and sat down.

"Listen to me now, little girl." He picked you up from your sit and placed you down onto his lap, you gasped and tried to break away, but he was far stronger than you: "We have quite a... situation going on here. Don't we?"

You give up on trying, just sinking in your own mind as you nodded and looked into his eyes. He was so handsome. It was so hard to admit, but he truly was.

"Now," brushing a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear as he spoke: "Roll down your hips for me, darling..." His voice husky, deep lust growing in his eyes.

You hesitated for a second, before eventually giving in. Rolling down your hips against his bulge, you quickly realised where all this was leading to.

"You feel that, huh?" He whispered into your ear with that same husky tone like before: "You did that, mein Schatz."

With that he firmly placed both of his hands on both sides of your hips and pressed you further into him: "May I?"

Without thinking, you nodded. The way he smelled, the way he looked at you, the way he teased you, it turned you on more than you would like to admit.

Dieter immediately unzipped his uniform pants, revealing his hard cock to you.

You gasped as he suddenly, without any warning, put his hand under your skirt and moved your panties to the side, pushing himself into you and smashing his lips against yours, almost as if he tried to comfort you from the slight pain of the sudden penetration.

Moaning into the kiss, as you slowly got used to his size, Dieter groaned out in a deep and breathless tone: "Ride me, Y/N."

You started riding him at a slower pace first, getting used to the small space of the car and him gasping in your ear. It was so hot to see him completely lose all of his earlier stern demeanor and fall so sensitive to how you feel around his cock.

"Y/N, oh that's good, just like that baby, just like that." Dieter could barely speak, the pleasure of your hips swaying back and forth almost too much for him to handle.

And you were no better than him, moaning his name like a hot mess, feeling confident by the sight of him throwing his head back against the car seat, you started bouncing up and down.

Dieter's response was immediate, groaning out in pleasure louder than before, his breath quickening and his grip on your hips tightening.

The car moved with your hips, the fact that anyone driving by could only imagine what's happening inside made you feel a new level of excitement.

His moans, his hot breath against your ear as he praised you, his grip on your hips, it became too much.

"Dieter!" You cried out: "I'm gonna come!"

With your confession, he felt himself getting close too, his hips matching your rhythm: "Me too, I'm so close- Oh!" With that both of you came at the same time. Your breaths catching in your throat as you rode out both of yall's highs, swaying your hips back and forth again before collapsing onto him.

Your head fell to the crook of his neck and he put a hand in the back of your head as you did that, gently running a hand through your hair as the two of you calmed down together.

Eventually, you raised your head from his neck and looked into his eyes: "Am I free to leave now, officer?"

He gave you a playful slap on the butt and smiled: "Go, and let's hope we meet again soon, Schatzi..."

THE END.

[ramblingoak]

Building A Family

Another peek into the steampunk Copia fic I'm working on because I can't help myself. Check out the previous story here: Clockwork Friends.

A young Copia (probably about 5 or 6 years old) trying to settle in at his new home.

Warnings: angst, sfw, 1k words (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers!)

Copia’s oldest clockwork rat is Aldo and he made him when he was just a young boy, barely able to read and write.

After being dropped off to live with his apparent father Nihil, Copia was mostly left to his own devices.  His brothers were busy with their own lives and didn’t want to deal with the burden of another Emeritus heir.  The sprawling estate they lived on was closed off from the rest of the city by high walls that were patrolled by mechanical golems.  Not to mention the reputation of the Emeritus family itself.  Most of the city was convinced they were more machine than human these days.  

On a particularly lonely day Copia found himself near tears as he wandered the halls. He spent the beginning of his life in an orphanage surrounded by other children.  An endless amount of people to play with and talk to.  Here it was just him.  It was bad enough his own family didn’t seem to want anything to do with him but even the ghouls avoided him.  

Copia finally stopped when he walked by a strangely silent grandfather clock.  It loomed over him much like Nihil had done the day he was picked up from the orphanage.  The hands of the clock were still and Copia’s fingers started twitching, the urge to fix it growing stronger by the second.  It wasn’t until he had dragged a nearby chair over and started taking the clock face apart that he had an idea for another purpose for it.

“Can you hear me?”

It was hours later, the grandfather clock now just a corpse of its former self.  Copia had brought all the parts he needed into his room and spread them out on the floor.  A ghoul had come by when it had gotten dark, dropping off a plate of food and getting a fire going.  He had lingered for some time after, seemingly content to silently watch Copia work.  They had only left when Copia found himself getting frustrated when the tiny creature in front of him remained silent.

Tears began to prick at his eyes again and he struggled to keep them from falling down his cheeks.  He was just so lonely, all he wanted was something to keep him company.  It didn’t matter to him whether it was a machine or not.  Right now he had no one.  No friends…no family…just an empty house full of memories he wasn’t a part of.  With a whimper he dropped his head into his hands, his small shoulders starting to shake as the tears started to come in earnest. 

“Try this.”  Copia’s head shot up, his eyes meeting that of the ghoul that had managed to sneak back in.  The firelight danced across his silver mask and Copia shivered when it made it seem like his eyes were on fire as well.  He finally looked down to see a small metal object in its hand, the gold contrasting with the black metal of his fingers.  “This will bring it to life.”

After a few more trips to the destroyed grandfather clock Copia had re-worked his little creation to utilize what the ghoul had brought him.  Copia’s hand shook as he inserted the gold key into its back.  He could hear the gears turn as he twisted it, over and over again until he felt confident it was enough.  As delicately as possible he lowered it back to the ground, afraid to let go in case it didn’t work.  

In case his new friend remained silent.

“It’s ok.”  

Copia looked up at the ghoul, forgetting he had stuck around to watch.  It was impossible to know what the ghoul was thinking but Copia saw something in his eyes that he had only seen a few other times in his young life.  Kindness and understanding shone there, emotions so strong that Copia had to look away quickly lest he got upset again.  He took a deep breath and slowly pulled his hands away, trembling as he waited for something to happen.

It was slow at first, timid as it began to move around the rug Copia was sitting on.  After a few unsure first steps it gained confidence and crept closer to him on shaky legs.  Copia was afraid to touch it, afraid he’d break the spell the small thing might be under.  When a tiny metal paw touched his leg Copia finally smiled and reached down to scoop it up in his hands.

“Hello.”  The small metal rat twitched its nose, as if it could smell whether Copia was a friend or not.  “H-how do you feel?”

The door to his room opening and closing made him look up briefly but Copia didn’t give the ghoul leaving another thought.  He was too enamored by what he had created.  The clockwork rat was busy looking around the room, his limbs still shaky against Copia’s hands.  He was already thinking of ways to improve the design, of how he could make his new friend stronger.  

After a few moments its small body started to stop, the key moving slower and slower on its back.  Copia set it back down on the rug and ran a finger up and down its head.  It was a comforting gesture for both of them and neither one looked away from each other until the key had completely stopped.  

Copia sat back on his heels, his eyes quickly looking around the room as he thought of what he would need.  He had a responsibility now to his new friend.  He needed to take care of it, to make it healthy and happy.  Copia was prepared to do whatever he could to make sure that happened.  With a grunt he stretched out on his stomach in front of the rat, reaching out and winding the key up again.  When it came to life once more it immediately walked forward and bumped noses with him.

“I’m going to name you Aldo, ok?”  The rat's nose moved across his face, the small whiskers he had given him tickling his cheek.  “Welcome home.”

Some more baby steampunk Copia here 💙

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

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[abbyshands]

Can I say something really quick? The person who wrote that post complaining was just trying to shame smut writers 😭 I did stalk them and had porn links of "Ellie and Abby" so I really don't understand from where she came from. Aldo you are right, writting it's such difficult and more difficult write fluff things. At the end of the day please mind your business and write whatever you want bc no one pay you for it, it's a HOBBY

i've seen sooo many people talking about it so i'm not sure which account originally said it, but !!! regardless of who did, i absolutely agree. i'm just wondering why it's a big deal for people to make and post smut? i'm not a big fic reader at all, but if i ever feel like reading and i check a fic's warnings and i don't want to read it, i just ... scroll? is that not what you're supposed to do? why do we have to bring down people in the process? that's what makes me upset. i write for my job in real life as well, just like the fiction i write here, and i can tell you that, with the amount of angst and fluff i've written for work, it's tiring to come up with ideas, and executing them is even more exhausting. don't get me wrong: i'm grateful for being able to make money by doing what i love. but i get really hard on myself with all that i write, especially those two genres. it takes a long time to write, which is why i never want to rush it, and i always want it to be presentable. smut isn't like that for me. i'm okay with making a quick drabble. but for me, genres like angst and fluff, or even dark content (which i have also written) is where i feel like my skills as a writer truly show. so when i send it over to clients, or when i post it publicly in general, i want it to be perfect, at least in my eyes. you know?

and you're so right! any genre you write should be for fun. that's all. like, when did we lose the "fan" in fan fiction? so much more to worry about than a bunch of sapphics just having fun. unless what you're uploading (mainly smut wise for this take, but also in general) is wrong (morally, legally, ethically, etc), then i don't understand why you need to feel ashamed about posting it. this in mind, write what you want to write.