#Beyond Your Line of Sight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

artficlly · 2 months ago

Text

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was.

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him.

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have.

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.”

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright.

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.

“Come here.”

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

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#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #thunderbolts*#james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #thunderbolts #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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chuluoyi · 6 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍

- sylus x reader

when your husband went away without so much as a proper notice, you thought you wouldn't forgive him so easily. but he tries everything to capture your heart back: spoiling and indulging you… little do you know that he expects a reward in return

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—rotten fluff, domestic bliss, explicit smut, cunnilingus, fingering, mating press, taking elements from sylus' card night of secrecy, secret times approaching dusk and spoilers! from myth beyond cloudfall

note: my first sylus x mc fic! with this i'm spreading the soft!sylus agenda and that spicy 4-star approaching dusk has destroyed me :') loosely based on this post

Sometimes, you do wonder... does Sylus really think you're that easy to placate?

On one chilly morning, you woke up only to discover your hunk of a husband gone... and in his side of the bed, a sticky note.

Your eyebrow twitched as you read the audacious message scrawled on it:

Hey, kitten. I need to leave for a few days. There are things I have to handle on my own. Take care of yourself while I’m away. I’ll come back soon.

That was it. No clear explanation, no further details. Just those vague words in such short notice. The day before, he’d seemed like his usual self, not a hint of this sudden departure in sight.

It irked you. It made your heart clench at the same time. Because even after marrying you, Sylus remained elusive, playing his cryptic games. It was beyond you how he didn't even stop to consider how you were left worrying about him while he drifted in and out of his dangerous world without a second thought.

You understood the reality of your lives—that you were a hunter and he was the Onychinus leader, and that to be with him meant you had to walk that fine gray line between light and dark.

And you'd already made your choice. You had accepted it—accepted him—wholly. Even when your marriage had been a rushed affair and registered under false names to protect both your identities.

Things couldn't go on like this. You had to teach him a lesson too.

As your irritation simmered into determination, a devious plan began to take shape in your mind—a way to spite him just enough to make your point crystal clear.

Two days later

Sylus was done with his dirty business faster than he thought, and to appease you, he had come bearing gifts.

The precious little thing that is now his wife, of course he missed you too. But your safety was a price he wasn’t willing to gamble. If going away to take care of those pests meant your peace would be unperturbed, then he would leave without hesitation.

However, as he stepped inside the base, his relief quickly turned to unease. The space was eerily empty, the usual hum of activity conspicuously absent.

Normally, you’d be at the center of some commotion, locked in a spat with either Mephisto, or Luke and Kieran. But now—

“What do we do?! She’s gone!”

Sylus immediately rushed to the source of the ruckus, thinking something bad had happened to you. He found his henchmen standing in a tight, anxious circle around the coffee table.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Without a word, they stepped aside, revealing the object of their concern: a single note lying on the table.

He snatched it up, scanning the words. Then, he let out a sharp exhale of relief, a smirk began tugging at the corners of his lips.

Catch me if you can.

Typical. Absolutely typical. And maddeningly you.

. . .

That night, you had a very strange dream, it felt almost felt like stepping into the pages of an ancient tale.

You were a fallen princess wrongfully accused as a sorceress, who began consorting with the fearsome fiend from the Abyss.

The sorceress and her dragon. Together, you were an infamous pair, a dark legend whispered across generations. Your union had ignited Doomsday itself... and yet, amidst the turmoil and destruction, the sorceress fell in love with the dragon... deeply and irrevocably.

The dragon, in turn, was utterly bewitched by his little witch. He indulged your every whim, no matter how mischievous or perilous, and though he rarely spoke of his true feelings, he always found ways to show his affection.

The lucid dream felt as though it might go on forever, but you were pulled from it by the soft brush of lips against your forehead. The warmth lingered, blurring the lines between dream and reality, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Sylus...?” His features, fresh from your dream, now materialized in your reality. It took you a few seconds to realize that he had come here—

“Morning, sweetie.” His voice was rich and smooth, with that familiar, mischievous edge. A smirk curled on his devilishly handsome face as he leaned in, garnet eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Caught you now, hmm?”

The haze of sleep vanished in an instant, and you were suddenly wide awake. In a flurry, you shoved him away and turned your back on him, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You’d left the N109 Zone for one of his safehouses in suburban Chansia City, thinking it would take him some effort to track you down. Clearly, you’d underestimated him.

“Oh. The kitten is in a bad mood, it seems.” Sylus’ gaze lingered on you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do I owe the ire for?”

“...”

“Silent treatment, huh? The lady of the house is getting better at our little games while I was away.”

“...”

“Remember, sweetie, there’s no divorce in our relationship, hmm? If you’re tired of me, keep taking naps.”

You felt the weight shift as he rose from the bed and stalked away. The door clicked shut, leaving you in the silence of the room.

You wanted to resent him for coming and going on his terms, for never offering even an apology. Yet, no matter how much you tried, a part of you remained hopelessly tethered to him. The part that couldn’t ignore the reminder of the dragon from your dream—captivating, powerful, and infuriatingly hard to resist.

You love him, really you do.

. . .

When you didn’t come down for breakfast some time later, Sylus barged into the room once again, and this time he came up with a different approach.

“My lady,” he began, his voice sickeningly low and sweet, but his eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief. “You haven’t had breakfast yet. Please come down.”

You shot him a look, unamused, and decided to play his game as you crossed your arms together. “What if I don't want to?”

His smirk only grew, his tone dripping with mock formality. “And what must I do to change your mind?”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice his persistence. He had chased you here, given you more time to sleep in, and now stood before you to get you to eat. You felt your resolve beginning to soften—maybe just a little.

“Carry me there,” you said with a hint of defiance, lifting your chin high, daring him to follow through.

Sylus tilted his head, failing to restrain his snort. “As you wish, my lady.”

He placed his arms around you effortlessly, one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, lifting you into a flawless princess carry. You instinctively put your arms around his neck, and he turned to you.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a sharp retort, but before you could, he dived in—

Smooch!

—and planted a bold, wet kiss on your lips. You, wide-eyed, punched his chest in retaliation. “Sylus!”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Careful now, sweetie. Wiggle too much, and you’ll fall.”

He carried you downstairs, effortlessly navigating each step with you still in his arms. Once there, he gently set you down onto the dining chair, and that was when you noticed the table.

Salad, slightly burnt toast, scrambled eggs, milk—simple dishes by all means, but the thought the big, bad Sylus making them?

Wait. When you arrived last night, this place was a dusty shell, and the refrigerator had practically nothing—

“You cleaned the place?” you asked, your tone laced with surprise as your turned from the spotless room to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why is that so surprising? I can cook and clean just like everyone else.”

It sent a wave of warmth through your chest. He’d prepared food and cleaned the place knowing you’d be hungry and uncomfortable with dust all around.

You huffed, trying to hide how your heart fluttered. “No, your cooking skills are questionable at best.”

As if to prove you wrong, Sylus disappeared into the pantry and reemerged with a tray of warm, freshly baked dough that filled the room with a heavenly aroma.

“You are... baking?” You approached him, mystified at the sight of your husband, who usually at the scene of crime, behind the counter and started frosting the cupcakes.

He set the frosting bag down and picked up a cupcake, holding it to your lips with a teasing smile. “Here. Open up.”

Dutifully, you nibbled on the cupcake, and the sweetness immediately spread into your mouth. “It's tasty,” you mumbled, blinking at him. His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as he gestured toward the tray.

“Go have some more.”

Grinning, you grabbed another cupcake and eagerly took a bite. Munching away, you missed how Sylus’ gaze softened, his bright red eyes focused solely on you.

He couldn't resist pinching your full cheeks at that moment.

“Sy-wus!” you protested, glaring at him. His laughter broke free that instant, warm and unrestrained.

Utterly funny, utterly precious—that’s what you were to him.

Indignant, you scooped up some icing from the cupcake and smeared it right across his face. The stunned look he gave you was priceless, and before he could react, you burst into a fit of giggles and bolted out of the kitchen.

But as you reached the base of the stairs, a strong arm caught your waist from behind, halting your escape. You squealed in surprise, “Noooo!”

Sylus leaned closer and pressed you to his chest, his voice rumbling in your ear. “Ha. Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

He lifted you up with one arm and brought you back to the kitchen, setting you down on the counter and trapping you in place with his arms braced on either side. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he leaned in, and with a grin, he bumped his frosting-smeared nose against yours, leaving a sticky smudge.

“This is unfair!” you protested, still caught in a fit of giggles as you looped your arms around his neck for balance. Sylus chuckled along with you, his gaze steady and warm, never leaving yours.

Being with Sylus in the kitchen like this, savoring simple meals and smearing each other with frosting, it made you realize that you craved this domestic bliss more than you thought.

As the laughter subsided and you both settled into the quiet, your expression softened, all your previous grievances forgotten. The tenderness in your eyes said everything you didn’t need words for, and Sylus could see it clearly—you adored him, just as much as he adored you.

The one who gazed into his jewel-like eyes, embraced his burning soul and sang to him in the night wind... is once again in his arms. A part of him was almost sentimental at the thought.

Instinctively, he closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. But as they were about to meet, he paused, as if hesitating, leaving you puzzled.

Then, without a second thought—

To hell with it.

You chose to abandon all senses. You seized the moment—yanking him to you and capturing his lips, claiming him for yourself.

“…!” Suck, suck, bite, suck— You were relentless, and you didn't really know why. At first, even he was taken aback, but then his hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an intoxicating rhythm.

“Mmm...” You sneakily began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, your fingertips grazing his warm skin with each deliberate motion. Feeling it, Sylus broke the kiss just enough to smirk, his voice husky. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

But before you could respond, his hands trailed down your sides, firmly pulling you closer, leaving no space between the two of you. His gaze burned with desire, as if daring you to keep going.

Then, without warning, his lips began their descent, grazing your jaw softly before trailing down to your neck and chest, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers across your skin. The feeling was intoxicating, even as his hair tickled you, making it hard to focus on anything but him.

“Ahh,” you couldn’t help but sigh, pressing him closer.

His lips left wet marks on your neck, and he whispered, “Now tell me... what made you so upset that you left home?”

When you didn't answer right away, one of his hand slid beneath your blouse, unhooking your bra and grazed your skin—

“You... keep coming and going as you please...” you stammered, feeling him begin to cup and squeeze your breasts, your breath growing erratic.

Sylus bit down on the skin at the nape of your neck, and you almost gasped.

“It's almost as if— Mmm—” The way he fondled your chest made the space between your legs grow warmer. “—you wouldn’t... miss m-me at all...”

How untrue. He stopped his ministrations, and the steel behind those eyes you loved so much met your gaze once again.

His wife was a mess of sweat already. He swiftly hooked your thighs around his waist and claimed your lips once more. With effortless movement, Sylus guided you to the long recliner in the room, laying you down there, still lost in the heat of the kiss. His hand intertwined with yours, pinning you to the soft surface.

“So...” he rasped, breathless against your lips, “You’re upset that I didn't miss you when I was away...”

His other hand worked to unzip your skirt. “But don’t you know? I... was worried about my wife getting into trouble when I wasn’t with her too... That’s why I was in a hurry to go home...”

Sylus pulled away, both of you panting for air, and he took a moment to savor the sight of your glazed eyes.

“But then I couldn't find her anywhere.” His voice was low and taunting, trailing his fingers on your belly. “I made it back as soon as I could, just like I told you and you are the one who misbehaved... Don’t you think I deserve something as a compensation?”

It took you three solid seconds to realize that the lower half of your body was now exposed. Your husband parted your legs and settled his face between them, pressing a kiss on your knee.

“So I believe at the very least... I deserve this.”

He dived straight for your clit then and you let out a loud gasp.

“Ngh! Aaah...!” You let out incoherent moans as he devoured your folds, lost in the cloudy haze of pleasure. It didn’t take long to unravel you at all.

“Mmnh—!” Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head. Ticklish, hot, wet— all in all, it felt like a sin, but you just had to get this heavenly taste. “…a-ah!”

Sylus felt how you were this close to get your orgasm, so he moved faster, licking and sucking your clit, while adding a couple of fingers to bring you to the peak faster. You unconsciously moved your hips against his face— too far gone to be thinking anything else, grasping the leather of the sofa and pulling his hair—

“Ahh— S-Sylus!” And then you came hard, screaming his name, feeling how much it was— were you squirting?

You didn't know, didn't care either, as it was the sight of his ruby eyes that grounded you. You were spent, spread on the sofa (most probably ruined it, even), your chest heaving to catch your breath.

Sylus let out a low rumble as he wiped your juices off his lips with a thumb and tasted it, looking so sinfully sexy like a forbidden fruit while at it.

“You said... I wouldn't miss you.” He traced one finger on your face with such tenderness. “Now, I'm going to show you, and you'll be judge of it. Are you sure you don't want me to stop?”

If you said no, he would comply. That was the kind of person he was and you knew it. Sylus had always looked out for you since the very beginning, no matter how nonchalant he made himself to be.

“No.” You met his eyes, your voice steady. “Show me.”

It was the only affirmation he needed. He began unbuckling his belt and pants, keeping his unclouded gaze on yours, and soon he too was bare before you.

He was thick and long, and while you had taken him many times, it was never fully easy to ease the intrusion. His tip was already slick with precum, and he spread it along his length.

“You know the rule,” he murmured with a meaningful smile. “If it becomes too much, you scream, and I'll stop.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, sliding in slowly. The sharpness of the stretch seeped into you bit by bit, and you couldn't help but groan.

“—!” A sharp hiss escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside, hitting that sensitive spot. Had your eyes deceived you, or was there a slightly noticeable bulge in your belly from where he was?

Sylus seemed to notice it too, but he folded your knees, spreading you further. His gaze intense and filled with something deep, something possessive. The room seemed to narrow, your entire focus consumed by him as he settled in close.

“Eyes on me, kitten.” He gave you a smile, and with that, he started pounding you—

“Ah, hah, ahhh!” You couldn't stop moaning beneath him as he thrusted into you. The feeling of him so deep inside, coupled with the way you tightened around him, sent waves of blind pleasure through you.

Sylus’ eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you squirm under him. Your skin glistened with the heat of the moment, and the sound of your breaths, frantic and needy, filled the room. His control slipped, just a little, as he pushed deeper, his movements faster, chasing the release that quickly building within both of you.

A pretty mess, his wife is. Your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and pain as he bred you, and he swore, of everything he had gone through, this look in your face was always worth it.

“Sylus—!” you almost wailed, nails digging into his back, and he growled, knowing full-well that he was finally losing it.

Just like that he shot his cum straight to your womb, his own body shuddering, thoroughly rutting into you. You cried, tears falling from your lashes as you too reached your climax.

Full, too full... Yet you knew that you wouldn't have it another way.

. . .

It felt warm and comforting.

Your eyes fluttered open hours later, and the first thing you noticed was Sylus' sleeping face, and that you were now in the bedroom.

He looked so vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but be drawn to how serene and unguarded he was, a side of him that only you got to see. Even in his sleep, his arms were wrapped around your waist, as if to protect you from anything that might disturb your rest.

Your lover... and then husband. He was rough around the edges, sometimes didn't make any sense at all, and often reckless enough to burn himself playing with fire.

“You sly crow…” You gazed at his profile, still in awe that this elusive man was your husband.

Sylus was easy to read sometimes, and you couldn’t help but smile at your earlier doubts about him. How could you not see just how deeply he was attached to you?

Just like the inseparable pair of dragon and sorceress in your dream, you knew you’d stay by his side until the very end.

Out of a playful surge of affection, you tapped his nose, and he grunted softly but didn’t wake, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, seeking more of your warmth. It was cute, how he was so worn out that he sought comfort in your embrace.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then, vowing with everything you had that you’d never let him go, and that with him by your side, you would definitely made this life you shared a happy one.

Several weeks later...

“Thank you, miss!”

The boy bowed his head with a wide grin as soon as you handed him the red pocket money for Linkon New Year. You waved at him, smiling warmly as he skipped away, clutching the envelope in his hands.

The festive occasion inspired you to pay a visit to a nearby orphanage, driven by a desire to share more of the joy and blessings. You brought small gifts and red envelopes, hoping to bring a little light to the children’s lives and make the celebration even more meaningful for them.

Of course, Sylus tagged along too. He was the benefactor, after all.

“Sir, thank you for your generosity.” The headmistress approached Sylus, who looked effortlessly sharp in his red suit, and gave his hand a shake. “The children are really happy with the cupcakes and pocket money.”

He merely chuckled and pointed at you with his chin. “Thank her, my wife is the one with the idea.”

You joined the conversation shortly after, and it didn’t take long for the topic to shift from the orphanage to your personal lives.

“So, do the two of you have plans to start a family soon?” the headmistress asked, her tone warm and curious. “Both of you are still young, and you're so good with kids. Having children of your own might bring even more joy into your lives.”

You mustered a polite laugh, the words to gracefully deflect her comment forming on your lips, when—

“Soon,” Sylus interjected smoothly, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. “Very soon, in fact.”

You blinked at him, startled by his bold declaration, while the headmistress’s face lit up with approval. You nudged him discreetly.

As soon as the headmistress went on her way, you turned to him with a frown. “Why would you tell her that?”

Your gaze met his, clear and utterly clueless. Sylus snorted, so tempted to pinch your cheeks, but settling instead for a tender pat on your head.

“You'll see soon enough, sweetie,” he replied, his tone laced with playful mystery.

Epilogue

It was the dead of night when a sudden wave of nausea overtook you. Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching up the contents of your stomach.

Your body trembled as you stood, dizziness threatening to topple you. Leaning heavily on the sink for support, you rinsed your mouth, trying to steady yourself. The effort left you shivering, your legs almost buckling beneath you.

Before you could even comprehend the blur in your vision, a pair of strong arms got a hold over you. “S-Sylus...?” you murmured faintly.

Without hesitation, he lifted you into his arms securely as he carried you back to the bedroom, his expression shadowed with concern.

As he settled you onto the bed, he held you close, pressing your face against his bare chest that peeked from his unbuttoned shirt. “Take deep breaths,” he urged softly, his voice grounding you.

You inhaled shakily, letting the familiar warmth of his scent calm your frayed nerves. Slowly, your breathing steadied, though the nausea still lingered in the back of your throat.

“Is it the first time?” he questioned, smoothing your hair. “Have you thrown up before?”

You shook your head. “No... I get dizzy spells but that's it... This is the first time.”

Nausea, dizziness, vomiting. It wasn't hard to piece together what it was. Amidst your dazed thoughts, the realization hit you, and you turned to your husband almost in wonder. “Sylus... a-am I...?”

Sylus broke into a smirk, ruffling your hair. “Told you. I know your period is late.”

Your heart skipped a beat—and it was the only thing you could hear in that moment. The thought that a baby would enter your lives left you briefly speechless.

“Yeah, at the rate we're going, it’s like we’re bunnies,” you quipped sullenly, trying to regain a sense of control as you leaned into his broad chest.

You really thought he would poke fun at you for your highly possible pregnancy, but instead you were taken aback when he pressed a fond, lingering kiss to the side of your head. His arms tightened around you, his soft chuckle reverberating through his chest.

And when you found his gaze again, his jewel-like eyes softened into such an extent that made your heart soar.

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest man— having this fair lady be the mother of my child?”

#sylus x reader #love and deepspace #lads sylus x reader #love and deepspace x reader #l&ds x reader #l&ds fluff #lads fluff #lads smut #l&ds smut #sylus fluff #sylus smut #lads sylus #sylus x mc #l&ds sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace x you #l&ds x you #lnds

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suguann · 1 year ago

Text

Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live stream—the proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach.

A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommate’s bedroom door and asking him for help because you’re nearing the brink of overstimulation and can’t think straight enough to get the words out. It’s worse when he stands there and says nothing—all imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chest—while you try to get through a sentence without moaning.

Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway.

Then he finally says, “Get on the bed,” in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.

You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back.

Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, “Let’s take a look, love.”

Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over you—every part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you can’t hold back the squeal that rips from your chest.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Okay, you’re going to feel a slight stretch.”

You bite your lip. “A-alright—”

Slight doesn’t even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where you’ve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that he’s just being…friendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred.

None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.

“Ah, there it is.”

At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. “N-no,” you whimper.

“Relax, okay?”

Simon doesn’t comment on how you’re implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.

“Oh!” you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets.

He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.

“Ah, sorry,” he says when you twitch—unapologetic—using his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. “You’re so wet. I need to make sure I don’t lose it again.”

You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.

And then Simon’s fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. It’s unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think it’s over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.

“W-wait! Simon,” you moan, pushing at his hand. “No more, I‘m sensitive!”

He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.

You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks.

He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and it’s… enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.

“All good?”

You shake your head and go with honesty. “I didn’t think you’d cuddle me afterward.”

He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open. “N-no—”

Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: “Don’t worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.”

#simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost smut #cod smut #cod x reader #cod fic #cod imagine #mw2 smut #mw2 x reader #mw2 imagine #.things i write

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

Note

may I request a what-if with the 141 where reader pranks the members by buying a fake military knife that isn’t dangerous and hands it to their baby? Like this: https://youtube.com/shorts/aQGZTdYRX6c?si=pX7ja8U4VGL2dATi

(I’m bad at explaining things so I hope you don’t mind the video link for an example)

The video link is totally fine! I appreciate you sending that in for a reference! And you didn't do a terrible job explaining, anon. I immediately knew what you were talking about! Now, this is all in good fun, but I don't recommend you doing it in real life. Can you guess who has the calmest reaction of the four?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, married life, dad!141, girl dad! 141, pranks & shenanigans

Word Count: 1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John is in his office. It’s the perfect opportunity.

With as much stealth as you can muster, you creep into the living room. In the center of the room is an enclosed space were your daughter crawls around on their stomach. When you approach, she babbles, and you grin down at her.

“Here,” you whisper, placing a prop knife next to her.

The thing is made of rubber and plastic. It won’t cause any actual harm. She immediately reaches for it, tiny fingers unable to completely wrap around the handle.

Backing up slowly, you call out to your husband. “John! Can you check on the baby?”

A pause. “Course, love,” he replies.

You hurry back into the kitchen just as you hear the squeak of his chair. John emerges, rubbing at the back of his neck. His head is down, gaze lowered, and when he notices his daughter, John grins.

“Hello, sweet girl,” he coos. “What do you have—” John’s gentle tone because one of sharp concern. “The fuck.”

John lunges, disappearing beyond your line of sight. He reappears seconds later with his daughter tucked in one arm and the pretend knife clutched in his opposite hand. With the pointy end pointed away from the precious cargo he carries, John slowly walks over to the wall and presses the blade to it.

The rubber surrenders, bending in on itself.

John sighs heavily, and then slowly turns his head in your direction.

You give him your best shit-eating grin as your daughter giggles manically.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“What are you doing? What’s in your hand?”

Simon sounds…calm. Why does he sound so calm? He should be stressed right now. Panicking.

“Is that a knife? That’s dangerous. Want to give it to me?”

Sure, the knife is fake. Made of flexible rubber and plastic, it won’t harm anyone. But at a glance it appears real enough. Did Simon see you hand it to your daughter? Is he aware of the joke and just playing along?

You creep closer, not wanting to give away your hiding spot.

“Very good. Hand that to daddy.”

Your daughter coos, and then Simon appears from thin air.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. “You scared me.”

“Really?” he deadpans, holding up the prop knife.

Your daughter comes waddling out after him wrapping her chubby arms around his leg while she happily mumbles “daddy.”

“I thought it was hilarious,” you mutter as he tosses it at you.

Simon bends at the knees and scoops up his daughter. As he passes, he leans down, lips almost pressing against your ear. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on it. Didn’t fool me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He grins, and winks. “Comes with the territory of the job, love. I’d spot a fake anywhere.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Your daughter sits in her high chair, chewing on the end of the fake knife you’ve handed her. It’s just a prop, made to not cause any actual arm. She chews on the pointy end, drool dripping on to her tiny fingers.

Slowly, you back away, poised to dart down the hall to hide.

“Can you watch her?” you call out.

Kyle answers a few seconds later. “What?”

“Can you watch her?” You move out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen,” you shout back. “She’s eating.”

You hear Kyle’s voice soften. “What are you eating, love? What—oh. What the fuck!”

With the rise of surprise in his tone, you return to the kitchen. “Something wrong?”

Your daughter giggles and coos, arms outstretched as she reaches for her father. Kyle holds the knife in two hands, an unamused expression on his face.

“Did I get you?” you ask with a grin.

The annoyed expression melts, becoming a soft smile. “You did.”

He bends forward and places a quick kiss to the top of his daughter’s head. As he draws away from her, he reaches for you, grabbing your waist to pull you in. “And you’re a bloody menace.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You bend at the knees, holding out the prop knife to your little one. It’s made of rubber and plastic, but it looks real, and that’s the point. With a gleeful giggle, she takes the fake knife, completely unaware of the part she’s about to play in pranking her father.

“Go find daddy,” you coax, pointing in the direction of the living room.

She coos softly, pivots, and begins to walk forward. Each step is stilted as she wobbles toward the sofa. Johnny is on the game with the boys. His entire attention is on the television.

As your daughter approaches him, she lifts her little arm above her head, holding the fake knife high in the air like she’s a tiny Jason Voorhees. From her mouth comes nonsense, just a long breath of babbling, sounds, and the occasional word.

Johnny might be on the game, but he senses her nearness, leaning in her direction. As she rounds the sofa, her tiny body disappears. The only thing you can see is the occasional glimpse of the knife point. She screeches with glee and Johnny’s attention shifts. It’s a brief look, one intended to simply make sure she’s okay, but then he’s doing a double-take.

“What the fuck!”

Johnny launches himself off the couch, the game controller flying. Your daughter points the knife at him and Johnny immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Where’d you get that? Find it on the ground somewhere?”

You nearly snort. He’s trying to sound calm but you hear the bite of panic.

Your daughter’s reply is to charge him. Johnny sidesteps her pathetic swing before plucking the knife right of her hand.

“How—” He stops. Frowns. And then places his entire hand around the blade. He releases it. Repeats the gesture.

Johnny glances up and chuckles, locking eyes with you. “You’re bloody well having a laugh at me, aren’t you?”

3K notes · View notes

kingkaisen · 6 days ago

Text

୨୧ FAMILY CHAOS ୨୧

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: one year ago, you & your husband, Satoru, adopted two of his teenage students, Yuji & Megumi. Also, your biological daughter is now five years old, and it seems that every member of the Gojo household is experiencing their fair share of troubles and keeping secrets, yourself included. What exactly is going on this week?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || fluff, angst, brief description of smut, brief descriptions of violence, canonverse, fem reader, mentions of depression, skipped meals, & suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, & gojo being the best dad and husband ever!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: . . . 9k . . . :)

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. || artwork by @/3-aem, ribbon dividers by @/cursed-carmine!

YOUR STORY — DAY ONE

Two positive pregnancy tests rested in the palm of your hand, one showing two vertical pink lines, while the other casually presented the utterly life-changing word: Pregnant.

How unsurprising.

It was only a matter of time — after all, your husband was like an animal, tossing, turning, and twisting you every possible way whenever he could get some alone time with you.

It was impossible to know which night of love-making had led to your current conundrum: Was it the night all of your kids spent their Saturday evening elsewhere? Or, perhaps, the time Satoru had you in a mating press position on a hotel bed? No, it had to have been the time he returned home from a mission amidst your solo shower, and his lack of patience led to him slipping in behind you, and furthermore, slipping into you, all the while his hand-

“Ready?”

Satoru’s voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts. He stepped out of the master bathroom, buttoning up his shirt as he walked. You quickly hid the pregnancy tests under your thigh while his all-knowing blue eyes weren’t on you.

“Ready for what?” You said nervously.

“Don’t tell me the same person who rambled on and on about wanting to go to the festival already forgot about it,” Satoru glanced at you briefly. He approached your dresser, grabbing his blacked-out sunglasses. “The kids are waiting. I don’t think Yuji’ll be too happy if he misses the lantern show. And you and I need to do that thing where we share a churro and kiss at the end-”

“Okay, okay, I’m almost ready.”

Despite your words, you hadn’t yet risen from your spot on the edge of the bed.

Satoru turned to face you. He frowned with concern. “You alright?”

The truth was that you weren’t ready to tell Satoru that, soon, there would be another addition to the Gojo household. Your hesitation was odd. This was something you both wanted, and yet . . .

And yet, the news, while delightful, was also worrisome, as the Gojo household was currently experiencing its fair share of troubles within the past couple of months — and you weren’t quite sure what adding a newborn baby to the mix would do.

Stressful times tended to occur when over half of the beloved household fought curses and curse users, both of which were more active during the summer season.

Satoru was occasionally away on important trips to other countries and continents. Your adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, — who had been part of your family officially for a solid year now — were often injured in battle. Meanwhile, Maya, your biological daughter, was arriving closer and closer to starting elementary school.

Your little girl learning all sorts of things about math, animals, and books that were longer than ten, twenty pages was a beautiful sight to see.

She was no longer a toddler, but rather, a child now, and was learning all sorts of things such as numbers that went beyond ten, beyond twenty, and even beyond fifty. There were animals — insanely cool ones, more exciting than the cows and sheep she learned about in preschool — who lived in either the forests or the sea!

There were moments of tragedy of course, such as the day she learned that her dear parents, her beloved mom and dad, were not named Mom and Dad.

Oh, the poor girl cried and sobbed, her chubby cheeks puffy and wet with tears, all while Satoru held her and softly explained to her that he would always be her daddy, she would always address him as so, but in truth, his name was Satoru Gojo.

And your name was not simply Mom or Mommy.

What a troubling day.

But that part was fine. Everything from giggling while you or her dad marked her height by using a pencil to draw a line above her head on her doorframe, enthusiastically saying, “you’re getting so big now!” to learning to sing and dance along to classic Barbie films, to crying her eyes out when she fell down during a game of tag with her friends were all parts of getting older, and it was fine.

Her having to go days or weeks at a time without seeing her dad was not.

Having to soothe her worries and fears whenever Yuji and Megumi returned home from missions with new scars and scratches decorating their skin was not.

And, worst of all, her becoming aware of her own cursed energy and being able to see those terrifying creatures was not.

A few weeks ago, after Maya saw her very first curse across the street while going down a slide at a playground, Satoru had to sit his daughter down and explain everything to her. It was a task that broke his heart.

Afterwards, he crawled into bed with you, sighing heavily.

“She was just learning about the alphabet around what, one, two, three years ago?” Satoru exhaustedly rested his head on your lap, staring up at you with sad, blue eyes. “God, I can’t keep up. She’s growing up so fast. And now she’s seeing curses. I knew this day would come, but now her childhood will never be the same.”

You turned on the lamp on your nightstand with a light tap at the base of it. With your other hand, you gently stroked the spot between Satoru’s furrowed brows with your thumb as his long legs stretched out across your enormous bed.

“We just have to teach her not to be afraid of them. Just as we explained what curses are, we have to explain to her who she is.”

The daughter of the world’s strongest sorcerer, she was.

“I thought I was ready for this. Looking after Megumi when he was a kid, learning about his power, and trying to protect him from that sick Zenin clan . . . thought that experience would prepare me for this. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. Now we have to teach our muffin and protect her from the jujutsu society as a whole.”

“Tell me about it,” you frowned. “I get at least ten emails daily from the higher-ups, all of them wondering if she’s ready to start training. She’s five years old. I told them all to go to hell.”

Satoru laughed softly, then he yawned before he started to speak again.

“I’m sure she’ll want to become a sorcerer, but if she does, I want it to be her decision. I don’t want her to feel pressured to follow in my footsteps, get what I mean?”

Your fingertips started to mess with the strands of Satoru’s white hair.

“I think the best choice would be to work with her, make sure she understands what curses are and what she can do, but also do everything we can to give her a normal life. I don’t care if she learns a cursed technique before she learns how to multiply, but no one will take her childhood away from her.”

With that, you and Satoru sealed off the end of your conversation with a kiss, but nothing more, as about five minutes later, gentle pitter-patter could be heard from the hallway as your daughter made her way to your room and hopped into your bed, snuggling right in between you and Satoru.

After seeing her first curse, she was much too scared to sleep alone.

Dealing with Maya’s current situation had your hands full. Along with all the additional chaos surrounding your entire family, you were also busy being the multitasking mother and wife everyone needed you to be. Keeping everyone fed, healthy, and happy was quite the challenge, especially when you could do very little to keep them safe in a world possessed by such evil — and they were the ones who had to fight against it. Not to mention the horrific fact that your son was quite literally possessed by the embodiment of evil — Sukuna.

Oh! And if that wasn’t enough, Satoru’s other students, old and new, often came to you for motherly love and affection they could never experience elsewhere. Though you welcomed everyone with open arms, you were tired.

Tired, and, apparently, pregnant.

—

“Alright, everyone ready? Everyone have their coats? Anyone have to pee before we hit the road?” Satoru, who stood before the double front doors of your home, scanned his watchful eyes over the bunch.

“The festival’s only fifteen to twenty minutes away,” Megumi said.

“And I bet Yuji’ll have to pee in ten.” Satoru darted his eyes across the dark-haired boy’s casual outfit, which amounted to a short-sleeved black shirt and a pair of grey jeans. “And you’re not wearing a coat.”

Suddenly, Satoru felt a tiny tug at the back of his pants leg. Turning around, he caught sight of Maya — just when did she get behind him?

With a smile, he reached down to ruffle the young girl’s hair, noting the nervous look on her face. After her first experience with a curse, it was quite rare for the young girl to not have eyes that glistened with pure fright.

“At least this one’s being so well behaved, aren’t you, muffin?” Satoru said sweetly.

“Can you pick me up?”

“Of course, sweet girl, hang on.” Satoru raised and turned his head to where Yuji was standing. “Yuji, did you-”

He cut himself off. There was nothing except an empty space where Yuji once stood. “Where’d he go?”

“Bathroom,” you mumbled.

“Right,” Satoru gave you a quick smile — he noticed your silence today. It was nice to hear your voice at all.

Looking at his other teenage son, or, rather, his uncovered arms, Satoru said, “Megumi, go get your coat.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“You can thank our new heated floors for that, but it’s cold outside, buddy, and you had a fever a couple days ago. I don’t want this bipolar weather making you sick again.”

“Cold weather itself doesn’t make someone sick, it’s actually-”

“I’m back!” Yuji’s sudden appearance interrupted Megumi.

“Daddy, pick me up! Pick me up!” Maya whined, tugging on Satoru while her small feet impatiently tapped against the floor; the new, heated one, which was part of the renovations made to your home last month. More chaos.

“Hold on, forgot to wash my hands. Be right back,” Yuji suddenly said, and vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Satoru didn’t sigh with annoyance, didn’t let his face reflect even the slightest hint of frustration. Instead, he continued to grin, handling the chaos just as easily as he handled curses.

“Come here, I gotcha,” Satoru lifted Maya, holding her in his arms. “Ya know, daddy’s gonna have to put you down to drive, right?”

“No!”

Maya leaned her head against his shoulder. Satoru turned to face Megumi yet again, noticed his lack of a coat yet again, and said playfully, “Megumi, put on a coat or jacket or else I’ll ground you for twelve to fifteen years, kid.”

“Fine,” the teenager rolled his eyes before walking off.

Gently, Satoru gave his daughter’s chubby cheek a little pinch — she squealed from the ticklish feeling — and he then placed his large hand over the little ear that wasn’t leaning against his shoulder before he shouted, “anyone who isn’t in the car in the next three minutes is getting left behind!”

“I would’ve been in the car if you weren’t making me grab a coat,” Megumi called back.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not dying of pneumonia,” Satoru shouted, then mumbled under his breath, “again.”

And with that, you watched as, somehow, someway, Satoru effectively managed to get a moody teenager, a hyper one, a clingy child, and you, his oddly quiet wife, to the annual Night Lights Festival.

—

The lakeside festival was a crowded, yet beautiful display of festive red and yellow decorations and lanterns that brightened the night sky. Live musicians banged on drums or strung their instruments, playing upbeat tones. A parade of dancers passed by, and lively chatter surrounded you.

Around thirty minutes into the festival, Yuji’s face was decorated with face paint, neck adorned with beads and necklaces dancers tossed at him, blush-pink hair covered by an enormous red and yellow hat, and he held a bag of popcorn in one hand and his favorite soda in the other.

Megumi, on the other hand, wasn’t a fan of the large crowd and never-ending music. He did, however, notice a person doing magic tricks with their two enormous dogs, and he stopped to watch the show. Maya, who was previously sitting on her dad’s shoulders, eagerly climbed down, eager to watch the dog show as well.

And by then, Yuji had seen something exciting and ran off. Yet again.

That left you alone with Satoru. Your smiling husband took hold of your hand. Though you gave him a smile back, it didn’t reach your eyes, and he could tell.

Guiding you away from the flow of traffic and closer towards the red bridge that stretched over the beautiful lake with lights dancing above the water — where fewer people mingled, fortunately — Satoru said, “What’s the matter, baby? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Sorry,” you shrugged, unable to look him in the eye. Not while you were telling a lie. “I was just thinking about how well you handle our chaotic family.”

“You know me. Handling chaos is just what I do. I think part of me loves it, actually, considering we’re trying to add on a new member to the family.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. The topic of pregnancy and having another child was nearly a daily discussion between you and Satoru, that was a fact, but now, when your pregnancy test came back positive and you hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell him, hearing those words struck a chord of fear within you.

“I don’t know, honey. I thought that I could handle all this. Don’t get me wrong, please don’t get me wrong, but . . . Megumi and Yuji are at that age where fighting curses is the last thing they need to worry about. Being a teenager is rough enough as it is. Megumi’s attitude is-is just . . . and Yuji stinks sometimes no matter how often he bathes. He just stinks. And seeing them and their friends covered in wounds after a mission . . . it’s just too much. I can’t help but wonder if we’re mature enough to handle it. It’s not like we’re the same age as most parents who have teenagers. Remember what happened a couple of months ago when I treated Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi to the movies and a shopping spree? Two cashiers at two different places thought I was friends with all of them. Friends!

Then there’s Megumi’s depression. I’ve been researching therapists, specifically ones I trust who work with young sorcerers, but there’s only like, two. And I doubt I could get him to talk to someone anyway. Oh, and while I was doing the laundry the other day, I found a crumpled-up piece of paper with a phone number written on it in Yuji’s pocket. I’m thinking a girl gave it to him. That means it’s time to talk to the boys about dating and everything that comes with it, right? I mean, we pretty much raised Megumi long before we adopted him, so I-I know he’s . . . educated, but what about Yuji? Do we just assume that his grandpa taught him everything he needs to know about, well, everything? What if his grandpa taught him things that we’d disagree with morally? No . . . Yuji’s a sweet kid, I doubt that.

I don’t know, I’m just so overwhelmed. Then there’s Sukuna, and what the higher-ups want to do to Yuji because of Sukuna . . . is that why we adopted him? To give him a good life before he’s executed? Or did we truly think we could find a way out of this? Because I love him more and more with every passing day and . . . and don’t even get me started on everything going on with Maya right now.

I don’t just mean the curse thing, either. My friend Jane told me that she stopped carrying her son when he turned four. Maya’s five now, and it seems like she doesn’t ever want to be put down. I have no idea if that’s normal. She’s a sweetheart, and she’s always been a bit clingy and sensitive, but there are certain things that-that she hasn’t grown out of yet and with this curse bullshit, she’s even more dependent on us than what my research says a five year old should be. I bet you being away for weeks at a time is part of it. I know I cling to you like a koala to a tree when you come back home, and part of that is because I’m always so terrified of what might happen to you while you’re away. I love you too much. The idea of something happening to you kills me, Satoru.

I thought that I was this amazing person who could take care of everyone who stepped through our door, but here I am, freaking out while we’re just trying to enjoy a nice festival. Maybe I should just-”

“Momma! Dad! There you are!” Yuji suddenly returned, this time, with a tiny tray of lantern-shaped cookies and a bag of souvenirs. “C’mon, the lantern show’s about to start!”

The excitable teenager once again started to dash away, and you started to follow, when Satoru’s large hands suddenly grabbed onto your shoulders, halting your footsteps.

“Hey, hey, wait,” he said. His fingers found your chin, turning your head in his direction. He planted a kiss that held all the gentle love he felt for you right on your lips. “I hear you, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“You say that as if we can ever have a moment of peace and quiet, but thanks for listening.” You gave him a sad smile, and he kissed you yet again.

The night ended with you and Satoru holding onto a beautiful lantern and releasing it together into the starry night sky. Watching your lantern join the countless other ones in the sky as you leaned against your husband’s chest was a temporary moment of relief from the chaos.

MEGUMI’S STORY — DAY FOUR

It happened.

The breaking point.

The final straw.

Reaching the limit — whatever it was, it happened.

Megumi told you something the day after the Night Lights Festival. Something that he now regretted as he slipped on his black hoodie.

“Megumi, let’s go!” You shouted from the foyer.

As you waited for him, your eyes darted up at Satoru, who was adjusting the hood on your head. It was a rainy, gloomy day, after all. Oh, a gloomy day it was.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. I know it. And I know you’re busy, but when you have the time, we should talk. We never finished our conversation from the other day. The one we were having at the festival,” Satoru said.

“Right, well,” you paused, hearing Megumi’s quiet footsteps approaching. “It’ll have to wait.”

“Let’s go,” you said to Megumi, all the while trying — trying — to ignore the pained look of betrayal in his eyes.

—

The car ride was a long, quiet one.

The atmosphere was tense. Odd. Heartbreaking. Therefore, you clenched the steering wheel and made the tough decision to speak to the boy in the passenger seat.

“Megumi? After your session, I was thinking we could stop by a bookstore, see what’s new in the nonfiction section. Get some black coffee, pick up some ginger chicken, whatever you want.”

“Sure.”

“And don’t worry. The first session is usually nothing more than you and the therapist getting to know each other. And the psychiatrist will mainly just ask you a bunch of questions. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Alright.”

You slowed to a stop at a red light. A sigh escaped from you.

“I know you don’t wanna go, but we’re doing this ‘cause we care about you. We’re worried about you.”

Megumi turned his gaze away from the raindrops on the car window. A therapist. A psychiatrist. A collaborative care plan.

“You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No, not at all!” You looked at him, your eyebrows pinched. “You’ve gone through a lot, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some help. Everyone needs it at some point.”

“I haven’t gone through anything Yuji hasn’t, and I don’t see him in the car.”

You were silent for a moment. Nothing could be heard except for the raindrops splattering against the roof of the car. The traffic light changed colors.

“When will this competition end? Comparing yourself to your brother?” You paused. “You’re both very different people with very different needs, and-”

“And you think there’s something wrong with me.”

There wasn't that familiar attitude in Megumi’s voice. There was pain. But, heartbreakingly, that pain was a familiar tone as well.

You wanted to look at him, grab his shoulders, and shake some sense into him, do something. Anything. But you could only crank up your windshield wiper and make a left turn.

“You were getting better, Megumi. I saw it. But now? Now it feels like you’re moving backwards. You and I have started to bond, haven’t we? We’d spend quality time together, even if it was just the two of us washing dishes. You even called me mom once. You came to me the other night for comfort and advice, and now I-I feel like you’re just . . . slipping away and I won’t just sit back and let it happen. Please stop pulling away from us, okay? I’m here for you. Your family is here for you.”

“I told you the truth the other day, and look where it’s gotten me. You think I’m fragile. Like I’m weak and I’m gonna break. And now you’re dragging me to meet a therapist and psychiatrist. Being honest with you has only backfired, so . . . I think it’s best if I pull away.”

“What do you expect me to do when my son, my son, looks me in the eyes one night and tells me he doesn’t see the point in living anymore? Do you just-just expect me to, what, sit back and do nothing as I watch you continue to skip meals again? Stay curled up in bed? Hear from your friends over and over again that you were careless with your own life in battle?” You slowed down as you drove; you could barely see, not only because of the heavy rain, but also the tears brimming within your waterline. “This is what it means to be loved by a family, Megumi. I know you didn’t ask for this, and you can hate me and your dad all you want, but I suggest you get used to it, because I’m not giving up on you. None of us are. You understand me? Do you understand me?”

Megumi’s gaze returned to the raindrops on the window. His hands were starting to tremble — he wanted to cry. He didn’t answer you, not now, because he didn’t understand.

He thought he did once. He thought he wrapped his mind around familial love and understood that he was loved and cared for — and he still does. Part of him, the logical side, knows he’s loved and cared for, but maybe, just maybe, that was part of the problem.

He got sick easily. Got injured easily. Didn’t like very many things. Turned away from affection. Was a picky eater — it made him feel like a burden to his family, who he knew loved him and went out of his way to make him comfortable, be it you preparing ginger chicken over a bed of rice while everyone else dined on honey-garlic glazed salmon, or giving up loud family movie nights to play quiet board games with him occasionally.

But right now? It didn’t matter to him whether he understood the concept of familial love or not. He trusted you with something, and this betrayal? He couldn’t understand it.

But right now? When his spirit was crushed and he dreaded every sunrise that marked another day of living? When you parked in front of the beige office building and took him inside for his very first session?

He could understand one thing: his desire to have never been born.

YUJI’S STORY — DAY FIVE

It was warm today. The rapidly changing weather switched back and forth between hot and sunny or cold and rainy as if it couldn’t decide which of the four seasons it wanted to mimic, nevermind what season it actually was.

And, damn it all, Satoru took advantage of temporary warm weather by standing over his smoking outdoor grill, but not because he craved warmth and anything that reminded him of peaceful summer days, but because one of Yuji’s favorite foods happened to be Satoru’s grilled burgers, and Yuji was having a bad day today.

With one hand, Satoru flipped the burgers over with a spatula. They still needed quite a bit of cooking. With the other hand, he raised his blacked-out sunglasses, gazing at the back of his house.

It had been a while since he last checked on the moping boy. His other moping boy, Megumi, was fast asleep after Satoru coaxed him into eating by bringing a food tray to his room that held an apple he sliced, a basic sandwich — Megumi didn’t like too many toppings — and his new antidepressants.

A short distance away, Maya was plopped down in her sandbox, digging around with a colorful, tiny shovel.

“Muffin?” Satoru called out. When the young girl looked at him and tilted her head a bit, he asked, “Want a juice box, sweet girl?”

She eagerly hopped to her feet, took a moment to shake off as much sand as she could, singing under her breath, “shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand . . . shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand.”

Afterwards, Maya and Satoru stepped through the back door. Once he sat the young girl down at the nook table in the corner of the gourmet kitchen, gave her a juice box and told her to stay put — only after putting his lips on the skin of her arm and blowing a raspberry to make her giggle, of course — he then headed upstairs to go check on Yuji.

—

“I wanna kill that annoying punk you call your father first.”

It was Sukuna’s rotten voice. Yuji was digging through the drawer of clothes in his spacious bedroom when the king of curses manifested himself on the side of Yuji’s face.

“Shut up,” Yuji mumbled.

“Who would be fun to kill next? Let me think . . . that pretty mother of yours? Your little sister? That little girl’s becoming sensitive to cursed energy now, right? Does your family know she won’t come near you anymore, ‘cause she can sense me? The evil inside of you? We made her cry and run away the other day. Remember that?”

“Shut up. Just shut up already.”

“You think these people really trust you as a vessel to keep me in check, huh? I bet they’re hoping you die and take me with you-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

“How do you think it’d feel, brat? Your own body being used to kill the useless humans you call your family? Your face being the last face they see as they die a slow, painful death?”

“Shut the hell up!”

He was shouting — he didn’t realize it, not until the silence that ringed afterward made him realize just how loud he had been.

Yuji heard two knocks at his door. When he failed to respond, whoever seeked entry twisted the knob and opened it.

“Yuji?”

“Sorry, I’m fine.” Yuji glanced at Satoru standing in his doorway. With a bundle of clothes in his hand, Yuji paused, watching his dad glance over the top of his sunglasses, his all-seeing eyes scanning Yuji from top to bottom. “Stop it.”

“He’s bothering you again, huh? Wanna talk about it?” Satoru stepped into his bedroom.

Yuji shook his head, mumbling an inaudible, “no.” He tossed the clothes in his hands on his bed — they fell with a soft plop — and suddenly, the tears started to fall.

He couldn’t help it by then. The teenager found himself turning around and wrapping his arms around Satoru, who didn’t waste a second before hugging him back.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Satoru said soothingly, rubbing his back.

“Most days, I can ignore him pretty easily and not let his words get to me, but . . .”

“But ever since he scared Maya, you can’t help but listen to him.”

Yuji gasped.

It was the secret he had been keeping since it happened.

“You knew about it?” Yuji pulled away from Satoru, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Not ‘til now. I was listening at the door,” Satoru said.

“You say he scared Maya, but don’t you mean me? It’s ‘cause of Sukuna, yeah, but it's not like he was taking over my body when she got scared. It was just . . . me. It’s his fault, but it’s still me. Does that make any sense?” Yuji looked down at the floor. “Megumi’s always been her favorite sibling, and I get it, she’s known him her whole life and stuff, but . . . not only am I her least favorite member of the family, but now she’s downright scared of me. Do you think that means I should live on campus for a while? It’s not fair for Maya to be scared of someone in her own home. She’s your biological kid, so she comes first. I’m just the one you adopted last year-”

“And you’re just as much a member of this family as she is.” Satoru interrupted Yuji with a stern tone he wasn’t used to. “Just give it time, Yuji. Your mom and I are working on a way to get her used to . . . all this. And in the meantime, don’t let Sukuna get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but just you wait. I’m gonna find some sorta loophole where I can kill him for good, and still keep you alive and well. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You’re pretty optimistic.”

“Well, you’re my boy, Yuji. I’ll be damned if you don’t become old and gray someday.”

Yuji gave Satoru another hug, but this time, instead of tears, it was with a soft smile. Though his heart hadn’t fully accepted Satoru’s words, nor had his mind accepted that he had a right to stay home, he couldn’t help but giggle when his dad called him that affectionate term.

“Damn right I’m your boy!” Yuji exclaimed.

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. Can we play baseball together soon?”

MAYA’S STORY — DAY SIX

It was somewhere between noon and evening, the big house a warming shade of yellow and orange from the setting sun peeking in through the open windows, and Maya crept down the hallways with her doll clenched tightly against her chest.

Sneaking around her home wasn’t fun — not nearly as fun as the show the The Backyardigans made sneaking seem to be in the episode she watched with dad last week. Secret agents, they were.

She tried singing the little Secret Agent song in her head, tried to pretend that she was on some fun, grand adventure, but in truth, she was scared.

She was coming out of her bedroom when she heard footsteps in the hallway, and she felt it. That . . . that energy. That spirit.

Everyone in her family had that same energy, she could feel it, but unlike her dad or Megumi, this energy wasn’t friendly. It was as scary as the big monsters she swore lived under her bed when she was younger — and though dad held her tight and told her he kicked all the monsters out and scared them away, that wasn’t true. Because sometimes, she still saw monsters! Like the one she saw at the park the other day! And she swore — she swore — her big brother was one of them. He was the one with the unfriendly energy.

A little while ago, she ran up to Yuji, eager to share her grapes with him, and that was the first time she felt it. She ran away crying, shrieking away from him when he tried to follow her and ask her what was wrong. Ever since then, she would only go near him if others were around. It broke her little heart. She loved Yuji! So why, just why, did he have to turn out to be one of those scary monsters?

Maya peeked her head around the corner of her door frame and saw Yuji, who was opening a hallway closet.

“Umbrella, umbrella, umbrella. Where is it?” He mumbled to himself in a bored tone, searching the shelves for, apparently, an umbrella.

Why was he here right now, of all places? He wouldn’t move either, which meant . . . she would have to walk past him to reach the bathroom.

She wanted to cry. Where was Dad? He’d hold her, and together, they could make it past that scary monster.

Maya turned in the opposite direction of the bathroom, dashing away as quickly and quietly as she could, not wanting to draw his attention. Her heart was pounding. She then made a quick turn into what was the upstairs gameroom, and there you were! You were fluffing one of the pillows on the couch when you turned your head, smiling at the sight of your daughter running towards you, but your smile quickly vanished as the corners of your lips pointed downward, your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong, honey?” You asked.

“I have to pee-pee and there’s a monster in the hallway!”

Your frown deepened in pure confusion.

You knew quite well there wasn’t a monster in the hallway, but before you could question the young girl, she was reaching up, grabbing hold of your hand with her little one — the one that wasn’t holding her doll — and she pulled you along.

There was no one in the hallway except Yuji.

You figured that, perhaps, there was some sort of weird decoration in the hallway that scared her, but when you glanced down, you saw her wide, fear-filled eyes were locked on Yuji.

“Maya, what’s the matter?” You questioned. “Mommy doesn’t understand what you’re scared of.”

You weren’t exactly whispering like Maya hoped you would, and your words caught Yuji’s attention. He turned away from the hideous ponchos in his hands, looking in your direction with a small, “hm?” when, all of a sudden, Maya dropped your hand, raising a trembling finger as she pointed at her brother.

“Monster,” she cried out.

A shocked gasp escaped your lips. You never would have expected your sweet girl to call someone such a thing, let alone her brother. “Now Maya, that is not nice. We don’t call people things that we wouldn’t want them to call us. You owe your brother an apology.”

Yuji shut the door of the hallway closet, locking eyes with his sister. Maya shrieked, dropping her doll.

“Mommy!” She grabbed, pulled, and yanked at your shirt and pants, practically trying to climb up your body and jump into your arms.

Tears fell from her eyes as she cried, “Make him go away! Make him go away!”

No parenting book had prepared you for this, whatever this was.

The terrified girl’s nails were digging into your flesh; you had no choice but to pick her up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you said soothingly, but the fright in your voice was crystal clear.

You gave Yuji a look of panicked confusion, one that begged for answers to the obvious question, but when you looked at him — even from the distance between you both — you could see the tears streaming down his face.

“Make him go away, mommy! Make him go away!” Maya cried.

Yuji sniffled, wiping his tears off on his sleeves before turning away.

“Wait, Yuji- Maya, it’s okay, I don’t . . .”

Suddenly, with Megumi following, Satoru was making his way up the stairs before Yuji could descend them, forcing the crying sorcerer to stay put.

Yuji tried his hardest to weave around Satoru, but Satoru gripped his shoulders.

“Aht, aht, aht, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But I’m scaring her!”

“Yuji, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You cradled your sobbing daughter’s head.

“Here, Megumi,” Yuji reached around Satoru, tossing Megumi two mustard-yellow ponchos he found.

Megumi caught it and started to descend the steps without another word.

Satoru frowned.

“You two mind telling me why you need ponchos when there isn’t a cloud in the sky?”

There was no answer. Megumi continued to walk down the steps, Maya continued to sob, and Yuji continued to wipe his streaming tears, his path blocked by Satoru.

“I asked you two a question. Yuji, your mother asked you a question.”

“We’re packing our bags and leaving. We can’t stay here.”

It was Megumi who stopped walking and answered.

You could handle quite a bit, but this? This was what finally made the tears fall.

When that very first sniffle interrupted the silence, your entire family turned to face you.

It was too much. Everything. Every bit of it.

With Maya in your arms — her little tantrum had dwindled to silent sobs now — you left the hallway, stepping into the closest room you could find.

Satoru was a man who could walk through Hell with a grin on his face. He was an easygoing person, one who could tolerate everything from strong curses, the attitudes of teenagers — perhaps his own occasional lack of maturity helped him out with that — but, the one thing he could not simply grin and bear?

Seeing his wife upset.

Satoru slowly turned his head between Megumi and Yuji, looking at their guilt-ridden faces. He clenched his jaw.

“You two. Living room. Now. I’m not messing around, and don’t you dare talk back to me.”

Satoru moved past Yuji, and the boy swore he could feel the anger radiating off of him like heat.

The pissed-off man watched his sons drag their feet into the living room, Megumi’s hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt while Yuji had his head down, messy hair unusually flat like he was a kicked puppy, and Satoru then stepped into the room you occupied with Maya.

You were sitting on the ottoman in front of the bed. Kneeling in front of you, Satoru looked at you with all the softness he held for you in his overwhelmed heart, and he stroked your tears away with his thumb.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” He leaned forward and kissed your cheek. He then repeated the same act of love with Maya. “Both of my sweet girls are crying. You’re killing me.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, taking a deep breath as if to soothe yourself. “It’s just been a long, long week. I don’t wanna make them feel guilty for how they feel by crying in front of them, I swear I don’t, but . . . I think hearing them say that was my final straw.”

Satoru rose to his feet. He scooped Maya out of your arms, and said, “Come to the living room. We all need to work it out.”

The living room was softly lit by two lamps. From one of the couches where Megumi and Yuji sat, Yuji wiped away one of his own tears, then gently knocked his knee against Megumi’s.

“You okay?” Yuji asked.

Megumi didn’t answer for a while, his eyes glued on the living room floor.

“No.” Megumi’s voice was soft. “Are you?”

“No.”

Megumi and Yuji gave each other a sympathetic smile. Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. You came down, following Satoru — who held Maya — and you all found yourself grabbing a spot on one of the couches.

Satoru started to speak to the young girl holding on to him.

“Muffin, look at Yuji.”

Maya looked up at Satoru with precious eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Don’t be scared. It’s okay. Just look at him.”

She was hesitant, found herself clenching Satoru’s shirt even tighter, but . . . but eventually, she turned her head and looked at her older brother, who bounced his leg out of pure nervousness and old habit, his face a mess of falling — and seemingly never-ending — tears.

“You see that?” Satoru pointed. “He’s crying. Do you know why he’s crying?”

Maya looked up at her dad, shaking her head with a small pout.

“He’s crying because you’re hurting his feelings, muffin. Calling him a monster and running away from him is making him sad, so sad that he wants to run away from home. If he does that, it’ll make all of us sad as well. You’re the sweetest girl I know, and I know for a fact my sweet girl doesn’t wanna make anyone sad, right?” Maya blinked at him, and Satoru continued. “Yuji isn’t like that monster you saw at the park. Your brother is actually this super-duper strong, super-duper awesome, super-duper great person who’s keeping a monster at bay, so the monster can’t hurt anyone someday. He’s a hero, one who puts himself in harm's way to try and protect other people, and he loves you very, very much. Isn’t that cool? To have a brother who’s that brave, kind, and strong?”

Maya tilted her head to the side, the gears in her brain turning, and she nodded slowly.

When you started to speak, Maya looked over at you.

“You have a family of people who fight those scary monsters you’ve seen all the time. In fact, your dad is the strongest monster-fighter in the whole world. None of them can lay a hand on him because of how strong he is. And guess what?”

“What?” Maya squeaked out.

“You’re his daughter, so that really strong monster-fighter strength has been passed on to you,” you smiled. “Nothing bad will happen to you, honey. Everyone in this family will make sure of it; me, your dad, Megumi, and Yuji, who I think could really use an apology from you right now.”

Maya, albeit hesitant, hopped off her dad’s lap. She wiped the tears off her chubby cheeks and glanced back at Satoru.

“Go on, it’s okay,” he nodded.

In a way, it was quite hilarious. The person she feared was nothing more than a sulking boy with teary, light brown eyes, and a sad frown. Kicked puppy.

Maya stood in front of her brother. She didn’t fully understand what you and her dad were trying to say, but she knew a few things for certain:

No one else seemed scared of Yuji.

Dad said Yuji wasn’t a monster; he fought monsters.

That evil energy wasn’t the only energy she felt from him, there was something else there. Something kind and warm.

She loved Yuji, and she didn’t like making him feel sad.

“I’m really, really, really sorry,” Maya mumbled.

“It’s okay, Maya Papaya,” Yuji smiled softly.

“You’re like Barbie!”

Oh, her famous compliment. Yuji’s grin widened in amused bewilderment, though he didn’t fully understand what about him could have reminded her of Barbie.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know, I think she’s way cooler than I am,” Yuji reached forward slowly in case his little sister was still hesitant to trust him, and when she didn’t back away, he ruffled her hair. Maya responded to that by stepping closer with her arms out. As Yuji happily leaned down to hug her, god, it felt as if his heart melted and was being glued back together all at once.

A moment after the hug ended, Satoru spoke up. “Muffin, why don’t you go play with dolls, hm? I know my big girl can play all by herself, right?”

“Uh huh! I can go do that!”

Everyone listened to the pitter-patter of Maya’s footsteps. Once the conclusion was drawn that she was in her room, you and Satoru glanced at the boy on the other couch who was playing with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt.

“My turn, right?” Megumi mumbled.

“You’re not in trouble. Neither one of you are. It’s just that, at the first sign of chaos, you two wanna hit the door. You both need to understand that no matter what happens, no matter what you do or how you feel, those beds upstairs are yours. We’ll work through any situation no matter what it is because you’re our children. Your dad and I will chase you down and drag you both back home if we have to, but please don’t make us have to.” You paused. “Megumi, do you truly hate the idea of getting help so much that you’d rather stop living here with us? Are you that angry with me?”

“It isn’t like that. I just feel like a . . . burden again.” He couldn’t look you in the eye. “But I’m not angry, I’m just hurt. It feels like a betrayal.”

“What did . . .” Your voice was wobbly. You used every bit of your strength to hold back your own tears. “When you told me how you were feeling, what did you think would happen? What did you want to happen? Did you think I wouldn’t do something?”

“I knew you would, I just . . . I wanted to talk to you, not a therapist.”

“Me?” You blinked.

“Well, you’re my mother, aren’t you?”

Oh.

Oh, you were certain you misheard him. Your wide eyes found Satoru’s, and your husband gave you a knowing grin.

“I heard it, baby. He said it.” Satoru said.

“I’m gonna cry again,” you wiped at the tears threatening to stream down your face; it was crystal clear during this moment who Maya got her sensitive side from. “Can I hug you? If not, that’s okay.”

Megumi looked up at you. He thought about it for a moment, then with a whisper of a smile, he said, “Yeah, sure.”

You made your way over to where he sat, and he stood up. You wrapped your arms around him, taking extra care not to hug him too long or squeeze him too tightly.

When you pulled away, you said. “I still think you should give your current treatment plan a proper try, but you can always come to me, Megumi. Always, always, always.”

After you released him, you then walked over to Yuji, your arms open, and he grinned widely, hoping to his feet to hug you.

“I owe you an apology, Yuji.”

“Huh? For what?” He pulled away, tilting his head a little.

“For neglecting your needs. You should give therapy a try as well. I didn’t think it was necessary at first, seeing as you were always smiling and laughing no matter what, but after everything you’ve been through, you need it as well. I’m sorry for not considering it sooner.”

“Oh, well . . . okay, I guess.”

“I think someone else needs therapy.”

The interjection came from Satoru. Turning around, you raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean Maya? Because a child therapist doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“I was talking about you, but honestly, let’s get the whole family in there,” Satoru motioned you over, and your lips fell into a little frown. “What’s that look for? Aren’t you always saying everyone needs someone to talk to at some point?”

“That’s true,” you said. You walked over to Satoru and claimed the spot next to him on the couch, and he wrapped his arms around you. “I think I could use a massage, or maybe a vacation as well.”

“I’m on it,” Satoru smiled down at you. Then, as he looked back at his teenage boys, he said, “So now, on to dating . . .”

SATORU’S STORY — DAY SIX

The conversation with your boys lasted well into the evening until the orange rays of the setting sun kissed the sky goodbye, and the bright moon appeared along with the stars.

But not every bit of chaos had been resolved just yet. There was something else, something lingering in the back of Satoru’s mind, and that was why instead of showering together before winding down for your nightly routine of soft chatter, massages, and watching an episode of two of your favorite show together, you and Satoru found yourselves strolling through the Night Lights Festival once again.

“Satoru, we’ve all had a long day. Why’d you bring me here?” You asked, looking up at the side of his face, your fingers intertwined.

“Because I wanna spend time with the person I’m in love with, obviously. You’re the love of my life, my amazing wife,” he turned his head, smiling down at you. “Look, I’m even rhyming now like a lovesick poet.”

“But why are we at the festival again? After the day we’ve had, our bed was calling my name. I was hoping we were gonna cuddle up and watch our show together, or anything that involves lying in bed . . . Please don’t make a dirty joke.”

Satoru shot you an amused grin.

He guided you towards a food vendor that smelled of heavenly sugar. After ordering one chocolate-filled churro, he turned around to face you as he waited.

“Well, you and I never get any alone time nowadays, and we really needed to talk. I figured, why not do it here? The festival only comes once a year anyway. I wanna do our little churro tradition as many times as possible.”

“Why do we need to talk? You’re not divorcing me, are you?”

“Never. You’re stuck with me in every lifetime. I really believe it, ya know. I had a dream once where we both died and-”

“Here you go. Enjoy the festival.” The friendly vendor owner unintentionally interrupted Satoru, a churro in hand.

Satoru took it with thanks. You two continued strolling until he found an outdoor bench close to the lantern-lit lake and bridge.

“What was I saying?” He asked, sitting down.

As he took the first bite of the churro before passing it to you, you said, “Listen, if this is about my rant the other day, I really don’t feel the need to continue that conversation. Talking with everyone today helped some.”

“There’s more to it.” Satoru’s tone was serious at first. The lanterns nearby illuminated his expressionless face. Strands of his white hair shifted as he nodded down at the churro in your hand. “Come on, bite the churro.”

You did so. A beat of silence passed between you both. You handed him the churro; his turn to take a bite.

“I’m waiting,” he said, taking the sweet treat.

“For?”

“For you to tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. And for you to tell me why you haven’t told me until I brought up that there’s something you need to tell me.”

You blinked at him. He was right, after all. You were keeping something from him, and of course, he’d recognize the signs of secrecy. But you wanted to hold on to the secret news of your pregnancy a little longer.

“Really? You know me better than I know myself.” You avoided looking at him as he gave you the churro. Your bite was nothing more than a hesitant nibble. “Do you honestly think I’d keep secrets from you?”

“Then why won’t you tell me you’re pregnant, baby?”

Your limbs froze. Your heart skipped a beat, and though he spoke sweetly, kindly, you were still as stiff as a statue.

“Look at me,” he softly demanded, hooking his fingers around his blindfold and pulling it down, letting it dangle around his neck.

You glanced up at him, almost feeling like a shy child getting scolded.

“I . . .” Whatever excuse you wanted to give died in your throat. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Really needa ask?”

“Your eyes.” You mumbled. Duh. Of course. Of course, you couldn’t keep something like this from the Satoru Gojo.

“I would’ve pieced it together either way, ‘cause you’re right, I do know you better than you know yourself.” Satoru smiled for a moment, but then it vanished quickly. It was his turn to take a sad bite of the churro. Those bright blue eyes glistened with a sliver of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know when or how. With everything going on, I feel like everyone will freak out at the idea of adding a baby to the mix. Especially considering our boys are ready to pack their bags and run away when they spill a cup of water. I didn’t want them to feel like us having another child would mean we no longer wanted them around. Hey, we’re having more biological children, so we don’t need the adopted ones, hit the road! ya know? I read somewhere that adopted kids and teens sometimes feel like that’s what’ll happen, or they feel like they’ll always come last to the biological children. And that’s only part of the reason why me being pregnant right now isn’t a good idea. I don’t know why we thought we would be able to handle another kid at a time like this.”

“Two kids.”

“Huh?”

“We’re having twins.” Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on the outdoor bench. “I can pick up on things earlier than an ultrasound can. And . . .” Satoru's eyes darted down to your stomach. “Yeah. I’m looking at two individual cursed energies.”

You couldn’t help but gasp. Twins? Was he being serious? Was this real?

“Oh my god. Satoru I . . . I mean, thank goodness we have a big ass house, right?” You gave a hollow laugh. One out of pure shock. “H-How do you feel about all this? I can’t tell.”

Satoru reached down into the pocket of his black jacket. He pulled out his phone, let the brightness on the screen illuminate his face, and opened the messaging app. Your husband then handed his phone to you. What stared back at you was a messaging thread with Kento.

Satoru spammed the poor man with multiple text messages, some short, incoherent, and incomplete, some using all caps, others long and decorated with emojis, but every message expressed his pure excitement. The last thing you saw before handing his phone back to him was a selfie he sent of himself crying tears of joy.

“Not only did I cry, but I went on a two-hour run to release some built-up excitement. I think it’s safe to say I’m beyond thrilled. I just wanted to wait for you to figure out, because I thought you were gonna be excited to tell me, and I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise, but then I realized that you knew, and I could see how stressed out you were. You were going through tea like a teaholic, didn’t finish your crepes, and the last time I gave you a massage, you were so tense, it was like I was rubbing down a rock.” You took a bite of the churro. Satoru continued speaking. “You know I’m always gonna be here for you, right? There isn’t any part of this that you’ll have to go through alone. Even when I’m away, I will always be coming right back to you. We will figure it out, baby. Every bit of it. I wish I could be the pregnant one, not you, just so I can take some stress away from you.”

“And now you’ve made it weird,” you laughed — a genuine one this time — and watched as Satoru shrugged and took a bite of the churro you handed him.

“As weird as you are,” you paused, the churro now in your hands. “I’m glad you’re in my life. Who knows? Maybe preparing for two new members of the family could be the bonding time this family needs. Not sure.”

“Look at you being optimistic, I love it.”

You took the last bite, playfully rolling your eyes at him, but your fake attitude fooled no one. You were crazy in love with that handsome man across the table.

“Okay, c’mere, time for you to kiss me. The person who takes the last bite has to give the first kiss. Don’t tell me you forgot,” Satoru said. Though he told you to come to him, he was the one who rose from his seat and made his way over to your side of the bench. He straddled the bench seat, facing your side, and placed his hands on your hips as if to coax you into facing him.

“Pretty sure you just made that up. And aren’t we, like, both supposed to take the last bite together, causing our lips to meet, then we kiss?”

“I think the two of us should only try that with pasta, honey. We did it during that pasta making class we went to. I think one of us would choke to death if we tried to do it with a chocolate-covered churro,” Satoru tugged on you a little tighter, his lips falling into a small pout. “You’re taking too long. Just kiss me already. You’re ruining the mom-”

You cut off your talkative husband with what he so eagerly wanted — a sweet kiss. Not only could you feel his soft lips against yours, but you could feel him fighting off a smile as he kissed you back with passion.

That smile fully formed once you both parted, your face inches apart. His bright eyes stared into yours in a way that made it hard for you to breathe, and he gently stroked your cheek.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“I think all of this chaos has taught me that, even though it’s hard, I can handle a lot of things. But promise me that you will never stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now. If for any reason you stop looking at me with all of that love in your eyes, I think that’s what will finally break me. Just promise me we will never become one of those couples who fall out of love with one another but are still together out of convenience.”

“I’ve stared at you like this since the first day we met, April 8th, 2005. I thought I was the coolest guy on the planet, but around you? I was a nervous wreck who wouldn’t stop blushing and stuttering. I still look at you now the same way I did then, and I know I still will when we’re old and wrinkly, and you know it too. But I promise, if that’ll put your worried little mind at ease.” Satoru caught you by surprise with one last little peck against your lips. Then, the tall man stood and held his large hand out for you to take. “C’mon, let’s burn our fingers tossing lanterns into the sky again while trying to look like a cute couple.”

You laughed, letting your hand fall into his. You didn’t know it, but several festival goers caught glimpses of you and your husband together. They prayed to someday find a cherishable love just as precious.

♡ — What did you think? Let me know! Feedback is appreciated and encourages me to post more dad!gojo content!

♡ — @marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf @dreamypirate @rac00ns-are-c00l4

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo #jjk gojo x reader #dad!gojo #jjk smut #gojo smut #jjk fluff #jjk fanfic #jjk fic #jjk angst #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader angst #gojo x you #gojo x y/n

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prythianpages · 8 months ago

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Beautiful Stranger | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | Azriel gets injured while on a mission and meets someone he never thought he would. aka you finding an injured Az and the mating bond snapping.

warnings: mentions injuries and blood; other than that, this is light & fluff

word count: 4,342

a/n: I love Halsey's Finally//Beautiful Stranger & when it came on my shuffle while driving, this fic played out in my mind.

Humming quietly to yourself to keep your thoughts occupied, you allow the glow of the moon and fireflies to guide you back to the village. Dawn Court was your home, but after the fall of Spring, you had volunteered to help its fae, creatures, and land heal from the devastation left by Hybern’s attacks.

Though the damage to Spring was immense, its beauty still endured. The air still held a lingering heaviness but the flowers had begun to bloom once more with promise and hope of a better future. Your task today had been to gather healing herbs, yet when you stumbled upon a field of dandelions in full bloom, you couldn’t resist the urge to stop and admire the scenery. It was why you were returning late at night, long past the sunset you had promised to return by.

As you made your way along the path, the gentle breeze grew colder and sharper. It rustled the leaves on the trees and made the branches creak, its eerie sound halting your steps and silencing your humming. A chill of unease prickled your skin and your muscles tensed in alarm.

Then you saw them.

Shadows, darker than the night itself, swirling around you.

These were not the shadows you were used to seeing at night. No, these shadows felt alive and with purpose.

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore.

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse.

Weak but present.

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped.

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow.

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away.

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before.

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring.

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend.

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him.

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was.

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly.

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover.

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast.

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine.

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add.

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright.

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm.

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath.

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door.

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.”

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes.

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath.

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter.

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there. “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing. “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease.

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n

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starrbishops · 26 days ago

Text

⟡Guilty As Sin⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You hate how attracted you are to Walker, and you pull away from him because of it. He notices. - ao3 version

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Post-Thunderbolts, reader is a New Avenger and is mentioned to have some kind of super abilites (not plot relevant but it's there), porn with some plot, just reader being horny and then getting to fuck this man, car sex!!!! p in v, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks) reader and John both bully each other during sex, John Walker's praise kink (when will it not make an appearance) Bucky and Bob appearance!

a/n: This one goes out to all my homies who hated John in TFATWS and feel conflicted about finding him really hot in Thunderbolts! I guess he's my boy now bc I was literally the second post on the Walker x Reader tag (????tf????) so here I am once again being horny on main with y'all.

Teasing Walker was practically a team bonding activity. Hell, even the man himself had grown used to it, took it as a show of affection from the other New Avengers. You were one of the main perpetrators of it. John had always pissed you off, from the minute you met in the vault. He’d grown on you significantly since then, although you’d never admit that, especially not to him.

You’d also never admit how down bad you were for him.

You weren’t really sure when it had started. He was an attractive guy, from an objective standpoint. They’d picked him to be Captain America for a reason, and one of those was that he looked damn good. Still, beyond the awareness he was handsome you’d never really thought of him in that way.

That is, until that day. You couldn’t find one of your knives, and you were sure Bucky had stolen it, so you’d ventured down to the training room to confront him. You opened the door, ready to start interrogating him when you were met with the sight of him and John, side by side, doing pull ups in the doorway to the equipment room. Bob stood next to them, counting off as they went.

You’ve known Bucky for a long time. He’s like an older brother figure to you, someone you couldn’t see romantically if you tried. Seeing him shirtless has no effect on you, other than an instinctual ew. You’ve never seen John shirtless before.

And here you are, speechless, gawking at the guy who you once referred to as ‘Captain Crashout’. His biceps flexed with each lift, the muscle sinewy but hard-earned, gleaming with sweat. Broad shoulders, dabbled with old scars and freckles from too long in the sun. Your eyes fell to his abs, not as clean cut as Bob’s, but still very much there, pulled taut as he raised himself over and over. He was clad in a pair of old gym shorts, which had fallen a little lower than they started out, revealing the beginnings of a sharp v-line, and what you thought was just a smattering of blond hair trailing down.

And the sounds. John has always had a tic of snorting during battle. You call it his gorilla call that he makes when shit gets serious. The way he grunted as he pulled himself up, exerted but determined, gave you goosebumps the more you heard it.

Jesus fucking Christ, when did John get so hot?

He’s a supersoldier, of course. You know he’s strong. You interact with him almost everyday. You’ve seen him carry a crate the size of Yelena with ease. Yet somehow you’d never considered him hot before this. Never once have you looked at John Walker and felt this hot and sweaty all of a sudden, something in your stomach twisting with equal parts nerves and arousal.

You think you’re going insane.

After what feels like an eternity, John dropped, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fine, you win Barnes.”

Bucky dropped as well, a smug look on his face. “Told you.”

“Hey, well you’re shorter than me, you have less to pull up.”

“By what, 3 inches?”

“3 inches where it counts.” Walker joked. Shit, now you’re thinking about this dick. Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch-

“When’d you get here?” you snapped out of it at the sound of Bob’s voice, turning your attention to the other man.

“Um, around 20?” you guessed, doing your best to keep your eyes off Walker. You blinked hard as you turned to Bucky. “Did you take my Bowie knife?”

He sighed as he toweled himself off. “Shit, yeah. It’s in my bag, I’ll get it.”

“Asshole.”

He just flipped you off as he walked off to the locker room. Bob trails behind him, announcing his need to pee, leaving you alone with Walker.

You did your best to avoid eye contact, or any visual of him as he lowered himself onto the nearby bench ,grabbing his water bottle. You knew he has a habit of manspreading, which you often tease him about, but now it’s more annoying in that you’re trying desperately not to ogle him.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What?” you blinked, looking over at his confused face.

“60 pull ups. Maybe not as good as Barnes,” he threw a jilted look at the locker room door, “but still, impressive, huh?”

“Yeah, I uh, guess so.” you stared at the space above his head, arms crossed, praying Bucky finds his damn bag and brings you your knife soon.

“You okay?” John questioned, standing up to approach you. You instinctually took a step back, causing him to stop. “Did I do something?’

“No! No, I’m fine, you didn’t do anything. Just feeling a little off today, maybe I’m getting sick.”

John nodded, unconvinced. “Uh huh.” He took another sip of his water, drawing your eyes to his strong forearms, solid and firm, leading to his large hands gripping the bottle. Were his hands always that big? It’s ridiculous. You wonder what they would feel like gripping your hips.

“Got it.” Thankfully, Bucky reentered, holding out your knife. You swiftly snatched it, stuttering out a thank you and goodbye before you practically ran out the door. John and Bucky just stood there, confused.

After that, you ran to your room, locked the door and screamed into a pillow like a middle school girl.

You know there’s nothing wrong with liking Walker. Sure, he’s real fucked up, but hell, you are too. You’re both trying to be better, all of you on the team are. Your present torment is self-inflicted, part of it being the sheer embarrassment. You can’t seem to let go of your ego, the little voice in your brain bullying you for wanting a man who carries around a shield shaped like a taco.

You’re being ridiculous.

You’re held back by a fear of screwing things up with him yourself, and therefore for the entire team. You don’t want to ruin what you all have. You’ve all had hard pasts, never really having a group of people that you could rely on till now. You wouldn’t destroy that because you were so, so very horny for one of your teammates.

So you distance yourself. You try not to look him in the eye, lest you start imagining him with his shirt off again. You feel like an old Victorian man who forced ladies to hide their ankles; looking at any part of John makes you feel like you’re going to lose it then burst into flames. Once you went to ask him something and saw him in just a towel, and immediately turned heel and left. He plagues your mind, beyond just the thought of sex. The thought of him, holding you in his arms, whispering into your ear, smiling down at you.

You do manage to forget how badly you want to fuck him when all of a sudden he’s hurling himself into danger, in front of a hail of bullets that his stupid shield barely covers.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you lecture him as the two of you climb back into the van. You’d been tasked with securing classified S.H.I.E.L.D files from a criminal organization planning to sell them. You’d managed to get them back, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. Honestly, you’re lucky neither of you died because of John’s recklessness, something you’ve told him multiple times now.

“I was thinking of what was best to keep us both safe.” he grumbles as he slams the driver’s door, turning the key in the ignition. “It was a tactical decision-”

“It was a tactical decision,” you mimic his deep voice. “You could’ve died! You’re lucky-”

“Lucky to be alive, I know, I know. What do you even care?” you turn to him, seeing the anger in his eyes, mixed with something else you can’t place.

“Why do I care? Because you’re my fucking friend, John, and I’d rather not see you filled with lead!” “Well, it doesn’t seem that way lately.” he scoffs, eyes moving back to the road.

“What did you say?”

“I’m saying, you’ve been acting crazy lately.” he slams a hand on the wheel. “One day, we’re friends, the next you act like I’m the dirt on your shoe. I-I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” he leans back in his seat, defeated. “You’re acting like you don’t care whether I live or die, so fine, if I die, what’s it to you?”

“John,” you sigh, trying to hold it together. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he sits back up, angrier, more offended than upset. “I’m the one who’s being ridiculous? You’re the one being ridiculous! All this time-”

He rambles on, leaving your anger at him to simmer in your chest. It mixes with guilt, of being cold to him, not telling him why. He somehow manages to look handsome like this, passionate, full of emotion. Still, you feel your stomach twist knowing you did this, that you hurt him like this. “John, look, I’m-”

“No, I’m not done!” he interrupts. He continues to rant, getting into specifics of your treatment, your apology dying in your throat. What would you even say? I’m sorry I was mean to you, it’s because you’re too fucking attractive and I don’t know how to handle it?

You forget about all the reasons not to do this. You forget how annoying and brash he can be, all the embarrassing things he does you tease him for. You forget how screwed up you both are, about the team, about everything.

You just lean over the console, grab his face and smash your mouth to his.

He’s quiet, finally, still in shock of what is happening. The second his brain catches up to his body he’s gripping your shoulders, kissing you back with a force. It quickly turns open and messy, tongues desperate for each other as you act on months of frustration and feelings repressed.

You pull back when you run out of air, sliding back into your own seat as he does his. You sit, quiet, thinking about what you’ve done.

“Is that why?” His voice is hoarse from kissing.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s why.”

You’re both quiet again, reeling from your actions. He slowly unbuckles his seatbelt, climbs out of the car. You wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if maybe you misread him.

Then he’s opening your door, and before you can say anything he’s kissing you again, large hands cupping your face in them as he presses his lips to yours, hungry and needy.

He pulls away too quickly, looking at you with a ferocity in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “Do you want this?” he asks, voice low and warning.

“Yes.” you nod. “John I’ve wanted you so bad for-”

You’re both throwing yourselves into each other, not even bothering to finish talking. John’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. You yelp as you quickly wrap your legs around him, clinging to him for dear life, still not breaking the kiss.

He kicks the car door shut and presses you up against it, tongue slithering along your bottom lip, asking permission. You give it, sliding your won against him, deepening the kiss. You feel a moan emanate from your throat as you do, feeling like you’re absorbing John into your very being.

He shifts one hand to holding you up as he fiddles with the backseat door, yanking at it unsuccessfully. He finally pulls back, much to your dismay, to pull the damn thing open properly.

“There you go.” you joke.

“Shut up.” he mutters, before pulling you back from the side of the car and gently carrying you into it, laying you on along the backseat.

“Take your clothes off.” he huffs, fiddling with his own as he climbs in, stripping himself of his weapons. You do the same, pulling off piece after piece of tactical gear.

There’s kevlar everywhere, bulletproof vests thrown haphazardly in the trunk, knives discarded in the front seat. Somehow in a lust-induced craze, the two of you still manage to have some form of organization.

You’ve barely pulled off your shirt before you peer over at Walker, face turned red from exertion, cheat heaving with heavy breaths.

And god, you love looking at his chest. Your eyes meet his, flitting back down in silent communication. Without a word, he nods and you’re on his, straddling him as your hands run along his broad shoulders, teeth nipping at his neck before you kiss the small bites.

He groans, head falling to the crook of your neck as he takes you in, hands gripping your hips like you’ll vanish he doesn’t.

“God, so fucking pretty.” he mumbles, grabbing your chin to pull you back in for anther kiss. One hand trails down towards your arching core, tugging at your waistband. You quickly move to help pull them down, you and John struggling together until finally, the dreaded things are gone.

He doesn’t bother dealing with your underwear, just pushing your panties aside as he brings a finger to your soaked cunt, you gasping at the sensation of his touch.

“So fuckin’ wet, too, shit.” He trails his digit alon you till he reaches your clit, flicking it, eliciting another sharp gasp from you. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He brings two fingers to your hole, running them against your folds, coating them in your arousal as you groan. “Fucking hell, John, please.”

“You’re even mean when you’re horny.” he chuckles, you glaring down at him in return as you lower one hand to the bulge in his pants, squeezing it to a sharp inhale from John.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” you palm at his crotch as he tries to form some kind of words. Finally, he gives up, instead pushing his fingers into you, at last granting you the friction you’ve longed for. It’s so much better than those nights you’ve laid along in your bed, picturing him above you as you pleasured yourself on your own fingers. His are thick and calloused, and feel fucking incredible as you pushes in and out of you with ease, eyes never leaving your face.

“God you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles out, “so fuckin’ tight just on my fingers. Wanted this forever…”

“Please, John, need you too-”

“Gotta cum on my fingers before you can cum on my dick, baby.” you clench around him at the pet name, John smirking at the feeling as he quickly adds a third finger. Your nails dig into his bare shoulders as he moves within you, your head thrown back and eyes shut in pleasure,

“Look at me baby.” you obey, opening your eyes to see John’s flushed countenance, blue eyes dark and wide as you drink you in. “Go on, cum for me.”

He scissors his fingers within you, and with a cry, you do. You thank God you’re parked in the middle of some forest in the middle of nowhere as you moan, riding the wave of ecstasy. John doesn’t stop, keeping his pace till you start to come down, taking deep breaths as you loosen your grip.

“You cut me.” you blink, John nodding to his shoulder. You see the places where your nails have left crescent marks, breaking the skin.

“Oops.” you shrug, still out of breath from your orgasm. “Something to remember me by?”

John purses his lip. “Only fair I get to leave a little something for you.” he turns his attention to your collarbone, kissing and sucking a bruise into it as he circles his thumb on your clit, making you yearn for more even after one orgasm.

“John, please, for fuck’s sake…” you mumble incoherently. Your brain is wired to tease him and even his fingers inside of you will not change that.

He lifts his head, looking down at the bruise he’s left with pride. “Something to remember me by.”

“You are such a teenager.” you sigh, hand reaching down to undo his belt.

“You’re the one begging me to fuck you.” he grins. His hands meet you there, tugging the leather off and tossing it away as he yanks his tactical pants down just far enough to free his cock.

You can’t help it, you gape it at. He’s thick, and long, a vein running along the underside where you can clearly see. It curves slightly up against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. If you weren’t on top of him, you’d lean down and lick it off.

“Shit, do we need a-”

“You’re good. Can’t get pregnant.” you’re already lifting your hips, trying to position yourself over him.

“See, begging.” he teases as he lines up with cock with your cunt, tip rubbing along your folds. “You ready?” he asks earnestly, looking up at you with genuine concern,

You nod. “Walker, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me I swear-”

With that, he pushes into you, silencing you with a moan as you feel yourself stretch around his cock. He’s not too painfully big, the kind of sharp pinch that makes the feeling just that much more sinful.

He groans, head rolling back as he clutches your waist. You’re sure if you looked down you’d see his knuckles turned white.

“Jesus Christ, this fuckin’ perfect pussy,” he mumvles incoherently as he pushes deeper into you. “SO fuckin tight for me, baby.”

Then finally, he sheathes himself fully, with a downright pornographic moan escaping your throat at the sensation, John gives you a moment to adjust, the two of you sitting in silence, save for your shared panting and occasional groans.

You’ve never felt so full, stuffed to the brim with JOhn’s cock, feeling the head just kiss your cervix within you. You breathe deep as you adjust, feeling every part of him, every ridge, vein, curve of his cock.

“God, John, so big…” you trail off as your brain shuts down, thoughts of anything else besides the man in front of you and his dick inside you fading away into static.

“Taking it so good.” he brushes a fallen piece of hair out of your face, a gentle gesture compared to his usually annoying countenance. “So pretty when you’re full of me.”

You nod sharply, your brain still fuzzy with lust and pleasure. You lift your hips, his cock rubbing against your walls before you slide back down, moaning as you do.

You pick up the pace, riding him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, because it’s all you’ve wanted for fucking weeks and he feels so fucking good.

John sucks another bruise into you, this one on your neck, groaning out incoherent expletives as you bounce in his lap, moaning loudly with ecstasy.

Still, you’re exhausted from your mission and your previous orgasm, your pace beginning to falter. Your eyes meet John’s, and without a word he wraps his arms around you, rolling the two of you onto the seat, you on your back with him above you.

You rake your nails over his back, leaving even more scratches as you writhe beneath him. That gentle moment from earlier feels long-gone; John is rough with you, each thrust pounds into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in deeper, as deep as he can possibly get. His mussed blond hair frames his face as he fucks into you, his expression concentrated and determined.

“Feels fuckin’ perfect, perfcct fuckin’ girl beensth me, God I’ve wanted you so bad, so perfect and good.”

“Wanted you too.” you manage to pat out, looking up into John's eyes. “So handsome, John, you’re so good.”

Oh, he liked that. He moans outright, loudly, his thrusts managing to become even harder. You give a raspy moan in reply.

“Like when I tell you how good you are?” you pant out as you give him a dastardly smile, to which he just grunts in response, “So fuckin’ good, John, love your cock, let you fuck me forever.”

You’re a little cockdrunk, or a lot, head spinning as you clench around him, John pressing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. Maybe to shut you up, maybe because he wanted to, who knows. You just know you can feel the pressure building in your stomach, another orgasm on the verge of breaking loose within you.

“John,” you move a hand to his face, running through his beard, gripping the fine hairs as you seek something, anything to hold onto. “Gonna cum, ‘m close.”

“Go on, baby.” he grunts, thrusts growing faster and more erratic, his cock barely leaving you before slamming back in. “Cum all over my cock.”

You grip his shoulders, crying out his name as you cum again, seeing stars as you feel the white-hot waves of pleasure crashing over you. John follows shortly, sheathing himself deep inside you, where you can feel the heat of him cum painting your walls.

He gives a few weak thrusts, as if he’s trying to fuck his cum further into you. You just groan, eyes squeezed shut, body still feeling like it’s on fire.

When you open your eyes, you see him above you, panting as he comes down to Earth. He looks even more handsome like this, all sweaty and messy and smelling of sex.

“Was that,” he exhales, still trying to catch his breath, “Was that good?”

You just stare up at him, before a laugh manages to escape you. He looks a little sad before you pull him down by the nape of his neck, kissing him again, soft and slow.

“Yes,” you say as you lay your head back against the seat. “That was good, John.”

He smiles, not the usual cocky and self-satisfied look, but a genuine smile, a sense of satisfaction flowing through him. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, atop where he’s left a hickey, then to the other, then a third peck to your lips. You giggle a little, running your hands through his messy hair.

“If I’d known all it took to make you stop being an asshole was fucking you, I woulda done it a lot sooner.”

“Well, technically I was the one fucking you”

You groan, exasperated. “God, the fucking technicalities with you.” you look back up at him, tilting your head as you smile. “Am I gonna have to do this again to make you stop?”

He just shrugs, a mischievous look on his face. “Guess so.” he rolls his hips against yours once more, and you can already feel him getting hard again within you.

“Fuck John…” you’re still barely recovered from the first round.

“Hey, thank the serum.”

a/n: Shoutout to the Tiktok comment where someone called him Captain Crashout bc i immediately jotted that shit down for later use. And thank all of you who've shown my fics so much love!!! I started this as a hobby to practice my writing and I'm genuinely shocked that people really enjoy these.

It ain't much but it's honest work :)

#thunderbolts*#fanfic #marvel #john walker #thunderbolts #john walker x reader #us agent #us agent x reader #bob reynolds #bucky barnes #the new avengers #john walker smut #john walker x you

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vanesycho · 1 month ago

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• warning! threesome, fingering, vaginal sex, clit slapping, overstimulation, oral fixation(finger sucking), dirty talk, slight choking, cum play / cum tasting • 1,2k • m.list

being with hyunjin and chan looks so fun and nice on the outside. who doesn't like the attention coming from two gentle and sweet men? chan's sweet words...hyunjin's soft touches...that's how your day goes!

most of the time.

"last time doll. come on, we know you can do it." you didn't know how many times you'd heard it, 3? 5? yet somehow they found a way to put their hands on you. hyunjin expertly fucked you with three fingers between your legs, as your back was pressed against chan's chest, torturing your clit with his fingers. "It’s… too much…" you barely managed to whisper, voice trembling as a loud moan tore from your lips. hyunjin’s fingers curled perfectly against that devastating spot inside you, making your entire body tremble—not just your legs, but every nerve lit up from the intensity. the pleasure was relentless, drowning you with each slow, deliberate motion.

"stay still." chan's voice was rough, commanding—sending a shiver straight down your spine. his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, pinning you back against his chest, holding you in place as if your body wasn’t already trembling beyond control. the constant assault on your g-spot had your legs tightening involuntarily, your lungs forgetting how to breathe. hyunjin let out a low, throaty moan when he felt you clenching, knowing you were right on the edge. "fuuuck yeah… that’s it, baby. I wanna see you fall apart." chan’s fingers are still on your clit, rubbing tight circles over the most sensitive part of you—deliberate and devastating. your moans only made his cock throb harder, his breath hot and ragged right beside your ear. "you’re gonna make me lose my mind." your thoughts blurred into static—nothing existed but them, the pleasure, and the way your body pulsed under their touch. It didn’t take long before you shattered around hyunjin’s fingers, a cry escaping you as your head fell back onto chan’s shoulder, your body going limp from the release.

but chan didn’t stop—his fingers kept circling your clit, relentless and precise. when you instinctively tried to clamp your legs shut, hyunjin’s hands shot out to stop you, keeping you wide open for more. then chan shifted tactics. he began lightly slapping your clit with the tips of his fingers, fast and cruel, sending sharp jolts through your already trembling body. you whimpered—broken and tearful, the sensation too much to bear, yet impossible to escape. "no-"

"shh"

he kept going for a few more torturous seconds before finally easing off and guiding you to lie back on the bed. chan settled between your legs without a word, eyes locked on your soaked core, while hyunjin moved to the head of the bed. he gently grabbed your chin, tilting it up as his thumb traced your trembling bottom lip. "open your mouth, baby." you obeyed, lips parting softly—and he didn’t wait. his thumb slipped past your lips, pressing down on your tongue as he made you suck it slow and gentle. the sight of you like that, eyes dazed and lips wrapped around him, had hyunjin smirking in delight. the soft whimper you let out around his thumb made his eyes darken, his thumb pressing deeper just to feel your reaction again.

chan spread your legs with ease, his gaze dark as he used two fingers to part your soaked folds. a low, satisfied sigh escaped him at the sight of your glistening arousal. once he’d had his fill of looking, he pulled his hand away and lined up his cock at your entrance, dragging the thick tip through your wetness. you felt the pressure building—his size pressing right where you were already so sensitive—and tried to speak, to tell him you couldn’t take any more. but hyunjin’s thumb was still in your mouth, muffling every desperate sound. "hm? were you trying to say something?" hyunjin teased, voice smooth as silk. he slowly pulled his finger out—but just as your lips parted to form words, chan buried himself inside you in one sharp, devastating thrust. a strangled moan escaped instead, your back arching as your walls clenched tightly around him. the way you responded—how your body trembled and clung to his cock—made hyunjin grin as he trailed his fingers down your chest, grazing over every trembling inch of you. "oh fuck—you're hugging me so good baby… you're so good" chan groaned, hips pulsing forward as he sank even deeper.

he didn’t even give you a moment to adjust. he immediately started to move, thrusting into you with steady, unforgiving strokes—burying himself to the hilt every single time. each thrust was deep, precise, dragging moans from his throat as the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed loudly through the room. he grabbed your legs and lifted them, folding you slightly as he leaned over—forcing your bodies impossibly close. that position made everything more intense, and chan knew it. a teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he noticed the glossy tears pooling in your eyes. "aw… is it too much, baby? can’t take it, huh?" he murmured mockingly. meanwhile, hyunjin was still at your side, eyes locked on your face as he gently pinched and played with your hardened nipple. he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb before leaning in, his lips brushing your cheek in mock affection. "too bad," he whispered into your ear, voice low and laced with mischief. "we haven’t even gotten what we wanted yet…"

chan’s breath was growing more erratic, short gasps leaving his lips with every deep thrust as he filled you over and over again. the helpless whimpers and tearful cries slipping from you—because you were just too sensitive, too overstimulated—only spurred him on. a low growl rumbled in his throat as he tossed his head back, eyes fluttering shut in sheer bliss. “It won’t take long… I’m so close,” he muttered under his breath, voice laced with desperation. his pace grew rougher, hips slamming into you with reckless hunger. “fuck—gonna fill that tight little pussy of yours,” he gritted out, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the effort. you could barely process his words—your own orgasm was building fast, but your body was too worn out, too overwhelmed. you didn’t even have the strength to speak; your mouth hung open in silent moans, eyes hazy, every nerve ending on fire.

hyunjin’s hands were roaming all over your trembling body, fingertips ghosting down your sides and up to your head—tracing every inch of skin he could reach. when your moans began to rise in pitch, signaling just how close you were, he leaned down and captured your lips without warning. his tongue slid into your mouth, slow and intentional, curling around yours with a needy kind of affection that made your stomach flutter. one of his hands found its way to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. he groaned softly into the kiss, your noises muffled against his mouth, the vibration of your shared moans heating up the air between you. "cum with me, baby… yeah?" chan’s voice cut through the haze, breathless and commanding. "make a mess for us. you can do it." you could barely breathe, the weight of hyunjin’s kiss and the relentless rhythm of chan’s thrusts pushing you right to the edge. hyunjin finally pulled back, his lips dragging against yours as he bit down hard on your bottom lip—right as you were about to fall apart completely.

“cumming, cumming—fuck—” chan’s cock twitched deep inside you as you exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his body pulling back slowly, savoring every last drop he’d given you. chan smiled, breathless and satisfied, watching the slick fluid glisten and drip from your slick folds. hyunjin leaned down, fingers tracing through the wetness between your legs, then teasingly slipped two fingers inside your still-sensitive hole. he brought them to his lips, tasting you slowly, eyes locked on yours, that faintly salty flavor drawing a low, pleased hum from him. “mm..should I eat you again?” you shook your head quickly, making both chan and hyunjin chuckle softly at your reaction.

chan reached out on one side, hyunjin on the other, pulling you into a warm, tangled embrace. you rested your head between their bare, heated bodies, a gentle smile spreading across your face as your eyes fluttered closed. the last thing you remembered before drifting off were their sweet whispers and soft kisses, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth and love.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

taglist:

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luvth0t · 1 month ago

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I’VE MISSED YOU ━ L.N

in which you’re unable to stay away from lando like you’d intended after his win in monaco

warnings; unprotected sex, reader needs to stand up but whatever, public sex lowkey, oral m receiving, plenty of praise, degradation like once, hair pulling, choking, thigh riding, rough smut i guess i think that’s it ! lando could be toxic he could be genuine we don’t know ! unedited rn xox

you swore you’d stay away.

you were beyond settling, unable to pretend to be satisfied with what lando could offer these days.

it wasn’t your fault you weren’t good at keeping your word.

“where are you going?” lando’s voice chimed innocently from where he was sprawled on his bed, watching as you stumbled around the room.

the sheets draped over his lower half did little to offer modesty, tanned and toned abdomen on display decorated in red lines left by your nails only moments ago.

you ignored his words as you shrugged your underwear up your wobbly legs ━ eyes scanning the room in search of all your clothing, lando not having been precise in discarding them across the floor.

“we are well pass this,” the brit practically scoffed, jokingly speaking; not understanding why you’d been so quick to scurry off. soft touches and you cuddled up to his chest was what he was used too.

“this was a mistake.” you huffed, not offering him a glance. sounding annoyed, because you were. with yourself.

he’d laughed. laughed. you envied how unbothered he could be, rolling your eyes as you found your skirt, shimmying it up your legs as lando stood and tugged his boxers on.

“ouch,” he mused; hand resting over his heart as if your words had stung.

he didn’t believe them, so they wouldn’t effect him.

“i told you this isn’t happening again,” you offered an explanation, not that he asked for one; lips pursed and you could cringe at how unconvincing you sounded.

he assumed that had been a lie when you said that all those weeks ago. and then presumed he was correct considering you ended up back here in his sheets tonight.

“yet here you are,” lando chuckled; and your self annoyance was beginning to spread with his inability to realise you were trying to be serious.

“it’s not happening again.” you finally looked at him, and lando would be worried with how stern you looked if he actually believed you.

but he didn’t. maybe because you were the one who seeked him out tonight, or maybe because he didn’t want to believe you. regardless; such conversation was one he’d like to avoid.

you huffed when you couldn’t find your shirt, lando watching in slight amusement ━ not complaining of the sight, red and purple marks scattering your skin thanks to himself.

“have i lost my touch?” lando joked; well aware that wasn’t the case. not when you’d just cum around his fingers and cock three times.

you took a short breath, standing straight and stopping in your movements to face him.

“i’m no longer fine with just being a fuck of convenience,” you told him honestly, shoulders shrugging and only then did you capture his face falter momentarily.

eyebrows pinching together, lips tugging into a small frown which left as quick as it came.

“that’s what you think this is?” his question was somewhat accusing, but he sounded so laid back it wouldn’t make sense for it to be as such.

he ducked down and swiped your shirt off the floor; but he refrained from offering it to you.

you didn’t want to answer his question, despite it being an obvious answer. not needing it rubbed in that your wants didn’t align. but when you went to grab the material from his hand, he was quick to draw it back; eyebrows raising in question. silently telling you to answer him.

“how else would you describe it?” you challenged; head tilting aside as you refrained from rolling your eyes.

he faltered once more; this wasn’t what he signed up for. he avoided this last time, when you had ‘ended’ this arrangement that had been ongoing for months now.

“fun.” lando shrugged, and when you let out a dry laugh he wanted to wince, groaning as he shook his head. “you know what i mean,” he attempted to follow up.

he didn’t know what to call it, but he knew convenience wasn’t the right word. you were much more than just convenient.

“i know what to expect from you lando,” you hummed; successful in grabbing your shirt from his hand this time; pulling it over your head. “i’m not gonna ask for more. but this isn’t enough for me anymore,” you shrugged.

your explanation was fair, he couldn’t complain. couldn’t throw it back in your face, tell you he already warned you he didn’t want anything serious. make it your problem. or tell you that you were wrong, your expectations were wrong.

because they weren’t wrong.

this was his problem, because you made sense. you were doing what was right by you. so why did it make him feel like shit? he should be grateful you weren’t putting him in an awkward spot he’d been in too many times, forced to let others down.

“thanks for the fun night,” you’d smiled; and he had to refrain from scoffing in disbelief. it being his turn to struggle in mustering a smile.

you knew that wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, but you had hoped it’d be the last time you were so close to the driver. the last time you melted in his touch and came undone from a mere few whispers and lingering touches.

you’d hoped that’d be the case, and it seemed more and more likely as the months went past.

he knew you were in monaco, he always knew which races you were attending; despite you never telling him. it was almost a game, how you would somehow end up at his hotel or bed room despite no plans to do so.

he’d barely crossed your mind, it wasn’t like it was hard to avoid a driver. hot property, even more so here in monaco. there were stars and chaos every where you turned in the paddock, security crowded around anyone with some sort of status; it was impossible to stumble across the mclaren driver.

ignoring his presence was a lot harder however when he was stood on the top step of the podium, as if the posters of his face and name everywhere wasn’t enough.

suddenly his face was plastered everywhere at once, and only his. name dropping from everyone’s lips.

you’d like to think there was no bad blood; but he was hard to resist and you almost hated him for it. suddenly he was everywhere ━ yet not in reach.

a good thing.

so, you were optimistic. if getting near him was hard before, it’d be ten times harder now. man of the moment; you felt as if you would be in the clear.

so how the fuck did you manage to be only five people back in the line for the exclusive monaco club, VIP passes still hung around your necks, when lando arrived.

ushered through the front doors, no need to pay or wait like every other eager party go hoping their name had made it to the list, cash at the ready to pay their way in.

he shouldn’t have spotted you, not with the hectic lights and people cheering him on and attempting to grab his attention.

but he did, of course he did.

“hey, hey. they’re with me,” lando stopped in his tracks; ushering you and your friend out of line towards him ━ your face hardening as he smirked cockily towards you.

you wanted to stay where you were. tell him you would wait and get in yourself. pride too strong to spare yourself 10 minutes and a couple hundred dollars.

your best friend however was not passing up an opportunity to get in for free, nor cause a scene as people quickly made way for you. so you couldn’t put up much of a fight as you stepped out of line and followed the driver and a few others inside.

it almost felt shameful, as if you were just some pretty girl he’d picked out to entertain himself with. but you only viewed it that way because you feared that had been true in the past.

“would you believe me if i said this is almost the highlight of the day?” lando spoke to you with a wide grin, head ducked down towards you to ensure you heard him over the music growing in volume as you entered the venue.

you’d scoffed, rolled your eyes even; it appeared opting to be cold was the easiest option. friendliness never lasted with you two; being friendly became flirty. flirting lead to touching and suddenly you’d be trapped beneath the nearest surface and his hot body.

“no.” your answer was short, ‘forgetting’ to mumble the obvious, a congratulations. you’d feel bad if he wasn’t getting it from every angle however.

his grin only widened however, bemused at your words. you weren’t surprised, you doubted anything would wipe the smile of his face right now.

a breath of relief escaped you when someone grabbed at his arm and tugged him along, turning his attention elsewhere as you turned to your friend.

drinks were a need.

in hindsight opting to stay in the secluded area provided for the mclaren driver was probably a bad idea; but it was so crowded you stood by your earlier thoughts.

he’d be out of reach. everyone in here was striving for his attention, it wouldn’t be hard to avoid it.

the free drinks and friendly faces proved as enough of a distraction; music and alcohol flowing through your veins, so much so you’d join in on the cheers every-time someone toasted to the driver, or his name popped up on a board with bottles of champagne arriving.

an arm wrapping around your waist should’ve been alarming, but shamefully you recognised the bracelets and touch immediately; body naturally welcoming such action instead of pulling away.

“you haven’t congratulated me.” his voice was low and in your ear, accent thick and you had to take a sharp breath. it was stupid, ridiculous the way such an action could have your mind growing hazy.

“haven’t i?” you posed the question innocently, bringing your drink to your lips as if it would offer you refuge from the temptation behind you.

you’d lost your friend ages ago, and suddenly you couldn’t recognise many people around you. or maybe you didn’t make an effort to, because the company you quietly craved was the man behind you.

“nope,” he popped the ‘p,’ lips lingering next to your ear momentarily before he pulled away to also bring his drink to his lips, you taking the moment to turn around and face him. “not very nice you know?”

you’d rolled your eyes again, a small laugh escaping you. wanting to point out the fact that everyone was dropping to their knees to ring his praise. he didn’t need it from you.

did it make your heart skip a beat that he wanted it though? of course it did, despite your brain screaming that it shouldn’t. it was too easy to cling onto anything this man did.

“well done,” you spoke, voice laced with sarcasm despite their being truth to your words. “i’m so, so, so proud of you.”

he’d chuckled, face lighting up in amusement once more; a vast contrast to every other conversation he’d had tonight. the very reason he’d sought you out.

he thought it spoke for something, the fact his mind had been consumed with so many thoughts of you despite the win he’d just accomplished.

“thank you.” he grinned, and it was as if on queue he was being tugged away once more; and suddenly, you could breath again.

you took the time to grab some much needed air, a balcony not too far. it was a bit of a blur, the next hour or so.

ending up back on the dance floor, familiar faces all around, drinks continuously flowing ━ reuniting with your friend who’s lipstick was now smudged and hair slightly tangled, your hands quick to fix it up with small giggles.

you were loosening up, so much so when lando next appeared with two drinks in hand and daring eyes you couldn’t help but accept.

you were dying by your own hand, you should politely decline and slip back into the crowd. but he was always so hard to ignore, especially in a black button up and messy curls.

you’d cheers, both raising your glasses to your lips; somehow both still relatively sober in comparison to those around you.

lando had been doing too much talking to get much alcohol in him, also pacing himself ━ in no way would he be crashing out early.

you knew your limits, you too didn’t want the night to end prematurely.

“you’re not mad at me are you?” lando’s question had to be shouted for you to hear, your eyes narrowing at such as you shook your head.

you were somewhat surprised at his efforts, his ability to seek you out in the crowd that was here for him. all for what? to ask you that question?

“why would i be mad at you?” you deflected. because you knew he had a point.

you weren’t mad at him, obviously. he hadn’t done anything; you’d been the one to… get attached. but you were quite clearly being distant and cold; and you didn’t feel like explaining why.

he shrugged his shoulders, face scrunching up as if he was thinking momentarily, giving you time to admire how pretty he looked. how his large hand wrapped around the glass, the way his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

“you’re avoiding me.” he quirked a brow, and you were rolling your eyes once more, like a broken record. the grin on his face showed he didn’t care to sound desperate; that he was well aware why you were acting in such way.

he remembered the last conversation between the pair of you. how you swore off the two of you. much to his dismay.

“i’m not,” you huffed. “i’m keeping friendly distance,” you corrected playfully, eyebrows raising as he nodded unconvincingly ━ lips parting in fake shock.

it was pathetic, you already could feel it. your self restraint slipping away. suddenly posing yourself the question, would it be that bad if you entertained yourself with the idea of him just one more time?

“right,” lando practically sung, a laugh following suit as he downed the rest of his drink. “there’s no fun in that.”

you’d just shrugged at his words, no answer for him because you agreed. this wasn’t fun, it was hard. it would be so much easier to let yourself take the usual reckless route.

so you chose easy, and when someone appeared to place a drink in lando’s hand and capture a few minutes of his attention, you allowed the driver to throw his arm over your shoulders; tugging you closer to his side. he didn’t want you slipping away into the crowd again.

you let yourself stay in his grasp, mindlessly swaying to the music and awaiting for him to finish talking.

you should’ve taken that time to realise this was what you were meant to avoid, to duck out from his hold and busy yourself once more.

but instead you found yourself leaning into his side; admiring the way his fingertips danced on your collarbone ━ oblivious to prying eyes and jealous gazes from those who were hoping to be in your place.

his cologne was intoxicating, his touch was familiar and inviting; and the way he was keeping you close and still paying you attention while everyone tried to get their two cents in with the driver had your stomach flipping.

you hadn’t realised their was a gap in the constant conversation and on flow of people, not till lando’s lips were back next to your ear, a delicate kiss being placed to your neck.

“i’ve missed you,” he’d whispered; your head tilting aside invitingly ━ such contrast to your initial and intended behaviour. but the moment his lips met your skin, all rational plans were out the door.

“good.” you replied, knowing to not grow excited by such confession. not needing to say the words back because he already knew you missed him. you were always missing him.

another kiss was pressed to your skin, and another.

“i mean it.” lando mumbled; your eyes fluttering shut briefly at the feeling of his lips still peppering your skin, the heat spreading to your face.

you were glad you’d made your mind up, having come to the conclusion that one more night with him couldn’t be that bad. thought process definitely influenced by your sexual desires rather than rationality. but it meant you weren’t dwelling on his words and picking them apart, instead focused of the way his hand was now resting on the side of your leg.

“is there a bathroom near?” your question was all lando needed to hear, the pair of you not so subtle as you weaved through the crowd.

his lips were on yours the moment you were in the bathroom, your back being pushed against the door to shut it ━ his fingers finding the lock and the moment he heard it click his hands were on you.

it was messy, and rushed; adrenaline pumping between the pair of you much like the muffled music seeping through the door.

your hands were pawing at each other, his at your waist, then your hips, then your legs; touching what he could of you over the silk dress,

your hands were in his hair, then running down his chest; attempting to pull him closer despite his body pressed against yours.

his hands moved to grab yours, before lifting them up and over your head; pinning them to the door as his lips moved to your jaw, then to your neck.

“lando,” you breathed in need; eyes shutting as you attempted to push forward off the door, wanting to touch him in anyway. you were no match for his strength however.

he tsked quietly, kissing at your skin with such intent it had you whimpering.

“what do you want?” his question was almost a taunt, knee pushing between your thighs because he knew exactly what to do to have you squirming.

you felt helpless, needy and desperate. but not one bit regretful or ashamed you found yourself here again.

“you, anything,” you breathed; hips rutting against his leg slightly; the action not unnoticed as a cocky smirk grew on his lips.

your eyes poured into his, watching as he bathed the sight of you in ━ flustered and worked up already.

“yeah?” he hummed, releasing your hands now so he could cup your cheek; making it hard for you to nod but you attempted to regardless.

“want you to fuck me,” you elaborated; taking the chance to touch him, hand going straight to the buldge in his jeans which had him hissing.

you two would often take your time. lando liked to have you spread open for him, a few orgasms deep thanks to his fingers or tongue first before fucking you. take his time in kissing every inch of your body, exploring your mouth; kissing you and touching you all he could.

but both of you had a sense of urgency tonight. keen to feel him inside you, aware their was plenty of people awaiting the driver; that the night had barely begun in the grand scheme of things.

the fact you’d avoided him for so long, like promised but god it’d been too long. he would struggle to draw this out the way he wanted to.

“barely touched you baby,” he pointed out with a smirk; as if he was not feeling the same need you were.

you would’ve paid more attention to the way your stomach flipped at the casual drop of the nickname, but his actions captured your attention before you could dwell.

it was a relief as he moved you to the sink counter, pressing on your back to bend you over the surface; your hands finding a grip on the counter as your eyes settled on him in the mirror. a position you’d only be in for him.

spreading your legs was easy as you watched him, flipping the skirt of your dress up and merely pushing your panties aside; fingers swiping through your wetness, entering you once then twice.

“gotta make sure this isn’t a mistake hm?” lando’s question was a taunt, quoting you, hands leaving your figure as he unzipped his pants and freed his cock, leaving you to whimper and watch in the mirror.

he didn’t make the move to touch you, prolonging your torture; hips swaying slightly as you dwelled on his words.

his eyes were pouring into yours through the mirror, your cheeks heated. his reminder that you had once claimed you didn’t want this anymore had you speechless, not suddenly rational.

“what changed your mind?” his hands moved to squeeze your ass, cock pressing against your entrance; leaving you with nothing but anticipation and emptiness. “cause i won? good enough for you now?”

you would’ve rolled your eyes if you weren’t in such a compromising position, his wicked grin enough to show his words were simply throw away comments, not an insight into his actual assumptions.

“lando please,” you whined; hips attempting to push back onto him but his hands on your ass held you in place; chest rising at the sight of you so needy for him. a sight he’d never get sick of.

“your words not mine baby,” he reminded you; tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you momentarily, your pants and inability to keep still due to your need for him always something he loved to be witness too.

he was usually gentle with you at first, would warm you up; start off slow and build up to the pace that would have tears streaming down your pretty face. but he was eager tonight, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, and by the way you were looking at him in the mirror told him you felt the same.

“gotta fuck some sense into you yeah?” his question was matched with his hand tangling in your hair, grasping a few strands before tugging you up harshly; your back meeting his chest and a gasp escaping you, a whimper following. “yeah?” he repeated when you failed to answer.

you tried to nod quickly, hips pushing back once more to little success with the position he had you in.

his lips were next to your ear now, and the chuckle he let out had your thighs attempting to squeeze together.

“please,” you whimpered; desperation growing pathetically quickly. it was almost pathetic, how he could shorten your vocabulary to pleas and curses in such little time.

lando would like to say he could do this all night, but that would be a lie. he groaned audibly at your whimper; chest now pushed forward towards the mirror beautifully, still with a perfect view of your face as well.

he gave you no warning as he slid inside of you, your jaw going slack as he bottomed out; letting go of your hair and pushing your back down once more.

your hands flied to the counter again, moaning at the stretch as he groaned at the way your walls hugged him tightly.

he didn’t give you the usual time to adjust, moving immediately and thrusting deeply inside of you, hands using your hips to meet his movements.

“swear you’re fucking made for me,” lando groaned as his head fell back, pounding into your tight cunt repetitively, your moans escaping each time as your face contorted in pleasure.

it was too good, you weren’t sure how you could ever actually give this up.

you attempted to keep your moans hushed, although with the volume of the music you weren’t at much risk of being heard; which was lucky. because you were struggling to keep quiet; failing actually.

your eyes rolled back when lando didn’t fail to hit that spot inside of you repetitively, hands still gripping your hips tightly.

his grunts and groans were addictive, so much so you wanted to open your eyes and bask in the sight of him; but the pleasure was too much to do so.

lando however wouldn’t settle for such, hand tangling in your hair once more, tugging once and pulling your head up slightly; clear intentions to his actions.

“eyes on me pretty girl,” he breathed regardless, and you did as he said; being met with his ones through the mirror; lazy smile gracing his features as you whimpered and gripped the counter tightly.

you’d never expect to get off so quickly from pure penetration, but you were. suppose it was made easier with the sight of him and his hands gracing your skin; plus his filthy mouth.

“so good,” you whined out; not that you needed to vocalise such thing, it was already clear; but he loved your praise as much as you loved his.

he’d hummed in agreement, squeezing your ass in appreciation as his groans began to grow in frequency.

he was close, but in no way would he ever cum before you. his hand sneaking around your waist and dipping in between your thighs, finding your clit with ease.

suddenly you were seeing stars as his fingers circled your clit expertly, like he knew you like the back of his hand.

“cum for me baby, go on,” his words of encouragement were all you needed to hear as he continued to thrust in and out of you; releasing on his cock practically immediately at his demand.

your walls squeezed him perfectly, his name so pretty coming from your lips ━ his own high hitting him as he came inside of you with a groan.

it was oddly satisfying, a quick release; a new experience for the pair of you; both panting and coming down as he slid out of you.

he was gentle, a contrast to before, as he turned you round and sat you on the counter.

your breaths were heavy as you watched him, his hands reaching up your thighs and tugging your underwear down your legs before shoving them in his pocket, only then pulling your dress down for you.

“pervert,” you mocked with a teasing smile, his own one growing as he rolled his eyes ━ hands moving to rest on your thighs.

“collecting trophies today,” he shrugged; a laugh escaping you as your face screwed up ━ his humour never lost on you as you pushed against his chest.

“i should slap you for that,” you taunted, failing to pretend to be disgusted as you grinned at him ━ cheeks still flushed and chest still rising and falling as you caught your breath, a small chuckle escaping him.

there was a few moments of silence as lando adjusted himself, zipping his jeans back up and straightening out his shirt; your own hands moving to flatten your own hair.

“you gonna stick around?” lando’s question fell upon you with his intent gaze, eyes showing genuine interest.

your own eyebrows quirked in interest, unexpectedly. you’d assumed this was it for the night. he got his fix.

“maybe,” you shrugged; not in a teasing way, but genuine. you weren’t going to overstay your welcome. you were sure the casual party goers would be falling off the next couple hours, the ones who just wanted to get a glimpse of the driver.

you were assuming you fell into that category, not his inner circle.

“you should,” he hummed; and you couldn’t help the scoff that escaped you and the driver almost frowned.

“you need to celebrate,” you hummed; patting his chest lightly with a small laugh.

his eye roll was one of sass, like you should’ve expected. what you didn’t expect was for him to insist on you keeping him company.

“yeah, i plan on.” he spoke like it was obvious, thumb rubbing your inner thigh mindlessly.

you didn’t respond, looking over your shoulder into the mirror; wiping the slight smudges of your mascara, which thankfully didn’t cause any issues.

next was the corner of your lips, ensuring no lip gloss was where it shouldn’t be; lando watching you as you did so.

“didn’t you tell me when i next win a race i could do whatever i want with you?�� lando was gaining your attention again, finger under your chin and directing your gaze back to him by turning your head; still stood between your legs.

you giggled, eyebrows raising; not needing much reminder of the words you definitely muttered. or maybe messaged; maybe both.

“that was because i wasn’t in miami,” you hummed, head tilting aside. “you don’t invite me to races, remember?” you sassed.

you watched as his face faltered, before his eyes narrowed into a playful glare; one you returned with a teasing smile; as if to say you weren’t being serious.

you two moved pass your comment, you made sure of it; although it would linger on lando’s mind.

“come on, you have people waiting i’m sure,” you hummed; patting his chest and ushering him back so you could hop off the counter, onto wobbly legs.

you rejoined the crowd as discreetly as possible, despite your lack of underwear and sticky thighs; however you were in no way to be ashamed, not with some of the activities going on around you.

people cheered when lando came into view, the man enveloped immediately.

“don’t you dare go anywhere!” lando managed to yell out to you before he was dragged off again; leaving you to laugh and only hum.

it was only your friend who met you with suspicious eyes, you found it comical she was the first person you came across; sheepishly smiling.

“oh you’re so full of shit!” your friend yelled, your cheeks heating as you shook your head; even pouting as you realised you had no defence.

or shame or regret. yet, at least.

“stop,” you whined as you hit her lightly, huffing as you grabbed her drink off her ━ downing it quickly as she laughed.

“no judgement; i knew you wouldn’t stay away,” she mused ━ and your eyes were rolling once more that night, shaking your head as if you had no idea what she was talking about. as if you too shared the same thought process, as much as you’d deny it.

you moved the focus of the pair of you on quickly, returning to dancing and socialising ━ people coming and going as the hours ticked by into the early morning, crowd thinning but not by much.

lando’s words were ringing in your head; don’t go anywhere. but when it was almost four you were thinking of leaving, doubting lando would be making your company once more this night.

why you wanted to keep him company? you wish you knew. if you could figure out why you were unable to avoid the man your life would be a lot easier. but maybe tonight was different, maybe it was a comfort.

a comfort to know he would spend a memorable night of his life, with you. a night he’d never forget; you’d be right there. it would be nice to know you weren’t the only one clinging onto the idea of the pair of you; that he too would reminisce and think what it.

your doubt continued to grow though, alongside the temptation of your comfortable bed.

you were stupid to doubt him however.

you spotted him easily, considering the crowd that seemed to follow him everywhere tonight.

you watched as his eyes darted around the room, almost urgently, searching out something or someone.

searching out you.

when his eyes met yours you watched as he grinned widely, shoulders relaxing as he suddenly moved with intent; weaving past the people surrounding him towards you.

you watched in amusement, almost shock; surprised he’d meant it. confused if you thought too hard.

“you’re still here,” he was still grinning ear to ear, hand finding your waist almost immediately when he was in reach.

you mumbled something playfully about how it wasn’t by choice, earning a laugh.

“we’re moving up to a booth,” his statement was an invitation; and suddenly plans of going back home were long forgotten.

all it took was a nod before his hand took yours, fingers intertwined and he was leading the way to a booth, that was decorated in more bottles of champagne and a ‘congrats lando’ sign; lucky party goers and friends filling the seats, you shuffling in next to the driver.

lando’s hand didn’t leave you. whether it was on your thigh, your hand, your waist; your shoulder; he was always touching you as the conversations flowed.

you failed to notice the way he tugged you closer to his side when you laughed a little too hard for his liking at one of his friends jokes. or the way his eyes were lingering on you every moment he had a break in conversation.

you knew what it looked like however, the pair of you. you knew your friend would laugh at the sight, ask you what the fuck you were doing. but as the crowd continued to fall off and disperse, and you gained more of lando’s attentions; you had little room to care.

the booth had emptied out, for how long who knows; you hadn’t caught on to the way lando had not so subtly hinted to the last couple of guys lingering to leave.

“have i told you how good you look tonight?” lando’s question was accompanied by his hand returning to your thigh, resting higher than it had earlier on ━ head tilting towards you.

you’d giggled, leaning back into your seat and shifting to face him, side pressed against the back of the booth as opposed to your back now.

“no,” you told him; eyes flickering over his face, the moles you’d counted too many times whenever you woke up first after a night together; his features always so much harder to ignore up close.

“look beautiful,” he hummed, and though he sounded incredibly sincere you couldn’t help but laugh.

“what? you do, you are,” lando huffed; not amused with your laughter ━ although the sound of your laugh had his lips naturally curving upwards despite his dismay, hand squeezing your thigh gently.

your cheeks heated despite you shaking your head, hands moving up in innocence.

“i didn’t say anything,” you defended; not elaborating on what appeared to be doubt. not at your own expense. more so just his intentions.

you didn’t want to hear his compliments that had your heart fluttering. or notice they way he was looking at you which such admiration.

you couldn’t afford to let your mind pick at and analyse every word and action with a hope that maybe he too felt the same as you.

lando hummed aimlessly at your defence, hand dangerously high now on your thigh ━ but it felt right, like it belonged there. regardless, the feeling of it creeping upwards had your sense suddenly on high alert.

“i’ve missed you,” lando’s words left his lips before he could stop them, but he didn’t show any regret or panic ━ eyes pouring into yours.

it’s the second time he’d said such thing tonight, and you still didn’t want to hear it. even in your tipsy state, it sent alarm through your nerves. don’t believe him, don’t get your hopes up.

your eyes were quick to leave his, hand reaching for your champagne glass in front of you; humming to try dismiss his words, missing the way his eyes squinted as he watched on.

“you don’t believe me,” he chuckled lowly as you sipped your drink, frame tensing as you prolonged shifting towards him again.

you weren’t given much choice though, his hand ━ the one not planted on your thigh, grasping your chin between his thumb and finger, bringing your attention back to him as you placed your drink back down.

his eyebrows raised expectantly, silently telling you to speak. to confirm his suspicions. his thumb absentmindedly wiping a drop of champagne from the corner of your mouth as he waited.

“you don’t know what you’re saying.” you spoke softly, masking the weight of your words with a soft smile; watching as his face flickered in thought.

“you don’t know that.” he was quick, unlike you, tone one of certainty you almost envied; his grasp still set on your chin as if he was scared you’d try escape his gaze once more. a reasonable fear.

“yeah okay.” you admitted defeat, in no way wanting to discuss this right now. not while you were so close to him, so keen to get under him once more. you couldn’t think straight about him when he was invading your senses.

he didn’t believe you suddenly believed him, but he wouldn’t push further; not when you were still in grasp and glowing in amusement.

the driver went to speak again; but for once you got on the front foot. there wasn’t much distance between the pair of you, so kissing him before he could get any words out was easy.

and maybe lando should’ve held his ground, stayed true on his intentions to reassure you. but naturally he found himself kissing back.

the light grasp on your chin turned to a firm hold of the side of your head, beckoning you closer as your hand planted on his chest.

you pulled away momentarily, barely; just so your lips left his; feeling his breath fan your face. you felt as if you’d overstepped, knowing he had reservations about pda in public. people spoke, and you weren’t his.

his fingers ran through your hair delicately, as if he knew what thoughts were going through your head; and he didn’t hesitate to guide you back towards him; lips meeting once more.

it was more heated this time; nowhere near as messy as the one in the bathroom though.

he needed you closer, shifting his grip to your hips to pivot you up and onto his lap, your body sliding perfectly between his and the table behind you, straddling his lap with no complaints.

it was out of character, knowing someone could walk up into the secluded section and see the pair of you, but if he didn’t care, neither did you.

your dress rode up your legs from your new position, not enough to expose you thankfully; but considering your underwear still sat in the drivers pocket, the rough fabric of his pants against your clit had you whimpering against his lips.

the sound went straight to his cock, which was already straining against his pants; he’d been fighting a semi since you slipped into the booth next to him. but the way you were slowly and not so subtlety grinding your hips against him made it a lot harder to ignore.

it also had an idea forming in the wicked mind of his.

you were left to catch your breath as he pulled away this time, hands lifting you momentarily and easily handling you to straddle just one of his thighs now, your cheeks heating as you immediately caught on. it wasn’t the first time you’d been in this position with him. except last time it was in the privacy of his apartment while he was on a work call.

“anything i want right?” he breathed out, intense was his stare as his hands spread across your sides, smoothing your dress down despite wanting to rip it off of you.

it was like a trance when he got like this, eyes darker ━ the way his jaw was clenched, his gaze alone having you feel the need to squirm and stutter.

your head looked over your shoulder, just once, needing the confirmation you were as alone as you could be; music still pumping, voices still heard from the dance floor down below. but you were alone up here.

that’s all you needed to know.

“yeah,” you confirmed, hands grasping at his shirt where they were previously planted on his chest ━ left to watch as his lips curved upwards into that damn smirk.

“go on then,” he hummed, adjusting slightly in his seat, getting comfortable as his head tilted back ever so slightly. “use me to get off.” he sounded so casual, your cheeks heating up as you suddenly wished you’d accepted that last round of shots half an hour ago.

but you didn’t need any more motivation when his hands tightened on your waist and dragged your hips for you ━ your jaw going slack from the sudden pressure.

his lips twitched upwards cockily once more, watching as it sprung you into action; your hips following his movements and rutting against his thigh, chasing the feeling you knew only he could give you.

the drivers hands folded behind his head now, watching intently as your bottom lip ran between your teeth, eyes flickering up and down your frame.

“atta girl,” he praised through a soft hum, and you had to bite down harshly on the inside of your cheek to refrain from moaning.

he looked fucking incredible; and you were missing the feeling of his hands on you, hips working faster as if it’d motivate him to touch you again.

he had you read, he always did. he knew what you wanted; could tell by the way your eyes were pleading with his. how you were fighting back a pout and whine. your grip on his shirt had tightened, practically tugging at the material.

lando could be cruel, but he was in no mood to deny himself tonight - he’d give you something; hand moving to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your soft lips.

you didn’t miss a beat, allowing the digit to enter your mouth without any hesitation; lando watching the way your eyes almost glistened in submission as he pressed down on your tongue.

you didn’t miss the way his breath hitched, grunting slightly at the mere sight of you ━ your hips still grinding against him desperately as you treated his thumb as if it was his cock.

he was almost in disbelief, how he had you like this for him, where really anyone could see if they were to walk up the stairs. it was ridiculous actually, and stupid; both of you being incredibly idiotic, but too lust driven to care.

he wasn’t oblivious to the fact you made him think irrationally.

“fucking look at you,” he muttered under his breath, head tilting in slight awe; but there was a teasing tone underneath. “so pretty like this, so needy hm?” he was speaking so sweet it was sickening considering he was looking at you with a taunting grin.

you whined, unable to shut yourself up this time, surprised you’d kept quiet so long. your thighs twitched a few times, still desperately chasing your high like he’d told you too.

it was building, your stomach was tightening and you could feel the way your hips were beginning to move erratically. as could he.

“come on baby,” he encouraged ━ sliding his thumb out of your mouth, selfishly wanting to hear you despite your best efforts to stay quiet. “cum for me yeah, all for me,” lando edged you on; strategic as he tensed his leg and jolted it upwards once then twice.

it was all you needed, your second orgasm of the night hitting you as you shook in his lap.

“oh fuck,” you moaned through gritted teeth, loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough for the music to drown you out; your body folding over to hide your head in his neck, muffling any other sounds to escape you.

“there you go,” he soothed, hand sliding down your back delicately, his other brushing the hair off your face as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “good girl, so fucking good,”

even if your slightly dazed state the affection had your chest tightening, still not used to the soft moments he always found time for between orgasms.

you took a few moments to compose yourself, lifting your head sheepishly as your eyes met his once more.

“your pants are gonna be ruined,” you mumbled, pouting up at him in slight embarrassment ━ watching as he chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“last thing i care about right now,” the driver smirked, adjusting the strap of your dress that had fallen down your arm ━ eyes lingering on your chest for a brief moment as he did so.

“should i call the car?” he asked you, lips pressing a kiss to your neck now, delicate this time, purely because he knew if he got too handsy now he’d not be able to stop himself.

you nodded, no need to think about the prospect of going home with him ━ you shouldn’t be surprised at this point, you couldn’t resist him. it was a fact.

the pair of you got outside relatively smoothly, in better shape than most of the crowd who were still here. you let him drag you to the exit as he simply waved and dismissed anyone who tried to speak to him, large hand enveloping yours.

the car was waiting, a bouncer opening the door for the pair of you as you slid into the backseat, not phased by the fact the sun was now rising.

the privacy shield separating the backseat from the front was all lando needed to see before he was on you again.

rushed and messy once more, you hadn’t even got your seatbelt on ━ hands cupping his cheeks as he leaned over you, closeness a need as your lips moved against his perfectly.

your chest was practically pressed to his, but still his hand found your back, attempting to pull you closer, earning a muffled giggle as you threw one of your legs over his.

“need you so bad,” lando grumbled against your skin as his lips shifted to your jaw, then down your neck, your head falling back invitingly as you grinned.

his lips moved to your cleavage now, kissing at the skin of your breasts ━ and he was about to tug your dress down until you sat up straight and pushed him back towards his seat.

your hands found the zipper of his pants before he could get a word out, the brit relaxing into his seat, in no way going to protest.

lando watched through hooded eyes as you made quick work of freeing his cock, which was painfully hard at this point.

he hissed as your hand wrapped around him, jacking him off once, twice, three times ━ smearing the precum across his tip and down his length.

his head threw back from the initial relief, and he couldn’t stop the moan that escaped him when he felt your soft lips wrap around him.

he glanced down at you quickly, watching as you leant over into his lap, head bobbing up and down now as he gathered your hair into his hand and out of your way.

“fuck, just like that baby,” lando grunted as his hips bucked upwards, hitting the back of your throat momentarily, which made you gag but you didn’t miss a beat in your movements.

your hand gripped his thigh for stability, tongue swirling around him expertly, keen to get him off as his eyes rolled back from a feeling he could only describe as ecstasy.

he could’ve cum there and then, no shame either; but monaco was a small place and the car came to a halt much sooner than he’d liked.

you reluctantly slid off him, wiping your mouth oh so innocently as you did so ━ cheeks flushed and eyes watery, lando fiddling with his pants to try get his hard on back in his boxers.

you giggled slightly, climbing out the car ━ him not too far behind.

lando was sure to thank the driver, emptying his wallet of its cash to provide a tip ━ unsure what the man would’ve heard, but frankly he didn’t care. not when you were in his sights.

the elevator ride up to his apartment mirrored the first moments in the car, your body pressed between his and the wall of the elevator, lips in sync, make out interrupted by the ding of the doors opening.

you were kicking your heels off before he even got the door to his place open, discarding them the moment you stepped inside, before lando was using you to shut the door; not so gentle as he pushed you against the surface.

“nuh uh,” you stopped him as he leant in to kiss you once more; your hands pressing against his chest. “want to make you feel good,” you spoke softly, hands returning to the zipper of his pants to free his cock once more.

his eyes squinted in thought, keen to be inside of you; watching you squirm and hear you scream his name was all he could bloody think about.

you recognised that look. “please,” you added desperately, hands tugging the straps of your dress down, your tits spilling out, which had his eyes shamelessly flickering downwards.

lando couldn’t say no to you, not when you asked so nicely. he simply stepped back, giving you space to sink to your knees as your hand wrapped around his cock once again.

you licked up the base to the tip, eyes fixated above you, watching him as he did so; noticing the way his adam’s apple bobbed from the single action.

“tease me baby and i’ll happily play with your pretty cunt till your crying,” lando grunted out as his hand found its rightful place in your hair, a not so delicate tug for good measure.

you moaned at the action, confirming what you both knew was that you got the reaction you wanted; thighs squeezing together at the ‘threat’ but taking him in your mouth fully regardless. quick to mumble a ‘so impatient’ before hand.

lando’s actions were identical to before, except his head fell forward this time as his free hand grasped the door in front of him ━ your name falling from his lips in a groan.

it only motivated you, the grunts and small sounds he made; so keen to draw more out of him, to hear him praise you like he always does.

his sounds mixed with your own, gagging around his length ━ no matter how many times you found yourself in this spot he would always be too big, but it didn’t stop nor effect your efforts.

and it only turned him on more, refraining from squeezing his eyes shut to watch as your eyes watered once more.

“always gagging for it,” lando spoke cockily, a moan escaping him momentarily before he could continue his taunting. “bit of a slut for me no?” he chuckled lowly through gritted teeth; and he couldn’t stop the grin for forming as you moaned around him.

his head fell back now, a breath of content falling from his lips as he shut his eyes momentarily. “too good to me, fuck,” he grunted, hips thrusting forward momentarily ━ and you let him, anything to get him off sooner.

he knew he was close, but he couldn’t push the need to be inside of you. and while he thought he was out of self restraint for the night, he surprised himself in being able to pull you off of him, using the grip on your hair.

“gotta get inside you love,” he explained himself as if it wasn’t obvious, helping you to your feet as you refrained from huffing, wiping your mouth and chin of the saliva that had gathered.

you didn’t need him to lead you to his room, grateful it was the first door on the right otherwise you probably would’ve both ended up on the floor, not that it’d be the first time.

you properly unzipped your dress and stepped out of it, discarding it on his floor before sitting back on his bed ━ lando following suit, shirt discarded before he was stepping out of his pants and boxers.

you crawled back on the bed as he moved to hover over you, pushing you down to lay on your back before his lips were on yours once more.

kissing him never got old, your hands tangling in his curls as he used his knee to spread your legs apart.

you had no warning before he slid inside of you, easily doing so due to how wet you were, but the stretch was always a shock; jaw dropping as you moaned into his mouth, a sharp tug on his hair.

“fuck, always wrap round me so fucking well,” lando cursed, bottoming out and giving you a moment to adjust ━ well aware you’d be tender from the quickie earlier on in the night.

“lando, please━ fuck,” you whimpered, hands moving to grip at his back, back arching as he began to move; thrusting in and out. he wasn’t slow, but you knew he was holding back.

your eyes watched his intently, his scanning your features and admiring the way your face contorted in pleasure.

“lan, please,” you repeated, whimpering as you spread your legs a little more; keen to feel all of him.

“what? need more hm?” lando asked, the chained necklace dangling from his chest and brushing against your chin with every thrust. “needy little thing,” he grinned, and you could only whine as your eyes fluttered shut momentarily.

his hand shifted to your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and moving it upwards, pushing your knee towards your chest. the new angle allowing him to hit deeper, and suddenly his thrusts were harsher and quicker.

your eyes rolled back instantly, a squeal like moan escaping you before you could even try suppress it, nails dragging down his back as he pounded into you.

“yes, fuck, yes,” you practically chanted as he lando fucked you, hard. the way your eyes rolled back and jaw went slack only had him motivated, eager to draw out every possible sound from you.

he was relentless, you still couldn’t get used to the stamina, how there was never a break in the pace or harshness of his thrusts. no moment to breathe or try compose yourself, choked out moans almost straining your throat from how often he slammed into you.

“look at me baby,” lando demanded, wanting your pretty eyes focused on him ━ he wasn’t surprised you didn’t listen however, well, you didn’t really make sense of his words. a habit you seemed to have formed.

it wasn’t like you could help it, the way your brain seems to shut off the moment he hits that spot inside of you.

his hand around your throat was enough, eyes fluttering open and he squeezed softly; whimpering as you continued to moan and pant, met with his smirk.

“fucked dumb already,” lando grinned, almost boasting as he kept his hand around your throat; not applying much pressure but the feeling of it there alone had your hips spasming momentarily. “so easy for me baby, could have you like this all the time,”

you moaned at his words, hearing him loud and clear this time, nodding pathetically; you’d agree with anything he says right now,

“my pretty girl,” he was always quick with the praise after his harsh words, the contrast always welcome as your hands shifted from his back to his biceps. “all mine,” he reiterated.

the possessive tone he found would have you falling into wishful thinking if you possessed the ability to think straight, but thankfully you couldn’t; not when your vision was starting to be replaced with stars as he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

his lips caught yours in another kiss, tongues clashing as you moaned into each others mouths ━ his turn to falter as your walls clenched around him, a string of curses being grunted against your lips.

you didn’t need to tell him you were close, no, he knew your body to well; he pushed your leg further back, as if it was possible, you in no place to recognise any slight discomfort when all you could feel was him inside of you, stretching you out.

you felt the difference in angle again however, eyes rolling back once more as you came hard and fast, his name falling from your lips as you did so.

“good girl baby, cum for me,” lando encouraged; continuing to thrust into you as you rode out your high, back arching and pushing into him.

your walls clenched around him once more, and he came almost immediately; releasing inside of you with a loud groan, your sounds intertwining and melting into one another.

your nails were sure to have left marks along his back, body going limp beneath him as his head dropped to your chest briefly, catching his breath as he too came down from his high.

he wasn’t done though, despite it almost being 7 in the morning, he wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, the alcohol or you; but sleep was the last thing on his mind and his best guess was because of the latter.

he was moving again before you could fully recover, the sensitivity causing you to whimper immediately, his thrusts only slow now as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“know you’ve got one more in you,” he mumbled, and you wouldn’t ever disagree; nodding quickly as he gradually picked up the pace.

before he got into a rhythm however he slid out, sitting back on his knees and you simply looked at him, awaiting his next move.

he manhandled you onto your stomach easily, as if you were nothing; tugging your hips up and you followed naturally, back arching as your ass propped in the air, his hands grasping and squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back inside of you.

the change in angle once again had you moaning out loudly, hands gripping the sheets beneath you as lando found the pace he’d previously possessed.

your whole body jolted with every thrust, face gradually pushing into the covers, moans muffled as your back arched further.

he didn’t like not hearing you though, obsessed with the way you’d moan and borderline scream his name; so he flew into action, grabbing your hair and tugging so your head was lifted; a loud moan escaping you on cue.

“so fucking good, take me so well,” lando grunted his praise ━ hips slamming into yours.

you couldn’t form words, only replying in little whines and whimpers, choked out moans as your body became overstimulated.

lando knew your limits though, knew how far he could push you. his hand snaking around your waist to find your clit, and rubbing circles on your sensitive bud had your body shaking immediately.

“fuck━ lando, oh my god,” you’d practically cried out, unable to do anything but take all he was giving you, hand in your hair still keeping you in place as he pounded your cunt.

“take it love, know you can,” he grunted; fingers quickening up ━ and he was obsessed with the way your thighs spasmed, your walls clenched around him and your hand reached back to try grip his wrist.

you came again, unable to give warning as your eyes watered from the mere overstimulation.

“there you go, good girl, so so good, could watch you come undone my cock every day,” lando talked you though it, hips still moving relentlessly as he let go of your hair, your front half falling back into the mattress ━ both hands gripping your hips now as he chased his own high.

you whimpered as he fucked you through your high, and when he came inside you again you swear it all became a blur, trying to recover from your back to back orgasms.

lando slid out of you and rolled off of you after he caught his breath; which was much quicker than you. his hand delicately pushing some of your hair back had your head tilting to face him however, a lazy smile grazing your features.

“you’re incredible,” lando mumbled, admiring you quietly; and if you weren’t exhausted you would’ve laughed at him.

“shut up.” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut, legs still shaking as lando rolled his eyes ━ a stupid smile on his face none the less.

“no running out of me yeah?” lando hummed, arm moving to wrap around your frame, easily pulling you into his chest. and you should’ve been alarmed, gone into self preservation mode and pushed away.

but you couldn’t, simply accepting his embrace that you’d always crave, head finding a spot on his toned chest.

“don’t think i could if i tried,” you laughed, not sure your legs would hold your weight if you tried to stand. let alone walk.

“yeah good, that was the whole point,” lando chuckled playfully, fingers dancing up and down the side of your arm, eyes fixated on you below him.

you laughed softly, knowing this conversation needed to be addressed properly. that come morning, or well maybe early afternoon in this case, when you wake up, you’ll be met with that sinking feeling again. the one where you’ll feel the need to flea, to escape him and the domesticated side you so badly wanted to yourself.

but you’d settle for this for now, just like lando would settle for you believing this was the most he could offer. for now.

━━━

a/n: did u miss me and my shitty endings 🤭🤭🤭

soz for disappearing and soz if this is rusty asf it just came to me and it’s 3:30am but i needed to get it done 🤭🤭🤭

unedited like usual oops

#f1 smut #f1 x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando norris fic #lando smut #f1 imagine #lando norris one shot #f1 one shot #lando norris angst #lando norris

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bitters-n-sweets · 1 month ago

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gym crush — jack abbot x fem!reader GYM CRUSH JACK ABBOT. because have you seen his ARMS? im DEAD

warnings: none? it's just cute and fluffy masterlist

There's always this guy whose gym schedule lines up with yours. He's older, maybe in his 40s, with salt-n-pepper hair, and forearms you've been dying to touch but settled with staring. For now.

He usually shows up around 2 or 3 PM on weekdays—prime quiet hours—which makes you wonder what kind of job lets him sneak away like that. He's too young to retire, but maybe he's an entrepreneur, or he's in a good position in his job that allows him to leave work whenever he wants.

You're staring again.

You have to physically pry your eyes off his arms when he does curls. You try to focus on your set, but it’s hard—his breathy exhales do something to you, and not in a helpful way.

You shouldn't be thinking this way. He might be married—though you don't see a wedding ring, or dating, or whatever, you shouldn't—

"Hey."

Oh shit.

You lift your head to see him standing near you. He doesn't have the friendliest face, that was the first thing you noticed, and now you're worried if maybe you've done something wrong, or he's there to tell you he caught you staring.

"You need some help with your set?"

Oh.

"I noticed you're not really in it today. Maybe a spot?"

Oh??

Does that mean he's noticed you before?

"S-sure!" You get into position, and he stands behind you, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning your form. It's oddly intimate, maybe just because he's your gym crush.

He has calloused hands. You make a note. Especially when he taps your elbow, coaxing out one more rep with that low, steady voice. God, you imagine how this all would in the right context.

"That's it, atta girl." He gives you a high-five. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You glance at him. "Work has been stressful."

"I get that." He nods. "I'm Jack."

You say your name. Hopefully correctly. And then he smiles, and heads back to his weights.

Jack has noticed you staring. Stealing glances. The way your eyes flick to him even when he’s on the far side of the gym, out of your line of sight. As if your brain has a compass, and he’s north.

He finds it flattering, really. And he can't hide it (well, maybe better than you), but he watches you too. He finds it adorable that you come in with a different gym set for every session, and your water bottle somehow always matches your outfit. Who owns that many water bottles? It baffles him. And entertains him. And somehow makes him like you more.

He likes your hair too. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes it’s in a ponytail. Beyond that, he has no clue what the styles are called—he just knows they all suit you. Ridiculously well.

And today?

You’re wearing his favorite set.

Yes, sure, kind of creepy for a man who’s never spoken to you to have a favorite gym set. But that shade—God, that shade—brings out your eyes like nothing else. And on days like this, with that color hugging your body? How is he supposed to look away?

The day after he offers to spot you, Jack finds himself hoping you’ll show up again. What started as stolen glances has turned into quick smiles as you pass each other, protein shake cheers between sets, and casually trading spots like it's second nature.

You still don’t talk much—nothing too deep, anyway—but his presence makes the gym feel different. Like something to look forward to. Something that gets you out the door on even the laziest days.

Then a week passes.

No Jack.

You tell yourself maybe your rest days just aren’t lining up. But another day goes by. Then two. And now it’s been a full week, and the dread creeps in: maybe Jack’s found a new gym.

It sucks—but it happens.

You try to focus on your workout, but you’re hopelessly distracted. Every time someone walks in, your head turns, heart kicking up… only to sink again when it’s not him.

You sigh and settle under the barbell.

Creak.

The gym doors open.

You whip your head around—"Shit—"

Your form wobbles, balance gone. The bar slips, and the weight traps you beneath it.

"Um, a little help?!" you gasp, struggling under the bar.

A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

"I don't think you need an ambulance, but we're gonna get you to the ER just in case."

You nod mindlessly.

Greg—the gym employee, and Harry—the regular, are kind enough to help drive you to the ER. They left once it's your turn, and you're now sitting in an exam bay, waiting for a doctor.

The ER is freezing. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fading. You're still in your workout gear, couldn't even grab your hoodie, and your arm in a temporary sling. The pain's dulled to a throb, but the embarrassment is still fresh.

"The doctor will see you soon."

You're not really listening, until you hear a familiar voice.

"Okay, so what do we have—oh."

You look up. "Jack?"

He freezes when he sees you, clipboard halfway raised. His salt-and-pepper hair’s a little messy, dark scrubs clinging to him like he’s been running all over the place. There’s a stethoscope slung around his neck.

A smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Hey."

"You're a doctor?"

"That topic never came up?"

You chuckle. "Not really, no."

Jack steps closer, eyes flicking to your sling as he gently helps you adjust it. "Wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I didn't have my usual spotter."

He half-smirks. "Sounds like an unreliable prick. But seriously, walk me through the accident, I skimmed your chart, but I need to hear it from you."

You look at your feet. "It's dumb."

"Try me."

You fiddle with the edge of the paper sheet under you. "I was going for a new PR on squats. And… I got distracted. Lost focus, lost balance, and the bar pinned me."

Jack studies you for a moment. "Distracted by what?"

You glance at him, then away again. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

Your voice is quieter when you finally admit, "I thought it was you coming into the gym. I heard the door. And I looked up."

Jack’s brow softens, and then so does his smile. "You were looking for me?"

"Ugh, you were gone for a week, okay, and I miss—I got worried." You groan lightly, more embarrassed than hurt now. "Don't make a thing out of it."

He laughs, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear. "I absolutely will make a thing out of it."

Jack proceeds to examine your nasty bruise, and making sure you didn't hit your head too hard by telling you to touch his finger where he points it, but intentionally making you miss.

"Jack, I swear—"

"Just messing with you, sweetheart." He laughs again, and you think you might die. "You're good to go home, just take some aspirin if the headache is too much."

You get down from the bed accidentally bump into his chest. You can practically feel his breath on you.

"S—"

"For the record," he leans down, voice brushing your ear, "I missed you too."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide. He pulls back with a low chuckle, then presses a kiss to your cheek. "Get home safe, I'll text you later. Okay?" He murmurs.

"O-Okay." You try your best to speak.

"Oh, and no gym for at least a week!" He calls out as he walks away.

You’re still reeling as you head home, Jack’s jacket slung around your shoulders and your mind spinning from everything that just happened. That smile. That voice. That kiss. It all feels like a fever dream—until a sudden realization hits you.

Jack doesn’t have your number.

And you don’t have his.

You groan. Of course. You’re benched from the gym for a week and just when things were finally happening—

Ding.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Jack. Got your number from your chart. Want to grab dinner tonight? :) Don't forget to take aspirin for your headache

You stare at the screen, grinning like a fool.

Okay. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

#jack abbot fluff #jack abbot the pitt #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #female reader #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #jack abbot x fem reader

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amourcheol · 3 months ago

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blurring the lines

❝Why learn the complexities of desire all by yourself, when your dearest friend can merely teach you?❞

bridgerton! au | friends with benefits! au | smut, fluff | 32.6k words

s u m m a r y : you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.

c o n t e n t : best friend! joshua, best friend! soonyoung too, references of real erotic literature from the 1700s because this is not an amourcheol fic without historical accuracy, joshua acts like a man (yikes), soonyoung a true mvp, diamond's member shenanigans mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (regency protection is goofy mb), overstimulation, corruption kink (!!!), body worshipping, mc is horned up, surprising amount of fluff in this lawl

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : the first installment for the bridgerton series is finally here! you can read this as a standalone, so don't feel any pressure to start something huge!! thank you to alice and addy for hearing me yap about this all the time and thank you to anyone who reads this work <33

playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist

AS PER USUAL, KWON SOONYOUNG WAS LATE FOR HIS MEETING WITH YOU.

You glanced at the clock for possibly the twenty-seventh time that afternoon, twisting your lips in a scowl as you swirled your now lukewarm tea. Of course the man, who thought being on time was unfashionable, would refuse to leave you as an exception. You should not have expected any other possibility—you, you thought, were the fool for expecting a man to keep his word.

Another ten minutes, and you were already writing the enraged letter in your head when you heard the distant din of carriages stopping in a rush beyond the doors, and instantly you jumped from the chair you restlessly waited in. The servant that entered the room began to inform you of an arrival, but you did not listen to the end of his sentence, dashing out into the hallways of your home, the entrance door closing within reach.

You made to open the door, expecting to see the resident eccentric plastering his best pleading expression on his devious face, enacting the role of an apologetic wrongdoer.

What welcomed you instead had your entire universe standing still.

This time, you would have forgiven Soonyoung for breaking his word.

Because there, in the place you had settled and gossipped and lived in for years upon years, was another addition. There, in the centre of the doorway, was a man who, too, had shared in the meddling, had stayed over and regaled his own tales with you till you fell asleep alongside each other.

Lord Joshua Hong smiled at the sight of you, and you barely contained your sob as you darted towards him.

He had only begun to open his arms before you jumped straight into them, and he staggered back, chuckling into your skin. He wrapped his hands around you, tightening his grip the more you let the choked gasp escape, emotions now unable to be restrained.

You could not help yourself—Joshua was not supposed to come as early as he had, you thinking that his trip to the Continent would last another fortnight. You were certain of it, since you had read over his last letter enough times to memorise his neat cursive, assuring you of his imminent return.

You said it yourself, lips close to his ear. “I thought you had another two weeks.”

You felt him hum at your claim—mulling over his response. “I longed for home,” was his response, grasping you just the bit tighter. That only had you smiling, accepting the embrace twice over.

It was a while before Soonyoung cleared his completely-clear-already throat in a melodramatic fashion. “I did not receive this welcome when I returned from the Continent,” he greeted from behind the new arrival, side-stepping past you two.

Joshua lifted his head to retort, “That is because _____ does not care for you.”

When the younger saw you merely shrugging, he huffed. “Can you sod off back to Paris, please? She is so much worse when you are around.”

As you finally pushed your dear friend at arm’s length, you quirked an eyebrow at the accuser. “You did not receive this welcome because you, Soonyoung, were particularly insufferable on your return. I recall you refused to speak in nothing but French for the fortnight afterwards.”

“Because that language is so attractive!” he declared, walking further into the townhouse. “Even your dearest friend would agree with me.”

But the said-man shook his head, shooting him with what you thought was a comical glare. “Whatever their attraction in the language, I will commend them, at least, in their literature.” He then looked behind him, revealing the luggage barely hidden from the carriage windows.

You followed his line of sight. “Have you not unpacked?”

“I arrived not an hour ago,” he said, jerking his head towards the younger, “and now Soonyoung insists on holding a soirée this evening to announce my return.”

“First of all, Lady Whistledown has already predicted it, so might as well prove her right!” he demanded, walking over to you and him. “And secondly, you have a few hours to prepare yourself.”

“A few hours to settle myself after months of journeying,” he grumbled. “Can I not simply announce my arrival by strolling around St. James’ park?”

“Out of the question!” Soonyoung refused, rubbing his hands together in glee. “And I do not know why you feign apprehension to a little socialising! The evening will only gather around a hundred of my closest friends.”

“By God, have you befriended all of London?” you sighed, shaking your head. “Still, you know I will attend, or else you will never stop complaining about it.”

“See? _____ understands!” Soonyoung grabbed the eldest by the shoulder. “Come on, it will be fun! At least spare me a few hours.”

Joshua only frowned in thought, ready to decline the spontaneous invitation. Maybe he would have done it outright, but then he turned to you, a finger and thumb upon his chin. “You will be there?”

You nodded—that alone was all it took to cement his decision. “Then count me in,” he said to his friend.

And as Soonyoung complained anyway, ranting on Joshua’s low opinion of him, the latter only winked at you, smiling with a mischief he miraculously maintained even after all these years.

It had you returning his mirth. Welcome home, dear friend.

AS EXPECTED, LORD KWON SOONYOUNG’S SOIRÉE WAS LESS AN INTIMATE GATHERING AND MORE AN OUTRIGHT BALL.

Regardless of the host’s constant refuting, Joshua was certainly not pleased, who had reserved his energies on spending time with those close to him, and not the entire ton’s eligible ladies and mamas. With the social season commencing soon, the eligible ladies and gentlemen were already sizing each other, finding allies or opponents within the battleground of the ballroom.

The recently returned gentleman, he realised with no small amount of horror, had become something of a most eligible bachelor London’s society had witnessed this year. Granted, he was of a beautiful countenance, and had the wealth to accentuate his good looks, but he was under the impression that three months in the Continent would have dampened his thriving reputation in society. What he failed to grasp was that absence always makes the heart of the yearner—and their yearners’ mamas, apparently—grow fonder.

You watched him twirl a rather pretty girl as you took another bite of the finger sandwiches set out ornately on the long, white-clothed tables behind you. Soonyoung, who was right beside you, observed his friend, speaking up. “I swear he has been on the floor for an hour now.”

“Three-quarters of one,” you corrected, savouring the cream cheese, meshed with tomatoes and cucumbers. “And every single time it has been a different lady pushed in front of him.”

“He is the talk of the ton right now.” He took hold of a sandwich from the table, eating the entire thing in one go. “A few weeks in the European air has made him more attractive, no?”

You shook your head at his rather suspicious comment, but it was not wrong—Joshua glowed with a shine many lacked within society, as if his body wished to exonerate his freedom to journey wherever he wished. “If I was him, I would have excused myself three dances ago.”

“Alas, our friend is a perfect gentleman,” Soonyoung drawled, crossing his arms. “And you would be the rotten bachelor destined to be alone.”

You rolled your eyes, looking at him. “Huge claims coming from someone who has danced once this entire evening.”

“At least I have danced once, my dear.”

You frowned, glancing back at the ‘perfect gentleman’. It was not as if you were not offered—you simply had another partner in mind. “I am too hungry to dance,” you said instead, itching to reach for your fourth bite-size sandwich for the evening.

“Whatever you say,” he chanted, reaching to grab the very food you pretended to hunger for and handing it to you.

As you took a bite, the quadrille was at an end, applause echoing throughout the ballroom. As the ‘perfect man’ bowed, offering whoever he danced with a dazzling smile, the girl could only admire him, stars in her eyes as he turned his back on her.

It was almost unnerving, how instantly his eyes found yours in the crowd.

With a determined gaze he whisked his way around half the mothers that wished to present their daughters, a honey-sweet smile enough to keep his admirers at bay as he forged his path towards you. Once he finally escaped the crowd, he wasted no time, setting his flawless smiles upon you.

“My apologies, angel,” he began, slowing down before you, “the ton’s mamas refused to leave me alone.”

“Do not pretend you despised your admirers,” you chastised, about to eat the rest of your snack when you saw your friend’s eyes lock onto it.

The moment you offered it to him, he reached out and plucked out the half-eaten sandwich from your hands. “Thank you,” he said, finishing it promptly. “And no, attention is great at times, but not when I had other things in mind.”

“All you have to do is say no,” the younger suggested, as if it was the easiest choice.

“It is your fault,” Joshua accused, grabbing a drink from the table beside you. “Perhaps if you refrained from inviting half of London I’d have some peace of mind.” He then gently nudged you, grabbing your attention. “I was robbed of the chance to waltz with you.”

“Your bestest friend was complaining about that not ten minutes ago,” Soonyoung confessed, which had you glaring at his amusement.

The man locked you in an inquisitive stare, almost smirking. “Is that so?”

You made to lighten the confession by shrugging, a bare-lift of your shoulders. “What other reason did I have to attend tonight?”

When he smiled at you, an unfiltered grin that was closed off to the rest, it had you returning it earnestly. Soonyoung, however, lost any hilarity at hearing your declaration. “Another very important reason can be to support me, you vile creature.”

But the two of you dutifully ignored him, Joshua parting his mouth as he settled himself next to you, his side barely brushing against yours. “It is good, though, that you came tonight. I have something for you.”

“Is that so?” You got out, observing his hand sliding inside his coat pocket. He took only a moment before he fished out a small, rectangular package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied together with string. “Oh! So you just…kept that with you this entire time?”

“I meant to give it earlier, but you saw my diversions.” He handed over the present. “Open it.”

Flipping it over, you gave it a once-over before unravelling the string. Holding onto it still, you unwrapped the carefully folded paper. Once the barriers had fallen, you could barely contain a gasp as your eyes set upon the most intricately decorated novel, barely larger than your hand. It was a special collection you could only procure in France, as travel-sized literature had not yet become popularised on English soil. You studied the cover, swirls of gold etched onto dark, polished leather, the bookmarked string nestled within the pages.

“Joshua…” you got out, running your fingers over the hardback. “I…how did you even know I wanted La Religieuse? It has been banned everywhere!”

“All the harder to find it for you,” he agreed, finishing his wine and setting the glass next to him. “Fortunately, Wonwoo knew of a special bookseller in Montmartre that specialised in more revolutionary literature. I found the special edition of Diderot’s work there, and bought it that instant.” He then scoffed. “He was mentioned in every one of your letters. I’d have been a fool not to understand the message.”

You glanced at him, eyes dancing. “Good to know you can read between the lines.”

“But of course!” he leaned a little closer. “I know you better than anyone in this room.”

You fought hard, but eventually lost the restraint to smile wider. You could not help it, see—it was true. He knew you on a level quite unmatched with any individual. It was a fact you found yourself feeling an immense pride for.

“Thank you,” you said, holding onto the novel for dear life. “I will read it the second I return home.”

“Do not thank me just yet,” he countered, trailing his gaze to the exit, where a sliver of the grand staircase was visible. “You have not seen the entire trunk.”

“Entire trunk?” you repeated, not quite believing him. “You did not.”

But he was beaming smug, as if achieving a great victory. “See for yourself, angel.”

As you followed his line of sight, Soonyoung, too, observed your changing of plans, quirking a brow. “What happened to waltzing with Joshua?”

“There will always be more evening soirées from yours truly, no?” your smile turned saccharine at the shake of your friend’s head. “Now where did you put his luggage?”

He threw a pointed finger towards the half-hidden staircase. “The spare study, fourth door on your right. And do make haste, or else your mother will come after me!”

“You can manage just fine!” you called after him, stepping out from the group as you looked to the eldest. “Wish to escape, too?”

“I wish, but duty calls for me.” He sighed, patting the host’s shoulder heartily. “Once Soonyoung has rinsed me fully, I will come up.”

Nodding, you bid the gentlemen adieu before turning on your heel, making sure no one in particular witnessed your hurried exit from the ballroom. Following instructions, you journeyed up the grand stairs, each step conquered quickly as you anticipated the gifts brought from foreign lands. Once you came across the fourth door, you turned the knob, entering the familiar room.

Your eyes darted over the vast study, barely lit up by the light of the full moon which managed to shine through half-drawn, velvet curtains. Lines of shelves, reaching from ceiling-to-floor, were filled to the brim with old books, varying from literature he himself had recommended to older accounts of the Hong family, written by his ancestors and now being accounted for by the heir you waited for. It would have been strange, since this was not the Hong seat, but Joshua visited Soonyoung enough to work officially in his estate, highlighting their friendship.

As you walked fully in, your low heels sinking in the soft Persian carpet, your gaze fell on his mahogany desk, harbouring a myriad of open books and papers scattered across its surface. You did not know why he did not simply clean the mess he created on such an expensive table.

Tutting, you immediately walked over to the desk, reaching down at some of the fallen papers and neatly assembling them into similar heights. Aside from the accounts, there were also works of fictions—novels from abroad, private poetry collections of the rising writers in London, even collections from decades earlier. Curiosity piquing, you held one of the books, observing the title—Les Liaisons Dangereuse, L’edition 1782. An older French novel you had never heard of—Dangerous Liaisons it was translated to.

You set the book down, creating a new category besides the accounts. Two other novels revealed themselves from under the one you held, the first one another French novella, and the other one from a London publisher. Holding up the first, you once again beheld the title. The School of Venus, or the Ladies’ Delight, Reduced into Rules of Practice.

Venus. Limited classical education had taught you enough to know that Venus was the goddess of love. Ladies’ Delight on the other hand confused you. What delight were these ladies experiencing, and why was Joshua reading about it? The other book was in a language you understood perfectly, holding it in both hands as you scoured its heading on the second page. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Vol. I & II, 1748.

Releasing a short breath, you put it down, perhaps hoping to delve into the contents when, beneath both of these works, you found a book which had piqued your curiosity to the very ceiling.

It was another book—no, a journal, as it was smaller in size, the pages wider, thicker. Leaning down to study the work, you came across the neat, italic curls of the writer’s words, as if the ink had dried recently. A definite journal, then. The page was set at random, continuing an adventure written beforehand. Your eyes, an inquisitive lens, scanned the writing, bracing yourself to enjoy whatever your friend was reading.

…as I touched her face, her cheek, like instinct, moulding within the planes of my palm, her warmth, an infectious condition, spread to my hand. I had mused beforehand of the beauty of the Parisians, but these Venetian women had gained a precedence. They found, with such perfect ease, the catalyst to the breakdown of my collected conduct, earning my sighs as I kissed them with a newfound interest, a yearning to satiate in the dark corners of the coffeehouse.

You paused, brows furrowing. This was certainly unlike any other novel you had read. You skimmed the leather-covered front, golden curls of the title shining in the moonlight. Confessions of a Gentleman in the Continent. J. H.

J. H. You could decipher those initials within any page.

Holding the journal in your hands, you snuck a glance at the door—closed, with the din of the ball far away.

Every essence of logic implored you to put the book down.

You closed the book, instantly releasing a short breath. J. H. Joshua Hong. You did not know what it was, but something unsettling stirred within you at his name—you had procured something you were not meant to find, uncovered a grave secret, meant to be hidden forever. What you should have done was leave it as Joshua had left it, never provide him with an inkling that you had found such strange treasures in his private sphere. His strange, literary treasures.

What you foolishly decided to do was turn the page.

Hovering over to the chair, you mindlessly settled on its cushioned seat as you began reading the journal, fingers idly turning the thick, crisp pages. The dread morphed into something so undecipherable you had to stop your reading.

Passages upon passages of Joshua’s feelings record his sensations—sensations you had never felt, never even knew of before this night. The sentences imprinted in your mind as you began to hunch over, following each word like a mysterious code needed to solve the riddle of your feelings.

The luscious talk in which we engaged, pressed up against the crackling walls, in which modesty was far from respected…Another sentence, another scenario of his observations…Produced naked, stiff and erect…of a valour she had never seen before, and which, for the interest of my own seat of pleasure began to take furiously in it…Your heart almost dropped. Her senses were rightfully much flurried, too much concentrated in that now burning spot of hers which kindled from yours truly…burning because of me, from my ministrations.

Burning. Pleasure. The words were tossing and turning in your head, but you refused to stop, not when the woman committed an action which had you losing your rationale.

This time, you rasped the narration out. “I observed the spry thing steal her shaking hand up her petticoats, and…with fingers on fire, seized and yet more inflamed that centre of all her senses…” You stopped, suddenly feeling the presence of your own petticoats, clinging to your legs—as they always do. “I breathed with an enticing pain. I felt my own senses on fire, watching her writhe and compress the lips of that—” A shudder of breath at the next words— “That virgin… virgin slit, and following…as far as I could find purchase, brought on at last the critical ecstasy, into which nature spent…with excess of pleasure, dissolved and died away within my hand.”

The sentence stopped, your vision almost glazing over at the content you had taken in. Never before had you read—come across, even—such literature. Of course, captivating writing had brought you to extreme emotions, when you were angered at a character’s betrayal, or cried at the deaths of a beloved love interest. This feeling, however, was foreign; something that was born not from the heart, like your usual reactions, but everywhere. Slowly tingling, sparkling like embers from a fireplace. The fingers on fire had you witnessing the languid movement of your own, lighter than you last remembered—as if they were truly burning to cinders. Even your thighs you twisted as the unnamed woman had done in your pages, a tightening barely there.

And the virgin slit…something unmarried, an entity unsullied. A shuddered breath escaped you as you brought yourself out of the trance, blinking back at what you had engulfed.

You knew, then and there, that you had to leave.

You made to depart the study, but you quickly glanced back at the novel. It was as if it had its own life force, its own pull, luring you closer once again. No, no! you reasoned with yourself, because these genres of literature will always be noticed if borrowed—stolen. You could not take the book, even if your life depended on it.

That was why you thought it outside of your control, when, despite reason, despite good sense, your hands reached out, swiping Confessions from the table and hurrying to the door.

You would have even been successful—would have been, if you had not opened the study door so covertly, and knocked against the very man you wished to avoid.

“Argh!” a grunt escaped, followed by your own yelp as your contraband fell with a thud! to the floor, right at your feet—and Joshua’s, who, after stumbling back a little, finally focused on you, confusion altering his features. “_____? Oh God, I apologise for making you wait so long,” he dusted at his coat as his gaze, to your absolute horror, trailed down to what fell because of him. “Soonyoung refused to let me leave…”

He never finished, pausing when he worked out the book which fell from your hands.

If there was any way to escape this present situation, you would have sacrificed your firstborn to ensure it. Because the fates were cruel, you could only stay rooted as you watched him bend down on one knee, picking up the leather-back. He glanced at the title at the front, and every bone in his body stilled, losing any essence of warmth as he parted his mouth.

It felt like a lifetime later when he spoke. “Where…” He held the book upward. “Where did you find this?” Involuntarily your eyes flickered to the table, and he followed, turning his head to the study, which he noticed immediately was tidied—tampered with. “You went through my things?”

“I did not mean to!” you exclaimed, gaping at his sudden charge towards the desk, you hot at his heels. “I just thought it looked like a mess, so I tried cleaning it—”

“You are not a servant,” he cut off, darting over the new order of his account books, as well as the fiction which you had assembled. “You are not required to look after me like that.”

“I know, but—”

“And sneaking out with my possessions? Without my permission?” He smacked the book on the table, making you flinch. “I thought you better than that.”

You were better than that—well, at least until tonight. You ransacked your mind for an excuse, any form of escape, except your words were absolutely pathetic. “You have never minded me reading your novels before,” you attempted. “In fact, you encouraged me to scour your shelves.”

He looked at the book again—a moment too long—and went back to set a slight glare upon you. “Well, my journal is not a trivial novel. It was private…not meant for you.”

You knew that. What did not settle well, though, was that your dearest friend, who had shared his every worry, his every confession to you, had been doing things you had no inkling of, and set such…extraordinary feelings from you.

You had to know what more lay in those pages—and why you had felt the way you felt in those pages which your eyes did scour. “I read it.”

His glare faltered. “How much?”

That question was answered with another. “What was it, Joshua?” You stepped forward, a timid gesture, so you could catch a look at the hardback again. “I…I read some pages, and…what was she doing?”

His hand on his journal pushed it back. “I do not know.”

“Liar,” you got out, and he pursed his lips. You knew him irritatingly well. “You are keeping things from me.”

“It is not keeping things from you,” he countered, frustration rising in his voice. “It is…protecting you from those…things.”

“Tell me what those things are, Joshua,” you demanded, quietly but not softly. “It has rattled you enough. That has never happened to you.”

But he was silent. Eerily quiet, merely the rustle of his clothes, the soft thunk of his novella settled back with the French novels which raised your suspicions. A boundary made—a rejection established.

Perhaps you would have respected it in another lifetime—in a world where you had not indulged your curiosity, set your eyes upon entities which were not for you to explore. Perhaps you would have respected it even if Joshua had offered to enlighten you—maybe blushed and ran away, and vowed never to look through his possessions again.

The writings had rattled you, though, more than he realised. Social etiquette—good common sense would have expected you to respect his opinion, opinions of society, and drop the subject.

Joshua Hong, however, was your greatest friend. No societal expectation could change that.

So you opted to push the limits. Refuse the silence to be the end of this matter.

“I read enough, you know. To feel…” A pause. “I cannot even describe to you how I felt, because I have never felt that way before.” You tried to find the right words, a single confession out of order and he would stop listening—or so you thought. “There was an extract you wrote, Joshua, which had certain…descriptions…” Burning. Pleasure. Naked. Fire. Ecstasy. “There was a girl who was doing something. I am unsure what she was doing specifically, but…what she felt watching them…”

A soft exhale released from you, and almost instinctively Joshua released his own breath. “I think I…um, I think I felt a remnant of it.”

He blurted out, barely a whisper, “You what?”

You looked at him—barely managed a nod. “I do not…don’t even know what she was doing with her fingers—” Joshua’s sudden coughing interrupted you, holding a fist to his lips to stop himself—“But whatever it was…I want to know what it was.”

You watched the man stay deathly still, yet the emotions racing behind his face were certain. Not only were you rattled, but had passed this strange sensation to him. Had he never felt it before? You wondered, surprised by the similarity of his reaction to yours.

He then responded to you, and you realised your mistake. “You cannot.”

Another boundary. Another opportunity to cross it. “Why?” This time, you stepped closer to him. “Why can I not know?” He was silent once more, and this time, you would not accept it. “Why are you hiding from me?”

“Because you are a lady!” he finally cut out, an agitated sigh coming straight after. “You are not to know such…such material.”

A lady…that you were aware of, but that still did not answer the question. Joshua watched, Joshua did whatever he had done to a lady. The answer was not good enough.

Judging by the increasing agitation in your friend’s countenance, he knew it too. It was at that point, though, when you truly noticed his harsh sighs, the tight fists—one at his mouth now trudging to the table, and the other secured at his hip—figure rigid. How affected he was by your questioning.

As if he mirrored the same sensations as you experienced.

“Is it…” You pursed your lips. “Is it because you were feeling them too?”

A blink back—the only recognition of shock. You held onto this, continuing, “Tell me the truth, Joshua. You said yourself, no? That a lady cannot know, but you did not say a gentleman cannot either. You were feeling it too, were you not?”

His eyes were widening with your every word, and he stepped back, almost as if to run away. You did not need an answer from him now—it was abundantly clear that he had undergone such passions, as if it was not certain as you read it. There was only one question left in your arsenal now.

Joshua could have collapsed to the study floor. He heard the questions, and suddenly all he could do was gape at you. The determined curiosity in your eyes, the resolute stature of your body, closer than he last remembered. Oh, he would die before answering such a thing to you. He could not. He could not.

“_____, it is late,” he began after a long time. The slight hope on your face leaving instinctively dampened his spirits. “It is already rash that you came here without a chaperone and I refuse to let you become the centre of ill conversation.”

And there it was. The supposed end.

You did not realise how disappointed you were until you found your voice again, much graver than you expected. “So that is how it will be.”

Fine. If your best friend would not entrust you with such information, you would find the next person who would not be so apprehensive. A fortunate situation that you already had a man in mind.

As you turned on your heel, you heard him ask, “Where are you going?”

You did not stop your walk away, looking over your shoulder as you retorted, “To Soonyoung. At least he will be honest with me, if you choose not to be.”

He must have said something, but you did not deign to hear, only looking to the door, which was slightly ajar. You held your hand out, ready to open it further.

Another force—another hand, larger than yours, slammed the door shut, jumping you out of your skin. Quickly you swivelled to see Joshua, breathing slightly uneven as his hand stayed right beside your head, resting against the wood. “Good God,” you got out, “What was that for?”

“You cannot go to Soonyoung,” he said instead, gaze frantic.

You furrowed your brows. “Why?”

He frowned. He could tell from your irritation that you assumed it was jealousy, a worse morphing of cowardice.

It was not jealousy—nothing like that. Soonyoung was like a brother to him, and he knew that if there was anyone else you could have gone to without eliciting scandal, then it was that eccentric. He would explain everything to his friend, and be done with it without furthering his own curiosity.

With that in mind, he would also tell you everything. Joshua was aware that there were skeletons in the closet of such matters, and your door was already slightly ajar. Should you go to Soonyoung to seek counsel, he would break down the doors, and suffocate you with the bones of such sensitive information.

What you asked was no normal feat. What you asked was sensitive. Precious. Soonyoung was trustworthy, but he was not careful.

Joshua, on the other hand, was careful. Very careful, if he thought so himself.

“He would not…explain it properly,” he offered instead.

“At least he will explain it,” you countered, twisting your mouth. “I’d rather something than nothing at all.”

His brows knitted together, desperation rising. “You have to understand me, _____.”

“Not after this.” You tried to avert his gaze, but his eyes—for the very first time—were incredibly hard to ignore. “Let me out the door.”

His reply, although perturbed, was clear. “I cannot.”

“Then tell me, Joshua,” you demanded. “Tell me what she was doing.”

He should have stayed silent forever. What he should have done—as a gentleman, as you yourself had deemed him—was keep his mouth shut.

A semblance of his sanity slipped once he uttered the fated words.

“She was touching herself.”

A stillness washed over you. Touching herself.

“I know the passage you speak of,” he said, and his voice was something foreign, not from his body. “When I… and…yes, she touches herself.”

It was as if your skin caught fire. “Why did she do it?”

He looked at you as if you were a madman—he himself seemed as such. It was the madness which made him continue. “Because it gave her pleasure…” Pleasure. “She wanted to feel good…give the narrator…well, me…a show.” He could not help, instinctively hanging his head down to your dress, the creases where your legs had scrunched a little together from weighing against the door. “And it was between her legs where she felt it the most.”

Every word that left Joshua’s lips brought a tinkling of delight beneath your skin—this time, with their mere mention, your thighs bunched together, eliciting the same sensation that you had felt when reading that fated account.

Because he was so close to you, he, too, felt your slight shift. As if he, too, realised the change you endured. “Can you feel it?” he whispered to you.

You could not answer him—a nod sufficed. He shook his head slowly. “This is why I did not want to say anything…look at you.” He regarded you, in your slowly squirming glory, looking up at him in such sensational confusion his patience wore thin. Patience for what, though, he dared not say aloud.

“What is this?” you asked him, almost pleading. “What am I feeling?”

“Pleasure,” he finally answered, plain as the night that now fell over the Kwon townhouse. “And it can develop, swell into a greater feeling…” He watched you gulp at his explanation, and something wicked in him forced a quirk of his lips. “It starts down there…grows from there, travels around your body until it engulfs you…”

You could not breathe. His words were like those of a siren, intoxicating your very senses. It was so unfair—the girl in the journal was actually doing something to herself. You were being undone by mere explanation.

Your friend caught onto this realisation too, for he watched you, drank in your breaths, turning heavier with each comment. “And there is a height you will reach when you keep touching yourself, and…” Without realising, he wetted his bottom lip, and you gaped at the action, brows rising, eyes glazing over. “You run after it like a prize, should not stop…”

“Why?” you got out—or did you really? Your consciousness was a blur.

“Because, angel, when you are at the end, there is a sensation you will feel, unlike…ah, unlike anything you have ever experienced.” His free hand joined the other side of your head, and you were caged in his presence. Strange, how you had never noticed how overwhelming his stature became when you could barely recognise your own body.

Very carefully he lowered his head to you, mouth against your ear. “Like the critical ecstasy, into which nature spent…with excess of pleasure, dissolved and died away.”

Your breath hitched at the recitation. The man was quoting his own words.

This had to stop. You had to stop.

The curiosity remained, as tangible as the very feeling—the critical ecstasy.

Whatever Joshua had described to you, you wanted it. Needed it. Perhaps he was teasing you, as he always did, but the weight of the words hung upon you both like chandeliers, the candle lights like prickles of these ever-encompassing emotions that threatened to take over.

“Joshua,” you said in a low voice.

He pulled away from you to ask you what you wished for. Then, he truly observed you, took in the connotations of your calling. Your pleading. He had a fear he did not need to ask anymore—he knew you too well.

It was cruel of him. He felt it in his bones, but he knew that he had crossed too many boundaries. One more transgression, and everything would be done for.

If only you would stop looking at him like that.

“I want to feel it,” you uttered, barely voiced out. “Whatever she was feeling…show me.”

There it was—your life in his hands.

There was a power to this. A man’s life consisted of many different forms of power—his birth, his titles, his estates, even the people that worked upon them. Joshua recognised his power, knew he was privileged enough to wield such influence within the ton to be written about it.

This, however, was unchartered territory.

Not that he had not delved within women before. No, he was familiar with the workings of ladies in this circle, even from those beyond the borders of this country. How many nights he had spent, being destroyed and renewed in a decrepit lodging with forgotten souls from a different time. Joshua’s skin prickled at the memories, but nothing could have brought more stinging sensations than the words that escaped your mouth.

Tonight, in this grand study of his, courtesy of his so-called power, he was utterly void of it. He was powerless. He could not. He should not.

This was to be the final answer. That was when you added the fatal addition.

Did not even stray from his helpless gaze as you muttered, as quiet as the air around you, “Please.”

Please. Joshua took a mere moment to part his lips, the damned please washing over his entire body before he leaned in, weight of the world in his hanging head.

He thought of nothing else before brushing his lips against yours.

The flutter of a touch upon your lips was a consequence—in seconds, you were not your own, not in control of your body, when your mouth reacted without you even realising. He was moving slowly, feeling you out. Soft were his lips, but you should have known that detail already. Had you not observed them in the chandelier light, almost burned at how they shone like diamonds?

How fortunate you were then, to have these diamonds enveloped around your mouth, accepting them, moving against his own. He was warm upon you, almost burning up, undoubtedly from the inward crisis you observed moments prior, when he nearly let you down. You sensed his approval this time, his one hand leaving the door and gently cradling your chin, angling it to deepen the kiss. Such a small action enhanced your delight, almost smiling against him. Your heartbeat was straying from your chest, thumping so loud in your ears it was all you could hear—the beating of your heart, and the cushioned sounds of his lips.

He was everywhere. In your arms, in your mind, haunting your spirits as he slowly, ever so slowly, opened your mouth. A soft grunt finally escaped him, a sound he had buried deep within. The man himself had no realisation that he was holding such a sound in, perhaps terrified that he was enjoying himself, relishing how your lips were velvet, and his mouth sailed in the direction of your pleasure.

The idea that you had brought such a sound out of him had your hands attempting to reach his shoulders, slithering up his arms and reaching their destination, hanging tightly on. Your lungs demanded refreshment, chest aching, but you refused to pull away, not when Joshua kissed you in such a manner. Where had you been hiding? How could you have lived in such ignorance, when Joshua offered ecstasy, provided pleasure, sipped you the holy grail of human instinct?

You wondered half-deliriously why the ladies in his journal had not been kissed often, when this was a feeling more overwhelming than any of the pages you had skimmed over. Perhaps your dear friend had consumed some addictive substance, left the remnants on his mouth before showing you what he feared. You could not get enough of him, chasing his lips, following after his lead like an obedient animal, so careful not to break the dance of rapture and have him regret it.

If only you could sneak a glance inside his mind.

Every thought in his head screamed at him to slow down. Your lips were a delicate flower, in need of a sprinkle of water for sustenance, not the entire monsoon to drown it dead. Joshua knew this, was ardently aware of it, but he could not stop himself, cease this dance with you and give you peace. Peace was not an option, not when you were languid under his hold, obliging him so well. His hands were now upon your face, cradling it as he pushed you further against the door, creaking under the pressure.

You broke from his lips at the pressure, sucking in a breath, but he was not satisfied, pouncing upon you once more. He captured your mouth and swept away any form of speech, stealing your words and engulfing them for himself. His tongue was sliding against the seam of your lip, an invitation for more, and you wanted it. You were opening your mouth further, and he slid inside so effortlessly it had you unable to stop the groan, escaping you without realising. It was child’s play for him, finding your own and swirling it along yours like a waltz on the dance floor, a quadrille he had practised in midnight corners, and mastered without your knowledge.

Here he was, though, carrying out the final mastery with you. Closing his lips over yours slightly, sucking on your tongue, and your lungs were expanding, heart swelling, every single organ functioning inside threatening to break down. Whining like a famished soul, your hands now clung to his face, fingers grazing his neck, and he furrowed his brows into the open-mouthed kisses, adding a pressure to his sucking which sent your very senses into overdrive.

You thought you could do it—you genuinely believed you could have done more, perhaps begged through hungry eyes and sharp sighs to continue this dance, show you all the tricks you managed to miss.

But then he pulled away from you, detaching his mouth from yours, hands clutching you against the door as he groaned, closing his eyes. You were panting yourself, fingers curling as they fell to his shoulders, gaping at his slack figure, rising up and down with his heavy breaths.

He met your gaze, the heavy-lidded desire churning in your irises. You were still aflame, burning beneath every touch he ghosted on your skin—the absolute want reverating off the door he backed you against. It was insanity, truly, what his antics had done to you.

His best friend—a blubbering, panting mess before him. He did this.

It was then, after you engulfed the world’s oxygen and finally gained some semblance of sense, that you noticed the frantic nature of his stare.

You could barely speak, an effort as you got out, “Joshua?”

His name on your mouth. He could not help the step away, pulling away his hands, although they ached. He was backing away some more, widening his eyes, and you did not understand till he brought his fingers to his lips, spit-slick with consequences. Consequences that he brought onto you.

You reflected his actions, feeling the wet slick of your bottom lip. You wanted to feel guilty—your stomach was only set aflame once more.

“I…we…” he stopped, a hand sifting through his locks, eyes darting everywhere. “We shouldn’t have, we…”

“Joshua,” you began, because you finally found your voice—or at least some form of it. “Wait, we can—”

“You must go,” he said instead. “No, I must go, I must…must leave…” The back of his legs bumped into the table, the very desk which the damned novels were scattered across.

You watched his slow ruination. “You cannot leave. Soonyoung did this soirée for you.”

“Huh? Right, yes.” His head dipped down, raking through his hair as if he would find a solution within. “Shit. Shit.”

Almost frightened, you walked over slowly to him, attempting to reach out. “Joshua, why are you—?”

“_____, listen to me.” His finger pointed to you—the door you were sagging against, moments prior. “You must go this instance. If someone found us like this, it could…” a ragged sigh. “No, I cannot go into it now, I…I know this sounds suspicious, sudden, I understand but…”

You could have taken his word, but he was frantic, and your best friend was never frantic. “Did I do something?”

The question had his spirits dampening even further. “No, no, of course not. I did.”

And then he was walking towards you—stepping past you when you thought he was going to something, something you were not certain of, but scared could have happened. “I shall call you a carriage,” he declared, more to himself than the person he was supposed to carry this out for. “You slip out after I am downstairs.”

He was about to leave the study, but he was stopped—he glanced at your hand, wrapping around his forearm. His gaze climbed upwards to settle on your face, still exposing uncertainty at his change. “Joshua.”

Joshua. His name on your lips once more. He could only ask you one question. “Do you trust me, _____?”

You looked back at him, your grip tightening. What the two of you had done was beyond your understanding. No novel could have articulated your feelings just then, expressed the turmoil that reigned inside you. You had experienced your first kiss, a little more with a man you thought was beyond your fingertips, and now he wished to run away from it all.

What you should have done was hold on—but you trusted him. He was, after everything, your dearest friend.

A nod sufficed, enough for him. When you loosened your grip, he stayed for a beat longer, drinking in the trust you promised you held, washing it over his own frenzy before he offered you a smile.

He slipped away from the study, and everything that occurred within it.

You could not close the door fast enough, swivelling around and sagging against the wood. Feeling your legs buckle, you let yourself slump to your feet, your gown bunching around you, cushioning your fall. He left, but your heart still thundered. Battering against your ribcage, begging to be set free and end the madness that stirred, because you still had no idea, no conception of what had just happened, and what could have happened.

Whatever questions bombarded your soul, only one remained the most prevalent.

What in God’s name just happened?

JOSHUA HAD BEEN AVOIDING YOU SINCE THAT FATED INCIDENT.

Countless times you had called upon him, only to be met with no reply. You had first assumed he was occupied with settling business, considering he had arrived recently into town, but after a week of continued silence, your concern had overshadowed logic. You were determined to search him out.

He had never given you silence—even when he was journeying across the Continent, he updated you through his detailed letters, pinpointing every city he had stayed a night in, every important figure he had dined with, Hell, even confided his moments of embarrassment. It was not like him to keep himself from you. It was not in his nature to run away from you.

What he had done was an act of cowardice—and Joshua Hong was not a coward.

No, he was not one of the faint-hearted, especially in the beginning of what happened in that study. He was not in a coward when he indulged your curiosity, not when he was gifted you a kiss—kisses like that. If Joshua Hong was a coward, then the entirety of the ton deserved humiliation for its timidity.

You decided to damn a little societal etiquette, informing your maid that she was to accompany you, not bothering to pass this information onto your parents. Not that it mattered much, since your mother was entertaining a few of her friends, and your father was not in the city anyway.

Down the familiar roads you hurried, your poor chaperone urging you to slow down as you narrowly avoided the rush of the carriages, spooked horses neighing as you crossed the road. You lifted your skirts up to keep the hem clean of the wet gunge of concrete, mud and puddles of rain mingling on the cobblestone streets. The terraced houses of Mayfair were recognisable anywhere, and because you were fortunate enough to live close to your dear friend, the trip lasted a little more than five minutes. As you tread the steps up to the Hong bachelor lodgings, though, you caught the notion that perhaps Joshua may have resided in the Diamond Club lodgings. Then your nervousness returned, rising when the grand doors opened, and the butler answered.

“Is his Lordship present?” you asked, and nearly sighed with relief when the man nodded, leading you inside. “Don’t mind me, I know my way.” You turned to your maid, raising a hand before her. “You stay here. I will be back soon.”

You did not wait for her objections as you sped into the halls of the house, ignoring the European finery on the walls, turning your right where your ears caught familiar voices, conversing in whispers in the drawing room. Hearing a particular hushed tone had your nervousness replaced with a newfound agitation.

Now the convention was to announce the guest to the people already present in the house. Because there was no servant you allowed to follow you, you sauntered into the room, stopping before the doorway.

There he was. Joshua, as akin to a perfect gentleman as he always presented himself, clad in white and cream-coloured clothing. His one leg folded over the other as he looked to Soonyoung, who was contrasting his palette, adorning browns and blacks as he sipped on his beverage. The two men turned their heads at the interruption, and both widened their eyes.

One was most excited, grinning at your appearance. The other—the one you sought out—shot up from his seat, as if struck by lightning.

“Gentlemen,” you greeted, icy enough that Soonyoung scrunched his nose at it, instantly setting his teacup upon the side table.

“Did someone tie your corset too tight this morning?” was his response. He then glanced at his friend. “Why are you standing up all of a sudden?”

His question was not answered. Joshua was too occupied with staring at you, not quite believing your presence—at his bachelor lodgings, of all places.

You could only stare back. You meant to be more cold in your gaze, but the moment your eyes locked, it was as if the memories had come back. If your thoughts felt bold in your environment, then they ran wild in unfamiliar territory. Memories of that night came rushing like a burst dam, each little flash of the pages, the heated words, Joshua’s lips, burning into your mind.

A rushed exhale escaped your lips. Your friend’s eyes darted to see that ragged breath escape you. That gaze on your mouth had threatened to stop your breathing entirely.

You wished he would stop looking at you.

Soonyoung interrupted the heavy silence with a click of his tongue. “What is wrong with the both of you?”

It was almost comical how you and Joshua flinched simultaneously at his question. “Nothing,” he answered, still staring at you. “To what do I owe this…” He licked his lips, as if remembering the significance of the word. “This pleasure?”

Pleasure. Your heart skipped a beat. “You, um…” A momentary glance at Soonyoung, who watched you both like a hawk. “I was just, um…just down the street, actually. Around the corner.”

“Oh.” Joshua nodded most diligently, as if you had shared invaluable information to him. “How…fascinating.”

“Indeed.”

The third party gaped at you two in horror. “Are you both hearing yourself?” he asked, aghast at the interaction. “It is as if observing a couple courting each other for the first time.”

That very idea had your cheeks burning. “Stop saying such stupid things,” you snapped at the poor man. “Joshua and I would not possibly be courting!”

The over-exaggeration of such a claim had Soonyoung raising a brow. “And why is that so impossible for you to imagine?”

“Because!” you exclaimed, and you made the mistake of glancing at the man accused. “Because…”

Joshua had the nerve to tilt his head, waiting. “Because?”

Scoffing out, you tried to answer him with anything. Anything to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. “Because you are my friend. Friends do not court and become…more than…”

“Friends?” he offered, watching you intently. He had schooled his face into neutrality before, but you were certain of his interest now, the way he quirked his brow, his hand resting on the top of the chair.

Because you were lost for words, you merely nodded. His stare a little too much, you looked away, catching Soonyoung’s confusion enhanced. He finished his tea, rising from his ornate seating as he set his judgement upon you two. “I do not know why you both are acting so ridiculously,” he declared, dusting his hands together, “But you need to sort it out amongst yourselves. Your silences have a…” He made a peculiar face. “An unnerving energy.”

Nodding his head to Joshua, he made his way over to you, clutching your hand in adieu. “Do not think I won’t interrogate you on this,” he whispered to you, and left the room before you could react.

Not that any of his threats would have mattered, when he was not there anymore. The only barrier, completely disappeared. It was only you and Joshua—alone.

The very notion had your gaze flickering towards him. He was already looking, a certain helplessness in his usually easy manner that had you forgetting why you stormed in here in the first place—almost.

“_____.”

Damn him. His name on your lips made you remember how he pleaded it that very night. “Joshua,” you responded, in the very same manner so he could not forget that night either.

It seemed as if he did not. “I meant to call on you,” he began, but your scoff cut him off.

“You have ignored me instead,” you remarked, because you refused to let him slip away. “I wrote to you countless times.”

“I know,” he said, nodding to acknowledge his mistake. “I meant to respond, truly, but…I admit, I have been preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied?” You narrowed your eyes at him, unimpressed. “What urgent matters stopped you from responding to a few letters? My letters?”

He was in a stupor, as if secluding into his own mind. You thought he was not going to answer, but then the words slipped out. “Thinking, actually. I was doing a lot of thinking.” When he saw that was not good enough for you, he sighed, a large, heavy exhale that held a few reservations—regrets. “You will laugh at me for it, _____, but this thinking was for you. I was thinking for you.” A pause. “I was thinking of you.”

You did not move. Joshua was thinking of you; this would not have been so extraordinary a week prior, but now it meant something entirely different.

His words in the study crept into the crevices of your mind, and you fought to keep your face straight. “And what did you find in your thoughts for me?”

He locked his hands behind his back. “Those things we did, back in my study…” He cleared his throat, as if the next words were an effort to bring to the surface. “They should not have been done. I should not have done them to you.”

A blink. “What?” you got out, confusion joining your disarray of emotions.

“It was dishonourable, what I did,” he continued. “You were unaware, and I should have left it like that. I mean, even the letters you sent, you were frantic. It was my doing, was it not?” You could not believe what he uttered from that very mouth you kissed not so long ago, more so when he said the next words. “For that, I must apologise.”

An apology. Your dearest friend showed you sacred knowledge, satisfaction to an unknown temptation, treasure of the highest order, and he was sorry for it.

It was enough to enrage you.

“Why in God’s name are you apologising?” you demanded, thundering towards him. “Why are you taking all the blame like a foolish martyr?” The man made to reason with you, but you refused to let him speak, carrying on in your agitation. “Was it not I who asked you? Was it not I who asked you what those feelings were, begged you to show me what it felt like?”

You made sure he was looking at you as you faced him, grave and earnest. “It was my fault. I was the one curious. I should apologise.”

He clenched his jaw then. What had you done to be giving him apologies? It tore at the seams of his heart, like he was aware of a crime he had committed, but watched another suffer the punishment.

No, to hell with that—what crime had the two of you committed?

The reminder of such crimes came rushing through his mind, encircling his brain like an infectious disease, threatening to engulf him whole. The reminders, made from your lips, which moulded so perfectly with his that he exhaled a little at the notion, your heightened whispers in the darkness of his study. He had not stepped foot in that damned room since that night—a ridiculous approach, he was quite aware—but every time he attempted it, fingers at the handle, he would hear its creaks from your weight, pressed up against the wood by his hands. If objects could speak, then they would shame the men and women that used them for their passions.

But you were his friend, and nothing you had done with him was worth shaming over. In truth, it was just a kiss.

“Joshua?”

Receiving only a blink back had you narrowing your eyes at him. “You have nothing to say after that?”

He clamped his lips together, thinking for a moment. “_____, I need you to never apologise to me again.”

You ticked your head, puzzled. “But—”

“No, I am serious. You were merely curious. And I…” He sighed. “Well, I suppose I satiated it.”

Or rather, he hoped he did. Judging by your changing expression, those hopes seemed to falter. “Or did I not…?”

“N-no!” you rebuked, but then you closed your mouth, setting it in a thin line. “I mean, I still have questions.”

The man paused. “Oh.”

Of course. Of bloody course you had questions, because of course it cannot be one encounter in a darkened room, and then a forgotten memory. God, why was it you, of all the people he knew, in that study?

His thoughts were exposed upon his face, causing you to raise your hands. “No, no, if it is troublesome, then I will not bother you. I would have inquired with Soonyoung, but…”

Their mutual friend being brought up had Joshua’s collar feeling too tight. “Why would you go to him when you asked me?”

You sighed then, a little helpless. “Because you have a problem with telling me.”

He would have argued otherwise, but you were right, and it was eating him from the inside. He wanted to be nonchalant about it, completely incurious. You were his most cherished companion, though, and so nonchalance was non-existent. It was impossible, in this situation, to be normal.

You crossed your arms, looking to the ornate side-table where Soonyoung left his half-empty tea. “I suppose I can…find out on my own?”

A furrow of his groomed brows. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You clearly do not want me sharing this…dilemma with anyone, and since you are as useful as Soonyoung when drunk, I have no other choice.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head slightly, not quite believing the words that came from his mouth. “I mean…how will you find out?”

“Well, I am unsure, but have I not always figured it out?” You gripped onto your arms tighter. “This time, though, it seems I will not have you to help me.”

He would have let the comment slide had you not uttered your next admission.

“It is as if…you shy away from it as if you did not enjoy what happened that night.”

Oh. My God.

Joshua’s change of character was shocking—exhilarating, you realised with a start, as his eyes darkened. “What did you say to me?”

Your mouth was parted, answer always ready. “Is it not true? You ignored me, hid away from me, and refused to help me further. All the tell-tale signs that you hated what happened?”

Hated. The man could have combusted at such an accusation.

Hatred was only the emotion he felt towards himself, a punishment for the emotions you incited out of him that night. To hate what happened between you and him, though…That would be like animals hating the nature that fed them. To hate what he did to you, what he showed you, would be akin to a scholar hating knowledge.

Joshua was no scholar, though, and he had no great knowledge. But the knowledge you sought, from him, of all humble learners…he reckoned he was being rewarded for a good deed, long forgotten.

By God, he will savour whatever reward he was offered.

“Listen to me, _____. I have thought about our kiss for every waking moment since it happened.”

He took a step forward. “I did not want to, because we are friends…but alas, it is the truth. I was not going to tell you…if it makes me immature, or selfish, I do not know, but to hear you think that I—”

A scoff escaped him, and you felt the rush of air on your lips. “I cannot have that. I cannot let you think I despised something I—I enjoyed.”

Your question was quick—unintentional. “Enjoyed?”

He did not even need to answer you—you could see it in his gaze. “If I told you the extent of my enjoyment, you would think me a monster.”

What that statement should have done was unnerve you. There was only a strange thrill, humming beneath your skin. “Then do not tell me. Show me.”

Joshua’s brows quirked upward, as if disbelieving this newfound curiosity in you. He glanced at the entrance—no servants in sight. “Do you believe you could withstand it?”

“A few heated kisses?” you tilted your head, gaze falling to his mouth. “I shall be fine this time.”

But he was shaking his head, twisting his lips in a smile you had never noticed before. “No…no, dearest, what I will show you today will be something different.”

He held his hand out—the proposition offered. “If you are still seeking my help, of course.”

You stared at his hand, the soft palm, the fingers which had enclasped yours countless times in the years between you both. This was a hand you had held onto more than any other. This time, though, there would be a change. You could feel it in the air, the space—or lack, thereof—around you two. Clasping the hand now would cement this change.

Would you want that? Shift the dimensions of your friendship forever?

Perhaps you should have pondered over it more; truly endeavoured through the implications, but you could hear his heated whispers once more, urging you to accept. His voice. Your best friend was silent, but his voice was everywhere.

This was already changed—there was no going back.

You brought your hand out, grasping onto his own and shaking it. You did not let go, though, because you felt his purpose thrumming in his fingers as, with a tug, he set off, taking you with him.

Through the halls you strolled, Joshua letting a few servants know that he was not to be disturbed. With anyone else, the people would have raised a few eyebrows, because what does their master wish to do with a lady unchaperoned? It was a topic which could incite a great scandal, but, once again, your friendship saved you and him. You wondered, heart beating a little faster, how many times you would escape such treachery on the grounds of your bond with the man that led you up his grand staircase, further into the cushioned halls, into unchartered territory.

He brought you inside his private study, closing the door behind you. This room was different—granted, that specific study was in Soonyoung’s domain, a space reserved for his friend, but not many people had ventured here. Not that you knew of.

Joshua took a deep breath. “Before we do anything,” he began, “I must set a few rules.”

“Rules?” you repeated, furrowing your brow. “Whatever for?”

He set himself on a little pace, walking to the end of the room. As he turned, returning to the place he first entered, he said, “You see, there are certain…ministrations…we are about to do which may not be welcomed.” He paused again, as if mulling over the words. “There was a reason I asked you not to confide in Soonyoung. You see, it is not just him. We cannot tell anyone of this.”

In fairness, you had already assumed you could not speak of your heated kiss with a single soul. Although in your heart, it was the truest action you had carried out, you wondered whether the ton would agree with you—how Lady Whistledown would chastise your name for it.

“I understand,” you said.

He looked at you, a little relieved. “Good.” He dipped his head, locks hanging. “Very…very good.” The pacing was back. “As you are aware, we did less than what you read. You asked me what…what the girl was doing.”

There it was again—the stillness of your heart, your soul. “Yes…and you said she was touching herself.”

His movements hit a lapse—only for a moment. “Right.” He resumed once more. “Do you have any questions regarding that?

You could not understand how he was even able to move, when you were rendered frozen. “I do not want explanations, Joshua.”

Finally, finally he stopped, full focus on you, hands locked behind his back. Still, all this restraint. “Then what do you want?”

What do you want? Even you could not comprehend the extent of it. You wanted to feel as the girl did in the novel—you wanted to experience the critical ecstasy, the full extent of the pleasure described. You wanted to do the things she had committed, hidden away or for everyone to witness. You did not care how it happened, but you wanted it done to you.

It was as if your dearest friend could see it on your face—painted explicitly on your features, curiosity staining the ignorance.

“Go on. I want you to say it.”

You tugged your bottom lip with your teeth, suddenly flustered. “You cannot expect me to say it all!”

One step forward. “Whyever not?”

Your cheeks burned. “It feels…” You rubbed your hands on your dress, needing to do something because this was becoming awkward, tensioned. It was already unbearable, his magnetic presence, suddenly too large for you in this study. Damned studies. “It feels so…dirty.”

“Dirty?” He tilted his head. “How come it feels that way?”

A purse of your lips. “You know my reasoning.”

Of course he knew. He read your every verse of nervousness, etched into your eyes like agonised poetry. He had hoped—would have prayed, even, that your hesitance would have faded behind closed doors. Would have faded with only him in the room.

He said so. “You do not have to be so…you know…modest around me.” He took a careful step—always so careful around you, this man. “I am aware that this is new, but you know you can place your confidence in me.”

And now you knew, because out of every ambiguity in this dreadful city, the man before you was the sole certain aspect within. Of course you could trust him. You, however, could not trust your mouth to work. So, you were silent—twiddling your thumbs like a fool, a deer caught by the hunter, and frozen still to accept its fate.

Except Joshua would never allow you to accept that, so he took hold of the reins. “Look, I will not push you to do anything…that you can be certain of.” He walked over to you, finally in front of you, and you looked up at him, taking in the earnestness of his expression. “But I will request something from you, a question I always ask.”

His hand reached out to clasp your wrist, raising it to his waist-coated chest. Even with the layers, you could almost feel his distant beating of his heart—evenly thudding beneath his luxurious clothing. How fortunate, that he was capable of such serenity, when you were made of heightened nerves at that moment.

“Do you trust me, angel?”

Oh, you were envious of his ease. You fought with yourself to uphold his stare. “Of course.”

He tightened his hold on your hand. “Good,” he said, and when his mouth closed, skimming his gaze over your face, you could have looked away. Where was your ferocity, so ardent then now disappearing completely under his scrutiny?

Joshua could see it—the pinnacle of virtue, a beacon of ignorance. It was enough for him to expose a mere phantom smile at the thought as, you bracing yourself, he leaned in, brushing his lips with yours.

It was like that fateful night all over again. You could not have accepted him fast enough, your enthusiasm clear as your other hand slid upwards, fingers anchoring themselves to his face, his skin soft, his skin warm, warmer the longer you held on. Your figure moulded against his own as he snaked his hand around your waist, pulling you in closer to him, every crevice of your body lined perfectly alongside himself. Perfect—that was what this all was to you, the excitement of his mouth moving upon yours, the sensation of his hand skirting along your back, the feeling of his heartbeat rising with every lingering moment. You could have smiled at that.

Wanted to, but he was opening your mouth, and his tongue was already sliding along your lips, a request to venture inside, welcome itself back into familiar territory. You were accepting his touches like a woman starved, his tongue replenishing the famished domain of your mouth. Your desperation seeped through the seams—you had not forgotten the sensations he evoked the week before, but the experience had amplified your stained curiosity.

Now that you were offered a taste, a mere sliver was not enough. You wanted more.

Joshua could sense everything. He was not a mind reader of any sorts, but it was his fortune that he understood you in every aspect. The soft noises that slipped from your mouth at every turn of his tongue against yours, his hand freeing your wrist and gripping your face…the urgency shocked and delighted you at the same time.

He thought he was fine, a picture of tranquility—he had done this enough times to envisage it in his mind. By God, he would be questioned for these sins, every night of immorality pocketed in each corner of the continent.

You, however…when it was you, it was different. With you, it was another semblance of pride, more than a mere achievement to mark in his memories. He broke away from your mouth for a second, an inch away from you as he collected his breath—an inch too far. “Tell me…tell me how you feel,” he whispered, ringing in your ears like a fevered revelation.

You wished to answer him. Truly you attempted, but he made it so hard, turning his attention to the corners of your lips, peppering heated little kisses, bursts of feverish pleasure setting your skin aflame. How many fires did he intend to light? How many flames did he wish to spread along the goosebumps on your skin, until you were ashes in his hands, swept away by his mouth? He would never answer such questions, though, when he occupied himself with sprinkling your neck with the remnants of his lips.

Even uttering his name was a challenge. “J-Joshua, I…” your heavy exhales took over, your very body led solely by his charge. The supposed leader, the benevolent leader, allowed you a break of speech by robbing you of it completely, pressing his lips over yours and chasing after you once more.

What was it that the woman felt in his journal? You scrambled at your lust-filled mind to remember the feeling as you read the pages, all those nights ago. Yes, you wanted to feel the indescribable high, the pleasure reverating off your skin like humidity off cobblestone streets in the summer.

“I-I want to feel like her…” you strived for specificity, anything which made sense in this bubble of bliss. “To feel good, the ecstasy…”

“Hmm…” he could only say, latching onto a particular spot on your neck which had you seeing stars upon the study ceiling. They rotated, following after your movements with every tug backward by his hands. You did not know where he was taking you, but when your shins felt the bump of the couch, situated at the back of the room, you sucked in a breath at the impact.

You did not realise what was about to happen until you felt his gentle hands push you into the plush setting, and your breath whooshed out of you as your head fell on the pillows, cushioning your slight fall. Instinctively your hands flew to grasp at the lapels of his waistcoat, the grip making him pause.

“W-wait, Joshua, a moment,” you got out. Watching him blink back at your voice, utterly lost in his lovebitten creations, had you regretting you stopped him. “Why are we…”

He watched you sputter for words, the gleam in his eyes only darkening as he began to position himself above you. His hand roamed down your dress, fingers catching its hem and slowly lifted it further from your legs. “Did you not want this?” he merely asked, feigning the same innocence you had genuinely exposed minutes prior. “I only follow your request.”

You wished to respond to him, but then you felt his fingers skim against your thighs, your dress bunched to the waist, and gasped at the exposed skin, just above where your stockings ended. “Oh…”

“You must tell me, angel,” he said, his other hand resting behind your head, his body tilting on his side, resting next to you. His fingers roamed dangerous territory. “I cannot know what you want if you are silent.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you parted your mouth, sighs turning heavier the closer he crept to the centre. “Yes…yes, this is what I want…” Your skin tingled with every ghost of a touch, the butterfly brush of his fingers.

“Good…excellent.” His fingers stretched out, tugging your legs open to provide a little space, exposing your cunt before him. He made to speak, but catching the sight of something so private—so intimate—had his brain shutting down, sinking into the depths of his own sensations.

His reaction to seeing you so exposed had you biting your lip. “Joshua?” you got out, a meagre attempt to catch his attention.

Another beat and he blinked back, staring at you. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, taking one of your hands which clung to his waistcoat. “I am…ah, it is very hard to be…” he stopped himself, thumb stroking the back of your hand. “You said you wanted me to show you, yes?”

When you hurriedly nodded, he brought your hand, which he clutched still; slowly, he guided it to the apex of your thighs, stopping just before the final destination. He heard the bated breaths sputtering out of your mouth, and he snuck a glance at you, the heavy-lidded lust and nervousness, mixing rather unfortunately together.

“_____,” he said, catching your attention. “It’ll be wonderful. I promise.”

It was simple, but enough to believe him. When you offered a small smile, he took it as reassurance, and spread his hand over the back of yours, folding your ring and pinkie over his own.

Then, with a final moment of pause, he moved past the final boundary.

It was your fingers, first, that slipped past your thighs.Your breathing hitched as they teased against your entrance, skimming slowly along your slit. He collected the arousal which pooled at the apex, mouth agape from your reaction.

By God, you were soaked for him.

The very image, and the prolonging idea of what was to continue, had the man exhaling sharply. Even now, he could see in your gaze. You were so unaware of your own responses, your body’s hurried joy as it begged for your fingers—his fingers—to delve in further.

He could sense your hastiness. The urgency to thrust your fingers inside, fully delve into the origins of pleasure you read of, but your impulse had to be soothed. Recklessness only brought disaster—which you would have learned had Joshua allowed you to read the full extent of his travels.

But that would never happen, and so he had to show you himself. “Careful,” he whispered in a low hush, his own hand restricting your hold. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You looked up at him, wide-eyed and waiting for guidance. “Show me then.”

The request—and the sight of your slight helplessness—had his breeches tightening. “As you wish,” he rasped out, gaining control of your fingers once more. He raised them slightly higher, away from your arousal, which pooled further the longer he made you wait.

Your tight-roped patience was heavily rewarded as, when the pads of your fingers were led to your clit, a gasp flew out of you, completely unexpected.

There it was. The reaction Joshua waited for—did not realise he was anticipating.

The shuddered breathing, the frantic gaze, darting first to him, and then down to the intertwined fingers. He saw in your expression, the recognition of the feeling you experienced as you read his writing…there was a familiar understanding, and a strange thrill swept over his skin, goosebumps clear evidence of his anticipation. He swayed the tips of your digits over your clit, rubbing in a languid, lazy motion, and the sheer pleasure that radiated off an action so simple had you restraining a whine, clamping your lips together to resemble some form of sanity.

He observed your attempts to contain yourself—always the one to uphold a certain decorum, attain any modicum of decency. “You’re being shy…even now?” another circle of your fingers around your clit, and your mouth parted, gaping at him. “No one’s watching us…” his eyes darted to where his hand laboured at your core. “Just you and me.”

You knew that—you knew that fact, but it was as if he revealed some shocking information, the manner in which you reacted. Just you and me. You and him—and the madness that built between your legs.

This frenzy was only furthered by his guidance, the slow form of his hand quickening just a little, elation striking down your thighs. The soft moans, lodged within your throat before, bubbled to the surface of your mouth, and the leash of your restraint was thinning, cracking enough to let the sound escape. It was a pure, unadulterated incentive for him, your moans like the beginnings of an orchestra, a symphony no one had the privilege to listen to. “Yes, angel, just like that,” he murmured, a smirk as light as a feather ghosting his lips. “Don’t want you hiding anything.”

Your brows scrunched together, the focus drifting the more you two continued, progressing in a certain pace which had the strangest, most mysterious sensation creeping over you. You could not comprehend its origins, but the feeling blossomed within your core, encircling out around your cunt, slowly taking over your sanity.

He watched the whole scene, completely dumbfounded by the show he was offered. It was not as if he had never witnessed such a state before—you yourself had read the passages of his heated observations, the women in cities showing him scenes of lust in their domains.

You, however, were not trained in the art of chasing the thrill. You were not exposed to the sheer skill of igniting pleasure in another, had not seen the darker corners of what this city—what every city offered, but was never shown to ladies like you. Despite all that, there you were, circling the bundle of nerves, heightening the already tensioned spot all on your own, stuttering breaths fighting amongst broken groans.

It was what had his hold loosening on your own, your hand having no troubles figuring out the process. He gaped at your every move, your every attempt to follow what he had done, trying so ardently to match what he had begun. He needed pause, time to freeze upon this very moment. Had no one advanced within inventions enough to create something, anything to capture this image of panting beauty before him?

Because you were—you were a culmination of everything good, everything pure before him.

Now the man did not originally anticipate adding another prospect within this situation; seeing the raw delight staining your features—delight he had kindled upon your face—had him unable to keep full restraint.

You wanted to be shown what that feeling was. That evening, Joshua would show it to you.

So, as he watched you work your clit, he let his own fingers spiral downward, along the edges of your slit. “J-Joshua,” you got out, because his name was the sole term left on your tongue—the only comprehensible word which managed to stay in your mind.

“I know, angel,” was all he said, the pads of his digits swiping up your arousal, pooled further by your ministrations, his guidance. You seethed at the touches, his brushes against parts of you so sensitive already. “Feels good, does it not?”

You wished to answer him—truly, you did, but his finger slipped past your folds, sliding oh, so slowly inside you, and the heightened whine which he arose out of you had his mouth almost watering.

He knew why, of course—your reaction was a feast for his eyes. A banquet for his famished gaze, especially as he had not comprehended quite how hungry he became. He watched you squirm around him, more so when he bottomed out to the knuckle, he matching every furrow of your brow, every gasped part of your mouth with a satisfied scoff.

“You like it, don’t you?” he murmured, and before you could nod, he began to slide out. Your broken groan had him chuckling softly, igniting a bonfire within you. “Thought so…oh, I know you so—” his finger was at your entrance again, a second being teased as it stroked at your slit— “I know you so well.”

And in slithered the second finger along with the first, your eyes flying to catch the satisfaction glimmering upon his face. Oh, he was filling you to the brim, your walls pulsating around him, eliciting sounds you had never thought capable of making. He commenced a rhythm as he did with his first, pulling out to the tip, only to snake back in, always a little faster than the previous time.

It was an intoxication, unthinkable to a humble mind as yourself. You were at his complete disposal—as if he was a magical entity, and you were a mere follower, attending to his every order. You could not stray your crumbling stares from him, heightened whimpers brokering from your lips, and he could only watch.

And watch Joshua did—could not do anything else, staring at you as if you were an Olympus-sent goddess bestowed upon him for finishing a heavenly task. He had read such poetry before, frivolous verses of immature gods pursuing poor nymphs or celestial creatures. You, however, were of another dimension, a completely different world—if he was an immature god, he, too, would not be able to help himself, just as he could not at that moment.

So he carried on, mastering the progression he knew so well. The intensity down under was at an all-time high, your fingers, his fingers joining in some cruel alliance to bring about your undoing. “Look at you,” he rasped out, taking such delight from your trembling. “You are enjoying this, no?”

How could he have expected you to answer—you were a mess of whimpers before him. In the lust-haze of your mind, perhaps you thought he relished the show. You confirmed it when his lips were alight with a smirk. “I won’t lie to you, but—” he cut himself off, curling his fingers inside you, reaching a certain spot that sent you in a complete frenzy. “Fuck, I shouldn’t enjoy this so much.”

“Joshua,” you finally got out, chanting his name like a final prayer. “This feeling, th-this…God, I feel so—”

“I know, I know,” he murmured, never stopping his work, “it’ll only get better.”

And better it did, when, with the final slipping in and out of your cunt, the overwhelming feeling that plagued you since you collided your mouth with his took over, courtesy of his fingers.

It was uncontrollable, completely unsalvageable. That delirious, disordered cacophony buzzing within your core was finally freed as, with a harsh gush of breath, you finally let go. The leash of your patience snapped, and the release that overcame you was nothing you could have ever fathomed.

Joshua had told you that night in Soonyoung’s study, that this pinnacle moment would be unlike anything you had ever experienced. He was right.

Your friend could only admire your heightened, frenzied reaction as he slowed his fingers inside you, working through your release. When he saw your slow, laboured blinking, the shuddering breaths softening, he finally slipped out of you, observing the slick of his two fingers.

A small part of him wanted to suck the remnants of you off his skin—have a taste of the pleasure he kindled.

By God—he did this to you.

There was a long pause, the study silent save for your ragged exhales, before you fought to say something amongst your disarray of emotions. “I…What was that, Joshua?”

The said-man looked at you, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “That was what you wanted me to show you, angel.”

You could not believe it. “But I…what was that feeling…at the end?”

Oh. “That…” he first thought to be more implicit—beat around the bush of the topic. Then he realised his hand was stained from your arousal, and decided to be more honest. “That, _____, was an orgasm. You experience it when you pleasure yourself. The critical ecstasy…as I promised.”

The reference to his journal had you short-circuiting. “Do you experience them too?”

His mouth dropped open—realising he looked a fool, he cleared his throat, fighting to uphold your gaze. “Yes, well…if a lady can, then a gentleman cannot be robbed of it.”

Without thinking your eyes dropped to his trousers. “Are you robbing yourself of it now, though?”

It took every muscle in his body not to gawk at you outright. He could not tell you this truth for obvious reasons. At that moment, it was not about him, or his satisfaction. This entire evening was about you.

So he only smiled at you, bringing your shift down, dress bunching less as he spread it over your legs. “Don’t you worry about that,” he said. “Set your concerns on what you want to ask me next.”

“I will think on it,” you responded, mind still in a daze as you pushed yourself off the cushions. “Tell me one thing, though. That was not…you know…everything, right?”

He held back a chuckle at your question—such ignorance, even now.

Clicking his tongue, he pinned you with a stare which held opportunity—a promise for more. “We have barely touched the surface.”

YOU WONDERED HOW HUMAN BEINGS WERE CAPABLE OF SUCH EUPHORIC FEELING.

It may have felt celestial, in a sense, but it was all your senses experienced in the next fortnight. Your every secret rendezvous with Joshua had you floating among the skies, the very stars within reach with his every touch on your skin. Since the incident in his study, it was all you could ponder; your tutoring was a menial task, always forgotten, trips to the modiste now an inconvenient excursion. Your body anticipated every moment you could spend searching for your dear friend, seeking him out either in your every waking moment, or in the sanctuary of your dreams.

Your face flushed hot with the actions that occurred as you slept, fingers involuntarily brushing your lips. God, his lips, moving against yours, like two perfect hands enveloping in a fervent greeting. His mouth was a ship, and your skin was the undiscovered sea, his fingers like tidal waves, caressing the shores of your desire. He was a sailor with ambition, and you could not stop yourself, being slowly taken over by his motives.

You thought you knew him—his beliefs, each of his dreams and every one of his thoughts. You were so sure of him, so certain, but this one piece of knowledge had shattered any image of perfection you had created of him.

It took every morsel of your strength not to dunk your head completely within the water, hands gripping tighter to the copper tub in the middle of your bathroom. The water was colder now, scalding hot when you first dipped in, but the hours had ticked by, and you were still inside, ruminating over your visitor. Even your servant reminded you of the time you had spent in complete silence, writhing quietly in the same position, but you merely nodded, unable to think of anything else.

You needed more time to brace yourself, see. This morning you received the news that Viscount Hastings was to visit. Ordinary news, of course, since he had committed to seeing you at least once a week your entire life. Your dear friend admitted shame that you constantly reached out first, and sought to reverse this. Before, you would have been ecstatic by this slight change—this time, it only incited chaos.

The flannel on the side of the tub dried by the time you grabbed hold of it, intending to clean the grime of your pondering. It was irrational, you were aware, but the reflections—the visions of his lips on yours were so vivid you were sullied by the mere thought. You brought the cloth to your shoulders, your legs, and each rough swipe was replaced by the rugged brushes of his hands on your body.

But he was not there. It was only you and your lifelike anarchy, shaped in the form of Joshua. Joshua Hong, the clean-cut, spotlessly reputed gentleman, that tarnished your very manner of thinking.

Despite everything, he was still faultless in your eyes. He was, more so after you sought out his secret, most when he offered you a shilling of his wealth. He would always be, even as you heaved yourself out of your bath, let your maid change you into your evening garments, hoping that it was your friend’s fingers tying the ribbons along your back. Even as you finally greeted him, he ushering himself into your private chamber, the new reading he had promised to conquer alongside you in hand.

Even now, with him not a mere foot from you, leaning back as he read an anthology of contemporary plays, he was perfection itself. As always, he was permitted to visit you in your private rooms, settling himself comfortably in the ornate couches just opposite your four-poster bed. He hoped to show you more special-edition novels he had collected in different corners of Europe.

You had only nodded absent-mindedly at him, taking the book he offered. Before, you had never paid mind to how he sauntered into your bedroom, even allowed to explore your private sphere, reside in it without your parents’ rage. Your mother did find it strange one time, but your adamance in your friendship with him tarnished any of her concerns. How comical, you thought, that he sat there now, you knowing he had stolen the breaths from your lips—God, he had his fingers sliding in places that speaking of them shamed a woman forever.

You wondered whether he was aware of how ardently he had changed your life.

“Blake not diverting enough for you?”

Perking up at his voice, you observed his comfortable stance, turning the page of his book. “I told you Wordsworth is much better. Blake is dismal for your countenance…I cannot read him without weeping for London.”

But you did not care for the city you resided in at that moment. “What are you reading, then?”

He held the anthology out—Odes to a Love Lost, by Lord Jeon, Earl of Lonsdale. “Wonwoo’s work. His publisher’s released a collector’s edition of his poetry and plays.”

“Lord Jeon? I do not see him around much,” you admitted, closing your novel, your pointer finger marking your current page. “I did not realise he released something new.”

“On the contrary,” he said, skimming over the contents. “This is simply another edition of his older works. Even I rarely have the chance to meet him, and he is supposed to be my closest companion.”

“At the Diamond’s, right? I remember Soonyoung complaining that he does not attend much.”

Joshua clicked his tongue. “He prefers to surround himself with trees and melancholy over his friends.”

“Perhaps his certain friends are a bore,” you teased, setting Blake’s collection to the side, “and his estate animals offer better company.”

“Yet you happen to be in that certain friend’s tedious company,” he sneered, sliding his cool gaze to you. “Why have you not run from me?”

Now there was a question you could not answer. You decided, instead, to test him another way. “The real fault has to lie within the establishment itself. Perhaps if I were to see inside, find the problem—”

“It is astonishing how unwilling you are to give this up,” Joshua cut you off, marking his own reading with a finger. “You realise I refuse to let you sneak inside?”

“I still do not understand, though!” you exclaimed. “All I ask is one day of distracting your friends, and let me roam around.”

“What I do not understand is your obsession with the club,” he countered, turning to fully face you. “What do you want to see so desperately that you ask me every time it is mentioned?”

“It is the not knowing which makes me curious, Joshua!” You decided to reflect his action, even folding your legs beneath you as you sat on them, straightening before him. “I mean, a gentlemen’s club, exclusive to any women? Surely there is something interesting beneath the surface!”

“I wish I could regale you of a scandal behind the Diamond’s doors,” he sighed out. “I promise you, though, my dear, there is nothing fascinating happening.” He then pondered for a bit, as if truly wanting to amuse you. “Perhaps the most outrageous event was Soonyoung attempting to sneak in an actress a couple of years back.”

“What?!” you gasped. “He would dare incite the members’ anger?”

“Well, you know what he is like.” A scoff. “Fool was caught, of course, and by Chan, too. He threatened to reveal the whole event to Seungcheol, and only kept his mouth shut once I intervened.”

“My goodness,” you got out. “Seungcheol is a tyrant, then?”

“Not a tyrant,” he clarified, “but a stickler for the rules. Seungcheol believes in maintaining society just as it is. He cannot have anything extraordinary occurring in the foundations of the ton.”

That left a bitter taste in your mouth. “How odd.”

“Very traditional, if I do say so myself. I imagine the Diamond’s is a haven for him, as it is for anyone who resides in it.”

“Is it a haven for you?”

The man’s gaze wandered to the surroundings before him. “I guess? I mean, the gentlemen there are quite different than they are in the city. Everyone is more unguarded.”

You looked at him. “Does that mean you are guarded with me?”

His eyes were upon you at once. “What do you think, angel?”

The intensity of his stare had you faltering. “I mean…you were, no? At the ball…”

“Have I not repented enough for that sin?” He let his lips quirk upward, savouring your heated reaction. “Do you wish to witness more of my forgiveness?”

The very ruminations of his repentance had you burning up. “You have done more than enough.” You made to glance at him again. “If you are not so guarded, then I suppose you will allow me a question.”

He tilted his head, inspecting you. “You say it as if I should be guarded.”

“No, no, this is, um…” You played with the ends of your silk ribbons, trailing from your bow at the back of the dress. “This is a question that…you know, you do not have to answer, if it bothers you.”

His gaze was scrutinising. “We have done worse than whatever you have said to me in the past.”

You resisted the shiver which threatened to overcome you. “Very true.” You paused again, mulling over the question, wondering if it was appropriate—strange, when you had never recognised a sense of shame with him before. One heated night and you could barely speak to him about anything.

Furrowing your brows, you determined to change that. Before whatever you two were entrapped in at this moment, you were friends. “Well, this might sound like a disturbing question but…you know…the things that we have done…” You felt his own brow raise at your implication, and you could not help closing your eyes, almost regretting ever opening your mouth. “When was the first time you did them?”

Instantly you crumpled your face, the slight embarrassment growing and threatening to spill from your very pores. You did not gauge his reaction at the start, but you could not help yourself, allowing one eye to peek at his face. Whatever surprise he would have exposed, it was not present anymore, instead settled in a pondering expression.

“Why do you ask?” was his first question.

You were incredibly sheepish. “I guess it is curiosity? I mean, all these firsts…I am experiencing them with you, yet you have already done so with another.”

He was careful with his next inquiry. “Does that bother you?”

You shook your head. “No, but it does make me think about when it might have happened for you.” You then raised your hands in a hurried fashion. “You do not have to tell me, though! I understand that it can be private…God knows I have trifled with your privacy enough.”

Joshua mulled over your question—and how it should be answered. The sensible path would have been to agree that you had meddled enough, and that he wished to salvage the last threads of his privacy. It was already troublesome to have his journal compromised, and the consequences that came out of it…it had cost him dearly.

But as he caught sight of the open curiosity, the interest to know about him beyond their friendship…he had to admit it. It had the hairs on the back of his neck erecting at the notion, gooseflesh prickling along his arms. It had him wanting to put a voice to his haunting thoughts, reflections he had kept only to himself and the dusted pages of his journal.

“My first kiss was with a girl I cannot remember,” he began, a little hesitant, “and, I confess, was not my finest work at all. I guess that is to be expected, though, with any firsts.”

“My first kiss was lovely, though,” you blurted out without thinking, and the complacency, stained upon his features as he smirked, had your heart beating much too fast. You looked away quickly. “I mean…is it expected? For every first to be underwhelming?”

“For most? Unfortunately,” he admitted. “You were lucky, though, for you had an excellent partner to kiss.”

That only made your face hotter. “Enough about that…tell me about the women in the journal…was that the first time that you did those…things?”

Again, he chose to be honest. “No. Everything I experienced first hand was in my Oxford years, just after I turned eighteen.” He propped an elbow on the head of the couch, resting his head in his hand. “You see, my university years offered newfound freedoms. It was not all academic drawl. The boys there, well…they all partake in the debauchery. In fact, they almost laugh at you for wanting to abstain from women.”

“So you did these things to avoid humiliation?”

He shook his head. “I delved into it because I was curious.” He raised his brows. “As you are very much so before me.”

You were, but you could not hide your own embarrassment. Thankfully, you did not have to say anymore, as Joshua began to unravel his experiences one by one, from his first sneaking women from the town into his accommodation, to his first time experiencing pleasure so strikingly similar to your own. He explained to you the differences within his first times, certain awkward incidents which meant he could never meet those women again. You laughed at him for his self-sabotages, yet you internally thanked him for not directing his insults to you, who had not experienced any of his misadventures.

It was fascinating, to have this side of your dear friend revealed to you in such intimate fashion, when a few weeks ago you would not have comprehended the very notion of pleasing someone, and in turn being satisfied. To think that you would have spent your entire life in ignorance, if the man sitting in front of you had not confided in you. Your heartbeat thundered unevenly, unpredictable in its occupation to work.

More so when, as he finished his tales, you asked him one more question. “With all your exposure so far…and I understand that this is foolish, but…do you feel the same with me?” You then clarified, watching the change of his expression. “By that I mean is…whatever you feel…would it be different depending on the person?”

He observed you struggle to get the question out, undoubtedly a little embarrassed to be compared. He did not know why, but he found it endearing—to be shy with him, even after what you and him had done together—something inside him sang at the sight.

He gave into his little wish, reaching out his hand and enveloping his fingers around your wrist. “Everyone experiences it in their own way,” he responded, slowly pulling you to him. “The women I had lain with…they were vastly different to you. Do you wish to know how?”

You did not even have to say it—your eyes begged the question for your voice. He chuckled, drinking in your anticipation. “Because we, my dearest, share a friendship I have never gained with any other.”

He leaned in, a sight for your aching eyes. “What we have…no other has ever come close.”

You let out a shuddered breath, brushing against his lips. Friendship. A relation deeper than any he had created. It made your lungs constrict, your throat closing as you fought to uphold is stare. Damn him, for he made it so difficult.

Joshua made it impossible, when, with a final glance at your mouth, he followed through with his own, closing the distance with a kiss.

Instantly accepting him, you rid yourself from his hold, instead wrapping your arms around his neck as you pulled him even closer. Yes, the man before you made it impossible to escape him, make this experience a mere experiment, when he was plying your lips open, swiping his tongue along the seams, inciting a desire which lay deep within.

Even with the sense of urgency, he was gentle, languid as always as he explored the inner workings of your mouth, tasting your desperation with his tongue, aching to have him all over you without restraint. There it was again, that feeling that plagued you for weeks, refusing to give you respite. With the way softly nipped at your bottom lip with each movement, smiling slightly against you, you knew he felt it too.

It made you more frantic, almost insane as you ran your fingers through his locks, the velvet of his curls accentuating his heated touches. As he broke away from the kiss, instead peppering his lips on the corner of your own, your jaw, you sighed out his name, an indication of your glee, already hazy from his truly. “Joshua—” you whispered, feeling him go down as his mouth latched onto your neck, his legs slowly buckling as he descended to his knees.

His kisses trailed down your clothed abdomen, feeling every shift of his lips through the soft fabric of your dress. He pulled away only for a moment, hands hurryingly raising the ends of your skirts, his determined bunching of the cloth fuelling the movement of your own fingers, pulling at the sheen-like material till it bundled at your hips, you holding on. The memory of the same bunched dress flashed within your mind, the same man who did the bunching offering the same hungered stare, the unchanged desire pooling in his irises.

Seeing your cunt on full display—just as it had been the few nights he had caught glimpses, then let his fingers take their fill—had him near losing his mind.

“This…” his voice was husky, as if he had run laps around all of Mayfair. “I will never tire at the sight of you like this.” He flicked his gaze upward. “For me, at that.”

Your face burned at the words—the final comment. “You exaggerate,” you merely said, unable to look him in the eye.

He made sure you did not falter in his stare. “No, angel…I do not.”

The intense nature of his intent had you nodding weakly, doing nothing for your nerves. Because he could tell, it did wonders for his pride, the smirk teasing before now showing itself shamelessly.

Yes, looking at you all exposed—for him and him only—had the very nerves in his brain self-imploding, ceasing to work entirely. Had he not been in this position enough times to be used to the feeling? Perhaps if it were anyone else, he might have. Perhaps if he was pleasing any other stranger in some shoddy European tavern, his boredom might have conquered any prospect for excitement.

But it was you—naked from the waist down, save for those dainty silk stockings. Even the damned stockings incited a dangerous reaction from him down under, his very cock restraining in his pants. It was a dire situation, indeed, but it was not as if he could help himself. The night in the study had altered the machinations of his mind.

His hands, almost working beyond those corrupted machinations, wrapped around the back of your knees. “Your…your legs, angel,” he began, slinging them over each of his shoulders, raising you ever so slightly off the desk, resting on your shoulders. “There we go.” with this angle, he was incredibly close to your core—enough to feel his very presence not two inches from the bundle of nerves that ached to be relieved. Relief that only he could provide—just as he promised.

He knew it too. The bastard was well aware of this newfound power, when he blew softly at your core, making you hiss. “Joshua!” you breathed out, already twitching at the phantom touch. “Stop it, stop the teasing!”

“Forgive me,” he breathed out, chuckling. Even the faint huffs of laughter brushed against you, and you could have whined. “You’ll have your enjoyment.”

A fickleness inside you internally rebuked his claim, thinking he was relishing within his own enjoyment a little too much.

But then you felt his tongue sliding along your folds, and you were proven wrong in every essence of the word.

You thought nothing could surpass Joshua’s fingers inside you. You were made a fool by his tongue, exploring the edges of your cunt, a languid admirer who had all the time in the world. He was slow with his movements—slow, without any tension, as if you were an untouched artefact, and he was on the first journey of discovering you outright.

Joshua always called himself careful—a cautioned creature he was, and meticulous he will be. To rush the process would be a dishonour to you. He would rather absolve himself of any morsel of pleasure if he ruined this for you.

But there was no cause for complaint from you—the unhurried swipes of his tongue against your folds was the beginning of your satisfaction. His lapping up of your arousal, his hums of approval reverating against your core was magic, pure, ethereal power which bewitched your senses. You thought you were quick in undoing yourself with his fingers, but you feared how instantaneous your ruination would be this time, with his exploring, his teasing.

Your breaths sputtered out of you, head lolling back at the tendrils of pleasure that curled up your spine. You felt him open his mouth further, grip on your legs tightening, and he delved in further, relishing your reactions.

You foolishly thought you were handling yourself with some semblance of dignity. Then he dragged his tongue upwards, to your clit, and an obscene sound flew out of you, your eyes widening in shame as your head whipped up.

The sight of Joshua clinging onto you down under, brows furrowed as he licked your clit had your very back arching, blinking back the overwhelming desire that threatened to blanket over your mind. His focus was staggering, the grip on your legs unwavering, and you could not observe for too much longer, the feeling engulfing you from the inside. Your hands carded through his hair, needing to hold onto him, any part of him, because you were straying from your very body, and he was the only solid anchor.

His eyes then flicked up to you—by God, his damned eyes were dancing, and you felt him smile against your cunt.

You could have collapsed before him. He was enjoying this as much as you were.

Joshua could have burst with pride at your reaction, swirling his tongue along the bud. He had reckoned this would be borne from a sense of duty, a favour to you as his dearest friend. Granted, he revelled in the sparks of your desire bursting into hungry flames, but never did he think he would take this much enjoyment in your undoing.

He thought the night in his study was an anomaly. He did not realise his enjoyment would become a pattern.

At first it frightened him, the sparks of doubt creeping into his mind at the notion of his delight. Educating you was one thing, but revelling in your moans strayed from the very objective that brought about this situation. It had him thinking back on his passions peppered in every corner of Europe, leaving behind women yearning still for his return one day. Of course, his pride exceeded his successes in his journeys, but his thoughts were not plagued by these women.

Only you remained.

You, you, you, who had always been tucked into the corners of his mind, but never fully took over to this extent. Indeed, as he began to lose himself into you, he could only envision how a simple question could bring such chaos into his life—and yours.

He used to feel a little shame in bringing you in this position—he had not forgotten your wide eyes begging for salvation, and that was enough to destroy him. Now, holding tight onto your legs and licking away at your core, he felt he had crossed another boundary, another threat to his soul.

No—there were threats, and then there was pure annihilation. He was still standing—kneeling, rather, but still alive. He would be fine. Completely, utterly fine.

His ears caught the tune of your incorrigible whimpers forming words, and he would have been fine, as he so convincingly uttered.

“J-Joshua,” you moaned softly, the said-man feeling the shake in your voice—your legs. “Joshua, please, I…please.”

Please. Please. Please.

Oh, he was not fucking fine.

His one hand left your leg, two fingers instantly slipping past your thighs and plunging themselves past your folds, his tongue not pausing the entire time. A heightened gasp escaped you at the feeling, cunt pulsing along his touches, and you grasped onto his hair with a futile effort to hold onto him, salvage any sense of sanity.

But there would be no sanity for you, not when your friend was swirling his tongue with expert precision, his fingers sliding in and out faster than your mind could comprehend. He was relentless now, as if you had somehow turned a switch within his brain, and was born anew. That burdened feeling, the sensation within your gut turned heavier, and you faintly recalled how it had felt—the complete bliss of it all.

It had you pleading with him once more. “S-so close, Joshua, please—! The feeling is here again!”

He knew, of course he knew, and he made it clear, fastening his pace in every part of you he touched and tasted. Good, dearest Joshua, so damned good to you as he slithered his digits within you, curling them at the same time as he kissed your clit. As always, keeping his promise.

You could not take it anymore.

Your eyes snapped open as your release crashed through, legs shaking uncontrollably upon him as his mouth slowed his labour. Your surroundings were a blur, the only sharp feeling being the orgasm that shook through your bones, making you twitch and tremble upon him. It should have been frightening, not possessing control of your own body, but knowing that Joshua was under you, and not any other man, was enough to lose a semblance of yourself.

It should be frightening—why were you not terrified?

You felt the absence from your core, catching sight of the man as he leaned back on his knees. He was a sight for your lust-dazed eyes, hair in disarray as his hand found purchase upon your leg again, still slung onto his strong shoulders. The slow blinking back, the parted mouth…your insides could have come alive all over again.

He was so beautiful—like a fallen angel, devoted till the end of his tenure. Strange, how you made that comparison, when you were the one who was deemed as the celestial being.

It had your heart constricting painfully. “Tell me something, Joshua.”

His stare held you prisoner. “Anything, angel.”

Again, with that term. It was that very heart of yours, aching still, that spoke out. “Is it like this with everyone else?”

You felt him still beneath your skin. “I mean,” you continued, almost unable to escape from his eyes, “I just feel so…I have never felt like this before, and I think…well, I think you are the sole reason for it.”

His eyes widened a little, but that did not stop your confession, a broken dam of curiosity-laced words. “I imagine you would have this feeling in abundance, considering your…” this time, you had to look away. “Experience.”

He did not quite know what to say.

It was not as if you were wrong—he had expertise, experience he revelled in sharing with you. He did not need to remind himself of his endeavours, when he carried with them throughout his life, but at the end of the day, those were one-moment events. Singular nights of passion which ended the day they began.

But this was you. You, his closest friend, his confidante in ways his companions at the Diamond’s could not come close. You had known him longer than any other—your friendship spanned years which no one had caught up to yet. His earliest memories were of his time with you, whether that be running after each other at St. James Park in the town centre, or learning your letters together, reprimanded by the same tutor for your similar misdemeanours. The two of you had watched each other grow, become different individuals, but the friendship remained tethered from the suspicions of the ton.

Until you had stumbled upon his journal—until you had questioned the unspoken boundaries, and Joshua had let you. He could not help it, though. You were, after all, very dear to him.

He blinked back, staring at you. You were—dearer to him than he could have ever comprehended.

So he decided to be honest, uncertain of the consequences it would bring. “I have not felt like this with anyone else.”

Your heart fluttered—without restraint the feeling drifted over your skin, thumping in your chest, engulfing you whole. You did not know why. “That is…” you paused, breaths shuddering out of you. “That is very good to hear, Joshua.”

Perhaps it was the simple-enough confession—or even his name on your tongue. It had him parting his mouth, heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Truly?”

A soft nod. He felt his jaw slacken, losing semblance of his body, although he had not allowed himself to experience the release he sought out from you. Shocking, since he would have wished it from anyone else. He could not mistake the selfishness within himself—was it not the very reason he began this whole escapade with you in the first place?

But as he raised himself a little higher, eyes refusing to stray from your own, he found his hands climbing up to your face, fingers brushing against burning skin. Again, the beating of his heart raced at that. “I…” he began, faltering his words. God, when had he forgotten how to speak with you?

“Joshua?” you murmured.

He watched you a little longer. It was beyond his control when he leaned in closer, shocking you out of your body as he enveloped his lips with yours. You welcomed him without realising, moving your mouth with his own, humming at the butterfly’s touch of a kiss that you did not expect.

The man did not either. It was as if his heart took the reins of his hands, his lips. He kissed you with a burning which incited fear, strange sensations, as if he was attempting the very act of kissing for the first time. He was slow, finding more solace on your lips the longer he explored you, humming in pure, subconscious delight.

There was an addition to his offerings. There was something there that was not present in previous gatherings, when it was little more than lust, a curiosity being satiated. This was new, unexplored territory—a feeling beyond your stomach, venturing upward to the centre of your being. Your chest felt heavy, holding the weight of the city upon you, and you could not breathe at the sensation, threatening to bury you alive.

Yet you savoured the feeling. Moaned it as you opened your mouth further, confiding it within the corners of his mouth. You may have had an inkling on what this newfound progression was, but that was not the time to speak it into the silent void, not when you could not physically voice it.

He thought it was you that needed respite. How wrong he had assumed that you needed some form of recess, a moment to take all these changes in. It was him all along who stuttered in every action, hesitating needlessly when you dared to be brave, satiate your heated curiosity. It was him that stalled, his patience reigning thin.

When he finally broke away, heaving slightly from the kiss, his eyes darted over you, restless in their journey, unable to fully immerse himself in all of you. You overwhelmed him, your every move, your every flicker that gazed upon him with such gratification. It was as if you could not hide how happy he made you, even from the most insignificant things.

It made him shiver at the notion—more so when he felt himself feeling the exact same.

Slowly, he pulled away, hands which had gripped your face before now falling to your shoulders. “I…I must leave you,” he declared softly, taking a step back. “Forgive me, I did not realise where we were…your chamber, of all places…”

“It is alright, Joshua,” you assured him, cancelling out his step with your own. “What matters is I enjoyed it.” You watched him. “Did you…not?”

He became absent-minded, removed from your question. “I did…very much…” He willed his hands at his sides, the absence of your silk, your skin, itching on his fingers. “That is why I must go.”

And as he began to leave, turning on his heel, you watched, a sudden flurry of emotions that refused to be silenced any longer. Without realising you reached your hand out, grabbing onto his wrist, and he stopped, eyes instantly resting on the hold.

You looked at him. What you wanted to say was that you had something to tell him, something important—something which had grown inside of you, a feeling which he himself had nurtured. You wanted to tell him then and there, after his confession.

You then caught onto his expression—a certain dread inhabited his beautiful features, and its exposure was so pungent you could only whisper, “Are you alright, Joshua?”

He released a sharp breath at the question, caught off guard. Only after a moment did he bring his other hand upon your interlocked fingers—the touch made him almost flinch. “I am…trust me, _____.”

And then he released your hold upon him, finally turning his back on you as he hurried out of your chambers.

You watched his disappeared figure, the absence as you flexed and unflexed your hand, the sensation fluttering all around you.

And as your own dread was born, slowly beginning to creep over, you had a gnawing realisation that you could not answer his plea of trust.

YOU DID NOT KNOW WHETHER YOU WERE IGNORING JOSHUA, OR HE WAS IGNORING YOU.

An agonising couple of weeks had passed since the evening in your chambers, and the frustrations of your newfound feelings were tugging at you more than you had imagined. Before, when the very thought of Joshua’s absence had you biting your nails to mere stumps, you almost thanked him for disappearing. The very last person you wished to see was him.

Or so you kept declaring to yourself. What was the universal truth was that you had something of great importance to convey to your best friend, but you could not take him away from you. It was a fact which you denied every waking moment it confronted you, and the more you kept it hidden, the more it begged to be set free.

Reading Whistledown was enough to confirm your suspicions—Joshua Hong was avoiding all of society, and because you were already anxious, the news only heightened the tension. When will you create the opportunity to speak to him? Would you both be punished with distance and infinite discomfort for the rest of your lives?

You pondered over it further as you stewed in your anxiety in your drawing room, waving away the concerns of your maids, even narrowly avoiding your mother’s skepticism. Perhaps you would have spent another seven days wallowing within yourself when a servant informed you of an unexpected visitor. You jumped up from your seat, anticipating the very man who had been haunting your thoughts. Soonyoung’s face appeared from the door and your hopeful smile dropped, dimmed down.

“I saw that!” he remarked, nodding his head to the servant, an implicit order to not disturb the two. As the latter closed the door behind him, he turned to you, an image of grandeur in his black and gold attire, raven-coloured coat folded in one arm. “At least make an honest attempt at pretending.”

“Forgive me,” you mumbled, frowning. “I was expecting someone else.”

“I might have a name for that someone else.” He wished to pass further judgement, but then he caught the look on your face. “Oh God, jest gone too far?”

When you did not respond to him, he hurried over to you, a man with a purpose. “Dearest, why the long face? Has Joshua done something?”

His name had you perking up. “Why did you mention him?” you asked, instantly straightening yourself, eyes a little frantic. “Why do you think he has done something?”

Soonyoung noticed the sudden change, quirking a brow. “If I did not think it before, I certainly do now.” He saw you further slumping your shoulders. “_____, tell me.”

“It is nothing,” you said, waving him off as you settled upon the ornate couch. “I just…I have heard nothing from him for a while.”

“Is that so?” his hands fisted on his hips. “I have seen enough of him at the Diamond’s.”

You did not know why that statement shocked you.Your friend noticed instantly. “Oh no…it all makes sense now.”

“What do you mean?” You watched him sit himself down next to you, frowning as he thought over the situation. “Has he said something?”

“Not what he has said, but what he has abstained from saying.” He looked at the luxurious paintings plastered on your drawing room walls. “I did find it rather strange that he has almost set up camp in the member lodgings. I commented on his staying there so long, even asked him if anything troubled him, but he did not confide in me.” He then glanced at you. “When I asked, though, whether he had quarrelled with you, it was as if I told him I gambled away his estates.”

“What?” you shuffled closer to the man, hanging onto his account. “At my mention?”

He nodded, huffing. “Can you believe he then ignored me for the rest of the day? You would think I insulted his mother.”

No—but he certainly insulted you. A sudden hurtful streak crossed through your heart, and you had to stop yourself from thinking about it too much. You wanted to say something, but even the thought of uttering a word had your eyes stinging.

One harsh sigh from you, and Soonyoung turned to you, irritation for his friend morphing into concern. “My dear, you are hiding something from me,” he said, reaching out to hold your shoulders, turning to face him. “Is everything okay?”

Catching the genuine worry on your friend’s face had your face crumpling, just a bit. “Oh no, _____,” he said, frowning, leaning in closer, “now you have to confess your worries. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Well, you could not—that was what you and Joshua had established. With your friend asking you this close, inquiring after yourself, the cause for your sadness, however, you could not hide it anymore. What you were going to say was that you had done something wrong. What you were meant to admit was that you and Joshua had committed actions which would have shocked polite society, perhaps changing his opinion of you two forevermore.

What came out of your mouth instead shocked even yourself. “I think I have feelings for Joshua.”

There was silence—then there was the silence Soonyoung partook in, which could have put normal silence to shame.

You dared not look him in the eye. Because of Soonyoung’s quiet discomfort, you found yourself speaking out, saying more than you wished to. You began from the moment in the study, when you first found Joshua’s writings, to the moments of passion the two of you had carried out together. You did not try to omit any detail of what you had done with him—perhaps a childish mistake, but you were not thinking, really. If your friend’s vault of silence was firm, your own had broken down, confession upon confession slipping out of you of your dearest companion’s teachings, how you indulged in them…the feelings of something more slipping between the haze of lust.

Bless the man sitting beside you, because he hung onto every word, reacting to every morsel of information you fed him. It was as if he was reading a scandalous journal of your findings, hand flying to his mouth at one point when you told him of Joshua’s slight confession. That was when he broke the dam of his silence. “Joshua Hong said this to you?”

“The very same,” you said, locking and unlocking your hands. “He said he did not feel it with anyone else.”

A harsh sigh escaped him. “I see,” he muttered, facing forward. “Firstly, I must thank you for confiding in me. I understand why you two kept these encounters a secret, so you have my gratitude for sharing it.” He then twisted his lips, eyes fogging, as if lost in thought. You observed the slight change of expression, anticipating his next question. “I must inquire after one more detail, though, my dear, and I fear it is rather unseemly.”

“Nothing is scandalous to me after what I have confessed,” you assured him, shuffling closer to him, holding onto his arm. “Ask away.”

He looked down at your hand, gripping onto his decorated sleeve. “Did you and Joshua go all the way?”

You halted for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“It is important because I know what he is like,” he reasoned. “Joshua, he…when we travelled around the continent, we all indulged in…well, you know what we did, if you have read the full extent of his journals. Out of us members, he is a man who favours experience and participation to truly enjoy the moments he resides in…do you understand?”

When you shook your head, he bit his lip, trying for another explanation. “You see, there are certain out of us who become attached to the experiences we encounter, thus garnering emotional importance…Joshua will murder me for this, but when we were travelling together, he did not become emotionally attached to anyone he met. It was what allowed him to engage in such…licentious behaviour, record it as if he were conducting an experiment, and not having an incredibly intimate moment.”

He looked at you, tilting his head as he pondered over the entire situation. “What I am trying to say is that I expected him to show you the full extent of what occurred between two people. Why has he stopped after the last encounter? What changed then?”

What changed? You knew what changed for you, but you were not sure if your best friend experienced the same shift. God, you wanted him to, but his absence, and consequent silence, did not prove your willful theory. “I do not know,” you could only offer, frowning. “I just…I wish I could simply ask him.”

Soonyoung hummed in agreement. He then perked his head up, furrowing his brows. “Well, you could ask him.”

You looked at him as if he went mad. “You told me yourself that he is at the Diamond’s.”

“Yes, he is,” he confirmed, slowly rising from his seat, “So why not ask him yourself?”

“Because as I said about three seconds ago, he is at the Diamond’s.” You scowled, crossing your arms. “And you know well of the rules on ladies being seen there.”

As he straightened fully to his feet, fixing his waistcoat, he looked at you, a small smirk rising to the surface of his mouth. “Since when have I cared about rules, _____?”

You stared at his hand, outstretching before you.Truer words had not been spoken—Kwon Soonyoung did not believe in restraint and order. Chaos was his favourite aspect of life, and spent all his hours chasing it, welcoming it. “What if he does not want to see me?” you asked, barely a body to that question.

He only smiled. “We will never know if we do not find out, right?”

And although it was a mere amount, it was still hope.

With that, your fingers slipped into his own, and he brought you to your feet. He squeezed your hand, never letting go. “Let us confront this coward.”

THE DIAMOND CLUB OF MAYFAIR MADE NO SHOW OF HIDING ITS SPLENDOUR TO ONLOOKERS.

You observed the row of white, terraced houses, columns inspired from the classical period towering above you. Old, Georgian-style bow windows curved out from the white stone, the sheer glass reflecting the slowly dying sunlight of the evening. Black iron fences rimmed around the estate, one small opening revealing a large black door, lampposts of the same colour bordering its frames.

Soonyoung caught up after closing the carriage door behind you, following after your line of sight. “You gawk at it as if you have never seen the building before,” he remarked, amused by your admiration.

“I know, but the idea of actually entering the club this time…” you fought to repress a shiver. “Are you certain of bringing me here? What will your friends say?”

“You need not worry so much, my dear.” He made to walk, tugging you along with him. “If it helps your nerves, the majority left their lodgings to watch a play at the Globe tonight. Joshua and I were the sole members who declined.”

“A play at the Globe?” Your tone turned sheepish. “Oh, forgive me, Soonyoung, I know how much you love your theatre.”

“Save your apologies,” he reassured you, strolling up to the door as he nodded at the footman, slipping a few shillings. “I had more important business tonight than seeing Romeo and Juliet kill themselves over a five-day fancy.”

“Goodness! Perhaps the rival families should have turned to you,” you crowed, nodding in acknowledgement to the servant, hanging tight to your friend, “with the way you butchered their children’s romance.”

“Be satisfied that I am not intent on butchering your chance for romance,” he tutted, bringing you inside, ushering for the front door to be shut.

He was merely teasing, but you were not amused. You had not thought of the possibilities of a romance. You wanted it, though. You wanted it to the point that your soul ached at the prospect of it, especially when you allowed yourself a sliver of its image with the man you wanted it with.

But you were not certain of his feelings, so that image, too, vanished, along with any of the hilarity Soonyoung brought.

“He should be in his quarters,” he commented, turning to the right, and then another through the long-winded hallways, decorated lavishly with paintings of classical depictions, as well as portraits of past members. It was still a fairly new club, but the fathers of the current membership were held in great esteem in oiled artwork, observing with curt gazes at the passersby. You wondered whether they noticed a very visible outsider trespassing their borders.

Unsurprisingly, Soonyoung cared little for the judgments of those long gone, so he only steered you further into the secondary living quarters of his companions. Finally, he stopped before a mahogany door, silence curtaining the halls once your low-heeled footsteps came to a stop.

A determined fist knocked at the door. The answer was swift, cutthroat.

“Leave me be, Soonyoung.”

Your heart began to sink, but your friend refused to accept defeat. “You need to come out. I have a guest with me.”

There was a pause at the door, the silence eating you alive. Then, a muted shuffle pulled through, and suddenly his footsteps were right behind the door, and you only had a second to brace yourself when the door swung open.

You were welcomed by none other than the man who had haunted your livelihood for weeks.

Joshua meant to glare at the younger man for disturbing his peace temporarily. He then realised you were in front of him, then corrected himself immediately.

You alone had disturbed his peace—perhaps forever.

You could see it in his countenance—the ruffled hair, as if restless hands had raked through the locks. The one untucked collar of his loose undershirt, fingers stained with ink. Even his eyes were wild, as if he had gazed upon a wildfire. Well, you were akin to a natural disaster to him—a tamper on his very senses.

Time passed between you two, the silence loud enough to deafen any onlookers. It was little wonder when Soonyoung, as he observed you two, mouth agape, had no regret in breaking it. “You really were not lying, were you?”

Your best friend darted his agitated gaze towards him. “What are you talking about?”

You decided to carry out your path of honesty. “I told him everything.”

It was chilling, watching the very colour from his face vanish into the thick air of this atmosphere. “You did…what?”

Soonyoung attempted an excuse. “Now you know I would not tell a soul, Joshua—”

“Leave us.”

The order cut through any hurried explanations, killing them clean. It seemed as if Soonyoung wanted to speak out, say something more, but you reached for his arm, nodding. He looked at you, concerned for a moment, but then he took a step back, watching the tense scene before him with caution. “You both take your time. The others will not be returning for a while.” He then locked his gaze at the man who you sought out. “Do not think about running away this time.”

Joshua could not provide a cutting response, only watching him exit the dimmed hallways. Only when he was certain that he had disappeared that he finally focused on you. You gaped at him as he parted his mouth, bracing yourself for the chiding, the scolding for daring to venture in a place he had so vehemently prohibited.

But nothing came out. He knitted his brows together, trying to find the words, but then he sighed, closing his eyes. His hand rested on the doorframe, leaning his weight against the creaking wood.

You tried to speak for him. “Joshua…”

Perhaps his name on your lips was the trigger—maybe your very voice awaking him. One second his hand was on the doorframe, the next it was upon your wrist, one glance at the empty hallway before he pulled you inside his chamber, shutting the door behind him.

His lodgings at the club were grand, but a certain chaos had stained the certain order you were sure he would have maintained in his private sphere. His desk was littered with books and papers, longcoats and other layers dumped upon chairs and side tables. His walls were the softest of whites, but his internal havoc had spilled onto the surfaces of his four walls, sullying the very light of this room. It was clear to anyone that Joshua had hid himself away, seething alone.

He whirled around as he stopped you both at the centre. His eyes were interrogating your every fidget, every movement out of place. You reckoned he would chide you for daring to venture in the Diamond’s, but something else came out entirely.

“You told him about what we did?”

You immediately resorted to defending yourself. “You shunned me, Joshua. What else did you expect me to do?” A look over your shoulder, as if Soonyoung would be there, watching the entire scene. “You said so yourself, did you not, that he would be trusted with this secret?”

“I did say that, but we still agreed to keep this between us,” he countered, not backing down. “I warned you of his insolence, and look what has come of you ignoring it. He brought you here, of all damned places!”

“He may be brazen, but he is not stupid!” You wrenched your wrist from his tightening grip. “He knew that you were avoiding me, so he did the one thing that would catch your attention.”

“Well, he should not have done it anyway,” he rebuked, “and you should not have told him. We had an agreement.”

“A little difficult to uphold an agreement with an individual when he ignores me outright!” you exclaimed. “Besides, he told me some very insightful information on your current state.”

“Is that so?” He was sneering now, attempting to incite your anger. “And what did you learn from his infinite wisdom?”

Oh, he was succeeding without effort. “He said you never restrained yourself on the Continent. Said you flaunted your rakish behaviour, and that it was strange to see it be different with me.” You gritted out the last sentence, an awful taste in your mouth as you released it. “Am I so distasteful to you, Joshua?”

Perhaps it soured his own tongue too to hear it. “You know that is not what I thought of you,” he refuted. He then sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his parted mouth. “_____, you have read of my…behaviour in the Continent. The ladies I carried out such actions with were different. Different from you.”

“Different,” you parroted, mocking him. “You keep using this word…as if you wish to separate me from you. I hate it when you do that.”

“You are different,” he guttered, and his voice cracked straight through your skin. “You are my dearest friend, and I was treating you like every woman I had ever laid with! I had to deny myself certain liberties!”

“Stop punishing yourself, Joshua!” you screamed. “Stop blaming yourself for inciting my feelings! Stop being so selfless!”

“Enough!” he thundered out, and you blinked back at his sudden hysteria. “I cannot take this image of benevolence you have created of me anymore. It is not true, and I cannot stand this pretense anymore. I cannot…will not accept the notion that only I have done something to you.”

You furrowed your brows, fisting your hands at your sides. “What have I done to you?”

“You…!” He was breathing hard—uneven. “You have tampered with my senses, when I was content with myself! You think I have sparked a few embers inside you, but you…damn you, you have set my very soul on fire! I cannot think, cannot see straight! Look at the state of my surroundings!” His hands were frantic as they waved at the disorder of his chamber. “This is what has become of me after all we have done.”

You gaped at him, the words that spilled from his mouth with no intention to stop. “You asked for forgiveness once, had you not? When we first kissed, you chastised me for apologising for our actions…I fear I have to ask for forgiveness again, because you may not think I am doing anything wrong, but I am.”

A scoff escaped him. “Selfless…you called me selfless? You are wrong. Ask me why you are foolish for believing better of me.”

Your solitary question was barely a whisper. “Why?”

His stare had locked you into a trance. “Because what I do for you is not for you. Well, it was at the start, in that I speak the truth, but…that day when I touched you, tasted you…I felt any pretense of kindness vanishing the moment I saw you glowing from my efforts.” His breaths were bated, as if savouring each gulp the universe offered—as if his time was finite.

“My desire for you, angel, my longing for you…it has awakened something in me, a feeling which is stronger than our friendship.”

That had you sucking in a breath. “You cannot mean that.”

His aching scowl stained the beauty of his features. “I wish I did not. I…I tried to fight it, truly I did. Why do you think I avoided meeting you? I was ashamed to face you. Knowing your wishes to maintain a bond deeper than anyone else, yet I am hell-bent on sullying it with my desire.”

A pause again, and you felt your heartbeat thunder in your ears, like a church bell ringing over a grave announcement. “I admit our first affair was selfless…an act to satiate your curiosity. I do not, however, see these as acts of mere kindness anymore. Even if you see it as such, I do not act out of kindness. It is an impure, selfish want.”

He finally sighed, and you thought he would have collapsed on the carpeted floor had he not been looking at you all this time. You felt the ground swaying beneath your feet too, taking in the confession, everything he had dared to tell you.

Desire. Longing. An impure, selfish want. Something curled in your insides, and you recognised the feeling immediately—a sensation only your dearest friend ignited from you.

My longing for you has awakened something in me, a feeling which is stronger than our friendship. Ah yes. A desire which had overtaken possibly your most earnest relationship with anyone around you. You expected some form of devastation over his words, but you felt the strangest relief wash over you.

You were not insane. You, who had been feeling the same, shaming yourself for your lust, crept over like a predator on the hunt, only to find he had shared in the feeling all this time.

Seeing the realisations churning on your face had him taking a step back, fingers aching to reach out. “Forgive me,” he said, and there was genuine guilt residing upon his features. “I did not mean to burden you with my words. I just…Soonyoung was right. I may have been selfish, but I could not go all the way.”

He was a picture of devastation. “You should do it with someone you cherish deeply. We can do it if you so wish, but I could not…not when you do not feel the way I feel.” He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing. “So I pray you forgive me, _____.”

Apologies once again…just like the first time. Except there were no boundaries this time around—no, he had finally crossed them, torn them down, with you solely remaining. He had confided to you of his desire. You had witnessed the pure, unadulterated yearning swimming helplessly in his gaze, begging to be saved.

Perhaps it was your turn, now, to be honest. No more secrets. “You cannot say that, Joshua, because it is not true.”

He stopped—you saw his very soul slip away from his eyes. You did not let him question you, continuing, “You thought you were the only one experiencing a change? You are wrong for that, Joshua. How could you have expected me to maintain a pretense of normality when you had shown me things I thought were…God.” You cursed, a soft whisper, and he caught it on your lips, darting between your mouth and your gaze. “You say you burdened me with your feelings but you are wrong.”

You took a step towards him. “You have relieved me of my own burden.”

He was a ghost, haunted by your implications. “What…what do you mean?”

But he knew, of course he knew what you were about to say—another step forward. “You said I should go all the way with someone I cherish, did you not?” One more step, and he was before you, looking at you as if you were destruction and salvation, wrapped into one, dangerous promise. “Then I will confess there is someone I hold very dear.”

The man was hanging onto your every word. “Is that so?” he whispered, husky from the anticipation.

“Yes.” You scoured his face, drinking in his curiosity, his impatience to hear your confession. “There is someone I wish to cross the final boundary with, but I was unsure at first whether he felt the same way.” It made you so giddy—you were once the image of anticipation, and now the ornate, pretending tables had turned. “You see, I had always stated so clearly what I felt, yet he did not say so himself, hiding his feelings from me.”

His explanation flew out of his lips without revision. “He did not mean to…he was afraid that you would never reciprocate what he…” his sigh was slight, yet it washed over you like a tidal wave. “What he felt so strongly.”

“Well,” you said, raising your hand. Your fingers brushed along his cheek, sliding to hold his face. His skin was warm, to your delight. “He should not hide it anymore. Not to me, at least.”

Joshua, in response, leaned into your palm, eyes heavy-lidded—raptured towards you. “You have always been dear to me, _____. Now, I stand before you, asking you to be dearer still.”

Your face crumpled at the words—the sight of your best friend and his request. There could only be one answer.

But you did not respond with words. No, your answer came in colliding your lips against his, finally catching him off guard.

His pained moan, ecstatic with relief, reverated off your lips, his hands clutching you, demanding respite from the weeks spent without touching you. Demanded, because Joshua had never ventured this close to you with such misery, never angled his head in such a way with you, bearing his soul to you in a state of anguish. You felt it all, and welcomed it so ardently you wondered how you had survived without him upon you this entire time.

Every single heated kiss he left in his trail, every ounce of longing unweighted at each stretch of unattended skin. He missed nothing, pouncing and pressing his lips where your skin sang at him to hearken near, and he was forever the pinnacle of obedience, fulfilling your wishes—his wishes. You understood nothing else, solely the warpath of his mouth, which set you ablaze as it pushed you back, spiralling you towards his desk.

“God—!” he could barely rasp out between his passion, descending upon your neck—“To think, I—” He was unable to finish, useless, time-consuming words devouring his chances to pounce upon you. Your skirts bunched at the back as they hit the rim of the desk, and your hands grabbed onto the sides for purchase, any sense of stability, but your hands were knocking off glasses, books without realising.

“Damned books,” he cursed, low and desperate, pulling away only to throw away whatever object dared to settle on the table, clattering to the floor in a mess, and you would have made a point of it had he not then grabbed onto your waist, hoisting you upon its polished wooden surface. “Still haunting me even now?”

“Books brought us to this—ah, situation—!” you could barely reason, his mouth back upon your throat, teething kisses upon your collarbone till he descended before you, holding loosely onto your sides. Quickly catching on, you barely contained your excitement as your own hands hitched your skirts up, gathering as much fabric as you could in your shaking hold.

It took mere seconds for you to uncover yourself before him, and the reminisces of each time he had been in this very position flashed before his hungering vision. You saw it, too, and the deep, dark curling inside your gut threatened to show itself.

He stared at your core, the slight sheen along your slit a recognition of his work. He glanced at you, fingers trailing down to your thighs. “You say the word, angel,” he whispered, “and we will stop. I follow only your will.”

That alone had you shaking your head. “My will, is it?” you asked, spreading your legs wider. “What if my will demands you never stop?”

The slight curl of his lips could have set you ablaze—truly. “I follow,” he began, leaning in, pressing a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, “only your will.”

He was a devout follower indeed—his first touches along your slit was enough for you to believe in him.

Your body reminded, you sighed at the familiar sensation, his tongue immediately licking up the arousal, present only for him to enjoy. He had worked wonders beyond your imagination the last time, but beforehand, there was all the time in the world for his endeavours. There was a task at hand, an expectation he had to uphold for you. There was a need to impress, a pressure which would not have been eased if you were unsatisfied.

This time was different. Joshua knew then, face buried within you, swirling his tongue, teasing, inciting you out of yourself, that he did not fall to his knees to merely impress you. This time, in the chaos of his lodgings, he fell to his knees to worship you. And his worship came in the form of his tongue swirling around your clit, languid as he commenced, eliciting sounds that had never touched the back of your throat, the tip of your tongue.

He was following your every internal command, every silent plea to keep going, never stop even if the Diamond’s men were to catch you—hell, Lady Whistledown herself would discover you both, and still you would never want this to end. He was so good, so relentless in his desire to please you. He sucked on the bud, tongue slipping through for added pleasure, and you thought you would die.

Your thoughts turned into certainty when he slid two fingers inside of you, and your stuttered moans was approval enough. “Joshua!” you gasped out, because his name was the only word that mattered, the only term able to grapple your desperation. Your core was filled with his digits, working in and out in a steady rhythm, feeling you out before increasing his pace. It was a miracle how he took not a single break in between, but you were the one gasping for breath.

Soon enough, you felt it—the all-too familiar sensation, curling at the small of your back, spreading slowly through your body the faster Joshua worked upon you. He had always deemed you goodness, purity incarnate, but he was the angel, venerating you in a way no religious believer could attain to. “J-Joshua, wait—” you began, your thighs constricting, the feeling creeping closer, dangerously close— “Wait, the feeling, it’s coming back—!”

But then his free hand, gripping your leg to keep you steady, squeezed in response—as if he knew. His rhythm increased again, mercilessly perfect to you, and you were certain the desk would shatter from the sheer might of Joshua’s efforts. Perhaps you would have cared in some faraway place, away from the chaos that reigned within this room. Here, with him under you, kneeling, pleasing you, you lost any will to care about consequences.

So, as the perfect gentleman sucked on your clit one last time, pumping his fingers inside you, you damned about caring and let yourself go.

With a whoosh of sharp breaths you orgasmed, thighs shaking without control, and you held onto his hair, uncaring if his locks ripped away in your hand. He slowed his ministrations, helping you through your release, relishing you undoing yourself on his fingers. If you were among the clouds, then he was dancing among the stars, watching you climax because of him.

Never did he think he would ever get used to you like this. His twisted admiration brought about his next action—he slithered out of you, and, as you looked down, lust-struck anyway, watched as he brought his slick fingers to his mouth, sucking away at the remnants.

Your stomach fluttered at the sigh. “God…” you got out, the victorious glint of his gaze turning your insides on themselves.

He clicked his tongue, slowly shaking his head as he ascended, eyes locked to yours. “Share a little admiration for me too, angel,” he whispered.

Whatever you felt for him, though, was no mere admiration.

You made sure he realised when you decided to share what he asked for, pressing your lips against his, your desire—shockingly—creeping back into your skin, seeping deeper until it infected your blood. How could it be so? Was not one wave of release enough to satiate you? Was there room for more?

You asked him yourself as you broke away, blinking back heavily as he stared at you, mouth parted, hands roaming. “There is more…is there not? We…this is not the end, right?”

His smile was enough—still, he made sure to tell you, as, swivelling you around, his fingers found the bows, untying your lace upon your everyday gown. His voice entered your mind, his mouth encircling just under your ear. “Oh, we are just getting started,” he whispered, making you shiver.

The tugging and pulling paid off for him, your dress loosening around your shoulders, your waist. As the outer layers fell to the floor, he then worked on the corset, patient as ever as he untied the tight laces at the back, all the while your impatience causing you to peel away at your petticoats. It did not help either that his lips were brushing against your neck, planting baby kisses upon your warming skin.

It was Joshua’s slow, steady nature that won when the corset fell apart too, and he turned you around, drinking you in—an unforgettable image of you in a mere chemise. Nothing was left to his imaginations, his dreams. An easy, uncontrollable fuck escaped his mouth, and it was at that point he then worked on himself. His undershirt was already in disarray, but when you sensed the slight shake in his fingers, unbuttoning with slight ineptitude as he focused on you still, your hands undid the rest of the buttons for him.

The moment his shirt was off, discarded on the floor, it was your turn—perhaps you would have spent an eternity simply staring at the lean figure that greeted you, but your fingers were powered more by curiosity than your eyes. You reached out, feeling his abdomen tighten at your touch, then relaxing instantly as you wandered across his skin. He let you explore, pulling you closer with his own hands, the distance bothering him. He did not want distance—not tonight.

Nor did you—you found his lips again, snuffing out any space, and so Joshua resorted to ridding himself of any more boundaries. Your chemise was an easy barrier to overcome, sliding it from your shoulders with ease, and it was a flurry of unadorning any piece of clothing left on you, him leading you to the four-poster bed at the end of his chamber.

As the back of your knees hit the edge, he swept you in his arms, a soft breath whooshing out of you as he set you gently upon his sheets. He swept his gaze over you, bare under him, and he realised why greed was a carnal sin. “God,” he got out, fingers absentmindedly working on his trousers, peeling away his only barrier from his legs, discarding it amongst the rest of your underthings.

When your eyes fell on Joshua’s cock, your mouth parted at its sight.

Sheer bewilderment threatened to engulf you whole. The curiosity that had been prevalent thus far was flaring up, at its highest peak since he had ignited it. Never before had you seen something like it, and you had a sneaking instinct to reach out and touch the head, already slightly darkened by the tension which refused to be released.

He could tell instantly. “You can touch it, angel,” he offered, though when you caught the slight tinge of blush upon his cheeks, your surprised giggling had him frowning. “I said touch, not laugh.”

“Forgive me,” you said, shuffling closer to him, “I did not expect you to be shy, that is all.”

He did not either—but the way you admired his cock before him was a sight too overwhelming, even for a man of his experience. He was going to say as much, but then your hand reached out, a finger stroking the head, and he hissed in a breath, brows furrowing instantly.

You furrowed your brows at it. “Does it hurt?” you asked, genuinely curious—concerned.

It had him chuckling, grabbing hold of his cock in one hand. “Quite the opposite,” he said, spreading your legs apart with a knee, placing himself between you as you wrapped your arms around him. “And it’ll only get better.”

Levelling his tip against your folds, you shifted your hips a little, blinking up at him. “Will it hurt for me?” you asked.

He looked down, his midnight curls falling over you, nearly caressing your forehead. “A little,” he confessed softly, “but I promise to be gentle.” When there was still a little hesitation, he brushed his nose against yours. “You trust me, right?”

You nodded—in that you were certain. He reflected it mildly, almost as if acknowledging the approval within himself. His gaze fell downwards, and he exhaled unevenly.

The moment he slid inside, you felt the world shift underneath you.

The bed became a raft of feathers and silk sheets, lost in a sea of your desire, straying with every inch the man descended within you. Your walls clenched at the new addition, at first unadjusted—Joshua was gradual, agonisingly slow, heightened in his focus to ease any discomfort. The further he slid the harder your breathing shuddered, a slight foolish fear that you would crumble under him. Your face was a distortion of clenched brows, clamped lips, which one point parted with a whine, and all he could do was watch the whirlwind of emotions.

Only once he bottomed out he exhaled sharply, observing you as his hand on your hip was fully secured. “You’re doing good for me, angel,” he whispered, and that was enough for the hairs at the back of your neck to stand on edge. He circled smooth strokes upon your hip with his thumb, waiting until you nodded—the last confirmation he needed.

With that, he began to pull out.

He wanted to watch his cock slowly slide out of you, but he heard your whimper and instantly set his eyes upon you. He could have cursed himself for nearly missing the sight of you, and he nearly made a mess of his languid movements out of sheer excitement.

You thought that his fingers would be enough. Foolishly, like a novice, you figured his tongue would gratify the carnal vessel inside you, but now he was inside you, and the fullness of his cock was so pleasurable you were scared nothing would ever surpass this feeling. He slithered out to the point of his tip barely inside your folds once more, and you were almost disappointed that it was finished, and that no more can be done. You were wishing for the feeling to ignite your insides once more, anything for your dearest friend to push himself within you again.

And he could see it—all of your wishes, your desires, etched onto your beautiful features like a mosaic of your confessions. He would listen—he would please.

He descended again, and with delightful surprise you found he had increased the pace ever so slightly, the languid nature of his movements melting the longer he gazed at you with fire in his eyes. The motion had you gasping, holding onto him tighter than his grip upon you. This time, as he pulled out, you ached to follow after his movements, chase after him, keep his length inside you.

The two of you established a steady rhythm, bodies syncing along to the heated movements between you and him. It was like a romantic hymn, the manner in which your bodies moulded together, in such physical perfection you wondered why you had not begged him to get you into bed with him sooner. It would have pained you, that so much time had been wasted in demure whispers and faux pretenses of courtship, when you could have spent such precious hours carding through his raven locks as you did now, matting with the sweat of his increasing labour.

“Joshua, I—!” you wished to tell him that you felt out of this world, paralysed in ecstasy over his actions, but he swooped down to teeth lovebites upon your neck, your collarbone, anywhere his hazed-vision would allow him. He trailed down till he found your breasts, and the feeling of his tongue licking away at your nipple was so extraordinary your moans were your only response. He was not close enough to you, even with his cock inside you, and he needed to be closer—skin to skin until the very oxygen that left him in shuddered exhales had no escape.

“Tell me,” he began, sweet as honey, as desperate as a sinner. “Tell me how you feel.”

But how could you tell him, when his every kiss, peppering along your chin now, dangerously close to your own lips, robbed you of any sense of response? “I feel…I—oh!” you gasped, when Joshua hit a certain spot inside you which stripped you of your speech. You blinked hurriedly at the sensation, and the moan that ripped from your mouth had him smirking like a madman. “Joshua!”

“Go on,” he rasped, slipping out, only to thrust back in, never quite pausing. “I’m waiting.”

Bastard. The worst of his kind, when he knew you could not say a thing. Still, you tried—attempted to convey yourself. “Good, so—ah, so good, Joshua—”

“Look at you,” he sighed out, another powerful thrust inside which had your groaning unutterable. “To look this…this exquisite when taking me—”

His words, his actions, all wrapped in one—it was becoming too much. You felt it, that sensation, the dark curling within your core that undid and remade you in seconds. “J-Joshua, wait, I think I’m close,” you panted, gripping onto his arms, anything to not stray from him, this bed which you feared you would lose yourself in.

Perhaps you would have said more, but then he brought his fingers to your clit, beginning to circle erratically at the bud, and the noise that came out of you was so shameful your first instinct was to gape at him in horror. His delight, however, had any embarrassment immediately disappearing.

He, too, felt closer to bliss than ever before. Ironic in a sense, that what they committed was celestially sinful, yet there was nothing more religious to him than you undoing yourself under him, with him inside you. The sounds of your pleasure, each sigh and whimper that greeted his ears like the music of the gods approving his efforts. He never considered himself a particularly faithful believer—but in this Diamond’s chamber, seeing you driven to such ecstasy had him believing that religion is not given, but sought after.

So that is what he did—sought after what he believed in within you.

“You’re too good to me angel,” he breathed into your ear, fingers on your clit circling faster and faster. “Taking my…fuck, my cock so well—!”

His focus would have faded in any other time, losing himself in you, your moans and broken prayers for him—God, he wanted to be selfish, just as he had warned you in this very room. How could he, though, when you—begging for him, and not for an exterior force—were so unbelievably ethereal he wondered why sinners ever repented.

Even though your pleas were enough to make him eternally satisfied, his selfishness, this carnal sin that he still could not constrain, overtook him, nipping at your ear before watching you squirm. “Properly, darling—fuck, need you to tell me properly.”

You could have cursed him—should have, when he was making you attempt the impossible. Because he made you feel as if you could conquer the earth, you humoured him. Begged him, even, to give you your final wish.

“Joshua, please!” you got out, digging your nails into his skin, hard enough you thought it might bruise. “Please, just do—whatever it is you do!”

He thought he was used to your pleases by now. Hearing them spill from your lips like sweet wine was another form of ecstasy he had not realised he had consumed, and found himself addicted to.

Joshua Hong was made of many things, but he was—first and foremost—a man made to please you.

It was a fated continuation—destiny, if he wished to be so bold. He hoped, as he pounded into you, fastened his fingers upon your clit to the point of no return, you began to believe in some divine intervention too.

And you did. As you felt the final threads of your patience snap, you believed it in something greater for the two of you. You refused to contain yourself, whimpering out as your release crashed over you, uncontrollable and blinding, body shaking around him. It was the last straw for him, just about yanking his cock out of you before he, too, lost all semblance of control. His orgasm stained the lavish sheets of his bed, groaning at the result—at what you had made of him. Completely spent, he collapsed beside you, his heavy, laboured breathing accompanying yours.

You, however, found yourself shuddering your breaths much harder than him. There was no turning back now. What you and Joshua did…this was the final boundary, crossed with heated confessions. Were you both foolish? You would have been unsure in the past.

His words refused to leave you in peace. Damn you, you have set my very soul on fire! And then another confession flashed. My desire for you, my longing for you…it has awakened something in me, a feeling which is stronger than our friendship—

You have always been dear to me, _____. Now, I stand before you, asking you to be dearer still.

“Did you mean it?”

The question was out of your mouth before you realised. You brought a hand to your mouth as Joshua turned his head, locks curling in the humidity. “Mean what?”

You could not meet his gaze. “You know…everything you said about your longing…stronger than our friendship…and then asking me to be dearer.”

Because you shied from his stare, you did not catch the growing smile that blossomed on his face. “You ask for a confirmation after what we have just done?”

Your face burned at his words, refusing to answer him. Even more amused, he shifted closer to you, propping his head upon his palm, elbow digging deeper within the pillows. “Look at me, _____.”

You did not have to be told twice—you observed him in his sweated, naked glory, half-covered by the sheets. “The things that I said to you before all of this…not a single word was a lie. Of course, I value our friendship very much, even with what has happened between us. Nothing can ever change what we share…have shared for years.”

It was beyond your control, the smile that began to form upon your lips. “I admit that I was scared. I did not know how you would react, especially since last week.”

“I must apologise for my reactions, then,” he said, a little sheepish. “I did not wish to ruin something so important to me…and after today, I do not ever want to tamper with what we have.”

You thought imprisoning you with his stare was enough, but then his words caged you to him forever. “You see, I do not think I can live without you. That is why I ask whether you wish to be dearer to me…more so than ever before.”

As you looked at him—your once dear, now dearest friend, who had shown you wonders in and out of this relationship—you brought a hand to his face, sketching a little dream on his cheek.

“I think you have my answer, Joshua,” you whispered, soft and barely there.

But the man, hanging onto your every word, heard you perfectly. Breaking into a grin, you allowed yourself a small reward, all for yourself to enjoy as you swooped in, adding to his mirth with a kiss.

And as he delved deeper, indulging you, he showed you exactly how he felt about your answer, unspoken but felt throughout your body, in that very room.

ONCE AGAIN—AND ONE HAD TO ADMIT, WAS BECOMING A LITTLE TEDIOUS—SOONYOUNG’S BALL HOUSED HALF OF THE CITY INSIDE HIS HALLS.

If one thought his soirées were crowded, then the ball was another matter entirely—the cacophony of music, laughter and heated complaints from each and every individual strolling around was prevalent, all engulfing your ears. It should be prohibited to know so many people—how can one ever keep up?

Lord Joshua Hong, however, had no interest in the general public his friend had invited. Rather, he only required the attention of a few men who had managed to attend at the same time.

“For the last time, what is this news that has you gathering us all like sheep?” The eldest of them demanded once again, falling on deaf ears.

Once Joshua dropped his announcement to the intended audience before him, every single man had a different reaction.

Soonyoung had already expected it, all smiles and clapping his hands together in glee, while Chan, standing right beside him, shared in his enthusiasm. Wonwoo, settled on the opposite end, raised his brows in surprise, whilst the man in the middle—the one Joshua made the announcement for in the first place—tilted his head as he inspected the news.

“_____?” Seungcheol inquired, exposing certain interest. “But I thought you two were merely friends.”

“We were…we still are,” he agreed, locking his hands behind his back. “But I have seen her in a new light.”

“What changed, then?” Chan asked, curious. “I still remember you defending your friendship with her when all of us doubted your intentions.”

“Perhaps we were right to doubt them in the first place,” Wonwoo murmured, which had Joshua narrowing his eyes at him.

“Do not mind the pity party amongst us,” Soonyoung assured, waving off the playwright’s words, “what matters is if you truly care for her.”

At that, a certain glow flushed over the man’s face, and the members watched the slight, positive shift. “Always. I do not think that ever stopped…ever will stop.”

Chan and Soonyoung exchanged knowing glances, thoroughly amused by the sentiment. Seungcheol, on the other hand, crossed his arms, still a little unsatisfied. “You have not answered Chan’s question. What was the turning point? I cannot imagine a friendship of years changing before the season has even started.”

“Is he not allowed his privacy?” Wonwoo interjected as he took off his spectacles, cleaning the glass with his sleeve. “God knows you have interrogated enough of us to never court again.”

“You never have any lady to court anyway,” the youngest of them murmured, which only had the accused sighing, setting his glasses back upon the bridge of his nose. “At least Joshua has someone.”

“I do…” He looked down at his boots, his swept-up brown hair curling around his forehead. “And to answer your question, I cannot fully say because that is between me and her.”

“Oh, you are no fun!” Soonyoung bellowed, as if he was not aware of the entire façade. “Can you not tell your dearest friends?”

But Joshua only smiled knowingly, a twinkle in his eye at the mention of such a term. “That is where you are wrong,” he said, bringing his one hand to his chest, where his heart beat with striking pace—more so as he mentioned you. “Because I already have a dearest friend, and I intend to marry her.”

Finally, the reaction was unanimous—shock spread through the members, and the announcer had to fight back a chuckle at the widened eyes and open mouths. “Marriage?” Soonyoung repeated, almost floating in the clouds. “I never thought I’d hear the word from you!”

“Diabolical coming from Soonyoung,” Chan drawled, earning a shove from the eccentric. “This is wonderful news, though, Joshua! I offer you my most sincere congratulations.”

“So you are to settle down, then,” Seungcheol declared. He walked over to him, eyes raking over his face—attempting to catch him out, see if there is any sense of ridicule, contempt even. When he saw the purest form of hope residing in his friend’s eyes, he let himself smile. “Well, you could not have chosen better for yourself.”

“Wow, Cheol’s approval, of all the congratulations to receive?” Chan then followed suit, hand on his hair in surprise. “Is it my turn to find a wife, too?”

“The child is not marrying before the rest of us,” Soonyoung taunted, “or else I am sabotaging his wedding.”

“You truly are a darling friend, are you not, bastard?”

“Call me a bastard again, and I am revoking any chance for you to act in my productions!”

The apparent child rolled his eyes. “I see less producing, more philandering in that theatre!”

As the two began to bicker amongst themselves, Seungcheol patting Joshua once more for his suitable choice of bride, the latter turned his eyes towards the sole member, who stayed silent. Excusing himself to the eldest, he strolled over to the man, who pretended to clean his spectacles once more. “Wonwoo,” he called to him, instantly putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Joshua,” he responded, looking only at his glasses.

The said-man did not tear his gaze from his friend. “You do not seem so thrilled.”

That immediately had the playwright glancing up, face crumpling in slight guilt. “No, no, I am! Forgive me, I…I am thrilled…truly.”

The accuser furrowed his brows, not quite rid of his suspicions. He would have made a comment on it, but then Soonyoung made an excited noise, catching the sight of his most important guest. Wonwoo looked beyond his inquirer. “Ah, look,” he said, jerking his head towards the new arrival. “She has arrived…just in time.”

Sure enough, there you were, a vision for his eyes as you greeted guests, your own focus wavering as you scanned the crowd for your intended. “Go to her,” Joshua heard his friend say, and as he looked at him, the spectacled man patted his arm. “I hope you are happy together.”

As the playwright turned on his heel, Joshua turned to you, gravitating his steps towards where you stood. He could sense your slight discomfort at the amount of people attending the ball. Perhaps if the last few weeks had not happened, you would have opted to escape.

Except thankfully, they had occurred, changing your life forever. The life-changer was there before you, an almost-skip in his stroll as he approached you, delving away from his usual group. “Joshua!” you called to him, instantly walking up to him.

Usually, if circumstances were more private, you would have jumped upon him, savoured the warmth of his broad arms underneath many layers. Unfortunately, since the entire city was packed inside of the halls, one touch out of the borders of propriety would have scandalised you both without a chance of redemption. The man said so himself, chuckling as he instead took hold of your hand. “Careful,” he began, raising it to chin-level, “or the rest of the ton would revolt against us.”

As he kissed the back of your hand, the sensation lingered to your delight. You thought he would let go, but his fingers remained intertwined. “The next waltz is to begin soon,” he said, already leading you in the middle.

“Oh? You were not so eager to be on the dance floor before,” you teased, smiling as your eyes first glanced at your intertwined hands, and then climbing up to his face. “I wonder what the sudden change is.”

“I may have believed in your innocence before, angel,” he drawled, snaking an arm around your waist, “but you are not fooling me this time.”

“Worth a try,” you chuckled out, propping your free hand upon his shoulder. The musicians, situated at the ends of the ballroom, hoped to begin their lively tune, and instantly couples began to form, aligning themselves with their partners to commence.

With the beginning of the music, you and Joshua began to move. He led you with an ease quite different from his previous dances. You felt it yourself—whenever you had watched him, danced with him, he was always controlled, careful. Now, there was a semblance of it that faded—as if the comfort had washed over his need for excellence. As if you were enough for him.

The feeling itself had not faded for you both—that you and him were quite perfect for each other, and how you and he had managed to miss it for years. Not that you had yearned for anything with him romantically in all the time you had known him, but to have him now, after so long…you wondered how you had functioned so normally.

A comforting voice lulled you out of your mind. “A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“I was thinking about us,” you confided, your every step with your partner in perfect harmony with his. “And how we came together this season, and not any year prior.”

“Ah, yes,” he reminisced, slowly spinning you along to the music. “You pried into my journal, and thus entrapped me with your charms!”

You squeezed his hand, smirking at his claims. “You are no boy, Joshua. You could have easily renounced my wishes.”

“That is where you are wrong,” he said, drumming his fingers upon your back. “I could never refuse you.”

You would have said something, but his actions had spoken for him. The sole action you had left was to fight back a smile, trying to avert your gaze from him but to no avail. “You cannot escape me anymore, angel,” he declared, a feline curve of his lips rising, and you fought the butterflies that erupted even now, after all this time.

As the music progressed, heightening to a point, the two of you enjoyed the ambience, each other’s company being your only distraction amongst the sea of gossip. Lady Whistledown had announced your courtship to the ton, and consequently everyone and their curious mamas wished to inquire about its origins, and whether it would succeed.

Lord Joshua Hong would make it that he was successful. As he had said to you—you could not be so easily rid of him, when you had changed the inner workings of his system. What he was, what he called himself…these aspects ceased to exist now that you had delved into him. To have a friend was one thing, but to possess a relationship with his greatest, dearest friend he had ever known was a privilege he had never thought capable of earning.

He would be damned if he were to let go of such a rarity—if he would not progress it into something more.

“I must ask for the penny back,” you said, bringing him out of his mind. “You looked as if you were thinking up a masterpiece.”

His growing smirk had your familiar butterflies threatening to fly out of your skin. “I was thinking of something…something I hope you would rather like.”

“Judging by that awful expression, I am more fearful than excited,” you drawled, which only had him shaking his head at you. “Go on then, enlighten me with this supposed idea.”

“You know how you always expressed your wish to see the Diamond’s?” He saw you part your mouth, and instantly tutted, refusing to be interrupted. “Yes, yes, you have seen it now, but I mean…in terms of seeing a side of me that I had not shown previously.”

“Do you mean to tell me you are still hiding yourself from me?” you demanded, twisting your lips in a frown. “After everything we have done together.”

“I forgot how impatient you are,” he mumbled, squeezing your hand. “No, my dear, I hide nothing. If anything, I wish to show you more of myself…if you let me.”

You kept staring, an inquisitive brow rising. “In what manner?”

“Well, I said it to you before, but I really enjoyed travelling beyond London’s borders…journeying through Paris, witnessing remnants of the Italian renaissance, sailing around the Greek islands…you see, I truly was a different man when I was off this island.” As he twirled you around, always in tune to the rhythm, he caught your waist in perfect harmony. “I was hoping to show you that part of me, too.”

“And how will you achieve that?” you asked, filled with doubt.

He looked at you. “Why, you will come with me, of course!” he declared, as if it was the most sensible answer.

You rolled your eyes at him. “I am not even allowed to step outside of Mayfair, let alone this country.” You then sighed through your nose, looking down at your heeled-shoes, ensuring a steady rhythm. “Despite our friendship, even our courtship, there is no way we could ever travel together.”

You heard his voice—the soft utterances which made an effort to sooth you. “In that you are right. We can never journey far away together…as long as we are friends.”

And as the violins tuned into another grand act, rising to the shrill climax of the dance, Joshua Hong allowed himself to risk pulling you closer to him—enough to garner your attention.

“But we can…as husband and wife.”

Your feet stopped dancing. A novice mistake, when the couples all around you never stopped, still continuing, but with a partner like yours, you avoided any accidents, his strong hands never allowing you to fall. Even so, your expression slipped—threatening to crash. “Wh-what did you say?”

The music was surrounding you, filling the entire ballroom, but only one presence threatened to engulf you.“I once said to you that my feelings were stronger than our friendship. I meant it. I could not survive without you before, but to even think of living my life, spending my future without you residing in it…it is impossible.”

The smile on his face had you almost forgetting to dance altogether. “Say you will marry me, angel. I have you as my friend, but I hope…dream to be your husband.”

It was then you felt your bodies slow, the melody, so sharp and harmonious, settling over the hall. Applause erupted from everyone, attempting to snap you out of your bubble, but the man’s words—his proposal, of all things—had caged you in its anticipation for an answer.

To marry Joshua Hong—Viscount Hastings, member of the esteemed Diamond’s club of Mayfair—was many women’s dream. To attain his title, become Viscountess alongside him, bear his heirs, relish in his good fortune; it was the symbol of success for any woman in hopes to lead a luxurious life.

For you, this was a change. A complete turnaround, a monumental shift in the relationship you had built with him for over two decades. Marrying him meant that he was another person to you entirely. Men always promise consistency, but matrimony had a habit of insisting change when one resisted it.

As the applause died down, the couples beginning to disperse, you stayed frozen still, your hand rooted upon his own, and his shoulder. It was at this moment Joshua’s anticipation began to take a toll from the shock painted upon your face. “_____?”

“Come…come with me,” was your mere answer, not waiting to hear his response as you left his hold, hurrying towards the exit. Because you knew him well, you foresaw his immediate reaction, following after you out of the hall.

Yes, marriage has always been a boon for most women. Lady Whistledown had complained about it to the point of souring any reader’s disposition about the subject—if the men were not enough already.

You sauntered through the all-too familiar halls, flashbacks of that particular evening haunting you as you took the stairs, your friend’s boots thumping behind you upon each step. You heard him call your name, but you did not respond, simply taunting him with a quicker stride.

Indeed, marriage would bring about an irreversible change between you and Joshua. But you had already shifted the dynamics of your friendship, the moment you witnessed what could not be seen, kissed what could not be even touched. You had already crossed every boundary without shame, and although there was a struggle, you had come so far—with him at every step of the way.

Only when you finally slipped through the study door the pursuer caught hold of you, catching hold of the door as he let himself in. “If you wish to refuse me, at least spare me the suffering of anticipation.”

He then saw you slowly grinning, and his confusion grew twice over. “_____?”

You leaned closer, enough to close the door behind him. “Do you trust me?”

His first reaction was to gape at you. Then, his eyes finally darted at the surroundings, the familiarity of the room, the circumstances. He found himself scoffing, his eyes dancing. “Without question.”

And that was enough for you to accept him. You collided your lips against his, wrapping your arms around him, and his relieved moan slipped through as he pulled you closer, smiling against your mouth. He found you divine upon him, more so with your acceptance, relishing the adoration that poured from you, the delight that he savoured shamelessly.

He would have delved further, swirled his tongue along with yours had you not broken away, inhaling sharply as you looked up at him. “See how quickly this could have happened the last time?”

His breathless scoff fanned your face. “Oh, you are cruel.” His fingers wandered at your sides. “You brought me here to do this, didn’t you?”

“Smart man.” Your hands played with the collar of his shirt. “Perhaps you will be a good husband after all.”

“Merely good?” he rested his forehead against yours. “I will be as perfect a husband as I was a friend.”

You mocked a seething sigh. “Is it too late to retract my acceptance, I wonder?”

“Do not even jest!” he groaned, “I was half-scared you were going to reject me on the dance floor!”

You offered a mischievous smile. “I wanted to show you how happy I was with your proposal. Now, if I had kissed you with everyone to see, how would that have fared?”

He wanted to, but could not argue against your logic. “How about you keep showing me how happy you are, then?”

Giggling, you brought your fingers upwards, cupping his face. “You dreamed of being my husband?”

He held onto your wrist, leaning into your hold. “I told you, did I not? Even if we are married, you will still be my dearest friend. I cannot…cannot live without you.”

There was nothing but adoration, staining the features of your expression. You gave into your wants, your very needs as you kissed him again, this time laced with such longing that Joshua let out a satisfied noise, tilting his head to incite your pleasure.

And as you both mirrored the familiar position of that very night, when everything changed for the better, you thanked the fates that you came upon his journal, let your curiosity guide you. You thanked your quest for knowledge, your need to know everything about the man before you.

Most importantly, you thanked the fates for Joshua—the rake of the ton, esteemed member of the infamous gentlemen’s club for looking past his reputation, the rules of society. For satiating your curiosity, for igniting a desire you never thought capable of yourself.

Because that was what Joshua Hong was. He may have been many things, but to you, he would always be your oldest, dearest friend—and now, your companion till the very end.

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