#GOODBYE BOSOM

[gender-euphowrya]

YEA BOI!!!!!! SURGERY IN OCTOBER YAAAAAAAA

[thehistoriangirl]

If You Hadn't Left (Me) [Chapter 1]

I thought I would start posting in the first of February but oh well better now than never lol

I'm gonna post the other fic's masterlist tomorrow I think :3

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----2.9K----SFW*

// M A S T E R L I S T

Next ->

Synopsis:Viktor was never supposed to see you again, just like you had promised that evening when you both ended up heartbroken and bitter toward destiny and all its twisted ways. So twisted as to put you back into his life not only as a temporal working partner to cover Jayce’s absences, but also as the maid of honor in the wedding where he’ll be the best man. Hypothetically, it doesn’t have to be that difficult to find a way around the river of memories flowing between you both. Though, of course, hypotheses are flawed. Just like that part of him that still craves another ending to this story. 

Tags: Second Chance | Angst | Exes to Lovers | Denial of Feelings | Viktor's horny down memory lane* | Reader is pissed | My man is going thru the stages of grief | MelJay bc Jayce deserves to be happy | Eventual Smut | Eventual Happy Ending |

Taglist c: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @blissfulip

That goodbye became a broken promise, cracked over the sound of your voice ever since he heard it at the Council assembly.

Sure, you had spat out the words fueled by betrayal and hatred, but Viktor took them like an oath to put in peace his stormy mind.

First coated in a lie so fragile Viktor was surprised it hadn’t fragmented before, and now this—he was sure he shouldn’t take another glass of wine from the walking waiters zigzagging across the opulent hall—but he had avoided you all night, and he knew Jayce wouldn’t let him go before arranging the “formal meeting” between both of you.

If only he knew...

We congratulate Miss Favred for winning the design contest for the new hall construction inside the Museum of Sciences and Technologies. Graduated from Piltover’s Academy with honors, you're the proof that progress and art are held hand in hand in this city.

Almost the same speech Heimerdinger delivered during your graduation ceremony, only that this time you were all alone on the stage, Viktor's hand grabbing his cane to not feel the growing sensation of emptiness.

Part of him thought it was mere shock. After all, you haven't seen each other in almost ten years; and a petty part of him was surprised he even remembered you, how the image of you was locked in the depths of his subconsciousness that only needed the ring of your greeting to resurface.

But now? Hours after the reencounter? He was so, so weak…

With a sigh, Viktor finally admitted it: stealing glimpses of your purple dress flowing against the gentle breeze was a weakness, though if the excuse lay in masochist interest or avid curiosity, Viktor wasn’t ready to clear his mind. Why would he, anyway? It was a couple of wine glasses too late.

Funny how some things defied the City of Progress where everyone was eagerly grasping the tomorrow.

Viktor just felt stuck in the past, down a path he wasn’t so sure how to slip through.

Your hair was the same, richly stylized and decorated with a geometrical headpiece that looked like a crown from Viktor’s angle. Your time in Shurima had replaced the Piltovan style built by several layers of clothes like vests and corsets for simple, airy fabrics that played with transparencies. The deep shade of violet pooled in continuous drapes ironed in the long skirt falling freely around your hips and down your legs, a gold-threaded corset hugged your waist and framed your bosom, the fabric slowly fading into a lavender tone held like loose sleeves with golden bracelets.

You were covering your mouth while your eyes closed in amused crinkles for whatever the young merchant Mauriel Garfen was telling you as his expert hand twirled you around the ballroom. It didn’t matter much, as Viktor could paint it just fine: with the vivid dark pink adorning your lips, though he knew your favorite color was more of a burnt brown, or maybe even red—

"That's enough for today," Viktor mumbled, eyes looking intently at the crimson liquid as he swirled the stem around his fingers before settling it down against the nearby windowsill.

Suddenly, he heard your happy squeal as you went to hug another young woman dressed in a vivid teal, halter dress. Her curly black hair bounced as you two swayed. Viktor didn’t remember her vividly, but she had been one of your friends ever since your undergraduate years.

If only… Though he knew he didn’t have any right to be greeted as warmly. If even he had any right to be greeted at all. Only because you had returned. Because of course, you did.  Once you had told him that despite the high number of students inside the Academy, you'd find each other in one way or another.

“No, not like fate,” you have told him, voice groggy with slumber as you laid against his chest, hands pointing at his dorm's ceiling where she had stuck luminescence cut-outs of stars. "Entropy."

You were right, from all his perfectly calculated plans tumbling into a state of chaos, one he surprisingly wasn’t against.

Until he was.

Garfen twirled the both of you, giggles bubbling like the nearby tray of drinks a waiter was carrying toward the Councilors discussing on a corner of the hall.

You looked like that photograph he kept in the bottom drawer of his tattered closet, only that the sepia tones eating it away had been repaired with the tone of your skin, the void he left behind replaced with you looking like a fairy queen with your golden crown and dashing company.

Someone more fitting. But Viktor was now the co-creator of Hextech, wasn’t that enough?

His fingers tangled around the glass’ steam, barely feeling the hot sensation of the alcohol down his throat as he gulped it all.

You’re so pathetic, Viktor. Get over it. Why haven’t you done that already?

“Vik! There you are!” He almost dropped the glass with the impromptu voice of Jayce chiming in his roaming thoughts. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

"You know I'm not… eh, akin to this kind of party," he said, only half a lie. He'd been hiding inside a balcony and then, when Jayce passed by, Viktor slipped between a corner and a column. Now, he'd been too distracted to notice. "I've been unwinding."

“For a moment I thought you were already gone!” He patted his shoulder. “I’ve wanted to introduce you to Miss Favred since morning, but I suppose you had duties to take care of after the meeting.” He had bolted out of there as soon as Councilor Medarda called the session off.

His jar tightened, just as the grasp on his formal cane, naked metal replaced by a coat of black marble and polished wood on its handle. “Jayce, I don’t think this idea about the Hextech Wing would be… good,” he started, pouring in all the thoughts that had flown inside his head ever since the morning meeting. “This isn’t what I imagined when you told me we would celebrate the first decade of Hextech’s creation.”

“Viktor—”

“No, listen to me,” he replied, almost through gritted teeth. How pitiless of him he couldn’t even manage his feelings in public. “We want to help people in need, not to gloat about a fancy exhibit at the Science and Technology Museum. This is just another excuse for the Council to gloat about their grandness. What would the exhibit do for the people who believe in us, hmm? For us as scientists, even? Are you listening to me?” His friend had shifted to his embarrassed posture, where his tall body was trying to shrink into a ball, with hands tightly grabbed against his stomach, gazing at the floor. "Jayce—?"

“We’ve arranged that part of the Museum’s entrance fee is going to be destined to fund upcoming Hextech projects. That way you won’t need as many sponsorships,” Mel interjected behind him. Viktor turned to look at the Councilor, frozen to see the figure tailing close behind. “I believe we talked about it in the past meeting.”

Surely. Not that he would admit he had been too distracted by the nervous movements of your hands gesturing away to explain your design to oblige his mind to follow the Councilor’s debate sprinkled in between.

“Perhaps what he’s referring to is about how much time will it take to seize a positive quantity to fund a project,” you said to save his embarrassing stunned silence, poking your head from behind Jayce’s wide back. Your eyebrows arched slightly, head tilted toward Viktor.

The movement is so familiar from when you helped him through the boring, long seminars with haughty professors and even mouthier classmates. A head tilt and a slow gaze once you had laid the counterargument, ready for him to lock the possibility of a reply with his conclusion.

“I… That wasn’t what I meant,” he said, surprised by his cold tone.

You blinked at him for a moment, a frown slightly forming between your beautiful eyes. He didn’t dare to back out from it, he didn’t have a reason why.

Jayce cleared his throat. “Um… well, Vik, this is Miss Favred, she’s going to be the designer of the Museum ampliation…” He said, and you stepped next to Jayce, lips in a neutral yet mocking smile, with the curves of your lips turned up.

“It’s been quite some time, Miss Favred,” Viktor mustered, a smile plastering on his mouth that was too wide and toothy to be considered polite.

“Likewise, Viktor,” you said, tone sweetly as you extended your hand toward him.

Viktor almost wanted to yank it away once he felt a surge of electricity tingling up his arm once your long and elegant fingers wrapped the reverse of his palm. You giggled, nails digging into his skin with discreet violence.

His lips pressed in a thin line that couldn’t be faked as a smile even as he continued shaking your hand for a minute too long, wanting your eyes to decode the hidden message in his. What are you doing here?

“Oh, do you know each other?” Mel said after calling your name, which made you yank your hand away from his grasp.

“We were acquaintances at the Academy,” you said, gesturing away.

Classmates, the word slipped with an acid aftertaste when Viktor tried to back you up. "Very close classmates." Because of course, this was the perfect time for his brain to break under pressure. Yes, so close you slept against his chest every other night, so, so close that he even burrowed inside of you—

Mel turned to you, with an almost accusatory air. “What a surprise!”

“That was many years ago.” Your gaze swept from Mel’s to his, if only for a second. “I had forgotten about it.”

Oh, so that’s how you wanted to play?

"Well, I'm glad you two can reconnect after so many years!" Jayce said a big grin on his face. The sweet oblivious Jayce. “It’ll be good for Vik to have another friend! It’s… slightly difficult for him to open up and get new ones.”

Viktor glared at him. “Why are you talking about me as if I weren’t here?” he replied, while you mumbled:

“I wonder why that is.”

His head turned toward you in a movement so quick that some of his pushed backward-styled hair fell over his forehead. "Pardon?"

You smiled at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

Oh, you—

"Why don't we leave you two to talk?" Mel said, ignoring the pleading look you sent her when Jayce nodded, saying that there must be a lot to tell between the both of you. “Councilor Talis, let’s go for another drink. There’s something I need to talk about with you.” Probably about the wedding. Not that Viktor was interested in the matter when he had you in front of him. 

From all the stolen glances, he had pieced you whole like a puzzle, filling in the missing pieces eaten away by time with the new image, though he knew some things wouldn't change. Like the way you smelled like hyacinth and mangoes, your favorite fruit. All that freckles and moles and scars dotted around your body like those two small ones peeking over the square neckline on the left of your collarbone, which he knew balanced out with the two tiny moles under your right breast.

Surely your skin was just as heavenly soft as back then despite the occasional roughness of your fingers from working so much. Your palms were always warm against his cold fingers during winter. 

“Viktor," you called him. And he frowned to conceal what he had been thinking all the damn night.

“What?”

 “Why don’t we strike a deal?” you said, arms crossed, disrupting what would have been his doom if he continued.

“Do I look like someone that would strike a deal with a devil, Miss Favred?” Viktor said, arching an eyebrow almost in a flirty way. Just amused enough to push you to the edge of your years-trained composure. You certainly played the part, with all the allure and the deep gaze of your eyes.

“I suppose this must be awkward for you, too.”

“It isn’t awkward for me,” he lied. “You should worry about your work instead.”

“So ready for me to leave?” You chuckled. “I think you should know that I applied to this contest because I need the spotless curriculum if I want to be the new Interior Design teacher at the Architecture Faculty.”

“You’re just trying to annoy me. You said you would leave and never return.” Better put, Viktor cornered you to say so, but he wasn’t going to let his mouth run free.

"And you said we were going to get married," you replied, and Viktor felt himself trip backward if it weren’t for the support of his cane. “So I guess we’re even.”

Viktor stood there, stunned golden eyes wide open. He started calling your name, but you had your hand raised.

“You’re right, my bad. That was unnecessary.” Your hand arranged a loose lock of hair poking your cheek. “Anyhow, I’m not going to mention anything about the… past. So you don’t have to worry about me running out my tongue—despite how close classmates we’ve been.”

“Now you’re just being…” improperly brash, dangerously cheeky. Almost as if you’d been pushing him over the edge of his decorum to see if he’d cornered you against a wall to seal your endless rebukes with a kiss. Or many. “…insufferable.”

"Don't worry." You waved away. "I'll finish my job as fast as humanely possible, and then we won't have to see each other again. Because I know you aren't fond of assisting the Progress Day's party."

He crossed his arms, letting the handle of his cane hook on the curve of his elbow. "I'm not sorry to disappoint you—but I'm very fond of Progress Days. I've changed," Viktor said, but it was only a half-truth. He wasn't sure how he could change a feeling that lay hidden deep inside, frozen in time instead of giving them a real burial. You only had to dig to start seeing the uneven silhouette of the memory boxes where nothing should be more than black earth.

“Anyway,” you replied, your tone bleeding with sarcasm. “That’s my peace treaty. I know Mel and Jayce will feel awkward if they ever discover that they’ve arranged old flames as partners, so let’s just forget it. I assure you it’s nothing that could endanger the quality of this project.”

Let’s just forget it. You were right, as you had always been, and yet…

I've already forgotten you, Viktor, you said inside his mind, a smile that once had left him breathless now hurting him in the unspoken truth that now you were better without him.

Of course, you were better without him.

Yet, Viktor couldn’t help but seek your left hand accommodating the deep V line of your dress for the poignant sight of a band on your finger.

“I’m not a passionate teenager, Miss Favred," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I assure you I'm not interested in dwelling in the past. So rest assured, I won't embarrass you." It was totally unconscious that his voice dripped with contempt.

You curled your upper lip. “You’re such a fusspot, always the victim.”

Viktor inhaled sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you spat, taking your skirt with your fists as you were ready to stalk away.

The parallels made his heart squeeze in a painful grip. Was history about to repeat itself?

Before his brain could recollect the action, Viktor had called your name, hand extended open as if wanting to touch you. “Wait—” As if he had something to tell you.

You ignored him, stopping when Jayce approached you both from the complete opposite direction Mel and he had gone at first. Also, you couldn't point out if the dark marks of brown smeared on his face were just a plaything of the lightning or marks of kisses.

“Are you leaving so soon?” Jayce told you, hand over your shoulder.

“Yes,” you told him with a smile, completely ignoring Viktor. “My feet hurt and I’m afraid I haven’t recovered my sleep schedule since my return.”

"Well, maybe Viktor can walk you home?" he offered. "For what Mel told me, you live near his apartment." Not that he had moved a lot since you left, but seeing the surprise in your eyes felt like a little victory.

“No,” Viktor and you said at the same time.

“I mean—,” you started.

“I want to stay a little longer,” Viktor said. "As I should be open to enjoying these celebrations more. Hextech anniversary only arrives once a year!" He tried to laugh, but Jayce looked at him with such a concerned frown it was hard to keep his act. Your contained snort wasn't helping.

“Vik… I think you’ve had far too many drinks.”

He glared at Jayce for what felt like the thousandth time. "I'm fine, Jayce—”

"Well, goodbye!" you chirped, getting on your tippy toes to kiss Jayce's cheek, and then, forcefully, approach Viktor and give him a goodbye kiss, too. More like a rude smack, with how forceful you were.

"Tomorrow, eight sharp," Jayce told you, poking your side with his elbow. "Viktor doesn't like it when I arrive late."

“I can’t wait,” you beamed, eyes boring into Viktor’s. As if daring him to say something.

"Me either," Viktor lied.

If you wanna get into the taglist lemme a comment below! 🤗

[starlightsuffered]

we need a new fic pls🙏🏼 (only if u can)

One More Night

Info - Slytherin and Gryffindor, some intoxication, mentions of sex, toxic couple, polar opposites, song fic, one night stand, lust, mention of drugs, a little bit dub con language, blood purist regulus, dry humping

One hand gripped the curls at the nape of my neck, the other pulled hard on my tie. I was gasping into the kiss. It took so much to get this desire to build in me normally, but just a makeout with her started an inferno inside me.

“I should go,” I breathed.

“Then go,” she said with an almost cruel tone. I let out a needy pant. She smirked as she felt the wild racing of my heart when she pressed her bosom against my chest,

“Y/n,” I said the hallowed name through nips and laps of her lips.

I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t pull myself away. I tried to remember the guilt I felt every time just after we’d stopped touching. It seemed less palpable. I couldn’t picture it. It was just like every other fucking time.

I used to be a good student, a prefect, quidditch captain. I was respectable and nonchalant to a point it bothered others. Now I was like an addict. I didn’t think of anything but her body and allure.

“Is your-“ she cut off the question by grinding her crotch against me. I knew she wore no panties and the dress was so thin I could practically feel her slick.

I imagined slipping my cock into her velvety wet folds. A full body shiver overwhelmed me. My hands were on her ass. I was barely resisting anymore. My body couldn’t tell her no.

“Is your lipstick laced with something?” I finally got out the weak query. I wished she’d say yes. I wish I had some fucking excuse for how many times I went back to her. I wish I could blame enchantment for my all consuming desire for her.

“No,” she said in a smug voice that made my dick even harder. She completely knew the affect she had on me. She loved it. And though I shouldn’t, I loved it too.

Dysfunctional didn’t begin to cover us. Gryffindor and Slytherin was only the beginning. She was muggle born and would ruin my reputation. She was a party girl, who dabbled in dangerous wizarding drugs and had no care for her own well being. I was the stoic head boy who never went to parties and had each step of my future planned out. I could have never planned for her.

One party, I’d gone to one bloody Slytherin party. She’d been let in due to the illicit items she carried on her. She hadn’t even knows who I was. She didn’t know how I’d stared all night. She didn’t know my hands, my skin, my breath, my cock, all longed to be hers. It was like metal trying to resist a magnet and I’d broken eventually.

I’d felt stupid the morning after. No protection. No safety spell. It had all been raw and electric and so pleasurable I’d felt as though I could pass out. I’d been stupid enough to tell her I was a prefect and I’d be telling the headmaster what sort of things she brought to parties. We’d been nearly at each others throats, moments away from hexing one another. Somehow it’d turned into me bouncing her on my cock as she bit into my shoulder so hard it bled.

“You coming to mine?” She asked. She had the audacity to question me as she reached into my pants and fondled my aching cock. It was probably purple with need at the moment. Only she made it that way. She made me feel like a cheap whore with how fast I began to harden for her.

“No,” I breathed. It was the right thing to do. I was going to do the right thing this time.

“Alright then,” she said instantly. She stepped back and I felt my skin had been stripped away. I was left breathless, raw, sensitive, and vulnerable.

She stood there looking like a wet dream. Her hair was tousled, lips swollen where I’d bit them. Dark marks were blooming on her honey sweet skin where I’d sucked. Her dress was hitched up. I noticed a dribble of arousal making its way down her thigh. I could have exploded in my pants.

“Goodbye then Regulus,” she purred. Her eyes were dark with promise of the most erotic pleasures.

“One more night,” I said weakly. I went to her, to my forbidden fruit. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d devoured it all again.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[moirindeclermont]

This episode of "All Polin: The First Times We Didn't in BridgertonS3 "is about the first time Debling returned and Colin's jealousy about it. They might discover that they both enjoy it when Pen calls Colin "sir". The funny thing is that Penelope knows what is happening, but she enjoys teasing Colin a bit and accepts his invitation to dance. Colin is trying so hard to be calm and collected, but everyone who knows him can tell he is nervous and a little bit green.

The dance she and Debling dance is not overly intimated, but it's enough to stoke a small fire in Colin, enough that Pen knows she will be in trouble afterwards, but she likes it even more. The things he will do to her.... she feels herself getting wet while she is still dancing with Debling. When the dance is finished, she returns to Colin, who is watching her. "Say goodbye to everyone. We are leaving," and his tone is promising things she knows she is wanton to want.

After their goodbyes, Colin doesn't waste time. He calls a carriage, and when they are inside, he looks at her with hunger in his eyes. "On your knees, wife. You know what to do." She is so quick to complain that she hears her knees pop, which makes Colin chuckle... "someone is eager," as Pen takes him out. The moment after, she is kissing and licking every part she manages to reach. His hand goes to her hair, giving her a fast rhythm.

"Prepare yourself, minx. I don't want to wait once we arrive," Colin says, and the dark tone he is using is making her moan around him. She lifts her skirt up, finding her core with her fingers, and she is already soaking; the sounds of her fingers entering her make Colin moan in response. "You can't wait to have me, can't you?" Pen nods, whining because she feels so empty without him.

When they arrive at their home, they quickly redress themselves to save their appearance, but once they are inside their room, nothing stops them. "You know, wife, you should not tease your husband like that," he says as he roughly grasps her bosom, undressing her as quickly as possible. "Kneel and stay here," he commands, undressing himself before sitting on the bed and looking at Pen. "Crawl to me and beg me to give you a release tonight," he orders her and Pen shivers.

She begins to follow his order, going on her hands and knees. "Please, Colin... please, I need it," but he seems unfazed. "Really? Because at the ball, it didn't seem so," he answers and Pen whines. "I was trying to make you jealous, but you know it you I want," she is now close to him, and she is kissing his thighs and his stomach. "Do I?" And Pen now is out of herself, just mad with desire. "Yes, Sir. I'm yours," the words are out before she stops or thinks.

Colin looks at her. "Sir? I like it... " he says, touching himself. "Please, Sir. I'll do anything," and that snaps Colin's desire. "Why don't you pledge to your cause while you take me inside?" Pen can only nod, getting up on shaky legs before straddling Colin's lap. The moment after he is inside, she is moving. "You have to pledge your case, vixen," he says, giving a slight slap on her arse, making her moan. "Yes, Sir." She goes down.

"I was trying to make you jealouus-" she says and it's struggle to form words, let alone sentences. "Sorry, Sir. I didn't mean it to be so needy," she says, still moving, her breath now faster as she gets closer. She touches her bosom while she is rocking herself. "Sir, please," and Colin smirks. "Sure, you can come," Pen doesn't need to be told twice. What she doesn't expect is that once she is down from her orgasm, Colin flips their position, filling her again.

She whines, but Colin keeps going. "Next time I see you dancing with him, I'll invite him over to make him see how you take me," he says, knowing that would spurt Pen more. Her thighs are trembling, and she is going to come again soon. "You're mine, Pen," and she can't, not when he says that. "Yes, yes, I'm yours," Colin also goes over the edge. They look into each other eyes, "bloody hell, Pen." as he kisses her tenderly.

Pen smiles at him, "Should I ask for Debling tomorrow?" and she earns a smack on her arse from Colin. "Stop that. I need at least 15 minutes after that," but they laugh. "Also... Sir. I like Sir. That was inspired, Pen," he says honestly, and Pen blushes. Three years into their marriage, and they are still discovering new things.

They kiss and cuddle, now tenderly and affectionate. "I like it when you call me yours," says Pen, as Colin smiles. "It is the same for me, darling. I'm yours as much as you're mine," and they fall asleep like that, both of them sated, their hearts full of happiness.

[tonkatsubowl]

shenanigans.

satoru gojo x fem!reader

➽ this dumb bitch pranked you.

you and satoru started living together a while ago. you were used to his absence already, since being a special grade sorcerer and all... well, to clarify, the strongest sorcerer, you expected your lover to be gone at random times. sometimes he wouldn't even tell you that he had to leave that day, but most of the time, this loser would send you a text while you slept next to him. you always told satoru to wake you up so you can give him a goodbye kiss, but he always wanted you to catch up on sleep.

so, today was just an ordinary day. satoru was gone once again, and today he had made sure to tell you that he had to go send his students off on a training mission... and he had to monitor them, too.

you were home alone, showering, enjoying the silence to yourself. you couldn't help but miss satoru's presence sometimes. where he'd often come home randomly in the goofiest of ways, giving you a few gifts here and there when he had returned... but he was gone longer than expected. you had faith and trust that satoru would come home safe, especially when the man was practically... well, the strongest.

but you let the hot water of your shower try to relax you instead. you were anxious, but you had faith he would come home.

...just when you heard the restroom door open. there was a soft creak, and your eyes perk up towards the ceiling. if satoru was home, he would call out "i'm home, y/n!"... but... he didn't.

... or was it satoru?

"...sat?" you called out to his nickname as you slowly turned off the shower. you were a sorcerer as well, capable of defending yourself from curses and other people. however, you couldn't help but feel... tense. you couldn't sense anyone nearby.

was it just the wind? no—don't think of horror movie lines, now. all the windows were always closed, and you know for a fact that the door had opened... on its own?

the shower curtain had a small peak, allowing you to look towards the smallest glimpse of a mirror. there was nobody.

engulfing your hand with cursed energy, you waited in silence... for something. for something to tell you it wasn't anything, whether it was a stray cat that randomly got in here... or your instincts telling you otherwise... but your mind was screaming at you.

...just when you were expecting some sort of perverted intruder, you were met with a sudden splash of icey cold water being dumped upon you from above!

you let out a loud scream, feeling the cold water pierce against your skin, and hearing satoru's little shit eating giggle, "hehe... ehehe—!"

"gojo satoru!" you raise your voice angrily as you grabbed the towel that was hanging off the curtain pole, wrapping it around your body before kicking through the curtains. you find your lover running away comically as he laughed like a clown, trotting away to the other room.

you chase after him, eventually—where he disabled his little infinity barrier—kicking him down with your leg which had stored cursed energy. satoru did this on purpose so he'd have his naked girlfriend on top of him. classic.

"ehehehe! ehe—aaaa—!" satoru lets out a comical laugh as you collapse above him, not realizing the towel slipped off of you. gojo lifts his blindfold, peeking at your exposed bosom before his tongue licked the corner of his lips. "oh, my. are we already about to have sex again? talk about high drive, huh, y/—"

"you— you poured cold water on me! and i'm shivering! i'm cold! and you didn't even get to tell me that you were home! you, you... you fucking idiot! you clown! you absolute fucking menace!"

you breathed, panting from the yelling you just did.

... but you paused, suddenly laughing, realizing how much of a stupid prank that was, and how much you missed satoru. snuggling your face into the crook of his neck, you embrace him, whining a bit, rubbing your unwashed soap and water into his clothes.

"ah, ah! wait, wait! pleaase, you're super cold!" satoru exclaimed sarcastically as you continued to rub all over him, but you ignored his cries.

"shut up. now i'm," you pull him up by his hand, letting the towel fall to your feet, exposing your nude body towards your lover, "taking you for a shower."

satoru grinned.

"y'know... we haven't done it in the shower before...~" he purred, running his hands all over your body as he leaned in. "lead the way, y/n."

[myfairstarlight]

Crimson Reveries

AO3 Link.

Rated: E

Length: 10.6k

Pairing: Colin Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington

Written for Polinween Week 4: "Fangs for the memories"

Summary:

Colin is not obsessed, but he has noticed that Penelope’s lips have always been tainted red ever since her presentation. It is quite striking against her porcelain skin and fiery red hair — it draws the eye, that is for certain. As temptation prevails and a kiss is shared under the moonlight, deeply buried feelings begin to unravel. Night after night, Colin is haunted by dreams of crimson lips, pearly white teeth, and a passion that leaves him breathless. Yet, something unsettling lingers behind the dreams. As the days pass, and the line between reality and fantasy starts to blur, his mind spirals into unnatural territory. He wonders if her lips bear the colour of something… more eternal than red paint. And that perhaps, it is not truly him she desires, but rather something he possesses.

*additional notes on ao3

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

The thing is, that night, he could not help but stare.

It is peculiar, Colin thinks, as he has known Penelope for almost two decades now, and never before has he been this intrigued by the red of her lips. He has noticed before, of course, that soon after her presentation, it was difficult to see Penelope without that particular shade on her lips. It attracts the eye, such a vibrant red against her pale skin, luring gentlemen to lower their gaze to her mouth and then to her… well, bosom.

Colin is not vain, but he can still appreciate that his friend is well-gifted in particular areas.

And yet, over the years, Penelope has never had a single suitor or one that would stay longer than one dance. Perhaps it makes him a shallow friend, but Colin was pleased, for it allowed him to never lose his favourite person to converse and dance with so that these boring social events may pass in a blur. And it made him proud, as well, that of all the gentlemen of the Ton, he was the only one Penelope smiled at with graceful ease.

Penelope Featherington is now an old maiden in society’s eyes, at a mere eight and twenty of age. And yet, Colin thinks she has never looked this youthful and beautiful in her quiet confidence, so at peace with herself. Perhaps he sees her through a different light than anyone else, though he refuses to believe the gentlemen of the Ton can be this blind.

His brothers inquired about it once, when he was a mere one and twenty of age.

“Do you think her lack of suitors is your fault, brother?” Benedict asked. “For you are always near her and dancing with her.”

“As a friend does.”

“A friend, as you put it, does not constantly look at a lady's lips,” Anthony pointed out with a sneer.

“I—” Colin coughed. “I am not! It is just… have you not noticed… How peculiar the shade of her lipstick is?”

“No, because I do not spend the majority of my time staring at Penelope's mouth indeed,” Benedict responded.

Anthony snorted. “Shall we be expecting wedding bells in the not-so-distant future?”

Colin rolled his eyes, getting annoyed at his brothers’ unwillingness to be serious for a moment.

“I will certainly not be marrying Penelope Featherington, I can assure you as much.”

“I do not recall asking you to, Mr Bridgerton,” Penelope’s voice suddenly resonated behind him. When he turned around, she was standing by the door, leaning against its frame with a raised eyebrow, her cherry-red lips forming a thin, tense line. “And you two,” she continued, looking at Benedict and Anthony, “what business is it of yours? You who wield ladies’ hearts like mere toys?”

“Penelope—” the three brothers said simultaneously, only to be met with the lady’s dismissive hand as she waved their would-be apology away.

“I pity whoever you wed,” she said. “Now, where is Gregory?”

“Gregory?” Colin choked out.

“I agreed to help with his dance lessons but I cannot find him or your mother for the life of me,” Penelope huffed. “Never mind, I will find them eventually. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

She slammed the door behind her with little regard for the strength she used. When Colin turned back towards his brothers, they both had a dazed look in their eyes.

“Ah, forget what we said Colin, we now know why no gentleman has ever approached her,” Benedict said.

“Indeed, no man’s ego can handle such blunt wit,” Anthony agreed.

“Her lips are indeed rather—”

“Stop thinking about her lips!” Colin protested.

“Say you?”

Now, Colin watches as Penelope dances with Gregory in the middle of their mother’s garden party. Ever since Gregory entered society, he has been making sure to seek out Penelope for a dance. Penelope’s dance card only ever has two names these days — the two youngest Bridgerton men fighting for dominance on the small piece of paper.

That conversation, which happened years ago now, is but a meaningless memory, a strife in his and Penelope’s friendship that lasted only a week before they were back to exchanging barbs at any social event they attended together before Colin departed for his annual travels. However, ever since then, Penelope has insisted that her favourite Bridgerton man was now Gregory, and the latter has been insufferable bragging about it, even more so now that he can attend events as well and hog Penelope’s time away from Colin.

So yes, tonight, Colin is, for some reason, plagued by a distant memory and fascinated by Penelope’s lips.

Well. For a good reason, actually. His mind simply refuses to fully admit it, though his body and heart have, and he is already making his way towards the lady.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

On a peaceful evening, one night ago, to be more precise, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington.

She was invited to dinner at Number 5, along with her mother, though the latter was fortunately unable to attend. Well, perhaps that is a rude thought, but Colin never liked Portia Featherington or the rest of that family for that matter. He could never understand how sweet, beautiful Penelope could ever be related to them.

That evening, only his mother, Eloise and the two youngest were in attendance. It was quite the reminder to Colin that the rest of his siblings had been paired off, happily married.

He just did not expect the reason that Penelope was invited was because his mother expected Gregory to formally ask her for a courtship.

It was another brutal reminder that his baby brother was indeed four and twenty and most likely looking to secure a match of his own. Colin knew that, on an unconscious level. Gregory always held a puppy love crush on Penelope since he was old enough to understand what a crush was. Whenever Penelope visited, and if Eloise did not banish him to his chamber, Gregory would always happily follow the redhead girl everywhere. However, the idea that he was seriously interested in Penelope…

So he needed to know if the interest was mutual.

He found Penelope alone in the garden, by the pond. The full moon was reflected upon the calm water as she gazed at it, a forlorn expression on her face.

“No Eloise?” he inquired.

She barely reacted to his sudden appearance. “She said she had a headache and left me to fend for myself when your mother asked me if I had any intention to marry. Bless Violet but she has the subtlety of a brick wall.”

Colin snorted. “And what did you tell her?”

Penelope did not answer. She kept staring at the water as she bit her thumb’s nail. Then, after a while, she sighed.

“Colin, may I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he responded with no hesitation.

“Would…” She turned to him, eyes glistening in the night. Colin’s eyes immediately dropped to her lips, pursed as she deliberated her next words. Colin suddenly had the thought that she appeared to be asking for a kiss, paired with the way she was tilting her head up to look at him from under her lashes. “Would you kiss me?”

Did he hear that right?

“Penelope—”

“It would not have to mean anything,” she continued as if he did not speak. Her voice was strangely poised. “But to answer your question, I— even if the option was offered, I do not think I would take it. Marriage is… not something I can ever hope to achieve.”

“That is ludicrous, Pen. You’re only—”

“A spinster, and shall remain so,” Penelope interrupted. Colin’s heart sank, for reasons he had yet to understand. “But I… I remain curious. I do not wish to live the rest of eternity without ever having been kissed. I am on the shelf, I have nothing else to lose.”

And the truth was, at that moment, it was all Colin could think about. Kissing Penelope Featherington. A part of him thought — it made sense, why did he never think of it?

She reached for his face, her long nails scraping the stubble on his chin. Her eyes bore a dangerous and curious glint, cherry-red lips parted ever so slightly. Colin was mesmerised.

“Please?” she whispered.

Colin was only a weak man. He grabbed her hand in a firm grip and then cradled her cheek with his other one. She gasped, chest heaving as he leaned down until their breaths mingled. Colin observed, perhaps obsessively, every twitch of her face, the way her eyes fluttered before they closed under his intense gaze, how even after all these years, she still possessed a few freckles creating constellations on her face, how her lips, full and so very red looked ready to be ravished.

Finally, he closed the remaining distance between them.

And thus, on one ordinary evening, with only the moon as witness, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington.

He wished he could describe it as a revelation, a world-stopping event changing the trajectory of his life. In truth, the press of her tender lips against his was like a missing piece of his heart falling into place, an inevitability from which he finally stopped running from. Kissing her was like coming home.

He pulled back, if only for a moment, to see her expression. She looked divine under the moonlight, her pale skin seemingly glowing under his fingertips. She looked serene, dazed, and dare he hope, in love. Her blue eyes met his with unwavering certainty and she smiled.

“Thank—”

Before she could finish, Colin brought their lips together again, perhaps with more force than he intended to.

She wanted to say thank you as if this were a mere favour? He could not let her think that for one moment.

She gasped, hands flailing for a moment, before they rested around his neck, scraping the ends of his hair and sending shivers down his spine. He hummed, moving his mouth against her, guiding her into a gentle rhythm until hesitation turned into instinct.

The kisses, relentless and lingering, grew deeper and deeper. After what felt like hours, he could not help but bite gently on her lower lip, eliciting a delicious moan from Penelope. However, before he could get a proper taste of her mouth, he hissed at a sudden sting on his upper lip. An iron taste slipped into the kiss as Penelope pressed closer, and Colin felt helpless to indulge in her eagerness.

Then suddenly, Penelope pulled away with a gasp, her hands flying to cover her mouth. “I must go!” she said, voice muffled by her palms as she flew away before Colin could say or do anything to stop her.

It was like he came back to his own body. He realised then how flushed his face was despite the chilly air, the way his fingers, which were caressing Penelope’s skin a moment earlier, were now trembling into the sudden emptiness, how his heart was fervently beating, loud and obnoxious in his ears, how he was bleeding. The upper right corner and lower left corner of his lips stung against the cold air due to the cuts suddenly there.

Penelope, in her eagerness, bit him. Several times. And he was too enchanted to even realise properly. Colin swiped a small trail of blood trickling down his chin and found himself smiling like a maniac.

Lord, he enjoyed the sting.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Colin finds Penelope under the wisteria, sipping some wine, though she looks rather displeased about it. Her eyes focused on the dancers, she did not notice Colin approaching until he called her name.

“Pen,” he greets casually. She hums in response. “Would you perhaps wish to swap drinks?” he asks, offering the glass of champagne in his hand.

“That is kind, Colin, but believe me when I say you do not wish to taste what I have in my hand.”

Colin blinks. “Uh… Is it not wine?”

Penelope seems to startle back into reality as she shakes her head and offers him a strained smile. “It is. Of course, it is, what else would it be?” She laughs nervously.

“Are you alright, Pen?” A pause as she does not answer. “Is it because of what happened between us?”

“... I bit you, it was embarrassing.”

“I enjoyed it,” he admits, perhaps a bit too easily.

She snorts, quite the ungraceful sound, but she does not say anything else, visibly refusing to acknowledge their kiss any further. Colin swallows. He’s never felt nervous around Penelope before and yet at this moment, he feels quite small under her sharp gaze.

Clearing his throat, he decides to take another approach. “You know, Pen, I have never seen a lady with such loyalty to a shade of lipstick.” Gaining some of his usual confidence back, he leans forward, playfully inspecting her mouth as Penelope gazes at him with parted lips. “One would almost believe it to be… permanent.”

A dangerous glint now gleams in Penelope’s eyes. He can see her think, and weigh the choices now drawn before her. And then—

“It is not lipstick,” she says before taking a sip of her drink. “And this is not wine.”

“Very funny Pen—”

“I am not jesting,” she interrupts, her voice suddenly sounding lower, raspier as if a pretence has been thrown away. She tilts her head, enough so that their breaths mingle. Colin’s vision blurs, focused on her red-stained lips. Vaguely, he notes that he indeed cannot smell any wine. “Colin. There is a reason suitors do not last.”

She smiles, revealing her white teeth and among them two long, sharp canines. Colin gasps, but before he can even comprehend the sight, she clicks her tongue, pulls back, and finishes the rest of her drink. She grimaces and looks ready to empty her stomach.

“Ugh. You have ruined me, this tastes like dirt now,” she says, which makes no sense at all. “I will be taking my leave. Good night, Colin.”

“Wait—”

In what feels like a blink of an eye, Penelope runs out of sight, disappearing among the guests and the flowers.

He got an answer to his curiosity — yet one he is not sure he understands.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

While he was travelling in Europe, Colin came across many books he could unfortunately not read. Many, he brought back for Eloise and Penelope, as they were better versed in other languages than he could ever be, some others he kept for himself, to add to his collection.

(They look rather pretty on his shelves, after all.)

For one such book currently staring back at him, he recalls an old German bookseller telling him that the story involved a man, or creature rather, dead among the living, drinking blood to survive. A creature that remains, never ageing, never changing. He remembers laughing, praising the author’s imagination, although the bookseller did not join him and simply asked if he wanted to purchase it — the original, and a special English translation.

He gave the original to Penelope, and the thought of her, and their last conversation, naturally brought Colin back to this publication. The book’s English translation is now in his hands. It is a collection of poems and short stories, rather than a proper novel, simply signed A Timeless Author. Within, indeed, he reads tales of beings of unnatural origin. A man who can turn into an animal, a woman rising from the dead to protect her dear husband, another woman luring men to their doom within dark woods, feasting on their blood.

The sensual nature of these short tales makes him squirm a little. There was an odd intimacy at play in those scenarios, this need to feed from another, to do so in such proximity, joining pain and pleasure at once.

Colin laughs, albeit a bit weakly, then puts the book back down, and rejoices once more in the imagination humanity holds.

Why did he even entertain for one moment that Penelope could be one such being? These things… vampires, as the Timeless Author coined them, do not age, forever stuck in a past they can no longer reach and hiding away from the sun, but Colin grew up with Penelope. He would forever remember the tiny nine-year-old who apologised profusely for making him fall from a horse in broad daylight, only to laugh at him afterwards when he was unable to remove some dirt and grass from his curls. He saw Penelope go from a sweet and shy girl to the confident and witty woman she now is.

Her odd behaviour at the garden party surely is a simple manifestation of her fatigue.

Colin sighs deeply as he looks at himself in the mirror, inspecting his mouth. The cuts are almost fully healed already, though it still hurts a little. He who hoped for another kiss tonight may simply need to make his intentions clearer. With a nod to himself, he decides that the next day he shall call on Penelope and court her. Make her believe that marriage is not such a ludicrous idea for her. Prove that he no longer was the stupid one-and-twenty boy who could not even admit how oddly obsessed with her he was. How that obsession made him run, over and over again.

When he turns around, he almost screams.

Penelope stands before him in his dimly lit bedroom. She is dressed in a delicate white nightgown that hugs her generous figure wonderfully. Her long, luscious curls cascade down one shoulder, framing her face in an effortless yet sensual way as she gazes at him with bright eyes. There is a quiet confidence in her appearance as she continues to stare, the hint of a smile tugging at her red lips. The picture of innocence and temptation combined.

“Pen! What—”

“Ssh,” she shushes him, and in the blink of an eye, she now stands mere millimetres away from him. Before he can even exhale, she guides him towards the bed, and Colin follows until the back of his knees hits the mattress. As he sits, Penelope nudges his legs open so she may kneel between them. She rests their foreheads together as she whispers, “I need…” Her small hands wrap around his nape.

All the confusion leaves him at once, thoroughly distracted by the cool feeling of her fingers against his skin. She’s not wearing gloves, he realises with elation. Bless his vivid imagination. He closes his eyes, fully indulging in the fantasy, as he becomes Penelope’s ever-so-obedient servant. “What do you need?” he asks.

One of her hands slowly slides to his jaw, thumb caressing the small scar on his chin. Their lips brush as she tilts his head.

“Your heart.” She pauses. The words ‘it is all yours’ form all too easily in Colin’s head. “It is oh so very loud.”

“Is it?”

Penelope hums, eyes flashing red for a brief moment. “I want another taste,” she rasps then her lips are on his.

Instinctively, he wraps an arm around her waist, bringing her closer to him, while he cups her face with his free hand. She is much more eager as she melts against him, nails scraping his skin. This kiss is messier, more urgent, and full of hunger. Colin groans, growls, even, as Penelope cradles his face with a tenderness he has never experienced before.

And then she bites his lower lip.

Colin hisses, the sting feeling much too real for a dream. Penelope pulls back, but unlike the last time, she does not run or apologise. Her lips, plump and full, glisten in the dim light. Colin searches her eyes, but she is not looking at him, blue eyes fixated on his lips before they drift to his neck.

She smiles, and Colin catches a glimpse of fangs hidden behind those alluring lips. Perhaps by instinct, he cranes his neck, watching as a spark lights up in Penelope’s eyes. One of his hands finds its way to Penelope’s shoulder, palm barely an inch away from her exposed bosom. She inhales sharply, encouraging the movement until he can cup her ample breast through her sheer dress. He leans down, squeezing and peppering kisses where he can, shy of tearing her dress apart as desire burns within his heart.

“Let go, darling,” he encourages and Penelope wastes no time, throwing herself at him with such force he falls into the mattress, her mouth connected to the base of his neck.

And…

And then he is suddenly gasping, waking to an empty bed as the sun shines brightly through his curtains. His hand flies to his neck, feeling it bare and devoid of any marks.

His mouth still tingles, however.

(And something else.)

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Colin keeps to the promise he made to himself and calls on Penelope that very afternoon. Unfortunately, she is not home and Lady Featherington is thoroughly unhelpful in providing him with her whereabouts, before dismissing him. Eloise is of no further help, although his sister has been oddly distracted lately anyhow.

To his dismay, Gregory is the one giving him the information he needs.

“Pen?” Colin cringes at the nickname spoken by his brother’s lips. “Oh! Every Wednesday she is at the orphanage in Bloomsbury. She reads to the children.”

“Alone?” Colin inquires. “Is that not dangerous?”

“You and I both know we cannot tell her what to do,” Gregory laughs. “I am surprised she has not told you.”

“Well… me too.”

His brother gives him a pitying look and in that brief moment, he looks exactly like Anthony. Colin looks away and then sighs.

“I might as well ask… have you noticed something odd about Penelope? Lately?”

Gregory tilts his head. “She has been… jumpy for the past few days, I suppose. She almost stepped on my feet several times when we danced, which never happens, she’s a rather excellent dancer after all. In fact, she has been rather distracted ever since that dinner.” Colin tenses. “Did you do something?”

“Why do you think I did?”

“Are you seriously asking me this?”

“Would you stop answering my questions with another question?”

“You started it!”

“And you continued.”

One would wonder which one of them is the actual youngest.

“Colin,” Gregory says after a bit, “Pen… she has stopped waiting, you know?”

Colin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Just that… she told me she was tired of hoping, whatever that meant. I asked her once why she had not left London if she truly had given up on finding a husband.”

“... And what did she say?”

“She should tell you herself. But I think you already know.” Gregory gives him a one-shoulder shrug then waves his hand. “And for the record, you are right, her lips are a particular colour, aren’t they?” He smiles, not-so-subtly adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, drawing Colin’s attention to them.

Colin’s heart skips a beat as he notices two small punctures at the base of his younger brother’s wrist before Gregory quickly covers it back. When their eyes meet again, Gregory is still smiling, pride radiating from his face.

“Gregory…”

“It turns out, you do not need to travel far to discover the most incredible things.” Gregory pats his shoulder. “It was a favour, do not worry, no one was ruined. Good luck, brother.”

He promptly walks away, with a bounce to his steps, leaving Colin to stare at the carpet. He brings a hand to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, a phantom pain suddenly assaulting his skin and yet, he is certain that there was no mark when he looked intently at himself in the mirror. Therefore, last night must have been a dream.

Wasn’t it?

(When he goes to the orphanage, Penelope is not there. Colin has the sudden odd urge to cry out of frustration.)

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Finding time alone with Penelope becomes surprisingly difficult after that, in fact, she disappears from social events, and neither Eloise nor Gregory have any answer for him for they do not know of her whereabouts either. It is as if she is avoiding him during the day but haunting his dreams every night, it is starting to feel like proper torture, rather than moments of ecstasy.

For every time it seems he is finally about to feel her around him, to drink her in, even if it is only a figment of his imagination, he bloody wakes up.

Penelope has always been a constant in his life, his sister’s ever-so-loyal friend, but honestly, his closest friend as well. And he feels like she is slipping through his fingers.

Tonight, he does not wait in bed with his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. Instead, he sits at his desk, fiddling with his quill, when the Penelope of his dreams appears before him between two blinks, as she has done almost every night now. She seems surprised by the slight change of setting as she makes her way towards him, the fabric of her nightgown swaying with her movement, akin to the peaceful waves of the sea at night.

“Writing tonight?” she asks softly.

“You make me feel like I have gone mad,” he replies. “Penelope, what are you doing to me?”

For a brief moment, Penelope tenses, guilt flashing in her crystal blue eyes as she takes a step back. Then, she shakes her head.

“I am not doing anything. Right now anyhow.”

“Pen.”

“... You sound tired, perhaps it is better that you rest.” She raises a hand then but before she can touch him, he grabs her wrist, stopping her movement.

“So I am not sleeping,” Colin says, dark eyes boring into her startled ones. “This is real. It has been real every time and yet I cannot remember.”

Penelope laughs, a sound that is meant to be humorous yet Colin can detect a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Do not be silly. How would the real Penelope even be able to sneak into your room at night?”

It has been something he wondered about in moments when doubts would creep into his mind. Especially as he moved into new lodgings in Bloomsbury, and the dreams still kept occurring.

But if he throws all sense of rationality out the window…

“It would be impossible indeed… if you were truly only a woman. But you are not, are you?”

A derisive smile graces her crimson lips. “You did say once I did not count as a woman.” He winces at that. Not his greatest moment. “And you were so unknowingly right.”

Her demeanour changes, as if finally giving up the pretence. She shakes his hand off with a huff, then massages her wrist.

“So you are… a vampire.”

Penelope looks confused for a few moments. “Oh! The book you gave me, right? I had a good laugh at the inaccuracies. Incredible what writing can do, makes this sound so… fantastical. But… asking for that kiss was the biggest mistake of my unfortunate life,” she says then, not meeting his eyes. “Ever since that night, ever since I got a taste, I have been drawn to you. That first night— it was a guttural hunger I could not deny. I’ve fed from others before but this… one drop from you and it was like I was not myself. It was terrifying.”

She has fed from others? Of all things, Colin’s mind cannot help but stay stuck on that information, feeling his insides churn with anger.

“I stopped before I could give in completely. I could not do that to you, so I made you sleep instead,” she continues. Colin’s confusion grows— she can simply make him fall asleep? “And you believed it to be all a dream, so I said nothing, it was easier than to explain this.” She shows off her teeth then, two long fangs glistening under the moonlight. Colin’s heart picks up.

“So you never… bit me.”

“Well, I did, while we kissed, accidentally, which did nothing to satiate my thirst. Now everything tastes… bland.”

A pause. Colin sets his quill aside. “And if I said you can? Bite me, that is, drink from me.”

Penelope regards him as if he were the abnormal one. “Have you gone mad?”

“I may have,” he admits. “But this is clearly affecting you and I cannot help but feel like it is my fault.”

“So simply because you feel guilty you would let a monster drain your blood?”

“You’re not a monster! And you would not do anything to harm me, would you?”

“You have no idea what I have done over the years, Colin. You have no idea who stands before you.”

A shiver runs down his spine at her words, spoken in that low, raspy voice he is not accustomed to.

“Perhaps that is right. But one thing I know is that you are still Penelope Featherington, my dearest friend, and the alluring presence that won’t leave my mind.”

“Colin…”

“Come on.” He beckons her closer, and though she looks hesitant, she wastes no time to round his desk. As soon as she is within reach again, Colin grabs her arm and gently coaxes her into sitting on his lap. She goes surprisingly willingly as if the fight in her vanished after a touch. “Let go, darling. Properly.”

Penelope’s mouth hangs open for a moment, in such an adorable expression of awe and relief that Colin cannot help but steal just one chaste kiss. She chuckles against his mouth, her fangs gently teasing him before she pulls back. One of her hands grabs his chin so he cannot seek another kiss and he pouts.

“This might hurt. Actually, it will hurt,” she warns and yet Colin feels a thrill at the idea. “I—” Her hands tremble slightly as she traces the spot at the base of his neck, hunger swimming in her eyes. “I will not take too much.”

“I trust you.”

She nods. Painfully slowly, she lowers her head, lips brushing along his cheek and then his neck before she settles on the spot she has been caressing. Colin’s hands settle on her waist, feeling the rolls of her body pressed warmly against him. Then he feels them— her teeth on his skin.

He shivers, feeling her hesitation. He caresses her side, encouraging, gentle. He feels her smile but has no time to feel satisfaction as she finally bites. He groans, his grip strengthening around her, he worries he may have imprinted bruises on her porcelain skin. He can feel it, somehow, the blood draining from him, right into Penelope’s very being.

Her body feels warmer against him as the seconds pass. Colin’s vision blurs as something else stirs within him. His heart is beating fast, obnoxiously loud in his ears, and he realises that his member is sure starting to take interest.

At that moment, Penelope stops. He hisses as her fangs leave his neck, exposing the open wound to the cold air. She shushes him, a hand perhaps instinctively going against his mouth as she laps at the wound, gathering every small hint of blood left on his skin.

Their eyes meet again, Penelope’s blue orbs shining with mirth. But then, she tilts her head in confusion. She must see the lust in his eyes, Colin reckons, as he breathes deeply and cannot help but move his hips, grinding against Penelope’s thighs.

“Oh. Poor you,” she says sweetly.

“Pen…” he mumbles against her palm.

“Let me return the favour.”

He is confused for a moment before her free hand travels down his body towards his belt. With an expertise that makes him squirm at the implication, she unbuckles it and brings his cock into the cold spring air. Colin groans.

“Mm. My… victims usually are just terrified, or indifferent. But you… you liked it.”

She grins, her small hand wrapping around his girth with no hesitation. Finally, she frees his mouth as well and Colin wastes no time in bringing their lips together. She gasps as he licks into her mouth, tasting the iron of his own blood on her lips, on her tongue, everywhere.

He moans, openly, freely, as she starts to rub him up and down, a little clumsy, but enthusiastic nonetheless. Penelope sighs against his mouth, pleased, relieved, happy. Her newly freed hand settles on his heart, feeling it beat quicker and quicker, matching its rhythm with her strokes.

Colin pants as he feels his orgasm rush to him with embarrassing speed. With one brush of her thumb on his slit, he lets go, ecstasy blinding his senses as he comes in her hand.

“Thank you,” she says, looking indeed all replenished, skin glowing and eyes bright. She licks the traces of come sticking to her fingers while Colin is still finding his breath. “Sweet dreams, Colin.”

This time, as his mind turns to darkness it feels all too natural, with the honey scent of Penelope surrounding him.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

The days, or rather the nights, go on. Penelope does not visit every night, but when she does, Colin finds himself speechless, getting lost in her touches, the alluring taste of her mouth, and the feel of her skin and body around him.

They still do not talk. Colin still has many questions, and many fears about the nature of their encounters, all of which get drowned by pleasure and crimson lips, before they resurface at the same time the sun rises and Penelope vanishes, leaving in her wake only the trace of her lips on a letter on his desk, proof that what they shared was indeed real.

Finding her during the day remains a hassle. When he calls on her, she is never home, and when he catches a glimpse of her at Number 5, Eloise quickly steals her away, with no regard to Colin’s requests, and the two disappear for hours on end.

On Wednesdays, he could follow her to that orphanage, but she has never shared this with him, and it would feel… odd, insensitive, even, to show up at such a place only to try to speak with her.

Therefore, Colin finds himself in his younger brother’s company once more.

“Well, you look gloomy again,” Gregory comments as he slides a glass towards him. Colin catches it swiftly.

“It is still very weird to think you are old enough to be here, by the way.”

“You are deflecting.”

Colin sighs. “And you are annoying.”

“And I had you as my role model, so who’s to blame?”

“Anthony.”

Gregory rolls his eyes.

“How come she… bit you?” Colin asks eventually after several beats of silence. “How did you even find out?”

“The whole family knows, we’ve been helping her get, well, the blood she needs.”

“Excuse me?!”

Gregory puts his hands up in defence. “I figured you knew too! Otherwise, why would you be so fixated on her lips?”

“Why did no one tell me?!”

“Not sure, it was not exactly a secret. You’re just… never here.” Colin winces at that. “And now you are.”

“That still does not answer my question. She fed from you?”

“I offered. So did Eloise. We have matching marks on the wrist, though they usually heal after a few months, Pen does not need blood as often as we need food. She also refused anyone else’s blood, since they’re married.” Colin does not comment on the fact Hyacinth is left out. “But we helped… other ways as well.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Gregory purses his lips before taking a sip of his drink, stalling the answer. Colin keeps staring, a sense of both foreboding and thrill running through his veins.

“Did you not find it peculiar that some of the most notorious rakes of the Ton all mysteriously disappeared after one dance with her?”

You have no idea what I have done over the years, Colin. You have no idea who stands before you.

Colin finds himself short of breath.

“I… no one noticed?”

“Oh, you know, a rumour of a hunting accident tends to do the trick. No one ever suspects the quiet Featherington or the esteemed Bridgertons. I suppose we must thank our family's reputation.”

The older Bridgerton inhales sharply. Something stirs within him, and he would rather not acknowledge it with Gregory sitting right there.

“You said she does not need blood often but…” he croaks out, barely quenching his sudden thirst by downing his whole drink in one go. Fortunately, Gregory does not notice.

“Actual human blood? At least once every six months, she said. So right about the beginning of the social season and then at the end, unless she wants more. I thought you two talked?”

“It is not so much talking that we do…” Colin mumbles. Penelope finds her rightful place on his neck, takes, gives, and then leaves.

But if she does not need his blood as often as she seems to crave it as soon as they are safe within the closed space of his bedroom…

Gregory scrunches his nose. “I will pretend I did not hear that.”

Colin shrugs one shoulder. “You heard worse from our older brothers.”

“Do not remind me. I still cannot look Kate or Sophie in the eyes sometimes.”

He smiles against his glass. At least, in this ever-changing and confusing world, he finds some familiarity in teasing his brother.

Although he and the rest of his family have hidden pretty significant information about his best friend from him.

One day, he will get back to them. But for now…

“I suppose we will see more of you in the future? Are you staying?” Gregory asks, and somehow the question feels loaded.

“For a very long time, indeed. If she will have me.”

Gregory smiles. “Rooting for you, brother.”

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Penelope is not a brave woman, or at least she does not believe herself to be one.

In her eight and twenty years of life, she has let life pass her by with passive interest. It was difficult to do otherwise when her father sat her down in early childhood to tell her how unfortunately different she was from her sisters because she just so happened to inherit his curse.

“When you will come of age, another type of hunger will rise within you. Do not worry, the staff is already aware and will be prepared.”

“What about Mama?”

“Your mother… would rather ignore that our condition exists. Do not worry, little one, I will be here to guide you. We will have all of eternity.”

But then her father was killed during her first year out in society — so much for eternity with him, she lamented. Publicly, it was said to be a heart attack, her sisters still believe that lie to this day but Penelope knew better. Her father was a notorious gambler, and an excellent one, though his vampiric attributes were to his advantage. With an acute hearing, he could easily tell when an opponent was nervous, adapting his plays accordingly.

And what is more fragile than a man’s ego? Not much, truly. That is how Archibald Featherington found his demise at the hands of prideful men.

Penelope figures she must be at least grateful that their secret was not revealed to the light. As her father had predicted, her mother largely ignored Penelope’s vampiric attributes, pushing her motherly duties onto Mrs Varley who, fortunately, had kept her father’s journals where he detailed how life would be for her. Portia was too relieved to keep her youngest daughter hidden, at the end of the day.

Therefore, Penelope learned about herself through her father’s quill and the books she could find on the subject, dedicating most of her early years in society to adapting to her own body, rather than engaging in the marriage mart. And thus, a wallflower she became, not that she wished for anything else.

Love, for beings like her, is a fickle thing, her father wrote. It never lasts, he assured, and the promise of eternity is but a lie from a mortal’s lips. She knew her parents never truly had love for each other the way Lady and Lord Bridgerton had, but reading the resentment in her father’s writing, as well as seeing the barely hidden disgust in her mother’s eyes, was a brutal reminder of that reality.

The marriage was only convenient. She needed a rich match, I needed a family to blend into London society. I also needed an heir. She understood it as a male heir to the Barony. I meant an heir to my true heritage.

It did not stop her from falling in love, though she was quick to put those feelings aside. Nothing could ever come out of it — outside of her feelings being an unrequited fantasy, she was doomed to live many years more than whoever her heart may yearn for. In the end, only heartbreak would meet her. In the end, she would always be the one to say goodbye.

She made her peace with that.

The Bridgertons decided against it, though. First Eloise, and the rest soon followed, became privy of her secret early on. It was a secret too big for her to keep, especially with her urges becoming more frequent as her body fully developed and she needed to sneak away from events before she jumped on a poor guest.

They accepted her with surprising ease, even when she also shared her desire to avenge her father’s death.

Perhaps it was her thirst for blood speaking that day, but once the idea was spoken out loud, she knew she needed to see it through to the end. And the list was quite long.

Perhaps she should have been worried at how eagerly Eloise, Daphne and Francesca — and later Gregory and Hyacinth when they were old enough — were to help her lure the unsuspecting rakes of the Ton. Even Violet seemed ecstatic, meanwhile, Anthony and Benedict seemed more reluctant — perhaps because they once would have been within Penelope’s targets, but they wisely looked away and pretended to be clueless about the ordeal.

The family’s reputation and Penelope’s talent at blending into the crowd and disappearing made it easier to pass those mysterious deaths as mere accidents of fate.

The same way her father’s death had been reported.

Life was not perfect, but Penelope was content. Over the years, the Bridgertons dispersed, finding the loves of their lives and moving away from London. Soon, only Eloise, Gregory and Hyacinth remained. Penelope knew that the next time she blinked, they could all be gone.

And then there was Colin.

Her Colin, she liked to think once. The first Bridgerton she met, riding that horse she inadvertently made him fall from. It was a miracle no major injury was sustained, although he bled through his sleeves and it made her pre-teen self swallow with guilt and, Lord forbid, hunger. But then, he laughed, and her heart burst open.

She knew from that moment on that whatever years she would get to live, Colin Bridgerton would forever haunt her as her first, and perhaps her only love.

It was almost a blessing that out of all his siblings, Colin was the one who developed a love for the outside world soon after entering society, so she rarely ever saw him as the years went on, especially after hearing him declare so loudly that he would never marry her to his brothers. It was easier that way — she had no intention of marrying anyhow, even if she did not have those feelings torturing her heart. She could not. She refused to live like her parents. She would be content disappearing one day into the countryside as an oddly old spinster that people write tales about. Her father had left her a significant inheritance, separate from the Featherington Barony, that would allow her to run elsewhere and build a new life.

For all his faults, he at least made certain that she had the choice of living a different life than the one he had for himself.

And yet, she remained in London, because every year, without fail, Colin came back for the social season, and would always seek her out at every event. He would dance with her, make her laugh, call her special, and so very dear to him. It was enough to make a woman hope, and hope is one dangerous weapon, especially one she knew with no use in the end.

Therefore, she made her decision. This year would be her last, and soon she would forsake the name Featherington to start a new life.

I’ve had many names over the years, ones I cannot remember any longer. Her father wrote. No place ever felt like I belonged, therefore I kept moving. Eventually, London became… something interesting and Portia was an unusual and intriguing woman. I stayed. I believed I could settle. But I knew, that if one of our children turned out to be like me, that one day, I would leave again, this time just not alone.

She told Eloise, who smiled and promised to visit and join her as soon as her mother would finally stop hoping she might still find a match. Hyacinth hugged her and made her promise to write every week. Gregory jokingly proposed to her to make her stay and Penelope pinched his cheek for his adorableness.

She could not find the courage to tell Colin. A part of her simply assumed he would not care anyhow, he who is so little in London. And yet, that evening, perhaps it was Violet’s question about settling down that made her ache again, but she let go of her fears and doubts. When Colin sought her out in the garden, she asked for the one thing she always craved for, because over the years, somehow, she had never been kissed.

She did other things, to lure rakes into the dark woods near Aubrey Hall. Men are easy creatures, she had learned, a caress down there, a seductive smile and a slightly lower voice, and they fall like autumn leaves. The perfect distraction before she could lunge and drain them. They are all driven by lust, which makes their blood all the sweeter before it turns dull as fear overtakes them. They were so eager to get pleasure, and not so much to give or share, which is why they made such easy targets as well.

Penelope still craved the taste of a sweet kiss, though, and if she had to spend the rest of her long life alone, she wanted to experience it at least once. Perhaps it would be her biggest regret.

She could not predict the next turn of events. She knew her crush never truly vanished, but she did not expect her body to sing for him. Instincts took over and to her surprise, it was a different kind of thirst she had when drinking from others. It was a burden with them, a task as simple as eating to survive, she simply needed it to be done, and fast, but with Colin, her movements were slower, more hesitant perhaps. With Colin, she wanted to make it last.

And what a terrifying thought. It was in her very nature that everything she touches cannot last.

So she came back every other night. Colin seemed eager to welcome her every time, but he did not think she was real, she could tell with the mesmerised glint in his eyes, and it made her stop before she would give in. The kisses were enough. They had to be. It was not love, it could not be.

Then everything was cleared up and he still wanted her. He asked her to bite him. To let go.

So she did. Again, and again, and again. And when he mentioned needing to talk, she flew, afraid that it would mark the end of this whole mess.

And she knew it would be her downfall.

Penelope is not a brave woman. She is greedy, ruined and selfish.

But someone else may disagree.

And that night, she is reminded that she remains a woman made for love.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Knocks on her window make her jump, and she almost screams when she turns around to see Colin somehow there, perched on the branch of the tree near her house.

“Have you gone mad?! Again!” she whisper-shouts as she opens the window and Colin wastes no time jumping into her bedroom, bringing a few leaves and twigs in his wake.

“My mind has never been clearer, Pen,” Colin grins that easy-going charming smile of his. “I have something to ask you.”

Under the moonlight, Penelope has always felt more at peace, empowered in a way the sun could never offer. As it turns out, Colin finds that the night emboldens him as well.

He strides the few steps separating him from Penelope and promptly drops on one knee.

“Marry me.”

Penelope gasps, taking a step back to observe the man before her. Framed perfectly as he is by her open window, it allows the full moon to shine brightly upon him, casting an ethereal blue tint upon his dark curls. A subtle breeze graces the night, her curtains swaying gently to its rhythm around Colin, a vision from her romantic reveries.

And so it pains her to utter her next words.

“Colin we cannot.”

Undeterred, Colin presses on. “But do you want to?”

“... Do not do this to me, Colin.”

He shakes his head and reaches for her hand. Against all the voices in her head, she lets him, fingers curling naturally around his warm palm.

“Talk to me, Penelope.”

The urge to run grips her very being once more but this time Colin does not let go. He must have felt her hand tremble in his grip. He stands up, bringing an arm around her waist, pressing their bodies together. He whirls them around so he may sit on the bed, Penelope standing before him, now at even level for their foreheads to gently rest against each other.

She inhales deeply. A familiar position, one that renders her so weak for his touches.

“Is it… Did your family tell you? That I planned on leaving after this season? Is this why you are proposing so suddenly?” she asks eventually, meeting Colin’s forest green orbs, shining with an intensity she still is not used to.

His muscles tense under her hands. “... You wished to leave?” That is a no, then. “Why would you…”

“I have a long life ahead of me, Colin, and spending it in London has never been my plan.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“... Eventually,” she lies.

He doesn’t believe her, it is evident in his eyes and the way his lips press into a stern line.

“Talk to me.”

It is not so much a request anymore, but rather a blatant and tired demand. Penelope’s shoulders sag, guilt piercing her heart for the torment she must have put her friend in.

“I apologise,” she whispers. “It is just… I cannot do this to you, Colin.” Her hands slide from his shoulders to his face, feeling Colin melt under her touch. “I am already taking so much from you— I cannot curse you with eternity too.”

It is possible to tie a mortal’s life to ours, but it is a process that cannot be overturned. They remain partially human, they simply stop ageing as long as the vampire does not die. She recalls reading in her father’s writings. The target must simply drink back from the vampire. It cannot be forced, the ritual will fail if the soul is not willing. But mortals are indecisive. Many dream of eternity only to wither through the years and beg for death.

“And what if I wanted eternity with you?” Colin asks, an unbearable softness to his voice.

“You do not know what you speak of.”

“I do. I have been agonising over this for the past few weeks, Penelope.”

“A life with me means an eternity of loneliness.”

Colin gives her a bemused look. “Absolutely not, since I would be with you. That is the very opposite of loneliness.”

“But your family—”

“Know about you, about my feelings, and would understand.”

“We will need to constantly move, with nowhere to call home.”

“Home does not need to be a place. There is a reason I keep coming back, and though I love my family, it is not because of them.” Penelope is ready to argue, but he shushes her by stealing a kiss. “Do not. Half of them do not even live in London anymore.”

Penelope cannot refute that indeed.

“Perhaps the better question would be… Penelope Featherington, would you make me yours?”

The air becomes charged after those words are uttered.

Her teeth ache, as he cranes his neck, the traces of her last bite peeking beneath his cravat. A monstrous growl almost escapes her at the mere fact it is hidden, and she is able to stifle it through a cough.

“N-Not tonight,” she says.

“Is that a yes for later, then?” Colin says eagerly, arms still wrapped around her, refusing to let go.

“I need you to be sure, Colin.”

“I am, darling.” He smiles with a tenderness that makes her non-beating heart swoon. He kisses the palm of her hand. “You have been my constant in life. The light within the dark that kept guiding me back home, back to you. I suppose I never… questioned it twice, I always assumed that however long I went away, you would be here to welcome me. I love you, and if I can be blessed with eternity with you, exploring the world anew, then I would be a fool to refuse.”

“Will you not grow bored?”

“Bored! Pen, we have known each other for almost twenty years, that is a crazy long time, all things considered, and I am still learning new exciting things about you, and myself. An eternity of constantly surprising each other, is that not exciting?”

Piece by piece, she can feel the walls around her soul crumble.

“I love you,” she laughs as she lets herself fall against him, making them both tumble into the mattress. Colin carefully manoeuvers them so she is the one lying down on the bed, with him hovering over her, her arms still wrapped around his neck, keeping him close. “Now I feel like the one who’s dreaming.”

Colin hums. “Then allow me to fulfil your fantasies, now,” he says, voice lowered. The laughter dies on her tongue as she takes on the serious look in his eyes, and she can hear his heartbeat more intensely. Her vision goes hazy for a moment as all her senses get attuned to Colin’s body.

She can have him, her heart sings, all of him, body and soul. Why should she wait, in the end?

“Let me show you… how certain I am. Let me return the favour?” As he speaks, one of his hands slowly travels from her waist to the back of her knees, lifting the skirt of her nightgown in his wake.

Penelope breathes in. “Well… first I would need to tell you what I need, wouldn’t I?”

Colin smiles, tilting his head. It is a thing he only ever does with her, Penelope muses with wonder. “I’m listening,” he whispers. “What do you need, darling?”

A thrill runs through her body at the question — the very question which started their nightly escapades.

“I need you inside me. I want it slow, but purposeful, I want to feel all of you and feel you come undone as I bite you.”

If he is surprised by her frankness or her mere knowledge of sexual acts, she who is supposed to be an innocent lady of the Ton, he does not let it show. His breath falters but he quickly regains himself, offering her a bright smile.

“You are a right wonder,” he praises, leaning down to kiss her. For long minutes, it is all they do, exchange languid kisses in which Penelope teasingly bites his lower lip whenever he pulls back slightly to breathe.

Soon, she feels his hand slide around her thigh to seek her most intimate part. She gasps softly as his large hand cups her.

“You are soaked already…” Colin whispers in wonder as he starts to rub circles. She whines, lifting her hips to match his movements. “Eager…”

“It has been a while,” she admits then quickly slaps a hand on her mouth. “I— I mean—”

Colin purses his lips. “Then I shall prove myself better, so it is not just my blood you will relentlessly crave,” he says.

“Cocky, are we?”

He bites his lips, visibly holding himself back from another retort, and just as Penelope is about to call him out on it, she feels a finger prod at her entrance before sliding in, oh too naturally, before another one joins in.

That is when Penelope realises they are still too dressed, or at least, Colin is. As he starts thrusting his fingers in her, accompanied by expert stimulation of her bundle of nerves, she starts clawing at his shirt and cravat, threatening to tear them apart. Eventually, she manages to get his cravat off, at the very least, freeing his neck. She licks her lips, eyes focused on her mark on his skin.

She can feel his gaze on him, tracking every one of her expressions, of her movements. His fingers slow as if waiting for her next move, and as she tugs at his sleeves, he understands. He pulls away briefly, getting rid of his shirt with one hand, throwing it over his shoulder and across the room, before he is on her again.

His fingers resume their work to Penelope’s utter pleasure, alternating between careful caresses and enthusiastic thrusts. She feels it build steadily, that heat within her, and she can sense it in him too. Her hands dance across the hair on his chest, listening to his heart beat with fervour, feeling his blood flow throughout his body and most importantly, down there. She smiles slightly as he, most certainly unconsciously, starts to grind against her thighs, desperation building.

“Colin,” she calls against his lips. He halts his movements, a bit too abruptly to her taste. She pouts. “I need you, now.”

He wastes no time executing himself, her Colin. With one more kiss before parting, he pulls away, but only for a moment as he frees himself from his breeches, which also find their place at the foot of the bed. With Colin now completely naked in front of her, she realises she, on the other hand, is still fully clothed. And she quite likes it.

“Next time,” she promises, upon noticing Colin’s slightly disappointed look upon noticing she is not moving at all to remove her nightgown. “Only my husband shall see everything.”

Colin laughs softly. “I will procure a special licence, then.” He crawls on top of her again, and she feels his length throb between her thighs and shivers. “Are you ready?” he asks.

She licks her lips. “Are you?” she asks, flashing her fangs, recalling the way her bites affect him like it has affected no other man. He draws in a shaky breath and nods.

She wraps her legs around his waist as he positions himself and thrusts in one smooth glide. Penelope moans, stifling her sounds immediately on his skin, not quite biting yet, but tempted to. He groans against her, mouth lapping at her chest, for every inch of skin he can reach, as he builds a steady rhythm.

“You feel heavenly, Pen,” Colin meowls. “Warm, sweet, perfect.”

Penelope sighs deeply with each thrust, matching his movement, ears ringing with the sound of Colin’s breath, his heart, his blood, his pleasure. It is all so much, and yet not enough at once.

Then one of Colin’s hands reaches for her clit during one particular thrust and she almost screams. The only reason she does not is because she bites down on Colin’s neck instead, his blood flooding her mouth.

His hips stutter, before they renew in vigour, chasing that high. Penelope loses herself, an animalistic instinct taking over as she bites and nibbles at every inch of skin available to her as she feels her pleasure overwhelm her.

“Colin,” she moans, “Colin, now—”

His thrusts lose their careful rhythm as he gives in to the chase. She tries to follow, but all she can do is hold on, lay back and let him take, take and take, the way she has taken and taken and taken from him.

Soon enough, her vision blurs as her pleasure overflows. She moans, and so does he, eyes never leaving her face as she clenches around him at the same time she can feel his seeds plant within her.

With laboured breath, they remain connected as such for long minutes, before eventually, Colin collapses on her side, fingers tracing the numerous new marks across his skin.

“Good Lord, darling, you devoured me,” he says, before kissing her like tomorrow did not exist.

She laughs against his mouth, wiggling her hips, trying to ignore her disappointment at the sudden emptiness there. “You’re welcome.”

He hums. “I… should go before the sun rises.”

“You should.”

“I do not want to.”

“Me neither.”

And so they do not move and fall asleep entangled together.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

They are married within the next week through a special licence. They did not get caught that night, surprisingly enough, Colin was simply impatient, and he is too in love to even be ashamed about it.

Neither he nor Penelope desired a big celebration of a wedding anyhow, not when they knew that they would soon embark on a ritual far more binding than a wedding could ever be.

But it is a bit underwhelming, Colin thinks, as Penelope hands him a chalice with some of her blood within. And nothing else.

“Is that all?” he questions. “Seems… awfully easy.”

“Not everything can be as seductive as those books say,” Penelope says. “I can bite your wrist at the same time if you prefer.”

“Do that, and we are not leaving this room for another week again.”

She snorts. “Well then.” She grabs a glass, this one he knows to be full of wine, as she clinks it against his chalice. “To our eternity?”

“To our eternity,” he confirms and drinks.

He blinks as sweetness greets his tongue, rather than the stale iron taste blood usually bears. His eyes flicker to Penelope, whose eyes twinkle as she smiles.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” she hums around her glass. “Only mine will taste as such to you.”

“Is that how I taste to you?” he asks.

“You now know why I lost my mind a little,” his wife chuckles. She beckons him closer. “Here, hold my hand, close your eyes and concentrate.”

Confused, Colin follows her instructions. He holds her hands with both of his, smiling a little upon feeling her wedding ring against his palm. That is when he hears it— two unified beating hearts. His, and hers.

“But you said your heart…” he trails off.

“You are half of me, as I am half of you now.” Her crimson lips form the lovely smile he fell in love with years ago. “Sweet, isn’t it?”

Colin cannot help but agree. He leans down to get a sweet kiss indeed from her. “Not as sweet as you.”

Penelope beams at him, eyes bright. He shall cherish that sight forever.

And how lucky is he that he does have forever ahead of him.

[chronicallyonline101]

hey king can you write me a Doppio x Diavolo fic where diavolo thinks that he finally escaped the death loop and can apologise for not even saying goodbye, only to be killed by Doppio, (smut/j) thanks xoxo

THIS IS SOMETHING I CAN DO!

It's a bit rushed cuz i wrote it in class but i hope you like it !!! :D

Diavolo x Doppio - Nothing Matters.

Was there such a thing as infinity?

How many times must one perish before they've done it all; before they've experienced every death there is to have; all the pain that is to be inflicted?

Diavolo had done it all - couldn't count how many times he'd died. How many times had he been stabbed? Mauled? Dissected? Run over? Diseased? Frozen? Impaled? How many times had he found himself cut into little pieces? Shot? Battered? Even the things that seemed impossible, like spontaneous combustion, or melting on the spot - Diavolo, as a matter of fact, had done it all.

It was a repetitive cycle of life, pain and death.

At first it had been torment. Torture; both physical and psychological. Could you imagine that kind of suffering? To wake up each morning and know for certain that death awaits you? To have your insides torn out piece by piece, to drown in a pool of your own blood, to feel all that pain, every stab, every pinch and to remember each and every single instance... Diavolo could. He had. In fact, he'd come to expect it.

It had been so, so long that he had grown numb to the fear.

Ever day, he woke up and was overcome with a profound sense of emptiness. He knew what would come. What else could he do but lie and accept his fate?

At the back of his head there was a nagging hope that maybe, sometime soon, 'infinity' would end. Surely, there wasn't such a thing as 'infinite deaths', at some point he'd experience them all, right? He hoped that at some point it would end, that this would all end and that he would be tossed into the fiery pits of Hell - but with each day, each new loop, this hope was diminished. Squashed beneath the weight of the Grim Reaper and his sick games. With each new day, he experienced yet another death.

That is what he had expected when waking up that morning.

Diavolo felt himself arise beneath the hot Italian sun. His body lay atop of a soft mound of dirt, gentle blades of grass brushing the sore flesh of his skin and making his sensitive muscles twitch. There was a groan, and his eyes fluttered open; a vibrant brushy green that contrasted well with the gold of the sky. The day was hot, for October - not that he knew the date - and it wilted pale tulips and vibrant roses. It was hot. So hot that for a moment he half thought he would be set ablaze right then and there. It wouldn't be anything knew - he'd died that way around about sixty-two times, not that he was counting.

But, the longer he sat there, sweating beneath the sky, the more hope began to swell within his bosom. Like a golden ray of the sun, glowing brightly in what was the carcass of his heart, he began to realise that nothing was happening at all.

He sat upright. His long, pink hair - knotty and matted from lack of care - swayed atop of his shoulders. He sat. He sat and he waited for the bitter grip of death to take him; but it never came. No shrieks. No cars. No trains. There was no sound of a blade being unsheathed from its case, no buzz of a chainsaw and no manic laugh of a killer clown - which had happened before, by the way. No, there was none of that, just a serene sense of calm. The rattling of tall grass against the breeze, the crow of a bird and the hum of a bee settling into an open tulip.

This was... alarming. With eyes splayed wide, Diavolo jerked his head back and forth to survey the area; he was in an empty field of flowers, tulips, roses and lilies of the valleys dusted the landscape in the soft tones of white, pink and red. And though he had once thought he was alone, he quickly learnt that this was not the case, for in the distance he could see a lone, wandering figure.

Slender, yet tall, dressed in colours that matched the soft landscape around them and tipped with pretty, pink hair that had been coiled into a strange sort of bun and --- Oh. Oh my God.

Diavolo scrambled to his feet, his once empty heart filled with an urgency he had not felt since being subjected to the wrath of Golden Experience Requiem.

Was that him?

Was that really him?

Was it actually Doppio?

Since entering the loop, Diavolo had done a lot of running - for his life, mostly - but now he was running for the man he had once loved. The man that he had never stopped loving, even as he was left to die over and over again.

His heart pounded in his chest, and as he neared this odd man he realised that it in fact was his sweet Doppio. By the shoulder, he grabbed him, and swiftly turned to look him deep in those doeish brown eyes he had never once had the privilege of looking into before.

And there he was; his tan, freckled face framed by tousled pink locks. His eyes wide and confused. His lips parted to speak out against this sudden intrusion, but he was cut off by a startled Diavolo, who with a voice hoarse from pleading for his own life, blubbered and sobbed;

"Doppio," He gripped his shoulders as if there was nothing else to hold onto in the entire world. "My dear Doppio..."

"It's you..." Doppio spoke, there was recognition in his voice. He called Diavolo's name, and in his heightened state of relief it didn't once register to Diavolo that logically, Doppio shouldn't know his name. He'd never learnt it. Only heard the voice of his overly affectionate Boss through the echo of a faux phone.

"It's me, and it's really you." Overwhelmed with joy, Diavolo pulled Doppio closer by his shoulders, and in turn, Doppio placed his hands atop of his Boss' narrow jawline; cupping his face with adoration and pressing their foreheads together. There was a crooked smile across his lips, finding humour in the bated breaths Diavolo let out.

"You finally made it." He cooed, and slowly, he let go of Diavolo. There was a silent complaint from the latter, who wished to hold on for a little longer, but when Doppio took his hand in his and began leading him along, Diavolo had no gripes. "Come with me."

As he was being lead along, he took a moment to glance around. To really take in his surroundings; the sky was golden, with puffy white clouds. The ground mottled with pastels. It was picturesque; it was perfect. This place, with Doppio, was perfection. And as a small, rotund table came into view - adorned in a gingham cloth, with a little tea set at its top, Diavolo began to realise that this may be it.

Had he finally reached the end? Was this it?

Here, with Doppio, was this his final destination? Heaven, is what it was. Though he had once been certain he would never reach the pearly gates, here he was, with the man he loved.

Doppio sat at the table with a smile, and offered Diavolo the spot opposite him. He took it with glee, slowly and with care, now that he knew there was nothing but bliss awaiting him ahead.

But, a frown soon overcame his features. A sorrowful, regretful thing, and it quickly spread to Doppio.

"What's wrong, Boss?" He spoke, not a lilt of malice or anger in his tone which only served to upset Diavolo more. He watched, with sad green eyes as Doppio poured the two of them tea - sugar, and milk, stirred together in the way Diavolo liked.

"I'm... sorry." He was quiet. His tone so hushed it was near a whisper. Doppio cocked his head to the side; a question, pushing Diavolo to continue. "I'm sorry... for everything... for ruining your life, for turning you into my personal puppet. You didn't deserve that."

There was a short pause. Doppio continued to stare at Diavolo, his longing gaze not faltering for even a moment before he continued;

"And I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye to you."

Ah, there it was. A flash of hurt behind Doppio's gaze.

Doppio had liked working for Diavolo. He had enjoyed each and every little conversation they had over the phone, he had liked how easy the life was - aside from major tousles and injuries - and he had loved his Boss. What had hurt him, was dying alone. In a body that was not his, Doppio felt himself go cold, he felt himself drift away and though he called and cried for his Boss; Diavolo never came to save him.

But they were here, together, right now. That's all that mattered, right?

"It's okay." Doppio spoke, his tone unnatural.

"It's not, though. I should have tried to save you, but instead... I was so caught up with myself I ran away to pursue those... those---!" He was working himself up, only eased by the sound of Doppio's gentle laugh.

"Just drink your tea." He mumbled, a smile plastered across his lips. He took a sip of his own beverage, tongue poking out playfully as he savoured the taste. Diavolo's gaze softened on him, loving and content.

He could apologise properly later. He had all the time in the world now, after all. It was strange to think that he had finally escaped that death loop. To think that he would no longer need to wake up with a sour feeling of emptiness in his heart, knowing that now he could live out each day to its fullest without the threat of impending doom. Perhaps he needed that loop. It had taught him to be more appreciative of the little things in life - like this tea, that he blew at to clear the smoke before taking a delicate sip and... ew.

It was gross. Acrid, and bitter, with an aftertaste that burnt at his tongue. Initially, he spat it out, which only served to make Doppio frown.

"Do you not like it?" He had asked, and out of pity, Diavolo shook his head.

"No, no. I love it. Apologies, it was just hot."

He took another sip, but the bitter taste remained. Doppio watched with wide, sad eyes, and as a means to make him happy, Diavolo took one big gulp. Downing the entire cup in one fell swoop. It seeped down his throat and left a burning sensation in its wake, causing him to wince in pain. He brought a hand up to his chest to try and ease the pain.

"I'm so glad you're enjoying." Doppio then smiled, and brought the teapot up to refill his cup. "Do you want another?"

But he did not bother waiting for Diavolo's answer, already pouring another round of the sour liquid into his cup. Diavolo winced, suddenly finding his voice hoarse.

"D---opp-io..." He croaked.

His spit foamed at the edges of his mouth; bile rising to the back of his throat as his body tried to reject the poison that had now settled into his system. There was a gurgling in his gut, burning and bubbling. He wheezed, wincing and panting hard as he tried so desperately to fight off the sudden nausea that overcame his body.

He looked to Doppio, but only saw a husk of what was once the man he loved. And as his eyes closed yet again, ready to embrace the release of death; Diavolo realised that of course this would happen. It always happened, in the end. It was infinity, after all, and it seemed that just as he was getting used to the rhythm of dying over and over again the loop adapted to ensure that his torment was endless.

And though Diavolo was disappointed that his torture had yet to end, there was a flicker of hope within him that perhaps, if this loop was truly infinite, he would see Doppio again in this maze of demise.

i hope this is good :D if u want me to change anything i can !

---

they never even got to say they loved each other :(

maybe if im feeling nice i'll post the version where they get freaky instead and diavolo has a heart attack at the end.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

hi! i saw your request post, and can i request a gender neutral anthony story in which the reader and anthony hate each other, but reader and benedict are best friends?

Pride Before The Fall (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader)

AN: Thank you for reading my post before you sent this in! I hope you like what I've written. I left the ending kinda vague since you didn't specify if you wanted a resolution - which I think I'd be down for writing over a series of mini blurbs (rather than a full on fic) like something people can send asks in and I respond with a blurb type. Let me know if that's something you'd be interested in!

Content Warnings: Reader is gender neutral, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // Read Before Requesting

The park was a hotspot for the daytime proceedings of every season. Families promenading together, arranged around picnic blankets beneath canopies, young couples awkwardly finding their feet through small talk whilst being stalked by a member of their staff who would record all said to memory then regurgitate it to the rest of the household staff once they’d returned home. Sunshine pleasant enough to be basked in, flower perfuming the air with romance, ducks gliding across the lake, it was ever bubbling with the life of society.

It was precisely why Anthony had chosen to take a turn about the lake with Miss Harper. He maintained a brisk pace with his feet and his mouth, asking many questions to decide whether to rule her out of his mission to find his Viscountess. On paper, she seemed ideal: a cellist who spoke French and was well-versed with a waltz. However the sentences were strung together in a strained sense and Anthony found himself already deciding who he would speak to next.

As he and his walking partner drew towards his family, he spied – in the near distance – you. His stride staggered a tad before he negotiated with himself to carry on forwards. His gaze was set on you, speaking with Benedict, though from this distance, Anthony could not tell. Benedict withdrew his sketchpad from behind his back and held it up. You grabbed for it, but he held it just out of reach, walking backwards and teasing you as you bounded after him until you both reached the Bridgerton picnic.

Side by side, you and Benedict always had been bosom buddies. You knew about Benedict’s penchant for art before he told anyone in his family. It was this relationship that irked Anthony so.  

Anthony hastily bid Miss Harper goodbye then, with a quick adjustment of his coat, he propelled himself back to his family.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, intending for it to be addressing everyone present.

However his stare was concentrated on you and your bowed head, leaning over Benedict’s sketch book. When you finally noticed you were being spoken to by someone who was not your best friend, you did not rise to courtesy, only offering a blank faced “Good afternoon, my lord” before returning to your conversation with Benedict. Anthony did his best to hide his disdain.

“I take it Miss Harper was not to your standards?” Benedict probed, snapping his book closed upon realising that Anthony was not leaving them alone. Before Anthony could retort, he and Benedict caught your confused expression, your nose adorably wrinkled with your brow.

Touching your hand as if delivering grave news, Benedict spoke sombrely, “Haven’t you heard? Dearest Anthony is seeking out a wife.”

You took a second, then you let out a sardonic huff: “God help her.”

Pride flared up, Anthony countered, “You still clinging to my brother’s arm as tightly as you do to spending your life alone?”

“Better alone than in your company!” That was what made you stand and leave with the last word being a quick farewell to the Bridgerton family (with your back to Anthony).

Benedict sighed loudly, pushing himself up, “Why’d you have to do that? Now I’ll have to listen to them ranting about you again.”

Turning his head to follow your retreating form, Anthony asked with his voice catching in his throat, “They talk about me?”

“Every time you so much as breathe in their direction. I swear I’ve not seen a couple so concerned with each and unmarried.”

With a pat on his brother’s shoulders, Benedict jogged after you, to continue delighting in your company. Anthony let out a haughty scoff.

“They’re already gone, brother,” remarked Eloise, not taking an eye off her book.

So Anthony planted himself in a chair, his back rigid, and pretended to making notes on his next potential partner.

Regret resumed digging its grave in his stomach as he saw you link arms with Benedict and begin strolling along the dirt path. It was far too late to curate any sense of kinship with you; it had been too late for a while. But he’d rather suffer in his emotions in silence and still get those tongue lashings from you than admit defeat and confess his affections for you only to receive your malicious delight and eternal humiliation.

Little did he know that, across the lake, as you were finally allowing Benedict room to breathe and discuss his latest painting, you let Anthony linger in the corner of your eye with a prayer of thanks for your defensiveness, for you would not know what to do if you had not left sooner – lest Anthony, the beholder of your heart, say anything more to break it.

[mariacallous]

Well, if you’re just joining us, the nation has delivered an all-night victim impact statement. Labour has won a landslide and the Conservatives have suffered their worst ever general election result. Keir Starmer – the prime minister – has promised “national renewal … to fight until you believe again”. Liz Truss has failed to save South West Norfolk, let alone “the west”. That is the big picture (if not the whole picture, with turnout and Labour’s vote share notably low). Meanwhile, it’s incredible to think that only a short while ago we thought we’d eradicated measles and Nigel Farage. Both have now been brought back, largely by the same people.

But look, after the 3am to 7am shift, no one will be able to say the right doesn’t do comedy. There were moments worthy of entire Netflix specials as in sports halls and community centres various Dickensian grotesques were ushered into their Christmas future, live on stage. Alas, it was going to take more than buying the Cratchits a turkey to get out of this one. Jacob Rees-Mogg heard his fate standing next to a candidate wearing a baked bean balaclava. He’ll be crying into Nanny’s starched bosom today. Committed sewage apologist Thérèse Coffey was pumped into the sea in Suffolk Coastal. Andrea Jenkyns had the middle finger given to her by the voters of Morley and Outwood. In Welwyn Hatfield, Grant Shapps chanted “supermajority” five times into the mirror, and then it came for him.

Then again, Michael Portillo losing his seat was supposedly 1997’s big moment. So perhaps the question is: in two years’ time, which current hate figure will be presenting a cosy travelogue on Europe’s most picturesque illegal migration routes? Alternatively, do remember that one person’s onstage humiliation is another person’s milk round for directorships in the arms trade.

Speaking of absolute weapons, hat twat George Galloway wimped out of his own count in Rochdale, presumably out of fatigability. He lost to Labour. There was jubilation for the Lib Dems, who finished not a million miles behind “the natural party of government”, and for the Greens, who won all four of their target seats. The SNP can now squeeze its MPs round the flip-down dining table of a motorhome. Referendum arguments may move to Northern Ireland, with Sinn Féin now that nation’s largest Westminster party.

As for Reform … Farage won in Clacton, a constituency for which he will now have to hold surgeries, presumably by Zoom link from his hot desk in the US presidential colon. Or as he put it in his victory speech: “This is the first steps of something that is going to stun all of you” – at least confirming his political abattoir will be bolt-gunning its victims unconscious first. Farage is the horror version of Inside Out, where Mendacity is only just holding off Racism at the control console. His cultural hinterland extends to a single Goodbye, Mr Chips DVD he got free with the Sunday Times in 2008, and the idea that this hollow chancer should still be one of the most significant politicians of the age says everything about the age.

Anyway, back to the Conservatives’ four-hour in-memoriam reel. Penny Mordaunt, Jonathan Gullis, Michael Fabricant, Gillian Keegan, Steve Baker, Alex Chalk, Johnny Mercer, Michelle Donelan, Victoria Prentis, Liam Fox, Mark Harper … all out, along with many more. So many cabinet ministers fell that the ones who live may actually develop survivor guilt. It’s currently unclear how gruesome things will be among the extant Conservatives in this post-apocalyptic world. As a fictional president once wondered of Dr Strangelove, will the living not end up envying the dead? Far from it, Strangelove reassures him, forcing down an involuntary Nazi salute. What will abound is a spirit of bold curiosity for the adventure ahead!

Speaking of which, 13th fairy Suella Braverman finally turned up, holding on in Fareham and cooing: “I am sorry that my party didn’t listen to you. The Conservative party has let you down.” Expect to see her humbly attempting to disembowel fellow survivors Jeremy Hunt and James Cleverly in the forthcoming trial-by-combat for what convention demands we style as “the soul of the Conservative party”.

At his count, Rishi Sunak explained he’d already conceded the election in a congratulatory call to Keir Starmer, adding, “I take responsibility for the loss.” In Downing Street, he confirmed he would be standing down as Tory leader in some sort of due course, stressing, “I have heard your anger.” Then, instead of yet another speech straight from the Tortured Prime Minister’s Department, this one offered humility and magnanimity, as well as a pointed reminder of the positive (and fragile?) progress that saw him become the UK’s first British-Asian prime minister. What a contrast to the relentless negativity of his past six weeks. Sunak’s campaign was conducted like a gender-reveal party where the device that’s meant to release the puff of blue smoke accidentally functions as a pipe bomb and burns the house down.

It also closed out several years of mindboggling chaos, dysfunction and national decline. They won’t be playing anything from this album on the Conservative party’s Eras tour. The Tories have cycled through five prime ministers over the past eight years, to the point where they were recently found going through the rubbish, pulling the first guy back out, thinking, “Actually, he doesn’t look half bad now,” and making him foreign secretary. This is the behaviour of addicts.

Not that they have the monopoly on erraticism. Any dispassionate view of these results suggests the fabled post-Brexit “realignment” is more of a dealignment – the huge sweeping gains of this or that political moment able to be reversed in previously unthinkable timespans. Volatility might now be our defining electoral characteristic, and a rise in sectarian politics cannot and should not be ignored. Because hey – what’s the worst that can happen with that one? Meanwhile, many people who derided the simplistic “Get Brexit done” slogan in 2019 have pretended not to notice that the winner here went out under the even more gnomic banner of “Change”.

Yet in the wider global context, what a win. One summer evening in 1914, the foreign secretary, Edward Grey, famously remarked: “The lamps are going out all over Europe.” In our own times, a darkening has recently felt at hand, as hard- or extreme-right parties have gained ground across the continent, to say nothing of the US. But here – in this country, in this moment – a different direction has been taken. That matters today, and anyone not on the wingnut fringes, who hopes to avoid those gathering shadows, should wish Keir Starmer good luck with his task. For plenty who would snuff out the lamps are also rising – increasingly, they walk among us.

[keibea]

happy birthday to my lovely jade aka @lazysunjade ❤️

jade's birthday is 100%, with certainty, absolutely the 2nd of december, and as such i have posted her birthday post on time, on the right day, which is december the 2nd, which is jade's birthday.

i love ur posts with the lil photoshoots, they are some of my fave. so i brought out pippa and attempt to reflect something similar for ur special day.

awful sappy stuff:

dearest jade,

you are the diana to my anne, specifically with reference to the 1980s anne of green gables series, not the new one because the old one is superior in my humble and unbiased opinion. you are one of my closest friends, and the ultimate bosom buddy. i lubs u very much especially when you send me weird things like cats fitting into jars and yodelling pickles. i is very happy i knows u and i get to spend another year knowings u.

i love u WEIRDO U CRAZY LIL CHICKEN U LIL BUG WJHRFB GOODBYE

[stevenbasic]

Growing ino the Job by stevebasic

Post 369: Breakfast in the Breakroom

“Thanks so much Shanette,” Melissa said as I turned to step out of the car. One of my tall, shapely medical assistants, one of Melissa’s best friends, had opened the door for me and I tentatively slid over on my seat and put my feet down onto the pavement below. The sun shone brightly in my face as I squinted out into the light and saw, behind some construction tape and a temporary fence, the new grand entrance to the office. We’d have to go in the side door, still. “I don’t want him walking in by himself, just yet,” Melissa added. 

“No worries,” Shanette beamed, down at me, hand extended for me to take, to help me stand. She was in blue scrubs, and looked so tall. In the morning sun her teeth shone brilliant white against her dark mocha complexion, and her thick hair fell softly around her trim shoulders. I began to reach up for her assistance but suddenly I felt another hand, on my left shoulder. 

“Wait, kiss!!” Melissa commanded with a giggle from the driver’s seat, spinning me back towards her for a moment to give me a goodbye smooch. This one lasted only a second, but her kisses always made my world swim and it was enough to send me reeling. “Now, remember sweetie,” she explained again to me, reminding me of my morning as my vision settled, “I have to go into the clinic, my doctors need me. But the girls know your schedule. You do what they tell you.” 

I felt myself pout. Both Melissa and Shanette giggled at my reaction. 

“Awww look at his little face,” Shanette cooed, “he doesn’t want you to go.”

“I know it’s frustrating…I want to be together too,” Melissa said, “But we talked about this. I should be back by lunchtime, and we have a date to go over the new hires. Okay?”

“O-okay,” I agreed, voice cracking like an adolescents and momentarily lost as my eyes met hers. She had such beautiful eyes, such a beautiful smile. Her dimples, her cheeks, her cheekbones, her jaw. Her complexion, just olive and tanned enough. It was all perfect, as was her body.

Her body! Oh my god her body! I’d spent most of my eight hours in her bed last night curled into it, dry nursing or nuzzling, wrapped to her skin under sheets and the soft lace of her nightgown. My mouth at times had become one with her nipple, my shriveled body at home wrapped in her strong arms. I’d fallen asleep held to her, and the night became a somnolent - at times waking - dream, filled with  her cooings and reassurances as we bonded. We made love several times in the darkest hours, sometimes with me still half asleep and her on top, pulled between my dreams and a warm and tender reality. It had been a night of comfort, and as I surrendered to her love I’d come to be more and more at peace with what Melissa was becoming to me, not just a lover but a protector. Through our intimacy I was slowly accepting my own vulnerability, how much I needed her, and - at her urging - how much I needed the girls. 

“Good boy,” she told me, acknowledging that I understood her directions. I saw how her eyes darted up, over me, to meet with her friends’ behind me. Melissa turned me back, to face Shanette. 

“Can you make sure he gets breakfast?” Melissa asked, as I felt her supportive hand leave my back as I rose, pulled up out of the BMW’s passenger seat by Shanette. “The last thing he ate was, like, a s’more.”

“I saw that on Insta last night, they looked so good!” Shanette giggled as she helped me steady myself on my feet. “But sure,” she continued, now with a hand on each of my shoulders, looking down at me, “I’ll get him fed. We have a bunch of fresh scones in the breakroom. Do you like cranberry scones, sweetie? Hm? Emily made some, ‘specially for you, she said so.”

Wait. Was Shanette talking to me?

“Oh-uh…yeah…Y-yes,” I answered. 

The girls both giggled. 

“And I’ll make sure he gets his morning hugs,” Shanette added, abruptly pulling my head into her massive bosom. Even through her scrubs the waves of coconut and vanilla - along with the hint of the same perfume all the girls were wearing - surrounded my face, became my air for the moment. With me several inches under five feet, and Shanette likely now above six even in just her crisp white work sneakers, I was at the ideal height for a trademark embosoming. Shanette held me there, in her vigor shaking my whole upper torso as she giggled again, squashing her soft breasts around my head and growling playfully. 

“Thank you sweetie,” Melissa called to Shanette, who was now gently releasing me from her embrace and reaching down to close the car door, “I’ll see you all soon! Mwah!” She’d blown us both a big kiss.

I waved goodbye, feeling a weird sense of desolation, like a vacuum had just opened around me as Melissa’s car pulled away. But, Shanette’s arm came around my shoulders and the empty space began to fill with her and the warmth of her coconut skin, and then Aubrey and her smile as she met us at the side door, followed by Lakshmi’s curvy hips as she helped escort us in. Soon, I had a throng of them, in the halls and then the breakroom, a gaggle cooing and clucking at my arrival. To a girl each and every one hugged me as they vied for my attention and swarmed me with their own.  There were smooches and squeezes, greetings and giggles as I was ushered in with ‘good morning’s and ‘hi handsome’s. The breakroom had maybe eight of them - Shanette and Aubrey, Lakshmi and Josie, Lexi and Katie from Marketing and Sales (why, again, did we need Marketing and Sales?). Sammi the intern stood near the countertop next to a plate of fresh scones. Her hair was yet another new  shade golden brown. Nearby Amelia was chatting with the blonde gym-bunny Stephanie about some morning “cam session” and where to make investments with a new stream of cash.

“Omigod BOOMfood is going onto the WSE,” I overheard Stephanie say, mentioning the new stock exchange I’d read about, catering to women investors and female-owned companies, “You should totally try to get in on that one.” She took a long suck from the straw of her own BOOMfood high-protein smoothie. Though Amelia looked bored, and was checking her nails, I could sense that her radar was up. She’d glanced my way when we entered, and now beckoned to me for my hug. 

“C’mere,” said the blonde uber-Barbie, arms outstretched, lethally-manicured fingers waggling, “You know what to do.” Amelia was not in her normal scrubs, but rather a short-sleeved pink top, ribbed, and a black pencil skirt. She looked enormous, breasts bigger than I remember and even more so as - magnetically, pulled towards her - I came in for a hug.

mmMMmph! I was boob-height to these amazons.

“You look nice today, Amelia,” someone commented.

“Yeah I have a meeting later, with some social media consultant lady,” she replied, arms wrapped around my head, casual as a vise. She smelled like Melissa, in so many ways, but had her own flavors as well.  As Amelia pulled me deeper I thought I heard someone mention something about a  group bank account, but the squash of her implants was making it harder to hear or - frankly - even think straight.

On my release, I was hugged by others, my hair straightened, my wrinkled scrubs complimented, and then I was urged to sit down. Sammi came up to me, with what looked like a cranberry scone on a small paper plate and a thin paper napkin. Someone else put a coffee down next to me, in my “World’s Best Boss” mug. I almost chuckled.

But then my stomach turned. Was that the smell of the coffee? The scone? Something else? Standing beside me was Lexi, a transplant from Evolution, thin, tall and vaguely Jewish, big in all her features -

eyes, mouth, and the tits that her thin collared shirt strained to contain. Instinctively my head turned towards her and I drew a deep breath. Ahhh. Her perfume - sandalwood, maybe, but also very similar to Melissa’s - that helped settle things.

“Emily made these,” Sammi spoke up, picking up the scone and offering it to my face - kind of abruptly. “An old family recipe. Totally bonzer, I hear. You have to try some.” Again my gut roiled but I figured maybe I was just hungry. For some reason, I found myself looking up at Lakshmi. I shudder now, knowing that I was looking for her approval.

“You can try it, Doctor J,” she said, gently nodding. 

“Emily said she made this one just for you,” Sammi added, tucking a strand of long blondish hair behind her ear. 

Hadn’t that just been brown? “w-wow, okay,” I stammered. Yes, the one Sammi had for me looked a little different than the scones the girls were eating. Mine had some sort of frosting, a dribbled glaze of white. 

“Go ahead, it’s okay,” said Josie.

I took a tentative nibble.

It tasted weird. Sweet, crumbly like scones should be. But also vaguely spicy, and like…burnt hair. Burnt hair and the frosting was b-

whoah.

With a sudden pop and a flash, a memory came into me, so vivid that  it made me gasp. Some of the pink fog that had been clouding my brain finally lifted and I remembered being held naked and aloft over the water, over the bubbling steam of the hot tub at Melissa’s house. I knew immediately it was a memory from this past weekend. 

Girls had been surrounding me, cooing and cheering; my boxers floated on the tub’s surface. The water looked briny and my member lay cold and wet dangling between my legs, pulsing, drooling like I’d just climaxed. From a distance across the pool, in the far shadows of the huge glassed-in room, three other female figures watched. Dark, like nightfall itself, but their eyes seemed to glow, a bright magenta that temporarily captured my gaze. Their ritualistic robes ancient, flowing around them like the fog and steam that rose from the hot tub. Who were they? But - now more pressingly - who was the immensely strong person holding me up, by the hips, raised above the water like an offering to-?

Crumbs of scone fell from my lips.

what the fuck was that?

“He…likes it?” Lakshmi said.

“I don’t know,” Aubrey answered, brows knit in a new concern.

“Have another bite, boy-o,” came Sammi again, with the scone pushing at my front teeth again.

Another small bite. 

And another flash, a new memory, more pinkish fog lifting from this weekend.

I was being laid across laps. I was surrounded by women, and I had something on me, cold. They were eating - they were eating food off of me, like I was a human tray. Three dark shadows, women, watched from an upper balcony with phosphorescent eyes and robes miasmic, like midnight mist. 

Another bite, urged into my by Sammi, and along with it came another conjured anamnesis.

.

Now I was seated up, partway, held up by my girls. Katarina - blonde, new-mom Katarina - was crouched alongside me, dressed in a soft white robe and offering me something from a large pink mug with the word “QUEEN.” It smelled sweet and so good…it tastes so good. I could feel the triumvirate of eyes from above watching me, and immediately I knew what I was drinking, Katarina’s-.

I’d tried to spit out the next bite, which Sammi had wanted me to take.

“You’re getting to be a picky eater, hm hun?” Shanette said.

“I don’t think he likes it,” I heard Aubrey say. Something about her voice drew my eyes to her. She looked concerned, caring, preternaturally sensitive to whatever was going on behind my eyes. 

Had I drank Katarina’s breastmilk this weekend?!?

Been used as a sushi platter?!? Group-wanked in the hot tub?!?

“C’mon, just one more little bite, bub,” Sammi urged, “Emily won’t appreciate it if she thinks you don’t like her tucker.”

“He doesn’t want it, Sammi,”  Aubrey said, speaking with earnest sympathy, a hint of worry.

“I think you are right, Aubrey,” Lakshmi agreed.

Aubrey leaned over me and looked in - and maybe even through - my eyes. “You want milk, don’t you?” she said softly in a private whisper, “Having trouble with solid foods?”

Sammi, though, wasn't done yet, and practically squashed the cranberry scone into my mouth. 

-Flash Flash-

The fog was gone, and I was brought to another moment from Saturday night. I was surrounded by girls, just like I was here, but we were on Melissa’s couch, all of us, with me on her lap. I was warm and woozy and - naked? My turgid cock was in Josie’s hand and she was stroking me and the girls, all of them, were kissing me, licking my face and eating my ears and jesus christ Josie made me come and come and come all in her hair that seemed to move on its own and then Lakshmi’s and Randi’s hair and then Josie-

oh my god.

The girls were all hissing and buzzing and then groaning and holy crap Amelia was filming us with her phone and the fog was gone and there they were the three pairs of eyes from above, glowing, pulsing magenta light.  They were  watching, and I was watching, drawn to Josie’s tits, right in front of my face. And then it happened.

She grew.

She fucking grew, her top burst. All around me, they all grew. They got bigger, they got taller, they got heavier, and their weight, their weight was all around me, and Amelia was still-

“oh my god…” I moaned, suddenly swimming in the deluge of memories from the weekend.

“Dr. J are you alright?!” Aubrey beseeched, taking me by the hand.

“Dr J. are you okay?” Lakshmi implored, taking up my other hand.

“Dr. J do you want some more scone?” Sammi asked.

“Fuck off with the scones, Sammi,” Amelia finally spoke, and the girl with the now multi-colored hair backed away.

The small crowd of women, eight pairs of eyes, closed in on me, all with varying degrees of concern, of fascination, of excitement. They were waiting, I think, for me to speak.

I blinked as I tried to process. What had just happened? What were all these new …were they memories?  I blinked again, looking up at one girl, to the next, to the next. Finally, I was able to ask a question.

“C-can…can I see the video?”

================================================

thank you to RiF for inspiration and editing

[shy-urban-hobbit]

There it was again; Aiden’s fingers tapping out a now familiar rhythm against Lambert’s bicep before sliding down to rest on top of his hand as they dozed in the sun. It had started shortly after they’d been reunited on The Path, a scarcity of jobs forcing them apart for a few weeks in an effort to cover more ground to find paying work (a gamble which ended up paying off as they both found pretty lucrative contracts in opposite directions).

Tap – pause - Tap tap tap tap – pause – tap tap tap.

Lambert mentally shrugged, too comfortable to think on it too closely.

Lambert could feel himself slowly going crazy. He’d finally asked Aiden about his new habit after he’d been tapping against Lambert’s chest incessantly during their drawn out goodbye. The Cat had merely smirked in response and told him “You’re a smart pup, figure it out.” Before kissing the end of Lambert’s nose and mounting up, turning his horse Southwards. Lambert had stayed where he was until the other was just a speck on the road.

That was how he’d found himself in Kaer Morhen’s library, surrounded by books and paper and tapping the rhythm out again for the thirtieth time that hour.

“Well, this is a sight I never thought I’d be met with. Lambert reading. Should I be checking you with silver about now?”

“Fuck off, bard.” Lambert sighed like an exasperated parent.

Jaskier merely grinned impudently from where he was leaning against the back of one of the chairs, “What’s all this?”

“Research.” Lambert answered curtly.

“For....”

“Nothing.”

“Research for nothing. Melitele’s bosom you must be bored.”

“Jaskier. Either sit down and shut up or go and bother Geralt.”

Jaskier mimed locking his mouth before taking a seat opposite the youngest Wolf, making a show of leaning back and looking around at the overcrowded shelves, “Soooooo....how was Aiden when you parted ways?”

“Fine.” Lambert put down the old journal he’d been flicking through in an attempt to find clues (maybe it was some old Witcher thing Vesemir had forgotten to teach them seeing as it wasn’t directly linked to monster slaying) before tapping the rhythm out again.

“What’s that?” Jaskier asked.

“Something that damn Cat told me to figure out and when I see him, I'm throwing him to the nearest drowner.”

“Oooooh, a riddle!” Jaskier gave an excited wiggle, attention well and truly caught, “Perhaps I can help? I am a master wordsmith after all.”

“No words involved in this, master wordsmith.” Lambert said, just to be contrary.

“Don’t be too sure.” Jaskier leaned forward slightly, “Humour me.”

Lambert tapped it out once, and then twice again at Jaskier’s request before the human’s expression morphed into one of childlike glee.“I do know this! Oh, I haven’t used it since I was at Oxenfurt, but I know it.”

Lambert felt his eye twitch, because of course it was just his luck Geralt’s bard would know it.”

“Well, what is it?”

Jaskier’s smile shifted, “Aiden told you to figure it out. I’ll help you, but I’m not telling you the answer. Oh, Lambert.” The Wolf swallowed. He'd had no idea the bard was capable of looking devious as he continued, “I think you’ve just become my main source of entertainment for the winter.”

Lambert shared a look with Eskel as Jaskier left the hall, throwing another declaration of love towards their white haired brother as he did so. They had nothing against the casual displays of affection per se, but you knew it was becoming a problem when even Eskel the not so secret romantic was starting to find it a bit much. Geralt had merely shrugged in the way that meant he was just as clueless as the rest of them when his brothers questioned him about it.

“Alright, what are you playing at?” Lambert had asked him one night, the bard blinking up at him guilelessly, “You said you’d help me with, you know, and all you’ve been doing is swooning over Geralt.”

“Lambert, love. I have no idea what you are talking about.” Jaskier replied slowly.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. The other day in the library.”

The bard sighed through his nose petulantly before walking away, muttering something about how he was this close to pushing certain dumb Wolves down the mountain.

Lambert stared at the note. It was actually for Geralt but was it his fault Jaskier had left it out on the main table in the hall for the whole world to see? He blinked as he took in the last three words, the thick black line of ink underneath them making them impossible to miss. Melitele’s arse, now that he was seeing it written down, Jaskier wouldn’t have to push him: Lambert would quite happily throw himself down the mountain, cursing himself the entire time for missing something so simple.

“You’re early!” Aiden exclaimed happily as he leaned down to throw his arms around Lambert, letting the other man pull him down from his horse and into a proper embrace, the taps quickly following, as expected.

Lambert tilted the Cat’s face up with a whispered, “You too.” Feeling Aiden grin into the kiss as Lambert tapped gently against his temple.

Tap – pause – tap tap tap tap – pause – tap tap tap.

I – love - you

[devastatinglygreen]

I cannot move on from that Polin first kiss. As a book reader I was ready to be the biggest hater of show!Penelope asking for it as I thought it would make her look pathetic given s1-2 show!Colin but Nicola played it so right it’s not her fault certain audiences wanted to believe Colin showed no attraction to her previously and thought she had to beg god this fandom exhausts me sometimes

I’d love to know what you thought was going through Pen’s mind during first kiss part deux. Was she lost in the moment? When she realized he didn’t back away immediately she thought to go for it again? Her facial expressions when the first kiss ended and the first real one ended are completely different.

hmmm, that's fair given s1-2 colin. i don't think i thought it would come off pathetic but i also, outside of you know what, always thought colin was so kind and caring to penelope that i thought that would come in stronger for s3 and it would hit different (it did, it's cool to thank me for my positive vibes, they did that for me).

pls no the fandom, the wild assumptions are insane because the answers are literally in canon, they filmed them for you to watch and everything i promise if you just pay attention...

thank you for the homework, i had to watch that kiss again, oh so difficult. i feel like she was nervous in the first part (heaving bosoms!) and it's so gentle before she waits for his next move before part deux. then i think she's down for it because why wouldn't she be but she's also saying goodbye in a way. which is why it works so well tbh. she's letting him go because in her mind he doesn't want her and he's waking up to the fact that all of those thoughts/feelings he's ignored and never put a name to suddenly have a name and it's lighting up the parts of his emotions that have been missing until now.

there's probably a lot of symbolism in her running off first while he's standing there, left behind holding all of his feelings while she's leaving him to go towards something different. actually there's a lot of symbolism in the fact that penelope continually walks away from him first in part 1 only for him to keep following her.

you know, he comes to where she is for pretty much all of ep 5 before they start to meet in the middle before getting off kilter again and then you can see the shift where she starts to go to him more in the rest of part 2. or not. idk i'm going off memory here.

for science (the science is that it's pretty to look at):

[bizaar]

enjolras x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ only - piv smut, oral (f receiving) handjob (m receiving) - general talks and mentions of sex/smut, lovemaking, breeding kink if you squint - mentions of concubines and usage of the word "whore" (reader is a sex worker so proceed with caution), general tooth rotting fluffiness, forbidden love is my bread and butter

word count: 8k (I'm so sorry I'm incapable of writing anything short)

a.n.: This is my first smut so go easy on me :D also, apologies if I didn't do Enjolras justice, I watched clips from BBC Les Mis on Youtube for days and got sort of generally stuck on how to write him talking about anything besides the revolution when ALL he talks about is the revolution - PLEASE BEAR IN MIND THAT READER IS A SEX WORKER so don't come for me tumblr prudes I don't want to hear it.

A chorus of high voices calling your name summons you to the top of the stairs, and it’s there you find him, idling in the foyer below — Enjolras.

Just to see him kicks up a storm of giddiness swirling in the pit of your stomach and you have to resist the urge to say something smart about finding himself in a brothel so late in the evening, just to defuse the tension.

He wouldn’t like that.

Be sweet, Mon Cher, he’d implored you recently in the midst of an intimate moment— stroking your face and breathing hard against your mouth, your legs wrapped around his canting hips, holding him to press tight against your core as he slipped in and out of you at an agonizing pace.

That had been six nights ago — Six nights too many, you think as you pinch your thighs together and feel the first stirrings of arousal in your belly.

Now, the other girls stand around him in a throng of giggling fillies, touching and flirting — the teasing only amplifies when they see you standing there, not so subtly gripping the banister.

“Your man is here —” One of them sings, her voice dripping with a condescending edge as she braces her hands on the flare of her hips and leans into him, very pointedly presenting her ample bosom, spilling out from the top of her stays.

To his credit, Enjolras pays her no mind, he is far too busy gazing up at you with all the reverence of a man set to worship.

Still, the gesture brings a hot flash of jealousy to your cheeks and you scowl at her as you begin your quick descent of the rickety steps. They creak under your weight, despite the way your stockinged feet make no noise against the brushed wood — your worn dressing gown trails behind you like the train of a fine dress.

Enjolras watches you approach, a gentle smile spread over his handsome features that you pretend not to see as you hit the last step and reach for his hand.

He gives it to you.

“Haven’t you all got better things to do than stand around gawking?” You hiss at the silly creatures, pulling to lead Enjolras back up the flight.

“Better things, for sure,” someone muses, “But no better men.”

They kick up with a chorus of raucous laughter and you tighten your grip on his thick fingers like you’re half afraid they’re going to steal him from your grasp if you aren’t quick to get him up the stairs.

The girls all call their teasing, singsong goodbyes to Enjolras as you mount the steps and disappear into the belly of the brothel.

You quietly thank God that the Madam is not home. She would not stand for such idle foolishness, nor would she stand to see you whisking Enjolras off to your room. The girls are all enamored with his soft eyes, kind speech, and good looks — the Madam only cares whether or not he can pay for your company on his meager salary. More often than not you do not even bother charging him, as his company is payment enough — much to the Madam’s chagrin.

How she does like to tell you that time given away is time wasted, and the Madam does not stand for that kind of frivolity.

Your room is at the far end of a long hall of open doors. To peek through you might have seen the other courtesans busy with their own individual fancies between suitors — playing at cards, drinking wine, gossiping — that is if they had not all gathered down in the foyer to fawn over the handsome guest in their midst.

It is strangely quiet for this time of night, though you expect that is likely to change soon enough.

The hard thumps of Enjolras’s footsteps as he follows wordlessly behind you beat in tandem with your heart, and you silently wish to be anywhere but here, where this didn’t have to feel so mercantile, where intimacy could live and breathe without the ever-present guillotine of payment hanging over your heads. You wish it were enough to be lovers and not just a favored whore.

You know he would reject that thinking, despite how true it is.

How many times has he told you he loves you? How many times have you rejected that affection on principle?

You cannot afford to love him while you are so deeply indebted to the Madam… and yet…

Through the door you go, startling the two young girls who have taken refuge in your room. They sit crowded at the vanity, their faces done up in powder and rouge, one wrapped in your fine silk shawl as if they’d been playing at dress up.

Their wide eyes flit back and forth between you and the man you have in tow with a patent unease, like they have been caught red-handed at something.

“Marie, Clotilde, get out.” You say sharply, addressing the girls by name.

They remain staring at you, at Enjolras. Everyone knows about him, the revolutionary — your little pet — you imagine they have heard as much talk of him as anyone else in this house.

They are younger than the others and thankfully have not been set to working just yet. As such they are comparatively harmless, but you are no less inclined to let them share in what little time you have with Enjolras.

He is yours and you intend to have him before the Madam returns.

You clap your hands sharply, snapping the girls to attention and pointing to the door.

“Alons-y! Go!”

They scramble to collect their things and get to their feet before scurrying past you, heads dipped sheepishly as they go through the door.

“Is that him?” You hear Clotilde whisper before shutting the door.

Somewhere behind you, Enjolras sighs.

“They are much too young for this life.” He says, his voice a low timbre that sends shivers through your body.

“No younger than I was when it found me.” You mumble bitterly. “Paris is a cruel city for girls with no means…”

The stillness that falls over the room is but a calm before the storm — you survey the mess, discarded stays, skirts, boots, and petticoats, your delicate shawl lies pooled at the foot of the bed where it was hastily discarded.

You heave a sigh and cross the room to retrieve your most precious trinket from the floor.

“How was your meeting?” You ask idly, desperate to cut the tension over the bleakness of life in the underbelly of Paris.

Enjolras likes conversation, particularly with you — he likes to pretend this is anything but the transactional exchange it really is, so as not to cheapen his feelings for you — your feelings for him.

“It went well, I think.” He says, “There were more people there tonight than I’ve seen before—"

You hum thoughtfully as you uncork a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass.

You watch, half mesmerized by the swirling dark liquid, and feel the heat of his gaze on your back as he continues.

“People are coming from all over Paris. It feels as though they’re finally ready to stand up for something.”

“For the revolution you mean?” You ask, sipping the wine.

Your tone is decidedly more condescending than you’d intended and Enjolras doesn’t answer. You half expect him to admonish you for mocking his cause, but he remains quiet.

Behind you, you hear the telltale click of the door lock sliding into place and feel butterflies stir in the pit of your stomach — the Madam does not abide a locked door in her house, but you cannot presently bring yourself to care.

His silence would be enough to unnerve you were you not so entirely certain of his gentle nature, his kindness, his affection for you.

When you turn to look at him, you find that he has crossed the room to stand behind you, his body blocking your view. His hands come up to trail feather-light touches up the length of your arms. You feel his breath fanning the back of your neck.

“I missed you tonight.” He murmurs.

You breathe an easy laughter through your nose and shiver under his touch. He takes the glass from your hand and drains it in one gulp — it clinks softly as he sets it down on the dressing table before you.

His arms come up to snake around you and pull you close, the rumble of his contented sigh vibrating through your body.

“How can you miss me when you have your good lady Madam Révolution to keep you warm?” You tease, leaning back into his touch.

“I always miss you when you’re not there.” He says ever so softly, dipping to press a gentle kiss to the junction between your neck and shoulder. “You could come with me, you know. To the meetings?”

“I’ve been to your meetings.” You remind him, turning your head to rest against his shoulder, tipping back into the crook of his neck as his free hand moves to splay out across your belly.

Thick fingers press you back to lay flush against his body and you smirk as you feel the faintest impression of his cock stirring there.

You rock your hips back tentatively against him.

“They weren’t for me.”

“The meetings…” he insists, brushing his plush lips across the highest point of your cheekbone, your temple, your hairline, “…Are for anyone who yearns for liberation.”

You mean to roll your eyes, but arousal has beat you to the motion as the hand on your stomach slips down to cup you between your legs. Thick, calloused fingers draw a slow line over the clothed seam of your pussy and your eyes roll back in their sockets at the sensation it elicits, lips parting ever so slightly on a breathy moan.

You certainly do yearn, though not presently for liberation.

You had meant what you said, though — you aren't expressly unwelcome at the meetings, but nothing deters the good citizens of Paris from turning their noses up at the presence of a common whore in their midst.

You’d met Enjolras at one of his citizen’s meetings, and spent the duration of it being sneered at by the upstanding proletariat in attendance. You hardly cared. You’d been there to work, not to be inspired, but then you’d caught Enjolras’s gaze and found yourself struck, and like a bolt of lightning, you forgot all other men but the brooding revolutionary with the dark eyes.

He was similarly affected by you.

You don’t believe in such fanciful things as love at first sight, and yet you’d spent the evening circling one another, stealing glances and shy smiles before you’d shocked yourself by sitting and listening to him give speeches about liberty and equality among the people.

You would not consider yourself a patriot by any stretch of the word, and as such you didn’t retain a thing Enjolras said that night, only the way he’d said it, and how he'd spent half as much time undressing you with his eyes as he did rabble-rousing.

You thought he was marvelous, and that was dangerous for someone like you.

In some small hope of retaining what shred of good sense you had left, you quietly took your leave before the cheering and songs were finished, as if somehow you knew you were going to fall in love with him if you gave him the chance.

He, in turn, had stolen away from the budding revolution to follow you nearly halfway across Paris, just to ask your name.

It was a gesture romantic enough to make your knees tremble.

For all his serious talk of liberation and freedoms, you were surprised at his secret romantic inclinations — though, of course, you suppose all revolutionaries are romantics at heart.

It takes a great passion to care enough about the plight of the lesser man to want to change things, after all.

Enjolras had asked to walk along the Seine with you and watch the sunrise, and you’d told him he couldn’t afford to buy that much of your time, hoping that knowledge of your profession might deter his pursuit of your affections.

It did not and, against your better judgment, you’d let him kiss you as the sun rose over the river.

He has held your heart ever since and you have not known a day of peace for it.

Nevermind your profession, there is no room for love in the midst of a revolution — to make one life more precious than the lives of the masses is antithetical to everything Enjolras proselytizes … and yet…

His eyes are dark, satin pools, pupils blown wide with desire, staring through you to the depths of your soul. You could come apart under those eyes, even without the help of his fingers, probing experimentally at the growing slick between your legs.

Enjolras kisses you then, a soft, languid slanting of lips that breathes warmth into you all the way to your core. He holds you tight as you turn over in his hands, twisting until you are facing him, only parting so that he can lift the thin cotton shift you wear over your head and cast it aside, leaving you bare but for your stockings.

He takes your face in his hands and catches your mouth hungrily, coaxing you to open up for him just a little more with a heady swipe of his tongue. You make quick work of unwinding his dark crimson cravat to reveal the hard lines of his neck and fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat, desperate to undress him despite how he has not yet even shed his coat.

You breathe hard into the heat of his mouth as big hands roam the length of your body like Enjolras cannot decide where it is he would like most to touch you — the supple swell of your breasts or the soft dip of your waist.

He settles finally on the gentle curve of your rear, cupping you there and lifting you easily so you might wrap your legs around him. It is only as you settle in his strong arms that you finally feel the full press of his hard length digging into your hip, making his trousers all too tight.

You shudder against him and breathe his name, gripping needily at his neck and shoulders as his mouth moves down to leave searing crescent moon shapes over your jaw and the tender columns of your throat. It’s been no less than a week since you’d last been under his bruising touch, but it may as well have been a lifetime for how you yearn for him.

“Enjolras…” you whine.

“Hmm?”

“Make love to me,”

You feel the curve of his broad smile against your flesh and the rumble of gentle laughter in his chest, and you are nearly undone by the warmth swelling beneath your ribs as you are filled to the brim with emotion.

“As you wish, Mon Cher.”

It is only a few minutes more of fumbling, reverent touches and searing kisses before you’ve discarded the last of his clothing and he has you laid out on the bed.

He relieves you of your stockings one at a time, slowly peeling the thin material down your legs, kissing the soft mailable flesh of your thighs as he comes down to settle between your spread legs. You gasp when you feel the scrape of teeth on your inner thigh and push up on your elbows to watch as he settles there.

Searing breath fans your slick folds, a startling contrast to the chill that sends a shiver through your body as he pushes your legs up and out to spread you that much wider, exposing your dewy core to the air. You fist the bedsheets, watching him lick his lips, eyes bright in anticipation of the meal he is ready to make out of you.

The first tentative swipe of his tongue has you jumping, jerking at the wet heat slipping through your folds and drawing teasing circles around your opening. The little kitten licks that follow have you sinking back into the pillows, soft lilting sighs slipping from your mouth to fill the room and match the pleased, hungry sounds he is making from between your legs, muffled by the mouthful he has of your pussy.

His mouth is a sinful thing, all tongue and lips and the slightest hint of teeth, worshiping at the altar of your body with broad flat strokes up and down the length of your slit and teasing flicks to your tender nub. In no time at all you’re writhing against him, rocking your hips in search of more friction, tiny lilting sounds spilling from your mouth in an unending tide of praise and encouragement.

You tremble as he pulls back from your folds with a vulgar wet smack only to press the tip of his tongue to that little bundle of nerves throbbing with inattention. You moan, a high sound of needy ecstasy as he pulls it into his mouth and, ever so tenderly, suckles at it, sending a sharp spike of pleasure lancing you through your midsection.

You card your fingers through his hair, careful not to tug too hard as you guide him to where you need him most, which, at present, is on his back fucking up into you.

You are all too aware of how empty you are, clenching down pitifully on nothing at all.

What you don’t realize, however, is how you’ve been begging for him until he’s crawled up to meet you. He licks a fat, wet stripe up the length of your torso, over the swell of your breast and the pebbled bud of your nipple as he makes his way up. You jump under the sharp sensation as he nips at you, taking your breast between his teeth before soothing the offended flesh with a balm of his tongue.

A trail of searing wet kisses leads him further to your lips, the heat of his ministrations punctuated by the murmured assurances he showers you with. You can taste the sharp tang of your slick spread over his mouth and tongue as you suck his lower lip in past your own and let yourself be drawn up into Enjolras’s lap as he sits up and rocks back into the sea of pillows at the head of your bed.

You settle there, already flushed and a little lightheaded and having to brace yourself against his chest to stay upright as he lays back.

Once you have your bearings, you push up easily on your knees and take his rigid cock in hand, throbbing beneath your touch as you pump the length of him for good measure — not that you need to, he’s as hard as you imagine he can be, with the way his purpling tip responds to the way you swipe the pad of your thumb over his leaking slit.

When you turn your gaze back to watch him, you see his eyes are half hooded and his mouth has fallen open in a wanton panting, he hisses with pleasure when you squeeze and twist the head of him on the uptake, and suddenly his hand flies out to catch you by the wrist and still your motions.

He forces out a breathless laugh.

“Mon Cher — you’ll wring me out before we’ve even begun.” He warns you, and you click your tongue at such a thought.

“What’s got you so sensitive?” You tease, drawing featherlight touches up and down the thick vein throbbing on the underside of his shaft.

He grits his teeth and breathes out hard through his nose like he’s working hard at putting all his energy into keeping himself from spending over your fist. Enjolras shakes his head and forces himself to open his eyes, chest heaving.

“I told you — I missed you.”

Which is to say he’s more than likely been half-hard all evening in anticipation of this moment.

You find that to be immeasurably pleasing, picturing him sitting stoically amongst his compatriots, discussing revolution and democracy and the makings of history, all the while burning with unbridled lust and shifting awkwardly to conceal its effect on him.

You smirk as you lean forward to press a chase peck to the end of his nose.

“Darling, you don’t have to miss me when I’m right here.”

And then you press him to your core and sink down onto his length in one, swift motion that draws a shared groan of relief from the both of you. He’s sheathed in you to the hilt in a matter of moments, the heat of your walls clenching down and drawing him in like it’s desperate for every inch of him, hungry for more even as you’re filled to brimming with him.

It is all-encompassing, the way he clouds your senses, and anything witty you might have said dies on your tongue as you swallow hard, your nails scraping down the length of his heaving abdomen. The heady burn of how he stretches you is almost too much, and for a moment it is all you can do but sit there, speared on his cock and trembling as it presses bruisingly against your furthest wall.

Enjolras grips your thighs like your flesh is all he has to keep him grounded, throwing his head back into the pillows as he does his best to quell the gentle, unconscious rocking of his hips until you’re ready. For half a moment, you wonder if he is about to cum and if, as he’d prophesied, all of this will end before it’s even started.

You wait for his grip to ease up as he comes back to himself, and you breathe out a shaky sigh, nodding reassuringly when you feel him gently tap his fingers on your leg, silently asking after you.

Always the gentleman, checking on you in spite of his state, you could kiss him, but you’d have to rock forward to do so and you aren’t quite ready to move just yet.

You know he must be desperate to take you by your hips and rut up into you until he finds his release, but you also know he would rather cut off his own hand than do anything without your permission, so he waits, and you watch.

Oh how he suffers, your poor idealist.

You think perhaps you could tease him a little, draw this out for as long as possible, but you’d only be torturing yourself — there is no denying that you are as eager for him as he is for you, and your quick and fevered fingers drawing circles over your bud with thoughts of him are nothing compared to the real thing.

Finally, you push up on your knees again, keening at the thick drag of him against your tender walls, lifting almost to the point of dislodging him before dropping back down. Again. And again, until you’ve found a steady rhythm that has your skin crawling with ecstasy.

His isn’t the largest cock you’ve ever had, but you find that it fits you best, like it was tailor-made for you. It is certainly your favorite, though you are, perhaps, at least a tad biased when it comes to him.

Enjolras’s big hands grip and pull at you as you ride him, like he is caught again in the dilemma of where to touch you, how best to hold you. The filthy wet sounds of lovemaking fill the air, commingling with your soft moaning and the creak of the bed frame beneath you. It is the soundscape of any number of brothels across Paris, but between the two of you, it is like music.

And then, without warning, he braces himself against the mattress and cants his hips up to meet yours as you come down again. You yelp, from alarm as much as sensation, and the momentum of his sudden thrusting nearly dislodges you to send you toppling over.

You brace yourself on one arm to keep from falling, though by then Enjolras has sat up to catch you, holding you in his arms while he fucks up into you, just like you’d wanted. You curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and swivel your hips in perfect time to each of his thrusts, and you move together like a well-oiled machine.

This is how you like it best, straddling him with his arms wrapped around you, forehead pressed against his, inhaling his exhales — pure bliss — you bite your lower lip and smirk as you try to suppress a burst of joyful, breathy laughter.

“What’s funny?” He asks, his voice thick and strained and tinged with the slightest trace of humor.

You shake your head because it feels silly to tell him it’s nothing, only that this is your favorite thing in the world — bouncing on his cock — and you just wish you could do this forever.

Funny to hear someone who fucks for a living say something like that.

You just smile at him.

“I missed you,” you hum, in a gentle mockery of how he had said it before.

He still his motions ever so slightly as his face splits into a big, broad smile of his own, dimples pulling tight to indent his cheeks as he surges forward to kiss you again.

Your heart thumps solidly in your chest and you think perhaps that he is what all those poets must have been talking about when they wrote their sonnets and songs of love.

You think Enjolras must be the envy of the Gods of old, and somewhere, wherever they are, they stand weeping over his beauty because they will never have him.

Say what you will about his devotion to Madame Révolution, right here and now Enjolras’s heart belongs entirely to you, and you’re half inclined to think he might make a romantic out of you for it.

It takes no effort at all for him to roll you, and suddenly you’re pressed into the mattress below him. There is only the briefest moment’s pause in rhythm as the momentum of changing positions causes his length to slip from your heat. You whimper at the loss of him, and he shushes you, petting your face to soothe you because, of course, he is coming right back.

You gaze up at him, beautifully flushed and disheveled, openly panting but still smiling as he kneels over you, supported on one strong arm and readjusting to compensate for the new angle. You splay your legs open wide to allow for him to slot in as close as possible against your core, letting him spread you a little further past the point of comfort with a gentle hand on your knee before hitching your legs up and around his hips.

You only briefly feel the broad flare of him at your entrance as he lines himself up before seating himself in you once again. He pushes all the way to the root in one quick snap of his hips that has you throwing your head back and arching into his touch with a loud, wanton moan.

He is suddenly so much deeper than he was before, thrusting into you, and you feel ready to come apart at the seams as he sets an agonizingly slow pace— pulling almost all the way out before snapping back again, each hungry thrust of his hips slamming home up against that most tender spot at your furthest wall to make you see stars and colors.

It’s punishment for how you teased him before, you know it must be, but this is how he likes it, painfully slow and hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall.

He likes to take his time while he dismantles you, but you are impatient.

You’re fisting your hands in the sheets and lifting your hips up off of the bed, trying to meet his every thrust despite how he pushes you back down with a strong hand and holds you there firmly. It is only enough to keep you teetering on the torturous edge, never enough to send you over, never too little to draw you back.

You can feel the litany of desperate noises tumbling from your lips more than you can hear them over the vulgar squelching sounds that fill the air with every pass of his cock against your sticky walls, the harsh slap of skin on skin, his soft grunting and moaning filling the room as he moves. The slick mess that drips down your thighs makes for a smooth glide in and out of you — you could almost blush to imagine how it must be pooling in your bedsheets and making a sopping wet mess of him as well as yourself.

It’s enough to make your toes curl and your walls flutter and clench over the length of him, drawing a low rattling moan from deep within his chest.

You’re only vaguely aware of the things Enjolras says to you, the little rhetorical questions and naughty phrases to which you can only nod along in affirmation, too drunk on the delicious sensation of being so perfectly stretched by him to form coherent thoughts or responses.

Yes, it feels good — so, so good. Yes, you like it when he fucks you like this —faster, more. Yes, you’re his good girl, taking him so well — don’t stop — yes, yes yes yes…!

The vice he has on your hips is a bruising thing, and where before there was the painfully slow in and out and in and out, he snaps his hip again, and suddenly he’s hilted in you to the base, pelvis pressed flushed to yours as he begins a slow, rutting grind, just the perfect amount of friction against your swollen, needy bud to have you writhing under his weight.

Your eyes roll back and slide shut as you press your head into the pillows, exposing the tender columns of your throat and mewling at the sensation of being so full.

“Oh— f-f-uh—!” You bite the curse off with a shrill gasp, one hand flying down to grip his wrist as his big palm splays over the lowest point of your belly, applying pressure there like he is in danger of bursting through your abdomen and means to contain himself. “E-Enjolras—please!”

You can feel the vibration of his gentle laughter buzzing into you through his cock and it’s nearly enough to make you seize.

“Yes, my darling?” He teases, “What is it?”

You’re not sure you could have answered him at that moment if your life depended on it, you aren’t even sure what you’re asking of him. You’ve suddenly got your lower lip pulled so tightly between your teeth that you half expect to taste blood as the heat in your abdomen quickly begins to wind itself into a tight, quivering coil.

The unconscious canting of your hips to rock against his ministrations is a desperate thing as you try to chase more friction and bring yourself to climax.

And then you feel his movements growing lax, slower and slower until his hips still entirely. It draws a pitiful whine from deep within you as the orgasm you’d been balancing on the edge of turns gossamer and slips through your fingers.

A calloused hand comes up to settle over your jaw then, and rubs tenderly up over your cheek. You feel his thumb brush away a dewiness you hadn’t been aware of forming on your lashes and suddenly the plush spread of his lips is at your throat.

“Open your eyes, mon amour —” he whispers, kissing the tender spot just beneath your ear, “Look at me.”

It takes some effort, but eventually, you obey, chest heaving and eyes blurry as you gaze up at him, suddenly leaning over you on his elbows. You reach up to brush stray curls from where they stick to his sweat-slicked forehead with a shaking hand and feel your chest swelling with emotion again.

He is so handsome and so kind, and he could so easily be yours — he would whisk you away from all this if only you would let him.

How you wish you would let him.

There are tears in your eyes then, spilling over your lashes and down your cheeks to pool at your jawline.

Enjorlas’s brows come together in tight-knit concern and the thumping of his heart against your own is almost enough to make you forget he’s still got his cock in you.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, so gently you could fall apart beneath him as he brushes the pad of his thumb over the spread of your lower lip, like a key unlocking the chest where you keep your most precious secrets.

The words tumble foolishly from your lips before you can stop them.

“I love you,” you gasp.

The confession is shocking, like the clanging of a bell. Ever so briefly, you watch something closer to hurt than you like to see on him flash across his dark eyes, shifted nearly black with wanting. The pained look is gone in an instant, replaced instead by a crumpled smile, like he can hardly believe he’s heard you correctly.

He’s professed his love to you a dozen times over, in and out of the heady spell of lovemaking, and you’ve dismissed the notion a dozen times again.

You’re both all too painfully aware of the hideous cliche you’ve found yourselves in, a man falling in love with a whore, begging her for her fidelity where she cannot offer it, making a thousand promises of the honest life they could live together if only she’d give herself over to him.

You’ve had countless other men make you similar, needy promises in the heat of the moment, caught in the vice of your pussy and teetering on climax, but those intentions always fade to dust the moment they spill over and come back to their senses.

Enjolras has never once gone back on his word, whether he is in his right mind or drunk on your flesh — you’re half inclined to believe he could deliver on those promises, make an honest woman of you, take you away to live with him in some little cottage where he would marry you and you’d raise a brood of wild children together.

You’re almost foolish enough to believe you could be happy together for more than a few fleeting moments of frenzied fucking. Still, your heart throbs in your chest for the impending consequences of what you have just done — you aren’t allowed to love him.

He searches your face for the answer to a question he has not yet asked as he draws an invisible tear down the side of your face with the line of his smallest finger.

His voice is thick and heady with indiscernible emotion when he speaks.

“Say it again.”

You shouldn’t. You ought to shut up, send him away, implore him to forget he ever learned your name, but you cannot.

You push up on your elbows to slot your mouth against his — kissing him to make him believe you, to somehow pass through him and whisper the closest kept secrets of your heart to his.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself to him, feeling the sticky drag of his chest hair against your peaked, sensitive nipples as he moves to snake an arm around your midsection.

“I love you,” you breathe against his lips. “I lov-”

He surges forward and kisses you again, a bruising press of his lips hard enough that you can barely move your mouth to return the gesture.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he suddenly rolls his hips, drawing back and thrusting in once more as he falls into a punishing pace, spurred into action by the admission — the reciprocation — of your feelings.

You brace a hand against the rattling headboard, clanging against the wall in time with the jostling of the bed frame, your high breathy voice answering the deeper timber of his own as he fucks into you in desperate search of his climax.

The coil in your belly grows tight and white hot again and you can feel the muscles in his abdomen growing tense against you.

In no time, his thrusting grows sloppy and erratic as he nears his finish and you grow eager for your own. He banishes your fingers with an aggressive swipe as they scrabble down to brush tight circles over your swollen nub, electing to get the job done himself. You jolt up needily against the calloused flesh of his thumb, abusing that tender bundle of nerves at a rapid-fire pace.

It boils over all too quickly.

Before you can think to open your mouth, warn him of your impending climax, you’ve come up and over, and the coil in your belly snaps.

Your body goes rigid, and you tremble with the agony of your ecstasy, washing over you like the surf, wave after powerful wave knocking you back again before you’ve had time to take a breath. You gasp out a strangled cry and dig your fingers into his arms, Enjolras’s pace only briefly faltering as your walls clench on him like a vice. He continues to fuck into you through your orgasm, stretching the release as far as it will go until you’ve strayed the line of overstimulation and you’re scrambling to try and get away from his punishing touch.

Thankfully, he is not far behind you.

He rolls his hips one, twice, thrice more before he’s pulling you as tight to him as he can manage, burying his face into the expanse of dewy flesh between your heaving breasts and spilling into you with a low guttural moan.

It’s almost enough to have you climaxing again, and you would have cried out at the bright, warm sensation flooding up against the quivering walls of your heat, if your voice were not trapped in your throat. He rolls his hips with each ropey spurt he leaves in you until finally he is spent and he collapses on top of you with a sigh of relief and the dead weight of his whole body.

Time ceases to matter, stretching infinitely before you as you lay together, breathing in tandem. Your lungs protest as they fight to expand, crushed into the mattress beneath him as you are, but you ignore their haughty complaints.

You consider never getting up, letting him slip beneath your skin and live like this in the bright, hazy moments of afterglow with sweat drying tacky on your bodies, the evidence of your joint efforts oozing from out between your legs around his softening cock. You sigh out your contentment, drawing lazy patterns across his back and relishing in how perfect this moment is, without the world pressing in on you.

Enjolras’s chest expands against you as he breathes deep and exhales, and you imagine the exhaustion tugging at him, threatening to lull him to sleep in your arms. You card your fingers through his hair, petting him and listening to the little pleased hums it draws from the hollow of his throat.

You could let yourself love him like this, almost imagining that you are in the life he’s promised you, tucked safely away in a little home, far removed from Paris and the troubles of your lives. Still, nothing lasts forever, and the gentle nagging of consequences begins to tug at you.

You can suddenly hear hushed, giggling voices outside your door and you grit your teeth against the violent feeling they stir in you.

Nasty little voyeurs.

You drum your fingers gently over Enjolras’s bicep and apply the slightest amount of pressure, prompting him to roll off and away from you so that you might sit up. You shiver at the jarring emptiness of his slipping out of you and you push up from the bed, crossing to the wash basin on shaky legs.

In your perfect life, you wouldn’t have to be so quick to wash him from you. You could relish in the sensation of being filled, the possibility of bearing his children, but this is not your perfect life, so you wet a rag and make quick work of cleaning yourself up.

You fetch your dressing down from where it lays discarded on the floor and shrug into it.

“Do you want me to go?” You hear Enjolras ask then, his voice thick and raw.

He’s sitting up against the headboard, breathing a little easier now though still so beautifully flushed. You watch him reach up and brush his hair back from his face with a boyish nervousness that plunges a dagger into your heart.

Of course, it occurs to you now how it might seem like a rejection, so hastily sloughing him off.

You smile and cross back to the bed, sinking down into the mattress and tucking yourself in against his body to banish the notion.

“No,” you purr, taking his face in your hands, “I want you to stay.”

The relief that passes over him is palpable as a tension you hadn’t been aware of until that moment clears.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks you, the rawness of the question so painfully sweet it puts a lump in your throat, “…that you love me?”

Your heart seizes in your chest, because how could he ask you such a question?

As easily as you can fool yourself into thinking it was true.

You watch him watching you, waiting for the faintest hint of a response, and you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips. A brief, chaste peck that ends too soon and leaves you wanting to do it again and again.

You could waste the night kissing him like that, like bright notes of honey you are entirely too greedy for.

His hand flies up to shadow yours against his face, keeping you there as he turns into your touch and presses a gentle kiss to your palm.

But now you’ve left the question unanswered too long, and the faintest hint of that hurt look is back in his eyes.

“Do you love me?”

You hate to do it, but you have to address the consequences of your actions. You have to be practical for both your sakes.

“Of course I do, mon Chéri,” you sigh, “And you love me, but what does it matter when you have the revolution? Your citizen meetings and all the people who look to you for guidance?”

“What has one got to do with the other?” He huffs, “I love you independently of my duty to the revolution–”

You furrow your brow, because one has everything to do with the other. You are surprised at how he could be blind to that.

You think that perhaps it is a willful blindness.

“My love, you do nothing independent of your duty to the revolution when you are its leader.”

His jaw tightens and his brows come together as he immediately rejects the notion.

“I’m not–” he snaps, then takes a breath, taking up your hand as he corrects himself and speaks a little more gently, “No, I’m not … there are no leaders among us.”

You do your best to ignore the hurt that flashes across his face when you take your hand back.

“Oh no? And who do you think they’ll come for when the city is burning and the aristocracy cries out for someone to hang? Will you send someone else to the noose?”

He shakes his head in a way that you think is perhaps too petulant for someone in his position, with his resolve.

“It won’t come to that.” He says.

“Won’t it?” You press, and then you add with a biting tone, “Are you so unwilling to be a martyr to your cause?”

Enjolras levels you with an incredulous look, something almost halfway to hurt as he turns those big dark eyes on you. He is looking at you like he can’t believe what you’re saying, like you’re rejecting him.

“Why are we talking about this?” He implores, “What does it matter?”

“It matters if you love me. There is no room for love in revolution — you’re the one who preaches that.” you press, leaning into him when he looks away, defiant of his own words.

“I preach nothing.” He says sullenly.

“Don’t make yourself a hypocrite, Enjolras. Don’t give them that to use against you.”

You know he knows this, and were he not so caught in the vice of his feelings he would agree with you, but you also know he doesn't want to hear it anymore than you want to say it.

The silence that blooms between you is tense. You watch him flex his jaw and listen to him breathe, and you wonder if you’ve gone and ruined a perfectly splendid moment for nothing.

Then again what do you know about martyrs and causes? Perhaps you are wrong and it is not impossible, simply improbable.

Somehow you highly doubt that.

You sigh and bring your knees up to hug against your chest.

“Forgive me…” you begin, “It’s not my place to say it. I shouldn’t—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Would you come away with me if I asked?”

It is another shocking, bell-clanging moment, along the same vein of your own confession.

You’re fully aware of how you’re gawping at him, but you can hardly believe he even said it as the question lingers between you. The sudden change has you laughing, for shock rather than unkindness.

He remains steely in his resolve and waits for your answer.

“Come away with you?” You echo, and your heart thumps in anticipation of the answer you cannot give him — yes of course.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted. Still, humor is the soothing balm to the way your heart cries out in protest because you cannot go, no matter how desperately you want to ... and yet...

Not impossible... simply improbably...

“What could you possibly offer me enticing enough to abandon my life here, living in the lap of luxury?” You ask, beaming as you gesture grandly to the modest room, with its peeling wallpaper and holes in the ceiling.

In a strident contrast to the way you poke fun, Enjolras is serious as the plague as he takes up your hands again.

“I would offer you everything I have.” He says earnestly, “My life — my fidelity.”

The heat of his gaze is intense enough to have you turning shy and looking down at your hands, at the way he’s caressing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

You're laughing again, suddenly giddy with possibility.

“Your fidelity? You would abandon your true love? All your work for the revolution? For me?”

He nods.

“For you, I would leave tonight.”

You hum thoughtfully, dropping your chin to the sinewy muscle of his shoulder.

“What about life and liberation of the working class?”

His voice is soft when he answers, rattling in his chest with a deeply tired sigh, like he hasn’t slept in months. You have to wonder whether he ever rests outside of your company.

“Let someone else fight for a change.” He says, his eyes growing distant. It is entirely uncharacteristic of him, and enough to make you think he might be serious.

He would leave — with you, no less — leave all that he knows behind for a love that is forbidden. How wonderfully uncharacteristic of him.

What a story yours is. A common whore and a jaded revolutionary.

How terribly cliche.

And then like a proposal, he moves so that he is kneeling in front of you, his soul bare for you to judge and do with what you like.

“Come away with me.” He says, “Be my wife.”

You cannot speak, your tongue has suddenly turned to cotton in your throat. You imagine saying yes, leaving tonight, but your heart is torn.

You could marry him, but with what money? He cannot afford to keep you and without an income, you cannot afford not to work. And what would leaving mean for the lives you left behind?

What would happen to girls like Marie and Clotilde without your guardianship? How many revolutions have died in their infancy because lesser men than Enjolras decided to leave the fight to someone else?

Amidst all these worries and questions, another series springs to the front of your mind and branches out, growing wild with reckless abandon.

Why does it all rest on your shoulders?

Why is it not enough just to be lovers?

It is a pretty dream, your other life in a little house, married happily and rearing curly-haired children with their father’s dark eyes — why should you be doomed to live your life resigned to dreaming?

Why? Why why why? ...Why not?

For half a moment, you watch Enjorlas crumple before you, like he is anticipating the rejection.

Your heart breaks for him.

How conflicting it must be to balance his two selves, the stalwart revolutionary with the desperate romantic.

If only his compatriots knew how he suffered for the revolution, you fear they would tear him to pieces.

You would shield him from that if you could.

You bring your hand up to cup his jaw on one side, and then the other, and you draw him to you.

"Your fidelity won't put bread on my table," you say softly, "But I would take it if you let me, if only because you offered it to me."

His eyes widen ever so briefly, and his face splits into that big, shining grin again. He laughs, too struck to speak like he had already resigned himself to the slow death of your impending rejection, and to hear the opposite has wiped clean the slate of his mind.

You love it when he's speechless.

You can’t stop your lips from quirking up into a shy smile. “Unless you didn’t mean it–?” You tease, but he doesn't let you finish, crashing forward to press a bruising kiss to your lips.

“I meant it.” He says quickly, breathlessly between kisses – his hands come up to grasp your shoulders and hold you to the spot, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t have a hand on you, you’ll slip away.

You smile against his lips.

“Then I will come away with you.”

You let him kiss you and bask in the unbridled warmth blooming in your chest because now you never have to stop.

There is nothing more to keep you apart. He is yours to have as you please forever, and you are his.

Somewhere, in the belly of the house, you think you hear the slamming of the front door, the telltale commotion of the Madam's return, but you can't make yourself care. This is the last night you'll spend in this wretched place, the last time you'll have to steal for a moment of intimacy with the man you love. You think on what Enjolras said before, about letting someone else fight for a change, and while you know he won't stop his fighting, you resign yourself to letting go of your own battles with a strange lightness.

You know he won't give up on the revolution. She is the other woman in his life, after all, but you are pleasantly surprised to find that you don't mind sharing him.

You’d been so worried he would make a romantic out of you, you’d never once considered he might make a revolutionary out of you.

A courtesan turned revolutionary’s wife — how perfectly wonderful.

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

WARNINGS: Gojo Satoru x Female OC, fluff, cuteness, comfort, communication, established relationship, marriage, husband+wife, migraines, gets a little spicy at the end.

SUMMARY: Satoru's wife comes to his aid, once again. Or alternatively: How Satoru came about the blindfold and seemingly indestructible black shirt (you know the one).😉

Read on AO3

Prequel: Gojo Takes a Wife (also on AO3)

It had been a rather frigid Sunday morning as Hannah waved goodbye to Kiyotaka, returning her home from 9:30 Mass. She took off her boots, wet with snow, and hung her coat and red scarf on the wall. She couldn’t wait to spend the afternoon relaxing, nose deep in a book with a fresh cup of chamomile tea. And with her husband. Satoru had been away on a week-long mission and had come home late last night. She had missed him terribly, but any chance of cozying with him by the fire went up in smoke the second her eyes caught a very distraught looking Makoto standing by the entrance. The housekeeper's face was almost grave stricken. Hannah felt her stomach tighten with unease. She knew that face.

“Don’t tell me it’s another one.”

The housekeeper bowed her head. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

“Where is he?”

“In his room. He refuses food or drink and I’m starting to worry.”

Hannah dropped her purse and dashed for her husband’s bedroom, which they both shared. Upon making it down the hallway, she saw how his bedroom door was cracked just a tad, so the protective charm couldn’t deny anyone entry. Hannah quickly, but very quietly, opened the sliding door. There, she spotted her husband lying on the bed, shirtless like he hadn’t awoken, pillows stacked on top of his head to try and block out any excess light or noise. The room was very dark, but sunlight still managed to fester through.

Hearing someone approach, Satoru lifted a pillow to see a figure that could be his wife, but everything was shifting so madly in and out of focus, it was hard to be sure. His stomach roiled from the movement and he felt as though he might be sick again, having already vomited in the bowl next to his bed. Still, he reached out for her, groaning.

Seeing her husband in such a vulnerable state made Hannah’s heart ache.

“My poor darling,” she said and rushed to his side, wasting little time hoisting her dress over her shoulders and unclasping her bra to join him in the bed. As per usual, Satoru waited for his wife to pull the covers back and get herself comfy before rolling on top of her, nuzzling his face into her bosom. The skin to skin contact was more for relief than sexual pleasure. Her scent always brought about a calming effect, helping him with the overarching pain, which felt as though harpoons were being lanced into his skull, sinking their way further inside and not letting go like hooks. Cradling his head, Hannah ran a gentle hand through his snow white hair, kissing his forehead, and pulled the covers back over him to block out the sunlight.

“Hannah,” Satoru weakly croaked.

“Shh,” she hushed, rubbing his muscled back and shoulders. At least his nose wasn’t bleeding like last time. Her fingers gently worked their way up the base of his skull. “Close your eyes now, love, and go back to sleep.”

Makoto arrived not long afterwards with a pitcher of water, along with a drinking glass, a clean bowl, and a wet washcloth. The fact her mistress was half naked didn’t deter her. The bed covers and Satoru’s head protected his wife’s modesty, not that she hadn’t seen it before. She understood.

“Does he have any meetings scheduled today?” she heard her mistress whisper.

“One,” Makoto answered. “A mission debrief meant for yesterday.”

Hannah sighed. Leave it to the higher-ups not to give her husband the Sunday off. “Cancel it, please. Tell them I was the reason why.”

Makoto cocked her head. “Wouldn’t it be better to say he is indisposed?”

Hannah turned sadly towards her housekeeper. “They mustn’t know, Makoto. If we say he is indisposed they’ll start asking questions. Have them blame me for the disruption. Lord knows they do enough already.

Few people were aware the Six Eyes wielder succumbed to life debilitating migraines. The Six Eyes was an ocular cursed technique which allowed the benefactor to see targets from great distances, differentiate between other cursed energies, and examine things from a molecular and cellular level. He could even see through solid objects. However, continually keeping both reversed curse technique and Infinity activated had its drawbacks. If he wasn’t given sufficient time to rest and recharge, Satoru’s eyes, brain, and stomach would be thrown out of sync, causing mind-splitting headaches and nausea. The aid of specialty sunglasses and bandages often kept the migraines at bay, but they’d gotten significantly worse, five episodes in the past two months alone (especially with what happened that past Christmas Eve). Hannah feared that if word got out that her husband had developed a neurological disease, it would somehow be used against him. She was willing to take the fall. The narrative that the Strongest had no weaknesses or vulnerabilities had to be maintained at all costs.

“Exactly what should I tell them?” Makoto asked.

“Tell them he has decided on a whim to take his wife out to the countryside and will not be back till Tuesday. That should give him enough time to rest. Cancel all meetings, mission debriefs, and classes he has planned as well. I don’t want him going anywhere until this awful migraine subsides.”

Satoru winced and groaned. Hannah planted another kiss on his head as Makoto took the bowl with his vomit.

“I’ve brought a clean one for him and some water,” she said.

“Yes, I see that. Thank you.”

“Do you need anything, ma’am?

Hannah smiled at the devoted housekeeper. The two of them would do anything for this one man. “No, Makoto-san,” she said, stroking Satoru’s temple dotingly as he slept. “I’m fine.”

“Very well. I’ll come back in an hour with more Bufferin. He’s already taken 600 mg.”

Hannah thanked the housekeeper for her heroic efforts and was soon left alone with her husband sleeping in her arms. She lovingly brushed his cheek with her fingers. He had such a childlike sweetness to him when asleep. Lately the stress of being the world's strongest sorcerer had started to show, though her husband hid it well. That happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care front he put on fooled most people, even his close friends. Hannah couldn’t help but worry. It was only a matter of time till the next migraine hit, and then what would they do? There’s got to be a way, she pondered, trying to brainstorm a possible solution.

Hannah's eyes landed on his glasses folded on their nightstand next to the roll of medical bandages he used to cover his eyes. The bandages themselves were nothing special, however, all his glasses were made out of a custom plexiglass found primarily in luxury cars (bought from a fancy Italian manufacturer he liked). Although the shade Satoru wore would be highly illegal if installed on a motorized vehicle; It was far too opaque for the average person to see through. Her eyes then wandered to the closed book beside the bandages.

Then the idea struck like lightning.

Hannah’s phone was in her purse near the house entrance, but Satoru’s phone was within reach on the nightstand. Careful not to disturb her dozing husband, she picked it up and furiously tapped the passcode on the Lock Screen. She searched through his contacts. Found what she’d been looking for and began texting her message. Five minutes later, the deed was done.

She would have her answer by tomorrow.

“I had no idea: The world’s strongest ‘headache’ suffers from chronic migraines. Who would’ve thought?”

Kumari was in the middle of sharpening a dull santoku against a whetstone, striking the steel in a curved downwards motion, never up. She wore her everyday apron underneath a green blouse and blue jeans, her shiny raven hair roped in a single braid down her back. Hannah had always been secretly envious of the Indian woman’s hair. It was so lustrous and thick. She knew many women who would pay top dollar to have it fashioned into a wig, but that wasn’t why she’d come to see the weapons specialist in her shop.

“Except nothing seems to alleviate them,” Hannah sighed, after telling Kumari of her husband’s condition. “I don’t know what else to do, which is why I’d like your input on something.”

Kumari placed the sharpened santoku on the counter, tucking a loose strand of raven hair behind her ear. “Okay, lay it on me.”

Hannah opened the gold lock of her Kelly bag - Sellier 25 Brown Epsom - and pulled out her copy of Madame Camille’s Simple Guide to Enchanted Textiles. She laid it on the store countertop and flipped to page 89, turning it around for Kumari to read.

“What are your thoughts on black muga silk?”

The Indian woman blinked. “Black muga silk? You mean raw muga silk that’s been dyed?”

“No, this type of silk is different,” Hannah said, pointing to an illustration in the book. “It’s spun from the cocoon of an Assamese black witch moth. Instead of yellow or white, the silk comes out pitch black. Supposedly, when the threads are woven into a cloth and imbued with a person’s cursed energy, it can’t be torn or destroyed from other curse related attacks.”

Kumari’s brown eyes widened in realization. “Oooh, that muga silk. Yes, I know what you’re talking about now. You mostly hear it mentioned in ghost stories told to frighten young children.”

Hannah’s heart sank at this. “So it doesn’t exist?”

Kumari flipped a page in the book. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then it’s real?” Hannah corrected, brimming with newfound hope.

Kumari set the book aside and leaned over the countertop, chin in hand. Her dark brows narrowed. “Forgive me, Hannah, but I’m curious. If a person like yourself were to acquire such a rare and mystical black silk, what would you intend to use it for?”

Hannah rummaged through her Kelly again and whipped out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Kumari who quickly unraveled it. The weapon specialist studied its contents, looking perplexed at all the measurements and amatueric drawings, eventually figuring out what it was.

“Ha,” she laughed. “Well, I’ll be. How cute.”

“I-I wouldn’t need much,” Hannah added, blushing at her friend’s opinion of her drawing. “A yard would be more than plenty. Do you think you’d help me locate some?

Kumari sighed and glanced at the paper with doubt. “I don’t know, Hannah. This isn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill type fabric. Even on the black market, it’s hard to come by.”

Hannah clasped her friend’s hand. “Please, Kumari. I’m begging you. I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Kumari stared into her best friend’s desperate hazel eyes, mirroring the look of someone who would go to great lengths for the people she loved, knowing she would do the same if placed in her shoes. “Well, alright then,” she relented. “I’ll get in touch with my contact up in Assam and see what he can find. But I can’t make any promises, Hannah. Normal muga silk, in itself, is already a rarity.

“Oh, thank you, Kumari,” Hannah rejoiced, breaking into one of her infectious smiles. “It means the world to hear you say that.”

“We’ll see,” Kumari cautioned. “Oh, and tell that chutiya husband of yours I hope he feels better. I’ll keep the migraines a secret too, if you’d like.”

“Yes, we’d appreciate that very much.”

“Good. I’ll message you as soon as I learn anything.”

Hannah leapt over the countertop to crush the specialist in as big a hug her petite arms could muster. “Oh Kumari, there is a special place in Heaven with your name on it.”

The Indian woman laughed, setting her little English friend back on the ground. “When it comes to Satoru, I expect us all to have halos in the end.”

The two wives laughed and Hannah turned and waved goodbye to her dear friend, leaving Kumari’s shop with more hope in her heart than when she arrived.

All there was left for her to do was pray and wait.

“What’s this for again? Because I don’t remember you skipping my birthday.”

“Why don't you stop asking and find out?”

Satoru was sitting on the loveseat in the parlor where they ate most of their meals. He couldn’t understand why his wife was so adamant he open this gift. The box wasn’t very big. He could hold it in one hand. She had gone about wrapping it in striped red, blue, and purple paper, tied in a bow with purple ribbon. He began loosening the ribbon, but soon grew suspicious again.

“Seriously though, is this a prank? I swear I haven’t done anything. I’ve been good.”

His wife surrendered a great sigh. “Since when have I ever pulled a prank on you?” She methodically ran her fingers through his soft white hair, having buzzed the sides yesterday. “Please open it.”

Satoru let her continue petting him and untied the purple ribbon. Normally he’d use the Six Eyes to see through the box, but didn’t want to feign his surprise. He lifted the cover, although instead of showing surprise he showed mild confusion.

“You got me a…headband?”

“No, silly.” Hannah laughed at his honest mistake. “It’s a blindfold.”

“A blindfold?”

“Mmhm. So you don’t have to wear those fickle dressings around your eyes any more. This is more…state of the art, shall we say.”

Satoru held the blindfold up, examining it closely from side to side, flipping it over. “What’s it made out of? The fabric is kind of funky. I can’t figure — ”

“Never mind what it’s made of,” Hannah ushered. “Try it on.”

Satoru chuckled at his wife’s behest. “Goodness, my sweetheart is being really pushy today,” he teased, stretching the silky blindfold over his unruly white hair. “That’s strange. I have it your period doesn’t start till next week.”

It was just the two of them in the parlor. Hannah knew he didn’t mean it as a tasteless joke and was simply stating a fact. He really did know her menstrual cycle. He knew it backwards, forwards, upside down, and sideways; When she was ovulating and when she wasn’t; The days she was most fertile (clear slippery v. thick and dry); The exact date her period was predicted to start and when it was expected to end. Husbands pick up on those sorts of things when going the extra mile to impregnate their wives. Satoru had her reproduction system down to an exact science. Her period was predicted to start next week, like he said, but she didn’t care much about that at the moment. Her mind was elsewhere.

“God, please work,” she quietly prayed.

“What was that?” Satoru pulled the blindfold down his neck, pushing it back on his forehead. His gossamer-colored hair stuck straight up, adjusting the fabric over his eyes. “Hey, mind telling me why you’re acting so…so…” He took in his surroundings. “Woah.”

Hannah bit the insides of her cheeks with bated breath, waiting for him to finish his initial thought. “So…?”

Satory stood up from the loveseat and turned around the parlor, bewildered. Without glasses or bandages, looking at things with the Six Eyes at times was like staring directly into the sun, straining his vision, but suddenly the strain was gone. The blindfold wasn’t like wearing sunglasses, nor the bandages he’d been experimenting with. This was entirely different. It had him a tad spooked. “Okay, for real. What the hell is this shit made of?”

“Special muga silk from an Assamese black witch moth,” his wife blurted in one go.

“An Assamese what?”

Hannah explained her visit with Kumari three weeks prior. The weapons specialist’s contact in Assam pulled through a week later and had found a merchant willing to relinquish her 5½ yards of black muga silk for a small fortune. Kumari thought the merchant was gouging the price, but Hannah felt in no position to haggle. Her husband needed this silk. As an added value, the merchant was also willing to sell them black muga thread for sewing. Hannah purchased both and for the next three weeks got very busy. She just hoped Satoru wouldn’t be too upset with the amount missing from their checking account if he hadn’t noticed already.

“I made you a shirt too.”

Satoru stared blankly at her through the blindfold. “You made me a shirt.”

Hannah nodded with enthusiasm and walked out the parlor and down the hallway to quickly return holding what looked, by all means, to be a plain black tee shirt.

“Ta-dah!!”

Satoru quirked a snowy eyebrow (which no one could see) and took the hand-sewn garment from his wife. Like the blindfold, he gave it a once over, shaking out any possible wrinkles. Seemed harmless enough. Knowing it easier to beg forgiveness than seek permission, he started undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, flashing her his abs and taut muscles, and slipped the tee over his shoulders.

“What do you think?” his wife asked nervously.

He smoothed the funky fabric. “You said it was made of silk. Why does it stretch?”

“That’s your cursed energy at play. When the silk comes into contact with a person’s cursed energy, it alters the fabric’s properties. Depending on how strong you are, the silk should never rip, tear, burn, fade, or disintegrate. Stretches too.”

“So mine’s essentially indestructible,” Satoru assumed.

“Yup,” Hannah quipped. “That’s the idea. It’s the perfect shirt, all in one.”

“Hmph” Satoru rolled his shoulders, testing his mobility in the homemade shirt. “Neat.”

Hannah was very pleased that the blindfold and shirt were to his liking. She had worked so hard on them. He hadn’t stopped wearing the blindfold, though the shirt appeared to have shrunk somehow, molding to his body. It must be due to his cursed energy, she thought. Hannah could make out every contour of his broadly sculpted chest and strong arms, counting all six of his abs with ease. He was positively ravishing to look at. Something warm pooled in her stomach.

“Um, on second thought,” she added. “Maybe it’s a bit tight.”

“Nah, it fits fine.” But he paused upon noticing where his wife’s eyes were looking, and smirked. He flexed for her in a sexy pose. “I’m guessing it meets your approval?”

“S-Sure,” she swallowed, bringing a hand to cover her blushing cheek. “It looks…very dashing on you.”

Ooo, she shouldn’t have said that.

Her delivery wasn't subtle either. Dashing, eh?

Satoru saw the opportunity present itself like a third gift and bit his tongue. Her bashful expressions never stopped being so goddamn arousing, his shy little trollop, his muse. Oh, how he adored her with his entire soul. He was gonna nibble those rose petal lips if it was the last thing he did. Satoru felt his heart rate dance in delight, pumping blood away from other parts of his body to fill the limp juncture nestled between his legs, hardening. He loved how easy his wife was to tease. This next round was gonna be fun.

“Hmm, I don’t know, Princess,” he purred, slinking his way back to her like a prowling tomcat. “Judging by how ‘tight’ it is, I might need help taking it off.” He towered directly over her and seized her hips, maneuvering his large hands ever so slightly to covet the plump round cheeks hiding beneath her dress. He rumbled in her ear, voice matching the silky-ness of his shirt. “Your expertise in this department may be required.”

He squeezed.

“Really, Satoru?!” Hannah gasped, but did not pull away from his advances. “Here?” They hadn’t left the parlor and there was no door. Megumi and Makoto could walk in at any moment (which had happened far more often than naught). Satoru tugged the blindfold up to his forehead.

“Yes, here,” he growled with bedroom blue eyes, already roaming his hands up the folds of her skirt. “I need to thank you, and I can think of no greater way than having you right here, right now.” She had taken such good care of him, it was his time to return the favor.

These were truly thoughtful gifts after all.

Plus, she hadn’t lied. He did look awfully ravishing in the shirt. Hands groping her ass, he lowered himself on his knees and lifted her skirt to begin trailing hot, butterfly kisses up, up, up the sides of her leg, mouth slowly edging its way to her panties. The sweet smell of her arousal was overwhelming. He felt dizzy.

“N-No, darling, no,” he heard her whimper, trying to close her legs with his head in between. “That isn’t what I want.”

“Then what do you want, sweetheart?” He planted a kiss on her inner thigh and removed himself from under her dress. “Tell me.”

A wave of delight tingled all the way down his spine to his groin when he watched those pretty hazel eyes flank his front. “That,” she said, pointing.

Satoru followed her finger to where his now very defined erection was pushing against his pants.

He looked up at her. “How do you want it?”

The thirst in her eyes was insatiable now. Satoru swore his hard cock lurched (gimme, gimme) at the sight of her swallowing. “Couch,” she ordered.

Just like turning a switch, he relinquished all control.

Satoru scrambled his way back to the loveseat and assumed position, widening his hips for her.

Hannah giggled at his eagerness and got down on her knees. He couldn’t help but moan in great relief when that zipper came undone. She flipped over his soiled boxers enough for the hardened shaft to break through and fully stretch out. Ah, yes, much better. He shimmied in the loveseat, making himself comfortable as Hannah helped him ditch the pants and boxers all together, his johnson free as a jaybird.

He looked funny with the blindfold stuck to his forehead. Hannah giggled, wiping the drool off his face, and readjusted the silk. Wouldn’t want those beautiful blue eyes to miss all the action, now, would we? Meanwhile, his new shirt stayed on. It didn’t need to be removed for this activity.

Enjoying his reactions, the little wife artfully began undoing the top buttons of her dress…pop…pop…pop…knowing by the secretions oozing out his tip that her husband was very pleased to see her not wearing a bra. Her ample bosom came spilling out the sides like two mouth-watering fruits and Satoru wanted a taste, but Hannah reasserted dominance. “Ah, ah, ah,” she softly reprimanded, moving his hands away. “I get what I want first, remember?” She laughed and kissed his pouty lips. Once unbuttoned, she scooched in closer, and with her index, swiped a dollop of sticky secretion off the tender-most part of his penis, rubbing it between her fingers, testing its consistency. Her husband’s breath staggered, his whole body quivering from the lightest touch.

He was healthy as a horse.

“You ready, darling?” she finally said, widening his hips so she could sandwich herself in between.

“For you?” Satoru huffed, unable to take his eyes off her, bracing for impact. “Always.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“Wherever you want, baby. You have the reins.”

She knew what that meant and immediately dove underneath him, stroking his length up and down with a goddess-like hand, while her tongue licked every square inch of his balls, gently sucking and nibbling. All Satoru could think about as his wife’s supplicant mouth made short work of him was, Yup, this is definitely my new favorite shirt.

He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t.

[srgntjamesbuckybarnes]

Truth or Dare (2)

Summary: What started off as an innocent game of truth or dare between two noble born sisters, Y/N and Margaret “Peggy” Carter, quickly turns south when Y/N meets Steve Rogers and James “Bucky” Barnes. 10 years later Peggy is getting married reuniting the bunch, tensions rise as the sisters engage in truth or dare one more time before Peggy is married.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Fat shaming, dead parent, intoxication

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Not Beta'd

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 2

1825

The king requests your presence.

It wasn’t the call home Y/N had expected. Spinsterhood was around the corner for Y/N, the forgotten older daughter of Count Harrison and Countess Amanda Carter. Doomed to be remembered as the forgotten Lady while Peggy would go on to become a Princess and later on a Queen. Y/N hadn’t been shocked, Peggy was a force to reckon with, she had always been meant to lead. Y/N was shocked that she hadn’t known about the engagement sooner, Peggy was her sister after all.

“What on earth did they feed you over there? You’ve gotten fat.” Amanda huffed tugging Y/N’s corset laces.

Y/N gasped, one of the two of her palms previously rested on her stomach slammed against the wall attempting to steady herself. “Of course I’ve grown, I was sixteen the last time you saw me, mother.” Another gasp escaped her lips.

“You will rein in that attitude of yours. I will not have you embarrassing the family in front of the king. Now,” Amanda grunted, “suck it in.”

Feeling lightheaded, Y/N was at loss for words. Her ears began to ring, her skin flashing hot. It didn’t even register to her when the door opened or when Peggy took over. Suddenly air flooded her lungs, her hands scrambling to keep the loose corset against her bosom.

When the tugging of the laces began again Peggy spoke “Mother always tied my corsets tight when I started wearing them. I figured you could use some help.” Despite her teasing, there was a sadness woven through each word she spoke.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you,” Y/N hung her head. 

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

As Y/N felt the younger Carter’s hands drop from her corset, she spun around. “It wasn’t your fault. I got myself into trouble all on my own.”

The sisters were practically ripped away from each other without so much as a goodbye. Harrison and Amanda had no intention of explaining any of it to Peggy, they didn’t want Y/N’s mistakes to tarnish their younger daughter as well.

A mischievous grin spread across Peggy’s face. Y/N didn’t offer up much information about that night, not that they had the chance to talk about it since they reunited but they were alone now. 

“Truth or dare?”

Y/N scoffed, plucking her gown from the wooden wardrobe. She knew what Peggy wanted to know. The truth was, Y/N didn’t want to discuss that now. How could she put that night and ten years into words? “Oh, no you don’t. I completed my dare. It’s my turn to ask you.”

“Well then,” Peggy rocked on the balls of her feet, “ask me.”

Slipping into the silk gown Y/N shook her head “When I’m ready.” She wasn’t sure when she would be ready because she knew if she asked Peggy the dreaded question she would have the upper hand. Then Y/N would be forced to choose between explaining the past ten years or completing another absurd dare. “Is he nice?”

The sudden change in topic made the younger sister frown. “The prince?” With a nod of confirmation, Peggy continued, “Very. He’s respectful.”

Y/N chuckled, “That’s just code for easy on the eyes.”

Peggy rolled her eyes. “It was supposed to be you. You’re older.”

Perhaps that was true. Their parents were marrying Peggy off. Had Y/N been the perfect child, they would have married her off first but Y/N wasn’t the perfect child and she was content with her decision. Steve believed the prince to be a good enough person to protect him from the king’s guards and she believed Steve to be good enough to put over her reputation. She saved a life, that was more vital than some marriage.

“Are you happy?”

Peggy paused, taken back by the question. “I am.” She was but that didn’t stop the guilt from eating away at her.

“Do you love him?”

Twisting the fabric of her skirt Peggy was quiet. Even if she did love Steve, she had yet to say it to him. It wasn’t fair to confess her feelings to someone else first.

A pounding caused both women to jump. Peggy rushed to the door grateful for the interruption exchanging hushed whispers with the stranger on the other side of the door.

After so many twists and turns Y/N knew she would be lost if it hadn’t been for the escort guiding the Carter sisters toward the dining hall. Peggy entered first, clearly familiar with the layout already. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling illuminating the large room. Wax oozed down the candles threatening to drip on the guests below. Several pink and white flowers lined the center of the table, colors reflecting in the white tablecloth.

At the head of the table sat a large man with a ruddy complexion, clearly intoxicated from the wine flowing around the table. Y/N could only assume he was King George. To his right was the count followed by the countess. On the king's left was a tall blonde man. Peggy curtsied greeting the men only to be seated by the blonde. That had to be Prince James.

Y/N followed Peggy’s lead, feeling her mother’s burning gaze on her, daring her to make a mistake. “Your majesty,” she greeted the king before turning to the prince, “Your Royal Highness.” Before she could stand up she heard her name faintly. Blue eyes bore into hers. Had she been across the room she wouldn't have been able to make out the green flecks. Eyes she would never forget after studying them so intensely during their poker game, even if the rest of him had changed. He was a foot taller and lean with muscle but his face was still handsome.

Steve, Y/N wanted to whisper back just to confirm she wasn’t hallucinating him. Instead, she stood slack-jawed until a calloused hand gripped her elbow guiding her to the other side of the table; to the end beside her mother. Lovely.

She could hear her mother whisper something to her but she couldn’t make out what was being said. She felt like she was drowning. Everything sounded muffled, the air caught in her throat along with her words. Why here? Why now? She wondered if this was a sick joke to confront what happened ten years ago but no one said anything.

“He’s not coming,” Steve announced, catching her attention.

Harrison shook his head, “Still disrespecting the crown, I see.”

The king’s joyful intoxicated expression depleted, turning serious. “I won’t allow you to malign my son in my presence.”

Harrison babbled trying to justify himself. Amanda froze in alarm. Y/N’s lip twitched upward, glad she had not been the one to mortify her mother. She caught Steve’s eye from across the table. She wished they weren’t so far apart. She had a million questions. Why couldn’t she have been seated on Peggy's left? Instead, she was stuck beside her mother and no one, no one beside her, and no one across from her. The plates were there.

“Is someone else coming?” Y/N questioned, interrupting the chaos at the other end of the table. The room grew quiet.

 “No,” Steve was the first to answer.

The king’s eyes glazed over observing the red wine swirling in his goblet. “James is having a hard time adjusting. The other plate is for my late wife. James insists we still set her a plate at dinner.”

Y/N heard her mother click her tongue beside her, low enough for only her to hear. She knew her mother was displeased with her bringing up the deceased queen. Her father, on the other hand, was relieved by the change of subject.

Steve cleared his throat, “We all miss the queen. She was one of the greats.”

George nodded, his cold gaze landing on Peggy from beneath his thick eyebrows. “You have big shoes to fill.” The protective hand Steve placed over his fiancee’s didn't go unnoticed by the king. “Steve will make a good king but his judgment can be hazy at times, especially when it comes to his friends and family. I will not be around when Steve ascends the throne. As the future queen, I expect you will advise him to do the right thing when the time comes.”

“Of course, your Royal Highness.”

Dinner had been interesting to say the least but Y/N hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Steve. She tried to follow him after dinner but she was escorted back to her room. She had yet to map out the layout of the castle and while discreetly meeting alone with an unmarried man was frowned upon, she was determined to find Steve, even if it meant searching for a needle in a haystack.

Sneaking around the castle proved to be much more difficult than Y/N thought. Guards were stationed around the castle waiting to drag her back to her room if she was caught. There was no way they would bring her to Steve alone in the middle of the night.

Y/N tried to stop her teeth from chattering down the corridor, she didn’t need the extra noise drawing attention toward her. She should’ve brought a cloak but she feared she would be mistaken for an intruder or thought to be escaping. Her mother would have a fit.

The unmistakable sound of armor shuffling in the distance had Y/N pushing forward, blindly turning down halls until she couldn’t hear the noise. Y/N halted as she turned the corner. A tall figure staggered down the opposite end of the hall, swaying slightly left with each step. She didn’t think Steve had that much wine at dinner but maybe he went off somewhere to drink after.

“Steve,” Y/N whispered.

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge her. Maybe he didn’t hear her. Following him down the hall like a shadow she continued to call out his name. Once at the end of the hall, he pushed open a door slamming it behind him.

She considered turning back. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to talk to him, but the sound of metal clanging sounded somewhere behind her. She came this far, she wasn’t turning back now to get caught without answers, besides she didn’t think she would be able to find her way back if she did.

Without knocking, Y/N forced the door open, her heart pounding in her chest praying Steve was the only one on the other side of the door. Unfortunately, she was wrong.

“Do you knock?” A growl came from the other side of the room.

With her back pressed against the closed door, Y/N analyzed the room. They were alone but it wasn’t Steve. Sprawled out in a wooden chair was a man of similar height and build to Steve. This man sported a slightly overgrown beard to match his shoulder-length chocolate locks. Despite the elbow braced on the table, thick fingers laced through his hair obscuring his face, he still appeared rough around the edges while Steve kept a clean-shaven face and often ran a comb through his hair.

“Sorry, I was looking for-” She didn't know what to say. She couldn’t tell him she was looking for Steve. “I’m lost.”

Stony blue eyes peeked up at her from the matted hair to his forehead, anchoring her against the hefty door. She was sure he had caught her lie. She had called Steve’s name in the hall, maybe he did hear her but didn't respond because he wasn’t Steve. Any goosebumps that had left her skin had returned the moment his gaze slithered up and down her body. Nobody knew where she was, she had to get out of there.

The second her fingers grazed the door handle he spoke, “Y/N?”

The dopey grin on his face was enough confirmation for Y/N. He wore that stupid grin all night when she had met him. She wanted to ask what he was doing here but she imagined it had something to do with Steve.

“Bucky?”

“Wow. I must be really drunk if I’m seeing you,” he braced his forehead against both palms.

“Bucky, I’m looking for Steve. Can you tell me where he is?” 

A growl escaped his lips; had he not lifted his head to glare at her, she would have thought a beast was in the castle.

“You want 'em, go find 'em yourself,” he snarled.

Y/N watched wide-eyed as he pushed himself to stand, swaying on his feet. She wanted to turn around and leave him to help himself after his outburst but he had been kind to her before.

“You’re drunk.” She hovered by his left side ready to guide him to the simple bed a few feet away. “Let me help you.”

For a second she thought he was actually going to let her instead, he recoiled and pushed past her before she could grab his arm. As soon as he crumpled on the mattress, he buried himself beneath the comforter and curved his back to her.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

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