#I have wrung Ao3 dry

[delusinaldreamer19]

Quick psa for everyone,

Writing fanfiction for black butler is actually super fun and a great time! You should do it!

More people should do it!

[moonyinpisces]

was rereading puttin on the ritz to celebrate the new year (as one does) and i just realized that between this fic and hdwtotl, you capture my favorite hc for azicrow i.e. for their first time, either or both of them will be coming in their pants. 10000/10 for themes and characterization, no notes, the dry humping community thanks you.

oh god yeah. one of them has to come in their pants always and forever <3

[httpsserene]

I LOVED daniel ricciardo x max verstappen x reader!! could you write a part 2?

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 2𝕶 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖊𝖑 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖔 𝕰𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞: 𝐊.𝐎. !

summary: Okay, Daniel may have won the first round. He cleared her dry spell with no problem and used Max to do it, too. That’s completely fine, she will never complain about experiencing some of the best orgasms of her life. But, Max (the man unable to not have the last word) coerces her into giving Daniel a taste of his own medicine.  As soon as they can manage to walk on two feet, without a wobble. Mark their fucking words.  pairing: daniel ricciardo x max verstappen x fem!black!reader content warning: 18+ only. mdni. explicit sexual content. author recommends reading part one before this. polyamory. threesome. massages. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. safe, sane, and consensual. bondage. safeword mention. unprotected sex. ruined orgasm. handjob. oral sex (male receiving). edging. crying during sex. praise kink. nipple play. dom/sub ig? joking during sex. dom!max verstappen. switch!daniel ricciardo. sub!reader. vaginal sex. anal sex (male). sex toys (butt plug). frottage. don’t like don’t read. no beta we die like men. edited by the author, though. this is a fictional depiction of real-life people, and this is not an accurate representation of them. word count: 4.3k words

author’s notes: to all the lovely readers who begged for a part two of my f1 kinktober special | overstimulation kink w danny & max. these tags may look crazy...okay, they are but the fic is reasonably crazy i would say. this was humbling to write, you have been warned. my 2k followers special comes to its end with this final installment and there will be no part three of this fic < 3. i may repost this on ao3 in a week or so, for ease of reading as i know long fics on tumblr are kind of annoying :)

(i'm going to take a little pause from writing daniel ricciardo fics but those of you that have requested things for him i will get to them in due time xxx)

prev part 1 2k special join taglist feedback & requests table of contents↻

Your body feels like it’s been wrung out: legs wobbly, thighs bruised, hips aching, back broken, and numb with heat between your legs. You refuse to wear pants as the friction is too paralyzing to take more than a few steps. Loose dresses are your best friend–for the first couple of days, you even went commando around the ranch—thank god neither one of your boyfriends clued into that. 

However, it’s not like you disliked the oversensitivity and aching muscles that came after sex. You loved the feeling even more as it was the first time you’d been properly fucked in a few months. Having that unending thirst for Max and Daniel quenched; it’s heightened how you experience life. You swear that your vision feels sharper, your melanated skin softer, anything you eat tastes better than delicious, the homemade lemonade is sweeter, and most importantly, your desperation has calmed. While you love life on the farm, where living has become succulent under your senses—Max’s attitude has done a complete 180°.

His energy is completely subdued. It’s like Daniel drained the cum and brat out of him. Max is all stuttered words when he makes eye contact with either of you, blushing fully at the lightest tease or brush of skin, voice soft when he speaks, usual bluntness replaced with shyness, and he’s even clingier than normal. If he hasn’t glued himself underneath Daniel’s arm, he’ll be plastered against your back.

You wonder if he’s embarrassed that Daniel changed their “plan” on him at the last minute, or if it’s because Daniel used him as a tool to get you off—but, asking Max would only scare him away or cause the brat to resurface…so you don’t verbalize your theories. You find Max in this state more adorable than usual, and you won’t complain if it means a surplus of Max-cuddles.

Yet, the figurative rug is pulled from beneath your feet when the three of you go Christmas shopping. Daniel had separated from the two of you to go pick up a gift for his nephew, leaving you and Max alone to browse through knickknacks that decorate the shelves. Your eyes were caught by cat ornaments that looked exactly like Jimmy and Sassy but before you could reach out to grab, them Max grabbed you by the hand and pulled you to hide in the next aisle over.

“I want to break Daniel with so many orgasms that he won’t be able to speak by the time we’re done with him,” Max states bluntly. The brat is back.

“Regulate your volume,” you whisper-yell at him, hand moving to cover his mouth as you look around to see if anybody heard your Dutch boyfriend, “We are in public and you decided now is the time to bring this up?!”

He pulls your hand off his face, looking at you with wide eyes, “But, liefje–c’mon! Daniel’s been way too smug recently. Whenever I’m around him he doesn’t miss the chance to mention how he made me cry—made you cry, too!”

“Inside voice, Max,” you bite out, continuing to look at the Christmas decorations in this aisle.

“Fine,” Max whispers, rolling his eyes, “Technically, it’s another Christmas present for him if you think about it.”

“I’m trying not to think about it if you haven’t noticed.”

“Don’t you want to even the board? Imagine it: Daniel underneath the two of us, and we’re overwhelming him with pleasure. Doesn’t that sound like a good time?”

You stop walking abruptly and Max runs into your back. You spin around and stare at him with narrowed eyes and a flared nose.

“You seriously thought the best time to discuss this is in the middle of a family-friendly store, where our boyfriend is picking up a gift for his nephew?”

“Yes.”

“If you stop talking about it for the entire time we’re shopping today, I’ll consider it. We can discuss this when the phantom feeling of his cum on my skin goes away.”

That evening, you and the Dutchman watch Daniel fix a motorbike out in the driveway from the garage. He’s shirtless, sweat dripping down his face and back, you can see every muscle engage and relax as he moves. He’s silhouetted by the Australian sunset and you hear Max choke on his breath when Daniel’s loose jeans slip down his hips, exposing the waistband of his briefs—twin sighs of disappointment leave you both when he catches and drags them back up. With shaky hands, you grab the pitcher of lemonade you prepared to pour a glass for each of you. Ignoring how you missed the glass on your first few attempts, you two bring the drinks to your lips and dry the cups embarrassingly quickly to satiate your desperation—the lemonade doesn’t help. 

Daniel finishes with the bike and wipes his hands on a towel he had tucked into his back pocket, looking your guys’ way. He smiles brightly—shamefully, you wave in response and Max tucks a nonexistent strand of hair behind his ear; the two of you are acting like school girls with a crush. 

The Australian stands and in a few relaxed strides, he comes to a stop in front of you two. 

“Can you pour me a glass, sweetheart?” his request rumbles out velvety.

Stuttering, you scramble to do as he asked and find that Max has reached for the pitcher as well when your hands bump into each other. The two of you freeze and stare at each other with wide eyes; Max’s blush blooms red across his face and yours warms the brown skin of your cheeks. Daniel’s chuckle of amusement snaps you out of it; Max pours the drink, and you hand it off to the Australian, avoiding eye contact. He brings the glass to his lips and drains it dry. You and the Dutchman stare with gaped mouths, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, whimpering and pressing your thighs together at his ah in satisfaction when finished. 

He leans down to place the glass back on the tray and smirks at you and Max, “Absolutely delicious. It almost tastes as sweet as either of you is acting right now.”

Both of you stay silent, squirming in your lawn chairs. Daniel takes a second to slowly press both of your mouths closed with a nudge of his fingers before straightening up and clearing his throat.

“Thank you for the drink, sweetheart,” Daniel cocks his head to the side in question, before winking, his smug aura radiating off of him, “Or should I say, ‘sweethearts?’ As both of you seemed so eager to help me quench my thirst.”

Your mouth pops open again and Max audibly whimpers next to you. Daniel laughs and walks to enter the house, “Don’t feel afraid to join me in the shower.”

The plan is set before Daniel’s out of the shower. You’ve changed into a black mini slip dress, curls loosely cascading down your back as you’ve draped yourself on top of the bed sideways, face-down on your tummy, not caring how the back of your dress has ridden up a couple of inches. Max laid himself on his side next to you, dressed in a navy Enchanté shirt and a pair of Daniel’s briefs that hug at his thighs a little too tightly, and plays with the bottom hem of your dress, letting his fingers drift underneath to press at bruises that haven’t healed from that night. 

At the sound of the shower shutting off, the two of you glance at each other; Max checking in with you one last time before you guys follow through with the plan. At your nod, Max presses a soft kiss to your lips and goes back to fiddling with your dress. You rest your head on your folded arms and as your eyes flutter shut, the bathroom door opens.

You hear Daniel humming some country song and he gets about three steps into the room before he stops abruptly.

“Well, if I had known this would be waiting for me out here, I wouldn’t have spent a lifetime in the shower waiting for you guys to take me up on my offer.”

Max makes a noise of confusion, his hand pausing at your hemline, “What are you talking about? We just thought it would be nice to give you a massage—you know, prevent any muscle tightness from when you were hunched over the bike.”

“Is that so, pretty girl?” Daniel questions you, looking past Max. He’s dried off from his shower already, skin gleaming thanks to your cocoa butter lotion he probably stole, hair still damp but not dripping, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You’re sure he’s trying to sniff out any weakness; to see if he can bend you into revealing Max’s agenda for tonight. Little does he know that you’re not an accomplice, you’ve put a good amount of work into this plan too.

In response, you offer a small smile and hold up a bottle of massage oil that was previously tucked into your side. Daniel’s narrowed eyes flit between the two of you, and then he relaxes, shrugging loftily as he motions for the two of you to move so he can lie down. 

“Okay, sure,” Daniel laughs, falling into the bed as soon as the space is available, lying flat on his stomach, face planting into the pillows and his next words are muffled but loud enough to understand, “You don’t have to use ‘giving me a massage’ as an excuse to feel me up, but I’m not going to turn it down if you’re so willing to do so.”

You and Max are kneeling on opposite sides of Daniel’s body on the bed, resting on the heels of your feet, and you muffle a giggle at Max rolling his eyes at your boyfriend’s words. The younger man slaps his hand on Daniel’s back, grinning at the stifled yelp that sounds from near the headboard, and coos sarcastically, “Do you think you can handle that level of pain? Considering this is a deep-tissue massage?”

You drizzle a nice amount of oil on the middle of his back, letting your laughter escape as Daniel pleads, “Woah—hear me out, what about a regular massage? I would like to end this massage without crying from soreness, please.”

Slowly the two of you turn to look at each other, smiles spreading across your lips, and Max murmurs, “Oh. You’ll be crying by the end of this.”

You ignore Daniel begging for mercy underneath you and beginning massaging. For all of the Dutchman’s ribbing, the two of you are gentle. Your hands soothingly rub any tension out of his back; the two of you are only doing this to melt Daniel into the bed. He protests and grumbles through the both of you digging into his shoulders, but quiets as you make your way down his back, practically moaning when you push a knot out from behind his shoulder blade. Max manages to wrangle out a whimper when he presses his thumb into the dimple of his lower back. Neither of you gets close to the towel resting low on his hips; you want to keep him as calm and unaware as possible, but getting close to that towel would do the opposite. When Daniel’s breathing slows and his sounds of relief start to lessen, Max gently coaxes Daniel into rolling on his back with ease.

The brunette’s eyes flutter open, but you tut disapprovingly when his gaze meets yours. With a kiss on his forehead, Daniel closes his eyes at your word, not fighting you for a second. And from that point, you and Max begin conditioning the older man to get used to only having one pair of hands on him at a time. Max massages his chest, you take a break, you massage his chest, Max takes a break; and as Daniel starts to relax at the rhythm, you guys slowly increase the length of your breaks. 

Until the breaks get long enough to slip the ties that you guys fastened to the headboard out.

Daniel was so entranced at the sight of you and Max sprawled on his bed that he forgot to examine his surroundings. They’re silk ties, with pre-made straps for you to tighten as soon as his hands are inside them. The two of you take it to the next step; you each begin to massage his arms (still employing your regular breaks), raising them upwards to “get a better angle.” Daniel doesn’t even shift at the change, he just hums under his breath when either of you soothes across a good spot. And with little effort, you and Max raise both of his arms and smoothly slip his tattooed hands into the ties, tightening the straps in the blink of an eye.

The older man startles, eyes flying open as he tries to yank his wrists free of the binds, “Uhhhh, what the fuck?”

Both of you watch as Daniel tries to free himself without any luck, enjoying the show as the silk ties prove they won’t give out. Chills shudder down your spine as your older boyfriend tries to order the two of you to release him, but he must see the feral glint shine in your eyes because he switches to asking when neither of you moves.

“You know what to say if you really want us to let you go, Daniel,” Max states bluntly, pulling off his Enchanté shirt easily. 

You hum in agreement, straddling the Australian’s hips and simultaneously tugging your slip dress over your head and tossing it to the side, exposing your bare body before seating yourself on the bulge showing through the towel. Daniel chokes out a curse, his eyes dancing between yours and Max’s bodies being dangled in front of his face without being able to touch.

He tests the binds for any give half-heartedly before sniffing dismissively, jaw tightening as he challenges Max, “Do your worst, baby.”

Max scoffs out a laugh, “That is the plan.”

From there you and Max turn into savages. Both of you bypass kissing Daniel, pressing lips and biting bruises along his neck and torso instead. The man can only cry out as Max terrorizes his nipples with teeth and pinching fingers while you paint marks on his hipbones and navel. The older man isn’t convinced that the night will end without the two of you seriously attempting cannibalism but the thought is pushed away when the towel is tugged off his hips.

Max laughs mockingly and flicks Daniel’s already-hardened length, “Well, this will be even easier than we thought, liefje.”

“I was half-hard from the minute you guys put your hands on me,” Daniel snipes, “Don’t let this go to your head.”

You raise an eyebrow in question, tilting your head to the side innocently which contrasts the strong grasp of your hand around the head of Daniel’s cock, “Isn’t that a compliment, though? Anyways, it clearly went to your head.”

Daniel groans in pleasure as you start to rapidly stroke along his quickly reddening length, “That was a terrible pun–fuck–but, I’m only letting it slide because your hand is on my cock.”

He bucks up into your fist and you release him immediately, smiling as you see him choke down a whimper of disappointment. The older man isn’t left alone for long, as Max drags the tip of his index finger along the slit of Daniel’s cock before flattening his palm across the head and roughly circling it to overwhelm him with an alarming amount of pleasure-coated friction. 

The brunette can’t stifle his cries this time nor can he buck his hips, thanks to the Dutchman pinning him down with his free forearm. Max pulls both of his hands away quickly, delighting in Daniel’s sounds of displeasure, the two of you watching as he attempts to chase a hand that isn’t there anymore. His length is throbbing, pulsing angrily, redder than the blush that stains his tanned chest. You swallow wantingly. Both of you thought that you would be able to get a few more rounds out of a handjob, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Max gets his hand around the base and yours circles the tip. Simultaneously, the two of you start rubbing him off in time, keeping your fists just tight enough and your motions just quick enough to hurtle Daniel to the edge. He throws his head back into the pillows, hips freely bucking as neither one of you attempts to stop him, his hands pulling against the ties all the while,

“You can cum whenever you want, Daniel,” Max states.

The older man lets out several pants of desperation, calling both of your names as he nears his climax. And when you both see the telltale sign of Daniel’s chest rising and falling heavily, you release his cock.

“No! Wait–shit,” he tries to gasp, but it’s too late. His cock starts leaking, jerking pathetically as cum drips down his length in ribbons—his orgasm ruined. Dry sobs escape his lungs as he humps the air, looking for friction that isn’t there, continuing to beg for a hand even as he struggles to breathe as a result of the unsatisfying release.

You let him come down hard, offering support in a quick squeeze of the meat of his thigh over his tattoo. When he catches his breath, his eyes flutter open. Max sees the wetness gathered in the waterlines and moves in the blink of an eye, enveloping Daniel’s still-hard cock in his mouth. 

The Australian’s back arches off the bed, hips racing forward then backward as he cries out, unsure if the feeling of Max’s mouth is good. Both pairs of your hands fly forward to still Daniel, forcing him to feel every crevice of Max’s tongue and throat, trying to bring him to another orgasm as quickly as possible. It works, Daniel stops fighting and starts obeying, rolling upward into Max’s mouth, whimpering out depravedly as he struggles against his binds again. You see his abs start to undulate in waves, a second orgasm trying to form and you slip your hand underneath Max’s chin, lightly squeezing at Daniel’s balls—and the tears fall as his release slams into him like a semi-truck.

The younger man swallows around Daniel, humming as he does it, yet the bobbing motion of his head doesn’t stop—Max is going to try his hardness to prevent Daniel from going soft, even as the older man tries to fight and twist away from the wet grasp of his throat. The Australian’s tears paint his cheek as he sobs messily, and you’re quick to check in with him as Max’s mouth is occupied.

“Daniel, color?” you manage to make your voice sound steady, but your thighs are trembling, your cunt pulsing with wetness and need. 

The man whimpers, eyes unseeingly looking down at you and Max as he cries messily, “Green.”

You moan breathily, finally giving in to your urges and rushing forward to messily kiss Daniel. You let him cry into your mouth, nipping at his lips and tasting his tears before pulling away. Max pulls off Daniel’s cock with a reedy gasp and moves backward quickly so you can slip in between them, seating your cunt atop the half-hard length and beginning to grind along him. The brunette makes a sound as if he’s been punched in the gut, arms pausing in their fight against the ties before they resume with renewed strength. Daniel scrambles to get his feet underneath him, trying to buck off the hot, wet drag of your cunt against his cock. It’s pulsing so violently that he swears he can feel it in his throat. 

Max knocks his feet down, and tugs Daniel’s chin to look at him with a hardened grasp, with his voice rough and croaky he commands, “Can you give us one more, Daniel?”

Daniel's glossy, brown eyes stare at Max without answer, mouth parted as drool slips from the corners of his lips. The Dutchman’s brow tightens with worry and he releases his chin to pull you off. But, before he can stop you, Daniel gasps out desperately.

“M’ green—please, please, Max,” Daniel nods viciously, “Green, green—one more.”

The younger man soothes Daniel with sweet words, praising and comforting him as he leans forward to pepper his lips and neck with kisses and kitten licks, pausing to motion you to continue. 

You line up Daniel’s cock easily and murmur out a ‘thank you’, before sinking down and not stopping until your ass meets his pelvis, uncaring of how he attempts to shake you off. His body is reacting in too much, but Max and you both see and hear how his brain interprets it as too good. 

You keen in pleasure but your noises are deafened by Daniel’s cries and begs for relief. Well aware that you have to get yourself off so Max can have a turn, you find that toe-curling angle with the help of Max directing your hips, holding yourself steady with one hand behind you on the bed and the other drawing rapid circles on your clit. Max moves to let you rest your back along his chest, your frizzed curls a mess as they bounce with your movements. 

The visual stimulation of Daniel in front of you moaning and heaving for more, the frantic twitching of his length inside of you, the sound of your skin slapping against his, and Max’s voice ghosting right by your ear, the ‘good girl’ that left his lips taking a second to process; all of it pushes you into the abyss. You don’t know if it’s you or Daniel that screams, your blood rushing in your ears and your vision flashing white clouds your mind as the explosion of pleasure burns your nerve endings. 

With a choked ‘fuck,’ you slump over, slipping off his twitching cock and slinking down next to Daniel as you shiver and shake through the last dregs of pleasure. Max flutters over both of you, unsure if he should keep pushing the limit, but both you and Daniel yell confirmations of “Green!” that have Max ripping off his briefs, reaching between his legs and whimpering as he carefully tugs out the plug he’s had in for the entire time.

Daniel’s eyes roll in disbelief, his brain exhausted to the point where he can’t string together any words to communicate his confusion.

Max huffs out a hysterical giggle, one hand stroking along his cock as he tosses the plug off the side of the bed. “Fuck–you were in the shower forever, Daniel. I’ve had that in for too long.”

The younger man shakes as he lowers himself on Daniel’s cock, bottoming out with a whimper as he mouths down at Daniel, “Just one more, baby, okay? Make me come, yeah?”

The older man’s moan is curdled with overstimulation, but he finds the will to get his feet underneath him and shakily thrust upwards into Max, hoping somehow that that’s enough. Max lets his head fall back in pleasure, thankful for the moving pressure of Daniel’s cock inside of him rather than the consistent annoyance of the plug holding him open. Coupled with the stretch of his rim and his hand furiously twisting along his length, Max reaches his peak quickly.

Before taking the plunge, he chokes out words of praise at Daniel and you rush to do the same, understanding that Max is attempting to push Daniel over the edge as well. You see tears of frustration build in Daniel’s eyes as he struggles to fully give in, and you fall forward to tug at his nipples with your teeth, reinvigorating Daniel’s attempts at slipping from the silk ties. At the sight, Max shouts, body tightening and then relaxing as he strokes out ribbons of cum. Daniel’s hips stutter when the first drop of cum lands on his skin and you feel his lungs halt as the strongest orgasm—most likely dry, at that—wreaks havoc upon his body.

His body goes limp underneath the two of you, and his hands droop in their binds. You speedily untie Daniel’s arms as Max slowly slips off the man’s rapidly softening length, trying to lessen any unwanted stimulation for the unaware Australian. You catch his arms before they fall against the bed, rubbing your hands against them to coax proper blood flow in them. Spent, Max stumbles to Daniel’s side, taking one arm out of your hands and matching your movements.

“Good job, liefje,” Max breathes out, smiling up at you with an exhausted smile, his hair drenched with sweat and falling in front of his eyes. You blush and kiss him sweetly, “It was your idea!”

Max shakes his head, pausing his hands to reach down and brush Daniel’s curls off his forehead, “No; you made half of the plan. So, it was our idea.”

The Australian groans, eyes fluttering open but they’re still clouded enough that you both know he’s going to need more than enough TLC tonight, “ —idea made me think i w‘sgonna die.”

Max laughs, rubbing circles around the man’s temple, “I guess we forgot to factor in your old age as a variable, didn’t we, liefje?”

Daniel’s face flutters in displeasure at being referred to as “old,” even when he’s not quite come down, “Mean, Maxy.”

You giggle, “That’s what he calls mean out of this entire experience?”

The Dutchman presses kisses to both of your foreheads before he stumbles out of bed, “I’m going to grab some fruit and cream for Daniel’s wrists. Should I grab anything else?” He directs the question to you.

Of course, the Australian jumps in before you have the chance to respond, “Lemonade, please.”

© httpsserene2024

[wibben]

Strange Bedfellows

An overnight mission leaves Nanami and Higuruma sharing more than just a professional rivalry.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x kento nanami

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, bottom! higuruma, top! nanami, sexual tension, rivals to lovers, one-bed trope, pining, frottage, (m) mutual masturbation, sexsomnia, wet dreams, dry humping

↳ wc: 11,355

↳ notes: another ao3 cross-post! this was written for day 5 of @higunanaweek, and I think it's one of my favorites of the bunch! nanami art by @/xu_bx7 on twitter, higuruma art by @/amico173 on twitter

“What do you mean there’s only one room?”

Higuruma’s voice cut through the sterile lobby air, sharp and unyielding. He stared down his nose at the nervous young woman behind the desk, shrewd, stern, who seemed to shrink under the weight of it. She wrung her hands, her brows knitting together in a silent plea for forgiveness as she fumbled for the right words. Her eyes flickered nervously between Higuruma and the glowing monitor, her lips parting in a desperate attempt to conjure an explanation.

“I—I… let me check again. I’m so sorry…”

“Please do.”

Higuruma exhaled a longsuffering sigh, the weight of his frustration settling deep in his weary bones. Leaning heavily on the reception counter, he pinched the bridge of his nose as the clatter of keys behind it grated on his nerves. It felt like the universe was conspiring against him today.

First, the car ride—a torturous stretch of road that seemed designed to fray his nerves with every bump and jolt. The mission briefing in his hands blurred in and out of focus, tense, unable to think with the silent, brooding wall beside him.

Poor conversation was made even worse by the fact that his companion’s silence wasn’t even peaceful. It was sharp-edged, judgmental, like he was silently cataloging Higuruma’s every fault and flaw before he’d managed to do anything. As if being cooped up in a car with someone like that for hours wasn’t bad enough, the higher-ups decided that person was to be his babysitter; as if he weren’t a grown man himself and so what if he’s new to jujutsu, he’s good at it—a prodigy even—and he gets jobs done and—

“I’m really sorry, sir, I only have one room for you.”

Well, shit.

Higuruma was a proud man, but even pride had its limits; and when it came to something like this he’d throw it to the wind. His fingers steepled before his face, his stress reaching a peak, tired eyes blew wide with exasperated pleading. “Please, you don’t understand—I need another room. Hell, I’ll sleep in the goddamn lobby. I just can’t be stuck with—”

“... Is there a problem?”

Higuruma stiffened, the roll of suitcase wheels on wooden boards sounding more like the drag of an executioner’s axe.

He turned to face Nanami, who carried their bags with the same unyielding stoicism that seemed a permanent feature of his countenance. The air of unflappable calm that surrounded him only grated further on Higuruma’s thread-bare nerves.

���I assume there’s a problem, for you to be bothering the front desk already.”

Higuruma shot him a look that clearly screamed: ‘of course there’s a fucking problem,’ but before he could put his irritation to words, the receptionist interjected.

She looked to Nanami with desperately friendly eyes, silently pleading that this man—the quieter one—might be less inclined to bite her head off. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. There’s been a mix-up with the bookings and we’re short a bunch of rooms. I only have one left…” She cast a nervous glance back at Higuruma, who looked positively steamed, then back at Nanami as he came to a stop at the desk.

A wave of annoyance and dismay washed over him, a cold tide that mercilessly drowned the small comforts he had carefully planned for the evening. He’d envisioned a quiet, solitary night—a long bath, the crisp pages of a book he’d been eager to start, and the simple pleasure of fresh bread from a bundle he had tucked into his bag. The prospect of sharing a room, and with someone as high-strung as Higuruma, was far from appealing.

“...I see.”

Higuruma’s frustration boiled over, though he kept his tone measured. “Is there really no other option? We’re here on important business and need proper accommodations.”

Nanami’s calm gaze shifted back to the receptionist, who looked as if she might melt into the floor under the weight of Higuruma’s glare. “We’ll take the room,” he spoke suddenly, spurred by pity for another of society's downtrodden, brooking no argument. “We don’t have time to find other lodgings.”

The young woman nodded quickly, relieved to have someone decisive to address. She offered the key to Nanami with a quickness, desperate to get it and them off her overworked and overtired hands.

Nanami accepted the key with a curt nod, passing it to Higuruma, who snatched it like it was the last scrap of his pride, muttering a stiff, “Thank you,” through clenched teeth. He looked for all the world like a deflated balloon, all the air of authority he usually carried now leaking out in a slow, miserable hiss.

Nanami adjusted his grip on their bags, the plastic handles groaning in protest under the weight of his hand. Of course something like this would happen. When it came to Higuruma, nothing ever went smoothly. The man had an uncanny knack for turning the simplest tasks into a tangled mess, stirring up trouble where there should be none.

If Nanami said left, Higuruma would inevitably go right. If he said up, Higuruma would dive down. It was as if the man took perverse pleasure in jamming the square block into the circle hole, and any attempt Nanami made to exert authority was met with the immovable resistance of a brick wall. Higuruma was a force of nature—unpredictable, uncontrollable, and more stubborn than any beast Nanami had ever encountered.

And that’s exactly why Nanami resented him.

He resented the higher-ups for thinking his diligence could somehow fix the unfixable, resented this ridiculous mission, resented this shit job—and most of all, he resented this shit inn, with its one-room nightmare.

Deep down, Nanami knew it wasn’t really Higuruma’s fault. But as they climbed the narrow staircase and navigated the threadbare halls, it was all too easy to shoot a derisive glance at him through the sea-glass green tint of his glasses, certain Higuruma’s mere presence had cursed them both.

Higuruma, for his part, was steeling himself, jaw set in determination. It was just one night, maybe two if the mission dragged on longer than expected. He resolved then and there to make it quick, no matter how much Nanami might chastise, berate, or hinder whatever methods he employed to get it done.

They reached their room,and Higuruma cupped the doorknob, giving it a jiggle before the door finally creaked open. He stepped forward, fully intending to hold the door for Nanami and the bags—because that was the polite thing to do. But all thoughts of courtesy evaporated as his stomach plummeted to and then through the floor.

Nanami, following close behind, nearly collided with Higuruma’s back. “Please keep moving—” he began, but the words stuck in his throat as his gaze locked onto the scene before them.

Their eyes hit the single bed simultaneously—pristine, white sheets meticulously tucked, and—was that champagne? Higuruma’s ears lit up red, heat crawling up his neck as mortification spread like wildfire. Rose petals? Was this some kind of sick joke? Blood pounded in his temples, the absurdity of standing in what was so clearly a honeymoon suite with Nanami making his skin crawl with blistering embarrassment.

“No, absolutely not.”

“…This is highly irregular—”

“—Unprofessional, more like—”

Higuruma shook his head in vehement denial, already turning on his heel and nearly colliding with Nanami’s chest in his haste. “I’ll go back to the lobby… there has to be something else… a coat closet, maybe—”

“Higuruma.” Nanami halted him firmly, blocking his path with the bastion of overnight bags hoisted upon flexed shoulders. He stared down his nose at Higuruma with a sternness that made the ex-attorney feel inexplicably cowed.

“I will not allow you to bother that girl again. We’ll make do.”

Higuruma’s attempts to leave, awkwardly failing to thread the needle around the wall that was Nanami, were halted when the man stepped past him and deeper into the room, taking his belongings hostage.

Nanami was the picture of calm. His movements deliberate, precise, each action executed with the same meticulous care he applied to everything. He entered the room with steady composure, placing his bag on the foot of the bed without a second glance at the rose petals scattered across the duvet or the champagne chilling in a silver bucket. To him, they might as well have been invisible.

He unzipped his bag and began to unpack, methodically unfolding his clothes for tomorrow and hanging them neatly in the closet. His fingers moved with the same practiced efficiency with which he approached all things, smoothing out any wrinkles with a quick, deft touch and brush of his hands over ironed fabric

Higuruma watched with the faintest quiver of his shoulders. The door was still open, and he stood closest to it. He had half a mind—no, closer to two-thirds of a mind—to just march back through it and bolt down the hall. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not when Nanami was practically rubbing his unruffled feathers in his face, appearing so calm that it made him itch to piss him off, just to see if he could make Nanami crack, just to know there was a man beneath the metal.

Higuruma’s blood burned with staggish pride as he closed the door, a declaration if only to himself that he wouldn’t be outdone by a man who exists with a perpetual pole up his ass. He marched over and grabbed his own bag, dropping it on the bed beside Nanami’s and unzipped it with a flourish. Nanami paused his own unpacking, glancing sidelong; he isn’t oblivious to this dick-measuring competition Higuruma issued, even if he chooses not to rise to it.

And he chooses not to rise to it because he’s utterly horrified. A singular room was bad enough, a single bed even worse. But the room is flavored so intensely romantic, such a glaring breach in professionalism that he doesn’t know how he hasn’t fallen to his knees and wept. His outward serenity is tempered by holy rage, already considering how hot the coals would be that he intends to rake Ijichi over for this appalling mix-up.

Somewhere, many hours away back on campus, Ijichi shuddered.

The room misted thick with suffocating silence, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the quiet thud of a drawer closing. Nanami took to ironing tomorrow's shirt with a precision just shy of obsessive, each stroke and hiss of the iron a desperate attempt to transfer the heat of his frustration to the steam billowing from the board. 

On the other side of the room, Higuruma pretended not to watch, busying himself with anything that kept his hands moving and his mind occupied. He found himself flipping through the pages of the complimentary Bible he’d pulled from the nightstand, not out of piety but sheer desperation for something, anything, to do. His devotion to distraction could almost be considered religious if one squinted.

The minutes dragged, each one heavier than the last. Nanami, finding himself finished with the shirt far too quickly, awkwardly shuffled a deck of cards he’d discovered in a drawer. The quiet slap of cardboard against cardboard only plucked at both mens nerves all the more.

So awkward was the silence, that even a practiced enjoyer of it such as Nanami finally felt the need to break it. “Are you… enjoying that? I didn’t take you for the type.” Nanami shot a pointed glance at the leather bound book in Higuruma’s hands.

“Riveting.” He grunted, not looking up.

Silence reigned once again.

The unbearable tension finally snapped, like a too-tight wire fraying under pressure. Nanami cleared his throat, and set the deck of cards down with an air of finality, as if conceding defeat to the invisible force between them. “I’ll go shower,” he announced, a shade too quickly, seriously considering drowning himself. He caught the absent hum of acknowledgment from Higuruma, who was still pretending to read the same line for the hundredth time.

Higuruma waited, counting the seconds until the distant sound of running water reached his ears, and then let out a long, shaky breath, his hands dropping the Bible like it burned him. His face fell into his palms, heart hammering against his ribs with the frenzied desperation of a caged animal, desperate to claw its way out. A low, rough groan rumbled in his throat as he scrubbed a weary hand over his face, trying to erase the relentless tension etched into every muscle before Nanami returned.

In the bathroom, Nanami pressed his forehead against the cold tile, water pouring over his bowed head. His hands braced against the wall, blunt nails digging into the slick surface in an effort to ground himself in the midst of this waking nightmare. His heart pounded with a cocktail of stress and humiliation so potent that it twisted his stomach to the point of nausea. He was horrified by the situation, mortified by the implications, and the longer he stood there, the more he questioned how he would ever face Higuruma again without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

Nanami wasn’t a vain man. His appearance, in his mind, was a reflection of his dedication to the unremarkable—a clean, professional exterior polished just enough to blend into the background, to become one with the sea of suits and silent efficiency. He took a certain pride in this ordinariness, in presenting himself with a uniformity that drew no attention, commanded no second glance.

But there were simple standards he abided by, boundaries that should never be crossed. A colleague should never see him with his hair undone, loose and unkempt. A colleague should never see him outside of work. A colleague should certainly never see him in his sleepwear, prepared for bed, prepared to share a bed—

The thought struck like a blow to the gut, stopping him dead in his tracks, his breath catching so sharply that he inadvertently inhaled a mouthful of water. He choked, the sound quickly muffled into the crook of his muscled forearm as he hunched over, a silent curse slipping from his lips.

Fuck.

When Nanami finally emerged from the bathroom, it was with a gust of steam, a billowing cloud of vaporous heat that curled around his bare feet and clung to the frayed hem of his plaid linen pants. The transition from the damp warmth of the bathroom to the cooler air of the room sent a shiver up his spine, making him feel exposed, more so than even the loose drawstring of his pajama bottoms or his bare chest ever could.

His hair, usually meticulously combed, now hung damp and tousled, a rebellious mess that only added to the sensation of exposure gnawing at him, fraying the edges of his carefully constructed self-assurance. He stepped forward, gaze fixed resolutely ahead, avoiding Higuruma’s eyes as if by sheer will he could erase the fact that this—this woeful breach of boundaries—was happening at all.

But there were no eyes for Nanami to avoid. Higuruma’s back was turned, his shoulders hunched over a thick wooden desk on the opposite wall, swaying idly in the creaky rolling chair. The faint clink of ice in the bucket and the soft hiss of champagne fizzing to life came from his side of the room. Higuruma’s arm shot up in a lazy backwards greeting, bottle neck firmly gripped, the champagne already half-drunk straight from the source. A decidedly unromantic way to enjoy the drink—about the only thing in this entire mess that seemed fittingly appropriate.

“Ah—good. I was starting to think you’d died in there—” Higuruma grunted with weary annoyance, spinning himself further in the chair to cast what would have been a bemused glance toward Nanami—if he weren’t suddenly so focused on keeping the champagne from erupting and scorching his throat and nose, nearly choking on the frothy surge at the sight of him.

Like this, Nanami appeared strikingly younger. His usual air of immaculate professionalism was absent, leaving him looking closer to his actual age—or at least, what Higuruma guessed his age to be, since their exchanges had rarely ventured beyond barbed remarks. 

Without the constriction of his suit and carefully combed hair, his features softened, the severe lines of his face yielded to be almost approachable. His hair was tousled, the wet strands clinging together, a stray towel draped haphazardly over bare and broad shoulders.

“Unfortunately I did not.”

When their eyes met, there was a moment of shared surprise; both men reflexively turned away, Higuruma back to the desk and Nanami towards the bed. Nanami ran a hand through his hair, his bicep flexing with the motion as he grimaced in embarrassment, hidden from view. 

Nanami slipped into the bed, the crisp sheets rustling softly as he maneuvered himself under them. He pulled the covers up to his chin, as though the fabric might offer some shield against the awkwardness that turns the air humid. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning, and the glassy grind of the champagne bottle as Higuruma shuffled it back and forth between uncertain hands.

After a long stretch of silence, Nanami finally broke it, his voice nasally and rough as he reached for his book on the nightstand. “Thank you.”

Higuruma flinched, snapping out of his thoughts. “For?”

Nanami sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his own reluctant gratitude. He hesitated, debating if it was even worth acknowledging, but eventually gave in. “For cleaning up the… mess,” he added with a rueful grimace. The rose petals that had once littered the mattress and floor were nowhere to be seen.

“It’s much better.”

Higuruma let out a low, dismissive noise, flicking his wrist as if to swat away the words. No, he’d rather not think about the rose petals—or the fact that he’d scrabbled on hands and knees to pick them up, one by one, and buried them at the bottom of the trash bin like some feral teenage secret. 

So he changed the subject with a sledgehammers subtlety, taking a deep breath and stealing a glance at Nanami who seemed effortlessly absorbed in his novel. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over his damp hair, burning it a darkened gold. And maybe he was drunker than he realized, because the sudden urge to cross the room, crawl onto the mattress, and run his fingers through that hair hits him like a freight train—

“I’m taking the chair,” he blurted out, meeting Nanami’s gaze, both of them equally startled by the sudden declaration. “If you wouldn’t mind just sparing a pillow.”

Nanami frowned, nudging his glasses higher to peer over the top of his book. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “You’ll injure your back and be a liability to the mission. You’re sleeping in the bed.”

Higuruma’s lips pressed into a thin line, bristling indignantly. “My back will be just fine, thank you very much.” Though he wasn’t so sure he could say the same tomorrow after carrying the weight of this entire mission. 

“Look, I don’t need you to babysit me,” Higuruma continued on. “I can handle myself just fine.”

Nanami simply shook his head, infuriatingly calm. “You’re being reckless. You always are. That’s why you’re stuck with me in the first place—to keep you from getting yourself killed.” 

Nanami spoke so certainly, so matter of factly, as if it were a guarantee that Higuruma would sooner or later stumble and need a pair of experienced hands to catch him, that it made Higuruma see red. He bristled, nose curled with bitter defiance. “Reckless? Please. You play it too safe all the time, Nanami. That doesn’t make you better equipped, that makes you boring.”

“I’m not here to be exciting. I’m here to do my job without unnecessary risks,” Nanami shot back, his tone icy. “And right now, the only unnecessary risk is you trying to sleep in that chair and harming yourself.”

Higuruma’s jaw clenched, his irritation mounting with every word Nanami spoke. “I don’t need your approval to do my job. Maybe I’d be better off without you hovering over me.”

Nanami’s grip on his book tightened, his patience wearing thin. “You’re a loose canon, Higuruma. And I refuse to let you put me in harm's way just because you think you’re invincible.”

“Maybe I am invincible! Maybe I don’t need you watching over my shoulder every second. I’ve got this handled. I don’t need you or your damn bed—”

“You do need the bed, and you’re going to sleep in it,” Nanami interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through Higuruma’s tirade like the blunt blade he himself wields. “I won’t have your blood on my hands because you decided to be stubborn.”

Higuruma opened his mouth to argue again, but the conviction in Nanami’s tone gave him pause. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a kernel of truth in what Nanami said. He knew he was capable, but the last thing he wanted was to end up injured—or worse, dead—because of something as stupid as a lack of sleep or a slipped disk. He wouldn’t allow Nanami the satisfaction.

He met Nanami’s eyes the entire time as he stood and stalked over to the bed, each step slow and deliberate, like he was daring Nanami to say something. The air was thick with tension, a silent standoff where neither man seemed willing to back down. But Nanami just watched him, calm as ever, that infuriating poker face giving nothing away; an icy counter to Higuruma’s fiery defiance.

Higuruma yanked back the covers with a quick, sharp flick, keeping his gaze locked on Nanami’s. He slipped into bed, making a show of settling as far from Nanami as humanly possible. The mattress dipped under his weight, the distance between them barely a foot, but it felt like mere centimeters with how he’s immediately engulfed in Nanami’s furnace-like body heat beneath the covers.

Nanami didn’t rise to the challenge, but he didn’t bow to it either. He held Higuruma’s gaze with an unflinching steadiness, an unspoken acknowledgment of the battle being fought in silence. Neither blinked, neither wavered, ever the unmovable object to Higuruma’s unstoppable force.

But for now, at least, he was in the bed. And that, Higuruma told himself, was his decision. Not Nanami’s.

He finally turned away, his back to Nanami, but the so-called victory left a sour taste in his mouth. “Sanctimonious prick,” Higuruma grumbled, voice tight as he yanked the sheet up to his shoulders, frustration knotting bitterly in his chest.

Without warning, Nanami snapped his book shut, the sharp clap of it cutting through Higuruma’s grating rant. His patience, thin as it was, finally wore through after the fifth attempt to read the same damn paragraph. He didn’t bother with words, just rolled over and clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Insufferable egoist,” he muttered, voice low and rough with irritation.

It was as close to a ‘goodnight’ as either of them was willing to offer.

The room simmered in the thick silence left in the wake of their argument, the air steeped with the remnants of their spat. Neither of them moved, both stubbornly clinging to their respective sides of the bed, the earlier heat cooling into uneasy embers buried beneath ash.

Higuruma’s fists slowly loosened their death grip on the sheets. He could feel the frustration ebbing away, replaced by a dull, persistent slightly-buzzed fatigue that tugged at him, heavy and insistent. His eyelids grew heavier, his breath evening out against his will, and before he could fight it, sleep crept in, stealing him away with the last lingering traces of his irritation.

Across the bed, Nanami lay unmoving, his eyes locked on the ceiling, unblinking as the minutes stretched into what felt like hours. He listened, every slight sound amplified in the stillness—Higuruma’s breaths gradually deepening, the rustle of sheets as he shifted in his sleep, the steady drone of the AC that filled the gaps in the silence.

It wasn’t until he heard Higuruma sigh softly in his sleep, a sound so unguarded and peaceful that it almost startled him, that Nanami finally felt the first threads of his tension begin to unwind. The rigid lines of his shoulders softened, his body easing into the mattress as the room exhaled around them. It wasn’t a competition to see who could outlast the other, but he’d won it anyway.

The darkness shifted, becoming less of a burden and more of a balm, lulling him into a state of reluctant relaxation. Only then, after what felt like an eternity, did Nanami allow his eyes to close, surrendering to the slow, inevitable pull of sleep as it finally claimed him too.

The night wore thick with hurricane's-eye quiet, the sort that made every small sound swell. Every sniff, every slight shift of mattress springs, every rustle and tug on the blanket was a gunshot in the dark, unheard by either of them through the veil of unconsciousness. The tension from before had finally ebbed, leaving the room heavy with uneasy peace that would last until daybreak; until they woke and remembered themselves and, unfortunately, remembered each other.

Higuruma’s sleep was restless, warped by murky and unpredictable dream logic. He was a tired man, worn down and beaten to a vaguely human-shaped pulp by each day's end, and so he didn’t often dream. His brain struggled with the unfamiliarity, twisting in dissonant directions that blurred the lines between reality and nonsense.

It’s just his luck that tonight he dreams, and of course he couldn’t escape Nanami, even there.

“...Guilty!”

Judgeman’s voice rang with authority, echoing off the dreamscape walls of the courtroom. Higuruma stared at Nanami on the stand, whose eyes flickered with something between disbelief and annoyance.

Higuruma could feel a vicious pride swelling in his chest as Judgeman called the verdict. It didn’t matter what Nanami had done—whether he’d swiped a candy bar from a corner store or toppled an empire; it was all irrelevant. The sweet thrill of victory was what he savored. This was his domain, a theater of justice where every misstep Nanami had ever made played on an endless loop for Judgeman to scrutinize.

Nanami sighed, pushing the bridge of his glasses with a practiced flick to nudge them higher up his nose. “That’s hardly fair, Higuruma. This is your dream, after all—”

“Ah, ah,” Higuruma interrupted, eyes narrowing into glittering slits as he held up a hand in triumph, silencing Nanami's protest with a smug grin. No, he would be savoring this victory, even if only in the recesses of his subconscious. Here, his word was law, and Nanami was the subject of his courtroom drama.

Confiscation? Death penalty? Higuruma’s mind raced through the possibilities, savoring each like a connoisseur sampling a fine wine. For as much as Nanami grated on his nerves, he sincerely hoped it wouldn't be the latter—the man doesn’t need to die for being a snobbish, holier-than-thou, mother hen—

“Kiss.”

What?

“What?”

Nanami’s voice mirrored Higuruma’s thoughts perfectly, both snapping to attention, eyes wide as they turned to the shikigami that hovered kite-like and oppressive just behind Higuruma. Judgeman, with its impassive stitched gaze and cryptic presence, remained ever silent, the verdict and the punishment both declared. Its job was done and would not be repeated.

The absurdity of it all tickled at the edges of his consciousness, tugging at a laugh that threatened to spill over. A kiss? In the grand theater of his mind, that was the punishment meted out by his subconscious?

He’s somewhat offended by himself that kissing him would be so bad as to be deemed corporal.

But when he turned back to Nanami, he found the man already watching him with a steady gaze. Prideful as ever, chin held high, Nanami stared Higuruma down with a confidence that skirted dangerously on the edge of intimidating—a quality that was indeed daunting in the waking world, if he were honest with himself. Arms crossed and seemingly unbothered by the verdict, Nanami cocked his head. “So, are you coming to me, or shall I come to you?”

Higuruma stared.

And then he stared a little longer. This was undoubtedly the weirdest dream he’d ever had.

True to life, his hackles raised at Nanami’s challenge, a gauntlet thrown down between them, and Higuruma’s alcohol-thinned blood simmered beneath his skin. Nanami had a way of forcing him to bend the knee, but not this time. Not here.

Higuruma descended from his platform, leather shoes clicking sharply over the polished stone tile as he stalked toward Nanami’s stand. He propped a foot on the bottom rung, hoisting himself up and curled his hands around the mahogany railing that separated them. Braced on strangely sweaty palms, he leaned forward, almost nose-to-nose with Nanami now.

In the dark of the hotel room beneath chilled sheets, Higuruma shifted, rolling to his other side with an outstretched leg to knock socked-toes against Nanami’s ankle.

Nanami's eyes gleamed with a challenge as he reached over the railing, fingers curling into Higuruma's shirt, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Their lips crashed together, a collision of heat that sent a jolt through Higuruma's dream-self.

The intensity of it took him off guard, the force of Nanami’s mouth on his leaving Higuruma reeling. This was meant to be punitive, a slap on the wrist—or lips, rather—but it was hard to remember why when Nanami kissed him like this.

Champagne and mint.

He couldn’t possibly know what Nanami tasted like, so his mind helpfully supplied the sharp concoction from his own tongue. His hands moved before his mind could catch up, tangling in Nanami’s hair and pulling him closer, pressing deeper into the kiss. There was something beneath all that resentment—a spark, a flicker of treacherous attraction Higuruma had never let himself consider. But it was there, buried under a mountain of irritation and petty grievances.

The kiss morphed, a messy thing turned messier and god, Higuruma didn’t ever want it to end. He hadn’t known he wanted this at all and if he won’t remember this when he wakes he’ll make the most of it now. Higuruma’s grip tightened, pulling Nanami in, erasing the line between them until it didn’t matter where one began and the other ended. There’s a vibration in his mouth—a groan, he thinks—but from who he wasn’t sure.

Higuruma was lost in the dream, and his body was quick to betray him in the waking world with shameful ferocity. Unconsciously he inched closer until he was pressed snug against Nanami, his body seeking the flesh-warmth he so reveled in within his dreamt domain. His arm hooked lazily around Nanami’s middle, nose pressed tight into a prickling honey-blonde undercut.

His hips jerked, orbiting in uncoordinated circles. It was sloppy, a messy grind choked by rust and time-lost inexperience, devoid of rhythm but steeped in the urgency of need. The friction, the coarse slide of fabric against fabric, was enough to quicken his breath and set his blood thrumming. Nanami’s thigh was warm enough, firm enough, and it penetrated that purgatorial barrier with enough ease that it didn’t matter to him one bit.

Nanami woke slowly, dragging himself out of sleep with sandy slowness, eyelids heavy and mind sluggish as he blinked against the groggy blur. It wasn’t the usual sounds that roused him—no birds chirping, no insistent alarm beep—but rather the disorienting sensation of near-perfect darkness that left him momentarily unsure if his eyes were even open, and warmth and pressure tugging him further into awareness.

His brow furrowed in confusion as the warmth pressed against him again, incoordinate and inconsistent, paired with the soft, breathy exhale of something that sounded suspiciously like a sleep-garbled attempt at his name, the unmistakable hardness nestled against his hip—

The sluggish cogs in Nanami’s brain started to click into place, oil applied to bleary gears, and when the reality hit him it hit him like a bullet.

Oh. Oh.

His eyes snapped so wide they hurt, panic flooding his system and catching his breath in an iron fist to be yanked forcefully down his tight throat. Higuruma ground against him again, and Nanami should move, should stop him from embarrassing himself.

But worse yet—much worse—was that Nanami didn’t want to stop him. His thickening cock was proof of that, treacherous was the growing tent in his pants that made frenzied sweat bead on his bare chest. Mortification clawed at him, it left him paralyzed.

This couldn’t be happening

“Higuruma,” Nanami croaked, voice thick with sleep and arousal that settled so hot and heavy over his brain that he couldn’t begin to school it out of his tone. He shook him, a bit too roughly in his haste, desperate to stop this before it spiraled any further out of control. “Higuruma, wake up.”

Higuruma grumbled, fingers tightening their burial in wrinkled linen sheets when they failed to find purchase on the smooth skin of Nanami’s arm. His head bowed, tucked low and determined as he rutted against Nanami again, mouth pulled taut with displeasure as the source of the warmth grew firmer and less pliable, more distant, and he’s shaken.

Higuruma’s eyes cracked open, rolling white as he’s gracelessly tugged from his dream. He could cry, he wants to claw it back until it’s marked with the blunt bite of his nails, hoarding it jealously in his mind where none may take it and none may know. So desperate is he to keep the slipping memory alive and in his grasp, to hold possessively to the fabricated flesh memory that his eyes slip closed again—until his name is barked into his ear like a clap of thunder.

He blinked, suddenly much more awake, sleeps fog lifting as if he were hot pavement, and with that heat comes the cold, cruel, crushing weight of reality. The heat was not his own, and his eyes were filled with the dark silhouette of a muscular back and half turned shoulder. The weight against his front, another's leg pinned between his own, the pressure against his fully erect member—though it isn’t rare for Higuruma to suffer from morning wood—it isn’t morning, nor is he alone.

He froze, horrified as the reality of his situation dawned clear, sentenced under the weight of his own dreamt gavel.

Oh no. Oh god, oh fuck, no.

Panic surged through him with the violence of a live-wire. Higuruma practically convulsed with his clawing to escape, scrambling back and almost tumbling off the bed in his rush to put much needed space between them. Sheets tangle in his legs, yanking them free from Nanami who jerks in response, grabbing a pillow and forcing it tightly down over his own lap.

“I—oh my god, I’m so sorry—didn’t mean to… fuck, shit—I wasn’t—” The words tumbled in a frantic stream from Higuruma’s mouth, mortification burning through him like wildfire, setting each nerve ablaze until his whole body grew slick with terror-induced sweat. It left him dizzy and desperate to crawl into a hole and disappear forever, and he knew he should’ve slept in the fucking chair—

Nanami’s silence was deafening, but it wasn’t the steady, composed kind that Higuruma had come to expect. No, this was an awkward, uncertain sort. The kind that made Higuruma’s stomach hurt—he expected Nanami to punch him with every second that ticked by without a word, and god he would deserve it, would relish it even as some sort of penance for this egregious trampling of bounds and he’s sure Nanami feels absolutely sick.

But Nanami would not punch Higuruma, nor would he speak. Nanami is a quiet man, but that has always been by choice. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. Everything he should say flees him, anything he could say slips like water between his fingers, and everything he wants to say simply isn’t an option. He struggles to process the situation, but his body certainly doesn’t, cock hard and insistent against his thin pants and pillow shield.

Higuruma wanted to die. He wanted to sink into the earth and never be seen again. But more than that, he wanted to forget that he’d been grinding on Nanami like some desperate animal in heat, laying bare something he hadn’t known he wanted in the most humiliating way possible.

“I’m so sorry,” Higuruma repeated, voice shaky and impossibly small in the dark. His heart beat erratically, pounding behind his ribs with a concerning force—maybe he’ll have a heart attack, drop dead right then and there and that would be merciful, wouldn’t it? He felt like a fool, an absolute idiot, and the shame was suffocating, and he’s wholly undeserving of Nanami’s forgiveness but he silently pleads for it anyways. Forgiveness, punishment in the way of a broken nose, he would accept it all but this silence eroded his nerves down to the quick and made him nauseous.

Nanami finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “It’s… fine,” said through clenched teeth, though his expression was anything but. His brow furrowed, caught between confusion and the unwelcome heat simmering beneath his skin, emotions tangled and unspooled messily and he couldn’t begin to figure out how to put them back together.

Both stared up at the ceiling, hearts jackhammered against their cages in a way that may have been bonding—this shared feeling of horror—if not for the gulf forcibly carved between them via blank mattress space. Higuruma allowed himself to be lost in the sea of white linen sheets where he hoped to drown, and Nanami clutched to the raft that was the downy pillow locked very conspicuously over his lap.

Both willed their very obvious predicaments to go away, but thinking about them only made it worse. Unsexy thoughts didn’t work, when the only thought either of them had was about the ache between their legs, and Nanami considered how much easier it would’ve been to not have woken Higuruma at all and slipped away to the bathroom, jerking himself to calmness in a harried palm; while Higuruma wonders how thick the glass of the nearby window is, and if he might be able throw himself through it.

He chanced a glance at Nanami, eyes skittering surreptitiously in the dark. Bare chested and devoid of the blanket, one knee bent upward with a forearm flung over his forehead, Higuruma is just as quick to look away because fuck had Nanami always looked so good? Surely not, surely it’s just the dark, and the residuals of a dream he should never have had and would never have had if not for the alcohol in his system, but he looked good and the pillow in his lap makes Higuruma want to move it to see what’s underneath—

His gaze flickered downward, inexorably drawn to the pillow where his heart thumps overtime. Oh fuck.

Higuruma is a man. He’s fully aware of the tricks he might deploy and has deployed in a situation like this. His old desk made for great cover when his body went neglected in favor of late nights pouring over cases, cock thickened and twitching down the seam of his thigh. A well placed file, though more obvious, could serve just as well until he had a chance to adjust himself. A clipboard, his coat slung over his arm, a pillow—

Higuruma’s eyes zeroed in on the pillow perched awkwardly on Nanami’s lap, a wordless understanding crashing over him that leaves him breathless. It was a man’s intuition, the kind that muddled both heads—the one on his shoulders running on empty, while the other swelled with smug satisfaction. Nanami was just as affected, and Higuruma felt his cock give a hopeful jump that maybe not all was lost… what else does he have to lose with his dignity already in shambles?

An idea—stupid and reckless—flashed through Higuruma’s mind, and he couldn’t quite quash it, couldn’t quite suppress the tiny flicker of something that wasn’t quite panic and wasn’t quite desire. Maybe it was madness. Maybe he’d finally lost it.

“Nanami—”

“Excuse me,” Nanami interrupted, palm clasped tight over his mouth and nose, and shuffled to the edge of the mattress with jerky and robotic movements. Feet hit the floor and he bent, shoulders hunched and muscles tense as he prepared to force himself up and away as quickly as possible. But before he could make his escape, Higuruma’s hand shot out, clutching Nanami’s wrist in a desperate grip.

“Wait,” Higuruma gasped, voice barely registering above a whisper, inaudible above the pounding of his own heart. This was stupid, mortifyingly so, but somehow the idea grew legs and ran from his mind and out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Nanami doesn’t turn, but he freezes, paused and straining but not pulling away.

Higuruma’s eyes are wide and pleading, thoughts spiraled to oblivion with not a hope in hell of getting them back. “What if—” he swallowed. “We could—maybe we could…?”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, and he cursed himself for being so weak, so utterly incapable of keeping his treacherous mouth shut. He wanted to take them back, swallow them down and pretend they’d never existed.

If Nanami could grow stiffer, he did. His shoulders expanded with the slow sucking inhale he pulled between his teeth. So too stiffened the turgid length between his legs, hard enough that he feels he might bore a hole through the pillow in his lap.

He feels like a teenager. Feral, and stupid, and so wildly out of control. Higuruma can’t say that. He can’t say things like that because if he does then Nanami wouldn’t be able to quash the thoughts of agreeing out of his head. And he can’t agree. They’re coworkers, and in some strange sense Higuruma is a mentee. His stubborn, infuriating, good-for-nothing, good looking, hopelessly distracting mentee.

Higuruma stared, Nanami avoided, reaching that familiar impasse but this time was unlike any other. “Wildly inappropriate—” Nanami muttered. “Ridiculous. I can’t believe you would even—absolutely not, no—”

“Fuck, say it again.”

Higuruma froze, his grip on Nanami’s wrist tightening. “Say what?” he ventured.

Nanami didn’t turn, but even in the dark Higuruma could see the muscles in his back twitch. Where Higuruma saw anger, Nanami felt restraint. Horror… temptation. Disgust… desire.

“Tell me what you want.” Nanami elaborated, voice breathless from the oxygen that flees his lungs and head, and with it goes his last chance to flee as well. Nanami is not a spontaneous man, but the act of surrender, of slipping the leash choked so tightly by his own hand, was nothing short of euphoric. This would be enough, even if nothing more—

Higuruma’s breath caught, snagged and lured on every word Nanami spoke, and every insult he didn't. He dared to let his grip slip on Nanami’s wrist, the calloused tips of his fingers brush over the sensitive inner skin beneath his palm, marveling at the veins and tendons that flex under his touch. Nanami didn’t pull away, and Higuruma almost groaned when he felt Nanami’s fingers twitch, moving to loosely tangle with his own. “I…”

Higuruma found himself lost for words. A rarity for him. “I, ah—you.”

Nanami’s blood roared in his ears. Yes, yes, oh fuck yes please—

“Can I… can I touch you…? I’m so sorry—fuck, we can just go to sleep, this is too awkward—”

No, no, no.

Higuruma’s grip slackened on Nanami’s wrist and retracted back into his own space. Nanami wasn’t sure what compelled him, a sudden surge of panic powered his body without his input and he twisted, spun around to face Higuruma who flinched with the surprise of it. He grabbed Higuruma's arm, holding his elbow, his other hand braced atop Higuruma’s knee through the blanket. He hadn’t meant to touch him, but he can’t find it in himself to move his hand either.

“No, please wait.”

They both stared face to face now, the dark doing little to conceal the burning red that stained both of their faces. Nanami felt that same panic slither down his throat—Higuruma stared at him, expectant, and now he had to be the one to push. Nanami silently cursed the way his hands shook as they drifted down Higuruma’s arm, loosely circling his wrist and drawing his hand to his chest.

His heart pounded violently, a dying animal trying to escape his ribcage for somewhere safer than inside him. “...Touch me.”

The air whistled from Higuruma’s nose, shaky palm and splayed fingers pressed against the bared skin he hadn’t known existed before a few short hours ago. His hand doesn’t move, frozen and paralytic as skittish eyes flicked up to meet Nanami’s for approval that he’d already received.

Stone faced as ever, Nanami made every effort to soften his edges. His brows lowered light and gentle, and his lips twitched in a rare up-tick, a hesitant smile and Higuruma had never seen such a thing on the man's face before. “Do you not want to…?” Nanami’s fingers brushed lightly over the fine bones that latticed the back of Higuruma’s hands.

“I…” Higuruma’s tongue was still struck dumb, breathless at the hot feel of skin beneath his palm. How long had it been since he’d touched somebody? Since he’d wanted to touch Nanami?

It crashed upon him, the realization that he’d buried after their first introduction was exchanged months ago, and every exchange since being one of barely restrained dislike at best. Even back then, and every time after, he wished circumstances were different; because truth be told, he thought he could like Nanami. His ideals, his determination, his ethics—they had all the ingredients to make for good friends.

They might have met over coffee or a drink stronger than espresso, they could’ve bickered over bread brands at the grocery store rather than how to best safeguard their lives. If things had been different, maybe they could’ve been different too.

It scared him, this sudden epiphany that he may have been wrong—or worse, a fool.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“That’s irrelevant and not what I asked,” Nanami insisted firmly. He gave Higuruma’s hand a small push, guiding it against his sternum and sliding slightly lower. He wasn’t sure where his sudden boldness came from—maybe it was the exhaustion, or the fact that the blood in his head had fully migrated south to his cock and that’s the head he was thinking with.

Maybe it’s because he’d dropped the pillow in his haste, and Higuruma’s eyes dropped with it to sweep shamelessly along his erection. There’s a savage pride Nanami harvests from Higuruma’s eyes, black as oil but far more valuable.

“Do you want to?” He repeats, eyes piercing, impeaching.

The look in Nanami’s eyes, the loosening of the harsh lines of his face in favor of an uncertain smile, all things point to this not being the trap Higuruma was half convinced it must be. There was no fist imbued with licking blue flames crashing into his nose or mouth, no vitriol spat for him being some sort of accidental pervert… it was okay. It was actually okay.

“Fuck yes, Nanami. I want to.” Higuruma gasped, and it was as if a spell had broken. For the first time since their meeting, they were finally on the same line of the same page. Higuruma’s hand drifted lower over the firm planes of Nanami’s abs, muscles flexing beneath his touch as Nanami moved to mount Higuruma’s thigh, wedging his own between the other man's legs. In sync, they moved with the same determined purpose.

Nanami’s head dipped, casting a shadow over Higuruma’s face before sealing out that little light entirely with the first tentative brush of their lips. He can feel the shake of Nanami’s muscled shoulders as he hovers, holding his weight high above Higuruma and those tremors reflect in the satin softness of lips he’d only ever seen pulled taut and disapproving.

What Nanami offered as a gentle introduction, a second chance at first impressions, Higuruma took and ran like a wild dog. His hand not currently entrenched within the lines of Nanami’s abs curled into bed-mussed blonde hair and pulled him down, delighting in his surprised grunt.

The kiss Higuruma sought was painted with the same brush as his dream. Angry, aggressive, hungry—but Nanami would have none of that. He wrenched himself away with a breathless bark, lips curled in the widest smile Higuruma had seen yet which almost soothed the sting of having been rejected. “Easy,” he murmured, pressing his nose to the corner of Higuruma’s mouth instead. “There’s no need to rush.”

Higuruma snorted, not the derisive and bitter sound Nanami was used to but the prelude to what would quickly evolve into a gravelly full-belly chuckle. Wonderful, Nanami thought. Higuruma had a wonderful laugh… he would like to hear it more. “Sorry,” he offered. “Must be the champagne.”

“Mmm—” Nanami hummed spiced with mirth, unconvinced as his lips returned to Higuruma’s. “Must be.”

Despite the tentativeness and undeniable awkwardness of fumbling with an unfamiliar body in the dark, they found themselves eventually moving in sync, as if they hadn't spent months just barely tolerating each other.

They fit together easily, Higuruma’s nose brushing and bent against Nanami’s cheek while Nanami savored the lingering taste of champagne on his tongue. There was an unspoken synergy that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, if only they hadn’t been so stubbornly blind to it.

The world narrowed to a gravity of their own making, a push and pull just as they’d always been but devoid of the friction that left their edges rough and raw. Smooth stones in a riverbed their mouths tumbled, exploratory lips and tongues as they mapped this uncharted territory, thorough and thirsty and uncompromising in this burning consumption of each other.

Higuruma nipped at Nanami’s lip, grinning against his mouth as the subsequent gasp allowed his tongue to slip beside his.

He felt like a teenager again. Higuruma isn’t old but the heart-pounding anticipation in his chest is that of a much younger man. His eyes cracked open to admire Nanami, only for his heart to judder in his chest to find their eyes locked. Lost in the hot whiskey depths of Nanami’s gaze, half-lidded and more relaxed than Higuruma had ever seen him.

He wondered if it had been as long for Nanami as it had for him—if Nanami needed this as desperately as he did. He wondered if Nanami’s eyes stayed open out of concern that he might disappear out from beneath him, just as Higuruma feared he might still be dreaming after all.

Nanami’s hand drifted along his arm, fingers tangled and plaited together and pinned above Nanami’s chest. He gets his answer then in the erratic rhythm beneath his palm, pulse vibrating as desperate as his own. Nanami shares his vulnerability wordlessly—he isn’t as unaffected as he seems.

Nanami guided his hand lower, Higuruma’s fingers twitching and sandwiched between Nanami’s broader hand and the board of muscles beneath. Lower, and lower still, Nanami doesn’t break eye contact as he pressed Higuruma’s hand hard against his straining erection with a low groan, eyes closed with the instant relief of such a small touch.

Higuruma’s eyes leave him in favor of watching his own hand, the experience is almost out of body, his hand operated and guided by a force separate from himself. His anxiety left him then, replaced by a hunger that gnawed with vicious teeth at his belly.

His fingers curled instinctively, catching the fabric of Nanami’s pants with a sharp tug—pulling them down without resistance.

Nanami’s cock sprung upward, smacking against his stomach, bobbing and leveling at Higuruma in accusation. Thick and long and engorged an angry red from inattention, Higuruma decided with humor that Nanami’s dick looks a lot like the man himself. Big, and angry, and something he suddenly and desperately and carnally wants in his mouth.

For as long as Higuruma stared, Nanami looked down at him with the first inklings of trepidation. He’s staring, but he isn’t touching—is he displeased? Inadequate? Nanami’s eyes searched Higuruma’s face, flicking between his eyes and the neutral set of his mouth—should he kiss him again?

Insecurity made for the catalyst that flew his mind back to him. Maybe this was a mistake. Nanami swallowed, throat bobbing as his lips part with apology (for what, he doesn’t know but was resolved to figure it out), he started to withdraw—

At the same moment the wires connect in Higuruma’s brain that this was actually happening and hungry fingers finally reach out, tracing Nanami’s cock from ball to tip and cupping his palm over the sensitive head.

Nanami’s hips buck, lashes fluttering and a surprised groan ripped from his chest as he collapsed down onto his elbow, barely catching himself from crushing Higuruma beneath his full weight. His withdrawal was halted, finding himself shoving forward into Higuruma’s hand instead of away.

With a newfound confidence, Higuruma wrapped his fingers around Nanami’s cock, marveling at the velvety smoothness of the skin stretched taut over rigid flesh. He felt Nanami’s pulse beneath his fingertips, a steady beat that mirrored his own racing heart. Higuruma’s grip tightened slightly, earning him a deep, rumbling moan that made his skin tingle and his own cock throb with need.

“Fuck,” he cursed, forcing his lids back open—he looked between Higuruma’s eyes, beetle-black and flashing like flint in the dark, darting between his hungry stare and the connection between their bodies, the slow slide of Higuruma’s grasp around his cock. He doesn’t know where he’d rather look, or how to unknit his eyebrows, or how to stop the gravitational pull of his mouth back to Higuruma’s with desperate insistence.

His tongue teased the seam of Higuruma’s lips, coaxing his mouth open and Higuruma was quick to oblige. Their tongues tangled, and this time Nanami did nothing to chill the heated fervor with which Higuruma drank him in. His fingers dug into the pillow beside Higuruma’s head, muscles flexed and veins bulged as he fought to keep from losing himself in Higuruma’s hand so soon.

Some things would never change, the hot spirit of prideful competition blazed in Nanami’s blood and his hand drifted, dragging with obvious intent down Higuruma’s body, leaving more than enough time for him to be shoved off, to be stopped, but it never came. He needed Higuruma to cum first. Nanami refused to accept otherwise.

He palmed the bulge through Higuruma’s pants, swallowing the earned gasp down his throat and breaking the kiss just long enough to ask: “S’this okay?”

Higuruma nodded so hard he feared his head might snap off his shoulders.

Nanami hummed his acknowledgment, dipping his head away from Higuruma’s mouth to plant kisses along his jaw, leading back towards his ear to nuzzle against the sensitive hinge, buried against the clinging spice of yesterday's cologne and aftershave, and Nanami’s brain goes a bit fuzzy.

Soft skin and downy hair tickle his nose, nibbling distractingly at Higuruma’s pulse as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of Higuruma’s pants, hooking his cock out into the air, pointed up towards his navel against the fabric of his shirt.

That brief touch alone was enough to have Higuruma seeing stars, a strangled gasp stripping his throat raw and breaking into a drawn out moan when Nanami gripped him fully.

Nanami took a moment to admire Higuruma’s cock, appreciating the weight and heat of it in his hand. It was beautiful in its own way, the smooth curve and the throbbing vein that traced a line beneath the silken skin. Nanami’s thumb swept over the tip, gathering the beads of pre-cum that glistened there and spreading it over the head with a gentle stroke that made Higuruma jerk up into his palm, his own grip on Nanami inadvertently tightening.

"Sensitive," Nanami murmured, eyes gleaming with an intensity that could melt steel, the heat of his gaze stripping Higuruma down to his very bones.

Higuruma flushed, a deep crimson spreading across his cheeks as his nose wrinkled in embarrassment. He turned his head into the pillow, trying to hide the uncontrollable reactions of his body. “It’s been a while,” he admitted, voice barely more than a whisper as he gave Nanami’s cock a tentative pump. The motion drew a low moan from Nanami, his eyelids fluttering, breath stuttering warmly against Higuruma’s cheek.

“No time… no interest,” Higuruma continued, words spilling out between panting breaths. “Not into flings… too impersonal.” Excuses tumbled from his lips, broken by the rhythm of Nanami’s hand stroking him into gasping pants. The wet sucking sounds of pre-cum between Nanami’s fingers only made Higuruma throb harder in Nanami’s fist.

"Me neither," Nanami confessed, his voice muffled as he buried his face into Higuruma’s neck, inhaling the warmth of his skin with a shaky breath. The wet rhythmic plap plap plap’s of his hand grew faster until Higuruma’s back arched off the bed with a frantic whine, a string of curses slipping unbidden from his lips.

Nanami had never imagined Higuruma to be a whimperer, always so composed and sharp-eyed. Then, he never dared allow himself to imagine Higuruma like this at all.

Except for that one time, maybe… or perhaps twice. Maybe he’d lost count after thrice.

He thought those sounds might be irritating, wax annoyingly and decoratively pornographic, but from Higuruma, they were intoxicating. They made him crave more. He wanted to chip away at his composure, to draw out more of those desperate noises, to capture them and keep them close. Because Nanami didn’t do flings, and if that’s what this was, he at least wanted something to remember it by.

It was instinct driven the way he moved next, shifting to straddle Higuruma more completely, head bowed to watch the narrow space between them. It’s clumsy, it’s dark and they’re new to this and Higuruma’s body was as alien to him as anybody else's. His ears burn in time with the heavy thump of his cock thudding into the cleft of Higuruma’s thigh.

With clenched teeth, Nanami pressed forward, his movements deliberate but unsteady. A slow, grinding thrust dragged the underside of his cock against Higuruma’s, exhaling sharply at the fresh sensation.

Higuruma's lips parted in another moan, but the sound was swallowed by Nanami’s mouth before it escaped. It’s an opportunity for authority Nanami relished, a chance he didn’t often get. He didn’t hesitate to explore the warmth of Higuruma’s mouth, snagging the sharp of his canines against soft velvet lips, the slick of his soft palate lashed by Nanami’s seeking tongue.

Nanami’s fingers extended, thumb and palm hooking around his own cock while the remaining four stayed devoted to Higuruma—jerking them in tandem, a shared rhythm that drew out breathy gasps and muted moans.

Higuruma’s mouth was hot against Nanami’s, full of urgency and an unspoken plea and promise. So much potential with that mouth—quick wit, arguments, warm, inviting. There’s a kind of intoxication in the way Higuruma responds, each hitch of breath and stuttered exhale fueling Nanami’s quiet resolve to be good to him. He wanted Higuruma to remember him; a matter of ego.

Nanami does not do flings, and neither does Higuruma, but maybe this is an exception. Maybe it’s more. Maybe they’d wake in the morning and Nanami would find the courage-tempered cowardice to flee the life of a sorcerer for a second time—this time out of embarrassment—or maybe he would treat Higuruma to breakfast. Either felt just as likely at that point.

Higuruma found his hands rendered obsolete, defunct palms still slick and sticky from Nanami but with nothing to occupy them. His heart raced, hips bucking up into Nanami’s fist, grinding his cock against Nanami’s as he murmured muffled encouragement into Higuruma’s neck. Higuruma’s hands moved frantically, grabbing for any part of Nanami he could reach.

Fingers tangled in his hair, raking through the undercut at the nape of his neck, carding through blonde locks as if to stay tethered. His hands roamed over Nanami’s back, tracing the firm muscles that quivered beneath his touch. He scratched constellations into the sun-dappled freckles decorating Nanami’s skin, a galaxy amidst the scars. He’d never considered the life Nanami lived before, never quite cared.

Maybe it was the near-orgasmic rush of dopamine clouding Higuruma’s brain, making him tender and soft, but he found himself leaning into Nanami’s shoulder, planting his mouth there. He kissed and licked, laving his tongue over every mark and blemish, every scar that marred the tanned skin with silver, pink, or fresh purple, each one undeserving of the canvas they existed upon.

Higuruma’s breath quickened, each gasp a desperate plea for more, his body straining towards the edge. Nanami’s hand worked them both at a relentless pace, the wet sounds of their cum-slick skin shlick-shlick-shlicking in the hot air. Higuruma could feel the pressure building, a knot tightening in his belly, ready to snap.

“Nanami,” he gasped into a spit-slick shoulder, voice trembling with urgency, his hips stuttering as he chased the release that felt so close, so inevitable. His grip tightened on Nanami’s hair, anchoring himself as his body tensed. He was a live wire, all nerves and sensation, and Nanami’s quiet, focused attention only made it sweeter.

The briefest moment of consideration crossed wires in Higuruma’s head, shakily tugging his own shirt up and pinching the fabric between his teeth, stomach bared and muscles clenching, unclenching, then clenching again—

“Kento,” Nanami corrected, pleading, impeaching, driving the slick, urgent rhythm of his hand. “Please—” It felt different that way, more intimate. Nanami wanted to erase the last traces of anonymity, eradicate impersonality, to fill the room with the weight of something softer, something real. He didn't know what compelled him, but the mere thought of Higuruma gasping his name, lips parted in desperate need, sent a hot thrill down Nanami’s spine, his balls tightening with a searing want that took his breath away.

The heat between them was unbearable, each stroke of Nanami’s hand pushing Higuruma closer to the edge, unapologetic in his destruction of his restraint. His body bowed, fingers tangling desperately in Nanami’s hair, a silent plea for more, just a little more—

His spine tensed, fingers gripping tightly in Nanami’s hair as he finally gave in, spilling over Nanami’s hand and his own stomach with a shrill bark of his name. Pleasure hit him hard, blurring his vision as sparks of ecstasy sparked behind his eyelids like stardust, every nerve galvanized past capacity. So long since it had been his own hand or some impersonal silicon device, Higuruma had simply forgotten. Forgotten what it was like for it to be someone else.

Nanami watched him, enraptured by the way Higuruma fell apart beneath him, the way his chest heaved and his eyes fluttered shut, the way his skin flushed with orgasmic afterglow. It was enough to tip him over the edge, the sight and sound and fuck even the smell of Higuruma’s orgasm drawing his own from him with a deep, guttural groan. 

He ground their cocks together once more, the slick mess of their combined cum making it all the more intense as he followed Higuruma dope-eyed into oblivion, his own climax spilling hot and wet between their bodies. Higuruma’s stomach hollowed with each gasping breath, a basin in which their combined cum pooled, mixed and hot.

They lay there, breath mingling in the heated space between them, Nanami still bracketing Higuruma’s body with his own. Both panting, skin glistening with sweat and the final ropes of cum stringing between Nanami’s fist and Higuruma’s stomach. Higuruma’s cock twitched with each pulse, oversensitive and alive with lingering sensation.

Nanami nuzzled into the crook of Higuruma’s neck, breathing in the musky warmth of his skin, while Higuruma wrapped an arm around Nanami’s shoulders, fingers splayed possessively, as if to keep him from pulling away—not that Nanami had any intention of moving.

“Stay,” Higuruma murmured, voice still breathless, tinged with the raw edges of satisfaction and something suspiciously softer.

Nanami chuckled, a low rumble against Higuruma’s ear, and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

Higuruma shifted, a satisfied glint in his eye. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can move,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips.

Throughout the night, every inch of Higuruma’s body came to know Nanami’s hands, his lips, his touch, and Higuruma explored Nanami with the same enthusiasm. When the sun rose, it found them not on opposite sides of the bed in a cold war but tangled together, limbs more origami than man, an ouroboros where it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

They prepared for the mission ahead, no longer the awkward and begrudging roommates they had been, not quite friends, not quite lovers, but something decidedly more pleasant than they were just the day before.

As Nanami fixed his hair, Higuruma brushed his teeth with a casual ease. While Higuruma tied his tie, Nanami laced his shoes, relaxed, satisfied. Pleasantries exchanged were more than mere obligation, carried out with a quiet contentment and softened shoulders. The glances they shared were not of sharp edges or bitter abrasion but of thoughtful kindness.

“I shouldn’t think we’ll be here another night,” Nanami commented, donning his jacket from the closet and rolling his shoulders, loosening the threads around muscles that felt more limber than they had in a long time. “Make sure you’ve repacked your bag.”

Nanami’s words were met with an odd sense of regret, cold and dousing was the wave that washed over Higuruma as he hummed his acknowledgment, swallowing his disappointment. “Yeah, already done,” Higuruma assured, raking fingers through his hair in the mirror one last time. He found himself caring a little more than usual today, the lines of his suit sharper and picked of lint, not a hair out of place. There was no good reason for that, of course.

He didn’t want to leave.

Sudden was this change of heart, where before he wanted to blaze through this mission and get away from Nanami, the sooner the better. But now, with them finally on decent—dare he say good —terms, he wasn’t ready to go back. Not to campus, not to the way things were before, marked by prickling anxiety and petty competition.

So lost in his thoughts and buried beneath a tortured brow, he didn’t notice as Nanami approached him. Only when his hand tentatively grazed his waist, jolting Higuruma back to reality did he blink at the other man reflected in the mirror over his shoulder.

“Hiromi…” Nanami began, hesitant and stilted, unused to the taste of anything other than Higuruma or a muttered insult, unsure if the request for familiarity was still in effect.

“When we get back—”

Higuruma is already shaking his head, expression schooled into neutrality. He would have to practice it again, learn how to be unaffected. It would be hard but he would learn, and it would be like nothing ever happened and god that was a tough pill to swallow… because Higuruma Hiromi doesn’t do flings, and he didn’t think Nanami Kento did either.

“I don’t kiss and tell if that’s what you’re worried about,” Higuruma chuckled, placating, strained.

Nanami simply smiled at him in the mirror. Slowly he reached around, snaking an arm to Higuruma’s front, gently adjusting Higuruma’s collar and the knot of his tie.

“Actually… I was thinking about dinner.”

[fall0utmind]

MEDICAL LEAK AU PT 5 UP NOW

AO3 here

Gonna link pt 1-4 below tomorrow (I need to sleep) but for now, find them on my medical leak au tag on my page :)

I am so fucking sorry for the delay!!

Work has been manic, I basically rewrote this whole thing cause I hated it and now I am sick - woooooo

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it, I'm actually proud of this one, after the long rewrite.

Please, please, please come talk to me about what you think and what you wanna see!!! I need motivation to finish this.

Normal tags and warnings apply :)

(Tw/ suicidal thoughts, overdoses)

Alex had warned them that this is how Marc deals with things. He bottles it up until he can’t anymore, and then he goes somewhere private where he can lick his wounds and let himself fall apart. Watching Marc be so vulnerable, his usual mask of untouchable indifference falling away, is devastating. Jorge holds Marc closer as he trembles, small tremors wracking his frame. He looks incredibly young, curled up in between the older riders. Marc is completely lost in his thoughts now, distress radiating off him. He has been mostly silent, apart from the occasional miserable noises. Now though, he begins to cry, his face moving to press into Jorge’s shoulder as his body shakes with the force of his sobs, uncaring of who he’s clinging to. Marc and Jorge have never been that close, but the older man feels protective of him, in part because the 2015 fallout centred so much around his championship win, but also because of Dani’s soft spot for Marc. Jorge knows it was a big sign of trust for Marc to allow him to stay and witness this, especially from a man who is usually so guarded.

It’s unclear what Marc is imagining in the depths of his mind, but he has begun to slur words in between his sobs. Most of the words are incoherent, but Valentino’s and Alex’s names are clear, alongside the interchanging wrecked pleas to both end his suffering and let him live. Seeing so clearly the devastation Marc has suffered is horrific for them all, but Alex most of all looks gutted, like his heart has been shattered. He has heard those pleas before, back in 2015 when he found Marc and when he had saved his life.

It is this that prompts Jorge to gently shake Marc to awareness, knowing the pain is too much, too dark. Once the medication wears off, he will be ashamed of his weakness. It does not matter how natural or understandable his reaction is, especially after all the shit he has had to deal with; he hates vulnerability. The only thing his friends can do is sit with him during the fallout.

“Marc”

The younger man stirs slightly, choking on a breath as he sobs. He clutches at Jorge weakly, trying to catch his breath in between his cries.

“Cazzo, Marc, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

*

Marc returns to his body with a pounding head and a sore throat, which only ever occurs when he has cried himself dry. He’s a mess; the memories which assaulted him are still at the forefront of his mind, making him feel sick to the stomach. He is in the weird stage where the medicine is wearing off but still making him feel hazy; everything is soft around the edges. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. He rubs at his face and notices his cheeks are wet. He would usually be mortified by the idea of crying in front of everyone, but he can't bring himself to care in the circumstances. He feels wrung out and over-tired. He knows his eyes will be red and his face blotchy and he frowns at the thought. Dani breaks the silence first, handing Marc some water.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, but also somehow better. I’m sorry for losing it like that-”

Dovi interrupts him before he can finish that thought, fury simmering in his voice.

“Don’t you dare apologise. I don’t care what he taught you about having to hide away, but you don’t have to with us. We know you’re strong, but you don’t have to be strong right now. Not here, not with us.”

Marc gulps back more tears and instead smiles sadly at Dovi, unwilling to touch upon the reference to Valentino. Instead, he turns to look at his younger brother, who looks distraught; it makes him frown slightly. He hates the thought of causing his brother’s sadness. In Marc’s opinions, it is the worst thing he can do, and he has done it often in the last few years. Guilt spikes through him. Alex catches his eyes and shakes his head, knowing exactly what Marc is thinking, as fine-tuned as they are to each other's emotions.

“It’s not your fault, germà. I would take all your pain if I could.”

It makes Marc’s heart break a little. He addresses all of them, his little group of friends, of protectors. These people have seen him at his worst; they have refused to leave when Marc was on rock bottom, and they stuck with him when the world hurled abuse at him. Without them, he would be unmoored in the ocean, drowned by the waves.

“Thank you for staying.”

It’s Jorge who answers.

“Of course.”

*

The waning effects of the medication become clear as the bruises splashed across Marc’s body begin to ache. His shoulder is sore, and the muscles surrounding the joint are tight and stiff, causing him to shift uncomfortably. Alex catches his brother’s poorly concealed winces and hands Marc the rest of his approved dose without a comment. Marc tries to protest; the thought of having more drugs, of needing more, makes him feel queasy. Marc’s relationship with the medication is still rocky. It makes him feel weak and defenceless. It reminds him of dependence, hospital visits, and overdoses. Every time he has those little white pills in his hands, he sees Alex’s blurry face hovering over him, shouting his name, his panic choking him. He hates it. But he knows that if he wants to sleep tonight, he needs to take the stronger stuff that he is prescribed. After Jerez and his arm, normal ibuprofen doesn’t do much for his pain. Alex's eyes are pleading, desperately attempting to convey that Marc is safe here. That he can be vulnerable; he doesn’t have to sit with the pain. The others watch on sadly. Dani feels guilt clawing at him that he didn't notice in 2015 and beyond. When they were still teammates, Marc wouldn’t take the pain medication he was given. Dani always thought it was some weird pleasure of the pain that came from racing and crashing. And then later, perhaps a sick self-punishment for making a mistake. Although he now realises the latter is partially true, he is kicking himself for not digging up a further meaning. He’s not the first to notice Marc’s aversion to medication; it had been a weekly fight with Honda between 2015 and 2020. Nobody was aware of the reason. Why Marc went from hating the sight of the tablets to taking as many as he possibly could after Jerez was less of a mystery. For Marc Marquez, when choosing between not riding or traumatic memories, he’ll always choose the emotional anguish. He swallows the pills.

Alex smiles gently at him, pushing a container of pre-prepared food towards him. Marc turns up his nose; he had already eaten something earlier.

“Eat, you’ll be high as hell if you don’t”

“Not hungry”

Marc pouts, and Christ Alex forgot how obstinate and immature his brother could be, especially after taking his medication. The image of 31-year-old Marc behaving like a toddler makes Dovi chuckle in amusement.

“Marc, you have to eat something-”

“No.”

“Marc, for God’s sake, you can’t just not eat.”

“But I don’t want that. I’ll have a protein bar.”

Their fight is interrupted by a loud knock at the door and a voice calling from outside.

“Marc?”

Anxiety grips Marc, argument forgotten. Instead, he imagines another fervent Rossi fan clawing at their door. Alex jumps to his feet, freezing as the voice speaks again.

“Marc, come on, I know you’re in there, the lights are on.”

Confusion engulfs Alex as he approaches the front of the motorhome, trying to place the somewhat familiar voice. He cautiously unlocks the door and peeks outside, blinking against the darkness. Shock colours his features, his eyes widening as he stares before he comes to his senses and attempts to slam the door shut. The only thing keeping it from closing completely is the foot of their surprise visitor.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alex practically growls

“Is Marc here? I want to talk to him. Please.”

Dani joins him at the door, ready to help if things get out of hand. Pecco glances between the two Spanish men before letting out a melancholy sigh. Bez is fidgeting behind the world champion, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Alex definitely fancies slamming the door then, even more unimpressed by the sight of the younger Italian.

“I hate that all of this has happened, and I hate even more that we’ve been pitted against each other for no reason. I just want to talk; please can I come in?”

Pecco looks so forlorn standing outside their motorhome, his face open and honest. Marc must recognise the voice more than Alex does, as he calls out to his brother.

“Let him in, Alex.”

Marc is most likely not thinking clearly, and Alex is on the verge of saying no. Instead, with a disgruntled sigh, he steps aside to let Pecco in, looks at Bez, and then grudgingly concedes that he cannot tell him to fuck off. After shooting an exasperated look at Dani, he follows him back to the group of athletes lounging on their couches.

It turns out 7 fully grown adults are a few too many in the cramped space. Pecco takes the empty seat next to where Alex has sat back down, Bez awkwardly squeezing next to him. Marc stares with wide, clouded eyes, his hackles raised; he wasn’t expecting Bez. Although his relationship with Pecco is fairly neutral (probably due to his ambivalence to the whole Valentino situation) Bez and Marc have never been on good terms, the younger always jumping at the opportunity to defend his mentor. Marc frowns at them, untrusting, while his friends protectively shift closer to him. Clearly, from their baffled expressions, Bezzecchi and Bagnaia did not expect to see Marc huddled with Andrea Dovizioso and Jorge Lorenzo on the sofa.

*

Pecco is trying his hardest to comprehend the scene before him; he had not anticipated meeting the three retired riders alongside the brothers. He tilts his head slightly, examining the way Jorge and Dovi appear exasperated but pleased to have a clingy Marc Marquez sprawled on them. Marc himself looks pretty content at their proximity, which is strange; he didn’t think Marc was that close to either of them. Bez and he have clearly intruded, obvious from the disarray of everyone in the room. Marc has been crying, which is surprising in and of itself. Additionally, he appears to have taken some pretty strong painkillers – unsurprising after his crash but surprising after the most recent news reports. He turns towards Alex to voice this, but the younger Marquez beats him to it.

“He doesn’t need supervision these days, but if he is bad or, you know, unhappy, I keep his medication and watch over his dosing. He’s fine.”

Pecco nods in understanding, some of his concern lessening. An awkward kind of quiet falls over the group, no one knowing what to say. Strangely, Marc cannot guess the meaning for their visit, too used to other riders only turning up to pick a fight. Pecco is not one for dramatics, preferring to reign in his emotions, unlike his mentor and his friend. Marc breaks the silence first, curiosity beating pride.

“What are you here for, Bagnaia?”

That earns him a wry smile.

“I want to know if you’re okay.”

“Why do you care?”

The others tense in anticipation as Pecco visibly steals himself. He has found the last 24 hours difficult, fighting an internal battle of morality versus loyalty ever since the fateful press conference.

“I don’t hate you, Marc, and I don’t want to. Honestly, I think with time, maybe next year, we could be friends. I respect your talent, and yes, of course, sometimes I think you ride like a maniac, you take risks, and you are brutal on the track. But that is what makes you so good, so impressive. It is why you have 8 championships; I would be a fool to disregard that. Not only that but you love fiercely. I have seen the way you treat your friends and family, and I admire that.”

Marc thinks he might be dreaming; he pinches himself to be sure. Jorge notices and pushes his hand away with a scowl.

“Don’t lie. You all hate me because of him and his lies. I do not need you messing with my head as well. I see the way your academy copies him, echoing his venom, believing every word and taking his side. My life was hell back then, and you weren’t there to witness it. He ruined my life and tore everything from me. I know he thinks that I ruined his career and whatever other poison the man he calls a best friend fed him. I know he was angry and upset. But I was so young. It has been a decade. He won’t leave me alone. Don’t you understand? I raced to die; I risked it all in a passive attempt to not return to the pits. I just wanted him to look back at me; I wanted my hero to forgive me. Then after Jerez, when he didn’t even say anything and I gave up hope, I just took medication to cope. But Valentino and your precious academy can’t see that. No, instead I am reckless and selfish, only thinking of myself. It is not fair; none of it is fair.”

He feels Jorge tense underneath him and that revelation and knows that he has shared too much, but it is too late now. Pecco is observing him with sad eyes and Bezzecchi looks horrified.

“No, Marc, I do not hate you. I am sorry for the loathing you have felt. People like to push Valentino’s legacy onto me. We are not the same person. This is not my battle, and I refuse to be sucked into Vale’s fights from before I was even on the track. It is stupid.”

His eyes are glazed over and wet as he looks directly into Marc's. The anguish in them makes Marc flinch.

“My sister fought similar battles; it was the hardest time of my life.”

He meets Alex’s eyes, sharing a look of understanding at their joint hurt.

“I know you don’t believe me; I see that you have been hurt before. I hate that you have experienced such awful things, and I hate even more how you are being treated for it now. I am sure Alex feels how I do about Carola; it was the worst pain in the world. I would have given my life ten times over for her. It still hurts you and maybe it will always be raw, but I wish it was not like this.”

Bez lays a hand on Pecco’s shoulder, a show of silent support, prompting Marc to turn towards the youngest Italian.

“And you, Bezzecchi? I know you hate me; you have made that abundantly clear, so why are you here?”

Bez looks away at the accusation, guilt filling him. It is not in his nature to question someone he is loyal to.

“I- I realised I maybe took too much at face value. It is true that I did not like you, or more so the way you ride. But I also didn’t understand you or what you were going through. I guess that I want to make amends for that. And I did not want to leave Franci alone.”

Marc hums, considering Bez’s offer, before he nods, too exhausted and intoxicated to give it any more thought. Whatever, if Bezzecchi wants to be here, then fine, so long as he doesn’t cause any more pain. Rather, Marc returns his attention to Pecco with genuineness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about your sister. It is difficult. I hope she’s in a better place now.”

Pecco’s eyes widen in shock, and Marc huffs out a laugh.

“She’s doing better now, thank you. I think you will get on with her well next year; she comes to all the races with me and the team.”

The Italian smiles tentatively, and Marc smiles back, quietly pleased about this admission from his future teammate. Bez glances between them with a frown, still unsure about the tentative truce they have formed. Instead, he turns towards Dovi, who is still eyeing him suspiciously, and shoots him his very best puppy eyes. The older man rolls his eyes at the display before roping Bez and Pecco into a conversation in rapid Italian about the season so far. Dani and Jorge are whispering quietly, the latter still petting Marc’s hair gently. The atmosphere has returned to its tranquil state, once more lulling Marc into a hazy headspace.

Concern is vibrating through Alex as he watches his brother doze. He can’t help but feel like this has all been a little bit too easy. The boys had looked flustered when they turned up, like they had hurried over, as if something had happened just beforehand. He tries to shake off the feeling, standing up and heading into the kitchenette. He grabs a protein bar from the cupboards and chucks it at Marc when he re-enters the main room, causing his brother to startle and glare at him. Dovi snickers at their antics; of course Alex had not forgotten about their previous scrap, much to Marc’s annoyance.

“Eat it.”

Marc scowls but dutifully rips open the packet and starts munching the bar, not before sticking his tongue out at his brother.

“So mature, Marc.”

This prompts a fit of giggles from the older as he continues to eat. Bez and Pecco look on in bewilderment at this version of Marc, the drugs making him more relaxed than they have ever seen. They are shuffling awkwardly as if they’d be kicked out at any minute, feeling a sensation of imposition at seeing the soft person in front of them. Marc rolls his eyes, looking strung out but content.

“Stay?”

And that settles it.

*

In all his stubborn glory, Marc refuses to move off his friends, citing comfort and fatigue as justifications. Alex grumbles good-naturedly about his perpetual clinginess on pain medication, prompting Marc to snuggle closer to Jorge, rubbing his face into the older man’s shoulder and startling a laugh out of him. Pecco looks at Dovi questioningly, his forehead furrowed into a frown, looking for any indication of jealousy in the older Italian but not detecting any. Jorge instantly notices and does not attempt to conceal his laughter laughter.

“Do not worry about it. Dovi hogs Marc the rest of the time; I am allowed him now whilst he is still high as a kite”

Marc pulls away to pout at him, denial on his lips. Before he can begin his argument, though, Alex speaks up, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tell me about it; you should have seen them earlier. Dovi was practically eating Marc alive with his eyes; it was fucking ridiculous.”

Marc goes bright red at this comment, spluttering out an excuse. Dovi just looks unabashedly smug, meeting Alex’s eyes.

“Hey, when there’s an attractive shirtless man on the sofa when you enter the room, what else are you meant to do?”

Marc directs his glare towards Dovi, an unimpressed frown on his face at the betrayal, but frankly, with the medication softening him, he just looks cute. Dani and Jorge are cracking up at the thought, which only causes Marc to get more annoyed, his cheeks flaming hot.

“Ah, I did not know that you two-”

Both Dovi and Marc jump to correct that assumption. Stumbling over each other to assure Pecco that they are not dating, despite what it looks like. Dani has been suspiciously quiet for most of the conversation, only now turning towards Marc with an insolent smile, meaning that he’s about to say something that Marc won’t like.

“Didn’t stop you from fucking in the past.”

You could hear a pin drop. Alex is whipping his head between his brother and Dovi, his jaw dropped in shock. Marc somehow goes even redder before shoving his face into his hands and groaning, confirming Dani’s statement and prompting the entire group to lose it. Dovi just looks proud and completely unashamed, turning back to Jorge and Dani with a raised eyebrow.

“Like you two can talk.”

“Touché.” replies Jorge with a shrug, hand on Dani’s knee.

Alex feels like he’s losing grip on reality,

“When? When the hell did you two hook up?”

“Ah, 2017, 2018, on and off” answers Dovi.

The others are laughing hard now, even Bez and Pecco giggling at the horrified expression on the youngest Marquez’s face.

Alex speaks once more, recovering quickly as though he is clearly used to his brother’s antics. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice,

“Jesus Marc, what is it with you and shagging older men?”

Pecco chokes at that comment, wheezing a breath through the shock. The others are basically in tears and even Bez is grinning. Marc just looks at his brother’s smirking face and promptly lobs a pillow in his direction - it hits him in the face, causing Marc to crack up. When they all catch their breath, Pecco broaches something that has played on his mind all day.

“Valentino had mentioned something earlier, about you and Dovi-”

Pecco immediately realises his mistake in bringing up Vale. The room pauses awkwardly, and all eyes turn to Marc, whose eyes are still foggy, his limbs lose. It causes him to speak without thinking.

“Ah, he is being a dick; he saw me in Dovi’s jumper and jumped to conclusions. Lord knows why he cares.”

“When the fuck did you see Valentino?”

“Ah, just before the sprint race, he cornered me, spilling some bullshit about ruining the race and being attention-seeking. You know what he is like. He always has loved to make sure I feel small.”

He turns his doe eyes towards Alex,

“It still hurts to hear him say those things about me. It hurts to look into his eyes and see fury and hatred. Not as much as it did then, but still”

Pecco realises then just how out of it Marc must be to let that slip. He gulps, uncomfortable with the pain in his voice, pain that he would usually hide away from the world. Bez looks away. Watching tonight’s interactions brings some new perspective to the academy riders- the quiet beginnings of doubt about their unquestioned deity. It’s difficult to reconcile Vale, their selfless teacher and friend, to Valentino Rossi, who had a rivalry with Marc so fierce the younger had been left picking up the pieces. The Marc in front of them is not the dangerous, deceiving rider they were taught about. This Marc looks at his brother and friends like they hold the universe; he is strong but soft around the edges. He is funny and unabashed in his affection. He loves fiercely and is loved unconditionally in return, a true sign of his character.

Alex is looking at his brother with such sadness in his eyes, reflecting his pain. He does not respond to Marc; he just holds out his hand. It is Jorge who speaks instead.

“I was so angry at Valentino in 2015. So angry at myself for not warning you. I saw it coming from miles away because Rossi could never deal with threats to his success.”

Bez begins to open his mouth, but Pecco elbows him, hard, well aware that now is not the time to stick up for their mentor, no matter how difficult it is to hear. Jorge goes to continue but is interrupted by another forceful knock on the door; it’s Alex who yet again opens it, finding himself face to face with an uncomfortable-looking Luca. The night is getting weirder and weirder.

“Is Pecco here? Or Bez? Nobody knows where they’ve gone.”

Alex opens the door wider, letting Luca see the two Italians on the sofas.

Luca steps inside, shutting the door softly behind him after glances outside worriedly. He gives the boys a pointed looks as he urges them up.

“Come on, we need to go!”

“What why?”

Bez was just starting to feel comfortable in this company; he doesn’t particularly want to leave right now. Luca looks away,

“Look, we just really need to go.”

There is another harsh knock on the door before it flies open. Valentino is standing at the threshold, staring blankly at the spectacle before him.

“What the fuck is going on?”

[sailtomarina]

[Kinktober 2024] Orgasm Delay/Denial

Written for Day 26 of Hogwarts’ Kinktober - Orgasm Delay/Denial Draco/Hermione | Rating: E: explicit sex | WC 577

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

She was close.

Just a nudge, and she’d be there, free falling into her release with his name on her lips if she were able, if he hadn’t gagged her with her own sodden knickers.

The sheathe clenching tight around him rippled, on the verge of draining him dry.

He shoved himself backwards.

Her cry of frustration nearly made up for the ache in his balls. Nearly. If his cock had its way, Draco would have kept pounding into her, even after filling her full, his spend mixing with her own to work him into another climax more agonising than the last. Unluckily for both of them he was firmly in control of his baser desires.

He chuckled as he watched her hips writhe, fighting the invisible restraints holding her limbs in place. There wasn’t anywhere she could go, spread face up to the corners of his four-poster bed as she was. She was helpless, and nothing turned him on more.

“What was that?” he goaded, even going so far as to lean down, his ear tilting towards her pathetic whimpers.

Whines turned to snarls; were he to remove the gag now, he had no doubt bile would spill out denigrating his name, reputation, the entirety of his being. He met her eyes, the usually warm brown darkened in fury, and smiled.

“Granger?” He nudged at her opening with the leaking head of his cock, resisting the urge to plunge into the inviting heat. “Did you want something?”

“Ffffffnnnnnnuuuu.” Even muffled, there was no mistaking the insult.

He clicked his tongue in reproach. “That isn’t very nice. And here I thought we were getting somewhere.”

Her nostrils flared, chest rising, like she meant to scream further insults he’d pretend to not understand. He pressed back into her in a relentless push that brought his hips flush to hers. Her breath wooshed out, transforming into a groan as he dragged himself out at just the right angle before pressing into her once more in a painfully slow invasion.

In no time at all, he had her right back where he wanted–never speeding up, never stopping, watching the tension within her body build until she vibrated against him with need. She was beautiful like this: tears leaking down her face, delicate features twisted in torment, requiring just a little more friction to find the blissful satisfaction he’d refused her from the start.

He curled over her, looking for all the world like a demon sucking the life out of his captive witch with every piston of his hips. Her tears tasted salty-sweet as he cleaned them up with a flattened tongue. He craned around to bite at the curve of her ear just shy of breaking the skin.

The pulses around his cock quickened. A rumble built in her chest.

Draco yanked out at the last possible second, sitting back on his heels to watch her fight his incarcerous. Screams escaped the spit-soaked fabric failing to keep her mute. She hadn’t come. Couldn’t come. Not without his permission. Not until he’d wrung her dry of the fire that still threatened to consume him.

He was forced to grip himself in a strangling fist. He wasn’t a complete arse; he’d deny himself what he withheld from her.

“Shhh, baby, shhh. You’re doing so well,” he cooed, cradling her now, cheek to cheek, her tears easily mistaken for his own. “I promise this will all be worth it in the end.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Thanks to @knot-your-mothers-mods for organizing the event! Make sure to check out the AO3 collection for many more works.

Cross-posting on Tumblr, AO3, and Instagram.

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Eight: Creature Comforts

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

Next Chapter (Coming Soon!) ✨Full Chapter List ✨BG3 Fic Masterlist ✨

Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?” Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s. But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone. “You mean sex.”

Chapter CW: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT. NO LONGER EVENTUAL. 100% CONSENSUAL.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Naomi wakes from a sleep without dreams to find her feet without shoes.

Stiffness lances through her shoulder blades. Gingerly, she shifts from her propped seat against the tree trunk, frowning at the threadbare blanket she finds tucked around her bare toes. She shivers with the chill that nips her neck, shrugging the blanket closer.

Serves her right for falling asleep in a place so stupid. In such sparse clothing, no less. Her nightgown seems far too sheer in the sunlight.

But then, whoever thought to leave her a blanket should’ve thought more about what one measly bit of cloth would do. Absolutely nothing, in these elements. She’d need a half-dozen more layers, at least, to stave off the cold that creeps in on autumn nights.

Sure, the days are warm enough. But only by the grace of a sun that burns as much as it comforts the cold away. The Underdark has its own volatile elementals and fitful lava fields. But not weather beyond ‘dry’ or ‘damp’. Certain reaches of her homeland are said to be cold, but Naomi’s never known them. For most of her life, she’s only known consistent warmth and heady humidity.

Up here, the air’s thinner. Flexible. Ever changing. 

It’s a change, to be so immersed in it. In her prior travels, any inn she came to would offer room to a bard who would work to earn her keep. They hadn’t heard of her, sure. But then, they heard her with a fiddle and forgot whatever qualms they had about welcoming in a strange drow.

In the company of a snapping hearth, from the safety of a window, Naomi had seen the sky heave and sob. Every time a storm rolled through, the heavens stomped their feet like a wailing babe. Water leaked from the clouds like a wrung sponge. Such a messy, miserable ordeal. Snow, at least, sparkles on the way down. But all in all, she’d rather not be soaked in any such nonsense.

Perhaps her companions would think her sheltered. Pampered. Soft.

But none of them know how to weave through bibberbang without breathing it in. Probably, none of them can tell the difference between torchstalk and timmask. Well, maybe Gale can. But no way can he gut a bulette without wasting any of it. He’d probably still make a halfway decent stew out of it, though.

Naomi never knew the comfort of her own room with a featherbed before she’d known the surface. Astarion isn’t so cushy, and not nearly so warm. But his company was comfort enough, it seems, for Naomi to stumble into sleep.

She clears her throat, glancing sideways, but already knowing the elf must be long gone. She must have him to blame for the blanket. And, apparently, the boots.

Tentatively, Naomi reaches for the shoes left in Astarion’s stead. Her fingertips follow the bright blue stitching on the sides, curling into leather that’s been carefully polished free from age and wear. He didn’t find them like this, she’s sure. 

She’s also sure he’s flighty. Dangerous, when the mood strikes him. More because of his tongue than his teeth. He’d sell her to save his own hide if he had to. If they stood in each other’s shoes, and the Gur had come for her, perhaps she’d be in chains right now.

Maybe Astarion’s never known the comfort of having someone watch his back. That, at least, was something Naomi always had back home. Maybe that’s why she finds herself taking her tentative alliance with the vampire to heart. Or why she’ll indulge in his flirtations, even as he plucks the lowest hanging fruit she’s ever heard. 

She feels sorry for him. The notion squirms in her gut. Oh, he’d loathe that. But he’d love that it’s only half the truth.

The other part is that he’s funny. She laughs at him as much as with him. But, still. When he giggles like a fountain, it’s hard to down the sound with a straight face. 

And he’s beautiful. His lips are sly and snide and smirking, but they’re plush, too. And there’s something about the too-perfect set of his snow-white curls that curls her knuckles here and now. She leans her head back against the tree with a soft sigh. Her mind mills with thoughts of raking her fingers in his hair, while that wicked mouth of his melts against her own.

Perhaps all he’s really out for is blood, and her body is just a consolation prize. But it’s nice to feel wanted. Even in some shallow sense.

Naomi slips into her new shoes with a fleeting smile, flexing to feel they fit just right. A little comfort could go a long way. For her and the vampire both.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around her for some semblance of modesty, if not pride, Naomi tiptoes back into the cave where they’ve made camp. The scent of broth swells to her nose, setting her mouth watering. Gale tends to breakfast. Shadowheart, Wyll, and Karlach talk in warm tones that blend with the crackle of the cookfire. Naomi ducks behind the tents, keeping to the fringes until she can safely tuck inside her own. If anyone catches a glimpse of her, they have the decency to keep quiet about it.

Naomi keeps her tent neat and orderly; even while staying in the inns, any urge to sprawl recoiled to the memory of her temple matrons scolding her for not keeping tidy enough in her youth. She’d shared a room with so many others, then. It took some time to be able to trance on her own without their soft chorus of breath swimming in her ears. She’d never known, before, that quiet could be so deafening.

And lonely.

Her pack rests near her tousled bedroll. Naomi eyes the tent’s other occupant warily as she rifles for a change of clothes. Alfira’s lute lurks in the corner where the tent’s drapes of blue-gray canvas loop around the pole holding them aloft.

Gale concluded Alfira’s instrument isn’t cursed after all. After that valiant effort, Naomi hadn’t had the heart to tell him she never learned to play the lute even a little. She can return it to the tieflings today, at least.

Cursed. The notion rolls in her mind, restless like a stormcloud. Restless, like the purpling shadows beneath her eyes. Naomi scowls into her tarnished pocket mirror and stuffs it back into her pack. 

She can’t keep on with so little rest. She needs to trance again, properly. Even if it means another meeting with the devil. Devils deal in contracts more than curses. It makes little difference; they’re all C-words, anyways.

Including that hag.

Dirge singer. Death bringer. Though, the hag could’ve called her ‘sunflower’ and made it sound like she murdered a puppy.

“Ouch!”

Naomi flinches sharply. Her hands retract from her pack on instinct. She turns her palms over, but finds no sign of what stung her. And the crawling necromancy stains that darkened her arms the day before have almost faded entirely. 

Thrrrum.

A sudden chord snaps like a rubberband, strummed harsh and fast and then gone. Naomi hisses, ears aching even as she rubs them.

Thrrrrum. THRRRRUM. 

The sound skewers through her skull. Naomi cowers. 

THRUM, thrum-THRUM, THRR--- 

Swallowing hard, heart hammering, Naomi whips her head towards the lute.

It’s just as lifeless as the girl who used to play it.

Birdsong filters through the camp alongside the crackling fire. The sounds are just as smoky sweet as they were before. As if nothing sour interrupted them at all.

Naomi lets out a tight sigh, massaging the fresh lines forming on her forehead. Those few discordant notes, they sounded familiar. For a split second, she thought she could make something of them. A melody, maybe. She can’t think of how it goes. Her jaw clenches as she braids the loose hair around her face back into her bun.

She trades her tunic for her leather armor, even though it still needs tending, and even though their travels today will take them back to the safety of the Grove. They’ve a habit of stumbling into monsters at every turn, after all. She gathers up the borrowed blanket and sets off to return Astarion’s brief affliction with kindness. 

Well, part of it. She’s keeping the shoes.

She finds him pouring over some moldering text. Even squinting, she can’t make out the title on the cracked leather binding. Astarion doesn’t even lift his head as she hovers. She clears her throat pointedly.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, distant. Reluctantly, he peels his eyes from the fresh page he turns to, wearing a practiced smile that grows smug as he soaks in the sight of her. “You’ve gotten your beauty sleep, I see.”

“Thank you,” she says, holding out the blanket to him. “For this.”

Metal clangs behind her. Naomi stiffens. Gale spews curses as he fumbles with the lid of the stew pot. “Oh, for the love of--”

Astarion scowls at the blanket, and then at her, one elegant eyebrow arched.

“And for these,” she adds, shifting her heel so he can admire his own handiwork. The blue stitching arches bright against the dark leather. She finds herself staring, too. And babbling like a brook to fill the weighty silence. “You picked a nice color. Almost makes me think of--”

She stops short, mouth suddenly dry, eyes flitting back to his face to find him surveying her with a sly smile.

“--home,” she finishes quietly.

He wanted it to, she realizes. Astarion knows how to get what he wants. And he wanted her to think of him and home in the same blink, every morning, as she takes her first step into daylight. 

The sun suits you as well as the stars do, darling. 

He wants to be threaded through her head, inextricable, like the steaming waters she waded into as a child, the songs drifting from the temple, the warmth and wet of the Underdark itself. He means to sink teeth into her memories and add his fangs to the ones she treasures.

Naomi swallows thickly. She wouldn’t mind offering her neck for another night. With the dirt rough beneath her. His body pressing, taut, against her own. She wouldn’t mind it at all, now that she knows where all that blood goes.

Raw heat sweeps her skin, just like the kind that furled from the lake she showed him in her memories. Astarion’s gaze slinks over her, sheer and silky. She feels bare beneath it.

Until he utters some chiding, knowing sound, low in the back of his throat. Then, she feels sweaty. Balmy. Grimy. And sheepish. She shifts her weight between her feet.

It’s more likely, maybe, that he just doesn’t want to owe her anything. She’s helping him flourish, after all. Astarion’s not the sort to be dirtied with debts.

“But of course,” the vampire croons. “We need our fearless leader in tip-top shape, after all.”

“Your leader?” She repeats incredulously.

Astarion turns his head one way, then the other, making a show of looking about. It’s all dramatic effect; his pout of confusion easily reverts to his signature smirk a second later. “Do you see anyone else stepping up, darling? When you open those lovely lips, lovely things seem to happen. Either our enemies fall, or they fall in line.  We’re all inclined to let you keep doing it. Besides, it’s been so much fun to watch.”

She’s fully aware her slack-jawed expression only feeds the gleam in his eye. It’s not the lewdness of his implication that catches her off guard, but the pragmatism of it. The faith in her that he and the others apparently share. 

The goblins were easy to bring to heel; they nearly bent over backwards at the mere sight of a drow, anyway. But even after the incident with Alfira, and her escapade with the hag…her companions still want her to take the reins.

Naomi’s stomach knots. They’ve seen her use her tongue like a whip or a chain, and somewhere along the way, without her even bidding them too, they decided to fall in line as well.

Dimly, she hears Gale falling over his own feet somewhere behind them. Or, maybe he’s choking. Hard to make heads or tails of that strangled, scuffling sound. When she half-turns her cheek, the wizard’s face is ripened red, but he seems no worse for wear. Astarion takes her attention again. 

“And if the shoes fit,” Astarion hums merrily, “well, it’s really all decided then. I do have more of that thread. But it would be better suited if you dyed those leathers we took from that dead drow, first. I imagine they’ll fit you perfectly.”

There wouldn’t be much left to the imagination at all, if she wore what little clothing he spoke of. Much as she might loathe everything else to come from Menzoberranzan, begrudgingly, she knows the garb would look good on her. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says evenly, forcing the blanket firmly into his grip.

His lips twitch, but he takes it, cradling his book carefully in one hand, while holding the blanket at arm’s length in the other. He stalks off with it pinched between his fingers, held at bay from his body as if it were sopping. Gale lets out another strained noise that sounds suspiciously like a screaming kettle.

“Are you…all right?” She asks him, eying his unkempt hair. His knuckles must’ve worried it into disarray. The stew bubbles fitfully beneath the wizard’s furrowed brow.

“I am simply stupendous,” he promises, but it sounds pitchy. “Never better!”

The grove opens to them readily, with praise and thanks heaped like confetti upon their heads as they pass the tieflings’ caravan. Wyll and Karlach drink in the accolades, doling out kindness in equal measure, as if serving up helpings of Gale’s nightly stew. The wizard himself struts a little taller as he basks in their gratitude. Even Shadowheart seems moved to the slightest smile -- one she might actually admit to, if pressed.

Astarion’s mouth morphs between a smirk and a sneer. One moment, he hovers near Naomi’s shoulder. The next, she turns to find he’s tucked tail, lurking near the rear of the party like a cat that keeps circling but won’t quite settle.

Naomi finds a stature fitting of a hero-by-happenstance, accepting Zevlor’s coin and offer of camaraderie with the right words and the right thanks. The kind a good person might give, with the kind of performance that a good person might believe. It earns her a sideways glance from Shadowheart and Astarion both.

Naomi doesn’t shy from their scrutiny. They’re the same in this, she’s sure. At least, she’s not so sure she would have spared the effort on the tieflings’ behalf, if the search for a cure steered them elsewhere.

The real prize is a spoiled fruit; Halsin doesn’t have the cure they’d dared to hope for. But he has information. And he makes good on his promise to share it. The burly elf waves a hand in greeting as they approach him at the heart of the Grove.

“I hear there’s to be a celebration this evening,” Halsin says. “Well-deserved, after all your efforts. I hope you relish the chance at revelry. It may be some time before you’re afforded another such night. There is much to be done. And I promised I would help you however I could.”

“You did,” Naomi replies, leaning back to survey the rather sturdy length of him. “We'll make our plans now so we can make merry later.”

“I’m certain a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers,” the druid asserts, “but it’s…complicated. The journey, specifically -- it’s extremely perilous. Though, it seems you’re well-accustomed to navigating danger. To get to the Towers, you’ll need to pass through a terrible place -- a cursed place.”

Naomi stifles a sigh. There’s that ‘C’ word again. Cropping up like a stubborn weed. What else did she expect, really?

Halsin tells them of the shadow curse shrouding Moonrise and the surrounding region in darkness and decay. When Naomi wonders aloud how the Absolute’s forces could withstand such conditions, the druid doesn’t have an answer.

“Perhaps it’s the tadpoles,” Astarion muses airily. “Our wriggling friends might shield us from the curse entirely.”

“Only the Absolute’s elites have them,” Gale says with a shake of his head. “Their foot soldiers don’t. They’d need another method to move en masse.”

“You could go overland, along the Risen Road or through the mountains,” Halsin suggests. “But you’ll run into the shadow curse eventually. You could also go under. There is a tunnel in the ruined temple of Selune. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark.”

Naomi doesn’t meet any of the eyes that snap, at once, to her. She fixes her gaze, instead, to the scenery just past Halsin’s broad shoulders. Even without the tadpole, she knows they all share the same thought.

Wyll gives voice to the question hanging over them. “Is there any chance such a route might carry us near your home? Would you know the way?”

“No,” Naomi answers flatly.

“That’s a shame,” Astarion murmurs beneath his breath, the sound teasing like a breeze near her ear. “Truly. I would’ve liked to have seen it in person.”

Naomi stiffens. She feels his presence prickle along her neck again, even though he’s feet away. A memory of his bite. One bite out of her memories, and he thinks he has her story figured.

“You would’ve seen a pile of rubble,” she says without inflection. “That’s all that’s left of it, now. Boulders and bones.”

“A shame,” he says again, gently enough, her jaw softens slightly.

“But I do know the Underdark,” she says, rolling her shoulders back. “I know what we might find down there. How to navigate underground.”

“And if what we’ve heard from some of the tieflings is true,” Shadowheart adds grimly, “there’s Githyanki along the other route. Strong odds they would’ve had our heads even with Lae’zel in tow. Without her, it’s not a wager I’d like to take.”

One unanimous nod of assent from the others, and it’s decided, even before Halsin tells them further of Ketheric Thorm’s fabled fortress. The mention of her goddess lights Shadowheart like a candle. Before their eyes, the devotee of darkness positively glows.

Naomi wonders, ruefully, if the Sharran will have the same demeanor a few weeks into a moss-and-mushroom diet. Perhaps she’ll need to teach them how to gut a bulette, after all.

“Well, go on! Get in there with them!” Karlach blurts, swaying in time to the lively tune brightening the hollow. Her mug of beer sloshes, spilling over with the overzealous shimmy of her hips.

Naomi winces, back turned to the band as the crowd claps to their rhythm. “I was never good at being that sort of bard,” she shouts above the crescendo.

“What, fun at parties?” Karlach scoffs. “What other kind is there?”

“I’m a riot at a funeral.”

Karlach’s back bows as she glugs, streams seeping from her lips. Naomi watches, briefly fascinated, as the beer sizzles on the surface of Karlach’s broiling skin. It steams off of her in a sweet, wheaty aroma.

“It wassss sssbeautiful,” Karlach murmurs, sobering even as she slurs. “What you did for Lae’zel. Even though she despised you. You sing too pretty to stand around and pout about it!”

Naomi smiles, in spite of herself. “And your mug is too empty for you to still be standing around, talking to me.”

“Fine. Fine,” Karlach heaves an overdrawn sigh, stumbling off reluctantly. “But you’d better break out that fiddle they gave you in our next fight. I wanna hear this riot of yours!”

Flickering silhouettes stutter across the orange glow bathing the clearing. Naomi’s left alone again among so many of Zevlor’s caravan, those they saved from certain death at the goblins’ hands. Song rakes the air alongside fluttering flakes of ash and buffeting laughter. 

Naomi watches the festivities like she would a sunrise; they’re a gorgeous spectacle, to be sure. Something she can see, that can wash over her, but she isn’t part of it, even standing here, adrift in the middle of it. 

Alfira should be. 

She hadn’t wanted to accept the fiddle Zevlor had handed to her in exchange for Alfira’s lute. Well, she’d wanted to accept it. Whether she should have is a moot point now. It stays stowed in her tent for tonight. Still, she thinks of it wistfully.

It’s a beautiful, breakable thing. But it fit like a glove, in her grasp, beneath her chin. In a way that so little has.

“Do you ever tire of denying yourself?”

Naomi offers Astarion a sideways glance. The vampire offers her wine, straight from the bottle. Tentatively, Naomi reaches for it. Their knuckles brush against each other on the neck. The touch is gentle, and yet it feels like flint to steel the way it lingers, sparking, in her fingertips.

Astarion’s eyes shine like the glass in the firelight as she lifts it to her lips for a swig. 

The wine is sharp at first, and then it smooths to velvet on her tongue. Rich. Red. And--

“Awful, isn’t it?” Astarion mutters critically while she hands it back. “Vinegar for wine is hardly a fair consolation prize for all of our blood, sweat, and carnage. I think you deserve something sweeter, hm? A taste of what you’ve been staring at. Perhaps we both do.”

Astarion’s gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to her neck. She’s sure he can see the flush of it, even in the darkness, even by firelight.

 “A little…levity,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise. “I was right, of course. Those leathers do suit you.”

Naomi swallows, abruptly warm even in such sparse clothing. Astarion’s eyes cut the angle the leather does, down between her breasts, to the lacing at her navel. It would only be one step to close the distance between them, yet, that space weighs her ankles; the notion of moving even an inch feels like wading through waist-high water.

“Yes, I’m tired of it,” she says, eyes peeling back to the party around them. Wistfully, she watches the sway of the bards, their fingers flitting over flute and fiddle. “No, I’m not sure I deserve any different.” She takes a shallow breath, forehead creased, discordant worry whittling in the back of her mind. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something very important.”

“You have, haven’t you?” He says, head tilted. Naomi blinks up at him wordlessly.

“Pleasure, sweet thing,” he shakes his head, pitying. “I could feel it when I was lost in your neck, you know. You’re positively starved for it? Aren’t you?”

Yes, she thinks at once, an ache panging in her chest. Of course I am. She doesn’t--

“You don’t need to say anything. I already know how you feel,” Astarion rasps, daring the inch closer she couldn’t take herself. His slender hand darts out swift as a dagger. 

Naomi tenses for the touch that doesn't come. His fingertips only ghost over the hairline scar slashed across her nose, tracing its path, but never once grazing it. 

“I know what your last lover left you with,” he says. “And I know better, darling.”

The back of his hand curves down with the column of her neck in a could-be caress. Naomi’s throat bobs, and Astarion’s gaze flits to the motion, fixated. All at once, the fireside is sweltering. 

Intoxicating. The scent of him floods her, crisp and spiced even above the smell of the smoking flames. She hadn’t noticed before, even with her head against his shoulder. But one breath closer, one breath away, and it takes her mind away from anything else.

“I feel it too, you know. This…connection between us,” he says beneath the snap of kindling. 

It feels just as frail, this tentative thread winding them closer. So close, she thinks. He’s so close that, for the first time, she can see his chest is perfectly still without a breath pulled through it.

What might it feel like, to be still for a moment? To lay her ear to his ribs and hear nothing at all? Silence without solitude. Sanctuary without…history.

Pleasure, instead of pain.

He’s so close. He’s so hungry, with the wolfish gleam in his eye, and the edge of fangs in his smirk. But it can’t be a tether he longs for. 

“What do you want Astarion?”

His brow twitches before it settles again. “You know,” he purrs, “I’ve been very good, too. Playing the hero of all things. Hmph.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her snicker sours his expression to a scowl.

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?”

Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s.

But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone.

“You mean sex,” she says, his slow-spreading smile a mirror of her own.

“The kind you’ll never forget,” Astarion drawls, voice gaining gravel again. “We could steal away once the others are asleep. Take the night for ourselves and forget all this madness. I know where we can find our own little piece of nowhere.”

Astarion’s eyes are crimson as the wine he hands her. His fingers curl cool, around hers, as she takes his offering a second time. The sip tingles on her tongue, brimming with promise.

The vampire wets his lips. “So what do you say, lover?”

Damp grass tamps down beneath her feet. Naomi shivers, free of the fireside’s warmth, and -- she confirms with one last glance over her shoulder -- free from prying eyes. The night’s crisp, cool, and quiet but for the dull croak of creatures who call the brush their home.

Between the bottle brush pines, she glimpses a sky alive with simmering stars. It’s beautiful. Resplendent. She could stare at those heavens for hours, neck craned upward, her chin in her hands.

Naomi comes to the crest of a small incline. The forest thins. There, across tall grasses, leaned lithe against a tree, she sees him. When she blinks again, the moon, the stars, and the faint blush of the astral sea seeping from beyond are all dull, faded things.

“There you are,” Astarion’s whisper is coarse. He presses from the tree. Naomi can’t quell the hitch in her breath. Moonlight slinks with him, liquid silver cloaked over his bare shoulders.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, closing their distance with long, lazy strides as her own steps cease. “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

Pristine, moon-bleached curls frame his face. She knew she’d find that knowing smirk on his lips. But the heady lust in his eyes is tempered with a softness so different from the silky way he speaks and stares. Like sand through her fingers, it feels so fleeting.

“You've been waiting to use that line,” she says, but the barb lacks any sting. “And besides, I know it was murder on your mind that first time we met. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Briefly, his eyes narrow before his expression smooths to match his tone. “Oh darling, all I wanted to do that night was taste you.”

The spiced scent of him swells with her hammering heartbeat. Naomi’s eyes wander, unbidden, to the curve of his lower lip. The barest tips of his fangs dig into the plush of it.

“I think you want to be tasted,” he says with certainty. “I think one bite wasn’t enough.”

“You could be right,” she whispers back, eyes half-lidded.

Gently, he lifts her chin with a pair of his fingers. “I think the night we met could’ve gone something like this.”

The crush of his lips is velvet; his mouth is soft as it catches hers, rougher as he keeps it. She drifts into the kiss, weightless, lost to the slow, deliberate, inevitable way he coaxes her open.

His hand on her hip is a sudden anchor, his fingertips pressing imprints of sweet pressure. She parts for him readily; her legs shift to accommodate the nimble fingers working her free of her laces, her lips allowing his tongue to soothe the ache he made. 

She thinks of those same skilled hands, working open a lock with an expertise that would have earned anyone else calluses. He always pinches the pick so precisely in his grip, the blue veins in his pale wrists flexing with instinct but only the barest effort. With just as much ease, the leathers crumple at her heels and he bears her to the night. 

Abruptly, he parts from her. Naomi pants, chest heaving. As he steps back, she steps forward out of her clothing piled in the dirt. 

Red eyes rake down her body, burning from her neck to her navel like wine down her throat. He dips with fluid motion, doing away with his trousers before he straightens. Her own gaze flits low as anticipation clenches between her legs. Her teeth catch the inside of her cheek, muffling the noise she knows would only grow the girth of his ego.

There’s so very much of him to anticipate.

Strong arms loop around her waist, ending any distance between them with firm pull. She gives to his grip, catching her breath as the chill panes of his chest press cool against her breasts. When his lips have hers again, and his hands weave reckless though her hair, he casts the cold away entirely. At least, she forgets all about it while he’s tugging her hair loose from its bun, and tugging her lower lip between his teeth.

For a moment, she sways dizzy, eyes shut to the world. He’s her gravity. Astarion hitches her legs over his hips, hard grip buried in her ass, and lifts her, spinning her round. 

Her back scrapes rough against the tree bark. It’ll sting in the morning. But his tongue teases at the roof of her mouth and all she can think now is more, more, more.

More of that pleased sound rumbling low in the back of his throat as her hands clutch the nape of his neck. More of that blissful mouth she gasps against. More of his skin smoothing like satin over hers. More of the taste of him taking her mind and emptying it of all else.

Naomi’s fingernails drag tender against his scalp, silver curls threading through her fingers. Astarion tilts his head back into the touch. She takes the opportunity to graze them down the delicate edges of his ears, too, satisfaction stoked by the sound of his ragged snicker.

“Good girl.”

He mutters the praise feather-faint on the heat of her tongue. Any purchase she had falters to the needy, tightening coil of want drawn suddenly taut inside her. As if he said the words to the lips between her thighs instead of those he claims with his own.

Her legs quiver when her feet find the dirt again. Astarion cups her breasts, rolling a pebbled nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Naomi groans into his open-mouthed kisses, into the exquisite, electric pleasure he plies from her tits. Her heels drag back into the soil, but it's her own needy noises that ground her.

Until the rigid length of him, the only warmth he has, grinds against the meat of her thigh, and her mind blanks but for the answering ache inside her cunt. 

Her footing wavers. She stumbles forward, shoving firm against his hips. Abruptly, Astarion’s eyes fly wide. She smears a kiss and a stifled breath against his collarbone. Then, his grip tightens, and they’re falling together, down into the dirt.

Astarion breaks her landing with a dull huff. Her own snickering snaps the quiet like twigs underfoot. It can’t be helped. And she can’t help but bask in that dazed look he wears as he watches her, laughter and moonlight gleaming in his eyes without a trace of reproach. 

She’s got a perfect view of that gorgeous face, so she can see what it does to that self-assured smirk of his when her trailing hand reaches its destination. Naomi shifts, straddling his thighs, one palm painting over the lean spread of his chest. The other smooths up the side of his leg until she comes to the crux of what she longs for, the inspiration for all the slickness she has waiting for him. Her fingers wrap lithe around his shaft and stroke.

Astarion shudders out a breathy, contented sigh.“I was right about you,” he pants, head lolling back against the ground while his hungry eyes roam her body.

“What’s that?” Naomi asks, her voice saccharine as she tilts her head, the twist of her wrist anything but innocent.

“You are stunning in silver.”

She follows his gaze, turning her attention downward to the curve of her tits, rising with the shape of her own breath in her lungs. Past her collarbone, her dense freckles thin out over the pale twilight shade of her skin, like stars dissolving in daylight. Her lilac-gray pigment fades, too, into ethereal blue by the light of the moon. Every inch of her is alive with it. Even her hair, falling loose and tousled over her shoulders, takes on the shimmer of fresh snowfall.

She swallows, the motion rippling through the flat of her stomach. Last night, Astarion said the daylight suited her. She replied in kind. But tonight, she said to him, you don’t have to pretend with me, and she meant it. He didn’t say it back. Maybe he meant it, anyway. He watches her so intently, now.

Tonight, he says she’s stunning. Tonight, beneath her, he tells the truth. If only for a little while. The daylight suits them fine enough, but they're creatures of the night, the pair of them.

Her breath snags as he sits suddenly upright. The motion shifts her, too. She’s still spread over his lap, but her grip is gone. A cunning smile curls on his mouth. Firm hands press against the small of her back, pulling her flush against the hard ridge of his cock. Every slow rock of his hips sends pleasure stuttering through her stomach. Every thrust across her cunt has him more and more slicked with her.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. He draws a hand through her hair, tugging back with a gentle hold. Nonsensical noise tumbles from her mouth. Her pulse pangs in her throat, bared to his lips.

“And you’re so very eager,” he says, the words tingling against her neck. “Aren’t you?”

She braces for the bite, for the piercing pain that will yield to delectable numbness in a moment’s time. But there’s no trace of his teeth. Instead, his mouth merely drags delicately along the path of his favorite vein, throbbing just beneath the surface of her skin.

“I’m not the only eager one, it seems,” she says in a husk of what her voice used to be.

“Mm,” Astarion rumbles in reply, “we’ve both waited long enough.”

He pushes hard against her shoulders. Naomi’s back thumps against the gritty dirt. Astarion is smooth marble as he crawls across her, knees bracketing her own. On instinct, her hips lift, straining towards his hardened cock looming, glistening, above her cunt. 

He chides her with a click of his tongue. A forceful palm pins her back down beneath him. But her punishment is short-lived. He threads a hand between them, licks his lips, and dips just one finger between her slick folds.

Breath stammers from her lungs. Astarion circles her clit like circling prey. The black look in his eyes is calculated, distant, and pierces straight through her. Like he hardly sees her at all --  only the dirt beneath her body, the ground he could fuck her into, the little deaths he could bury her with. His wrist flexes with the arch in her back. He buries his soaked finger inside her heat. 

And just like that, he has her curled around it. Naomi’s not sure what language keeps leaving her tongue. It’s known to no one but the two of them. It’s filthy as the wet, clicking rhythm of him playing with her cunt. 

He blinks, brow knitting briefly, and the set of his jaw seems to ease. She catches the flash of his fanged smirk behind her slitted lids before he leans forward and laps at her trembling tits. Naomi’s eyes shut tight as the whole of her squeezes with touch of his tongue against her pert nipple. Her cunt clings, needy, around his finger, but she doesn’t have to beg; he slips in a second, granting her that perfect stretch she so desperately seeks.

“Gods--”

The seal of his mouth breaks abruptly with a lewd pop. Naomi jerks from the ground, bucking to the sharp but fleeting reproach of his fangs against her swollen nipple. He leans higher, nosing at the crook of her neck. His breath sends a shiver across her skin as a low growl seeps between his teeth. 

“The gods aren’t the ones giving you this.”

His knuckles crook inside her cunt, and like she’s any other lock, Naomi’s lips open at his whim.

“Ah--Astar--star--”

“Better,” he snickers darkly, “as in ‘surely you can do better’.”

Somewhere in the feverish flurry of her thoughts, she feels a swell of victory, knowing her critique of his charms left such an imprint on him. A second later, he kills her breathless laughter, swiping his tongue against the slanted edge of her ear. Naomi chokes around the sweetest shudder. It’s his name she mangles in her mouth as she comes hard and sudden, spasming around the pair of fingers he used to turn her to putty in his hands.

Astarion eases back, sitting up on his knees and giving her room to prop her chest with her arms. The look in his eyes is a predatory one as he rubs his cunt-slicked fingers across his lips. A long, steaming sigh leaks out of him.

“My bittersweet treat,”  he drawls, “you’re so very flushed for me.”

“Can’t I treat you, too?” Naomi asks, lashes low as she leans her head to the side, an open invitation to her open neck. Her fingertips trail over the stretch of it, skimming the flare of her collarbone down to the swell of her breast and teasing at the nipple he’d toyed with before.

Surprise floods his face, stoking the grin on hers. It’s too perfect. He’s too perfect. His carefully coiffed hair is riled into picturesque disarray, his eyes rounded wide. He recovers in a blink, grasping her thigh, angling her ankle over his shoulder, and pulling her tightly to him.

“You generous little thing,” he croons, his mouth descending down her leg. He drops to his forearms, sucking a path of fervent kisses along the tender flesh of her inner thigh. “But I’ve only just started, darling,” he pants, his breath furling across her cunt. 

His tongue dips through her folds, mapping the heat of her with languid, deliberate strokes. Like he means to take the spread of her in his mind as much as his mouth. Commit her to muscle memory in the same manner his long, elegant fingers can nock a new arrow without a glance at his hands.

And she thinks, with a cry breaking like glass in her throat, he could have her in pieces just as easily.

The vampire’s yet to let his teeth sink in. Every drop of blood Naomi came to the woods with stays within her veins. But Astarion doesn’t need his fangs to have her in a boneless puddle beneath him; his lips alone have that managed. 

He devours her all the same, drinking in her writhing whimpers as he slips a finger inside again, groaning his approval as she takes another and clenches tightly around him. Sweat flares across her forehead with the forceful fit of her orgasm thrumming through her cunt. 

She chases after her breath, awash in Astarion’s embrace, in the sprinting thunder of her own heartbeat slamming his ribs while he climbs back over her. He strokes away the hair plastered to her cheek, and a lightweight, dizzy feeling flutters in her chest.

Realization snaps with her pulse, the back of her mouth growing suddenly dry. There’s no answering echo pounding back beneath his skin. His heart is silent, his chest cool and soothing to the touch. 

He’s quiet. Not the lonely kind of silence. But a deeper, richer shade of it. The kind of quiet that eases whatever wayward, nuisance of a noise that lurked in the back of her head. She hadn’t even known it was there until she’d known its absence. Until Astarion laid bare against her body, and she heard nothing at all inside his chest.

 It’s…nice.

“Are you still with me, darling?” The vampire searches her face, eyes narrowed by the barest hair, his curls aglow in a moonlit halo.

“Y-yes.”

“But don’t you look dazed,” he muses, putting on a pout that’s all for show. “If you still want me inside of you, you’ll have to say so, lover.”

“I do. Want it,” she answers at once, sparking a keen glint in his eye. She swallows, downing the hoarseness in her throat.

“Then say the words,” he coaxes, hovering taut above her.

Naomi tilts her head back, a sultry smile hanging slack from her swollen lips. “I want you inside me, Astarion. And I want you to have your fill of me while you’re filling me.”

His gaze dulls over, drifting down to her throat, his pupils blown wide. His voice is rich and dark as he whispers roughly, “So be it, my sweet.”

He seals the vow with a chaste kiss and the slow roll of his hips. The head of his cock nudges, warm and thick against her entrance. Instinct and anticipation have her cunt gripping around a panging nothingness. His fangs graze the pattering pulse-point in her neck. 

Naomi doesn’t know she’s held her breath until Astarion sinks into her with cock and fangs both. The exhale bleeds from her body in a heady rush.

“Isn’t that better?” He growls against her ear, the tang of her blood and sex mingling on his breath and in her nose.

Dimly, she’s aware of the prickling punctures in her neck. But then, his mouth soothes them again, sucking with a hard fervor, and she melts into the blend of his cock smacking wet against her cunt. 

Into the blend of blood and sex and sweat that takes her like a tide. Into the crash of lips and hips that has her writhing, riding on a climbing crest of pleasure. Every prod of his cock against that perfect place deep within her cunt drowns her in permeating bliss.

She could fade into that feeling entirely; dissolve into nothing but the crash of her own breath and the length of him wrapped within her. Just when she thinks she might, Astarion peels from her throat. He kisses her with groaned urgency, pulling a moan from her mouth into his. 

She comes apart that way, sealed with him, with a hard, lightning tremor shooting from her cunt through her chest. Astarion grunts, his teeth catching her lip with a sting that sends sparks simmering down through her toes. Her cunt convulses, wringing his cock through his frantic, shuddering thrusts.

Astarion parts from her mouth, face scrunched. He pours into her with a ragged groan. Absently, she strokes the dangling curls from his face, watching, rapt, as his brow trembles with the rest of him.

And then he pours from her, his body spilling into the dirt beside her, his cum seeping from her throbbing cunt. 

Cool, lonely air licks the sweat from her skin. Naomi shivers. 

Then she flinches; a flurry of fabric drops over her in a dark shadow. Gingerly, she takes the blanket, eying the swirling, pristine pattern of the stitching. It’s not the same as the one she woke up with this morning.

Astarion lies on his back next to her, still and silver as a statue.

“We can’t have you cold,” he murmurs faintly, as if miles away, “now, can we?”

A/N: THEY FINALLY FUCKED!! WOO HOO! Naomi: He's not even that good at flirting lol but it is entertaining.

Naomi five minutes later: It would be real stupid of me to think he means any of this lol we're totally just having fun it's casual

Naomi ten minutes later: Where's the cuddles though 🫠 Super excited to share Underdark happenings, lots more Naomi lore, and some Astarion POV about what just happened here next chapter! Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics. *Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @mancsunite, @marlowethebard,

@ayselluna, @wingsy-keeper-of-songs, @vixstarria

*I'm sorry if I missed you, I'm new this tag list thing! Lmk if you want to be added!

[randomwelcomehomestuff]

Unfinished Business: a Welcome Home Corpse Puppet AU fanfiction

A/N: Just here to let you know that I'm not creative. Like, at all. This is a fanfic of a fanfic inspired by a fan-made AU of a completely unrelated work, but I couldn't get it out of my head so maybe now my brain will be at peace so I can work on my original story (or it will come up with fifty other fanfic ideas because that's more fun than editing).

Anyway, Welcome Home belongs to Clown/partycoffin, the Corpse Puppet AU belongs to @sketchquill, and the fanfic this is based on is a Corpse Bride/Nightmare Before Christmas crossover fic called The Undead Groom by moviefan_92 on Ao3.

Spoiler Alert for all of that media, plus a little for the novel The Pumpkin Queen just because there's a reference here and there, but not too much.

Also C/W: There's a lot of major character death in here.

I may add more to it later if inspiration strikes. Let me know in the comments if you are interested in that.

Okay, I'll shut up, now. Here's the fic.

The carriage jostled down the muddy dirt road. You wrung the handkerchief in your hands as you gazed out the window at the grey sky, occasionally distracted by the raindrops trailing down the glass. Try as you might, you just couldn't cry. You wanted to, but no tears would come.

At least the dreary weather was appropriate for a funeral.

Howdy was watching you. He wasn't one to judge his spouse's appearance, but he did decide that funeral black did not suit you particularly well. Not when he'd seen you in so many other bright, cheerful colors, when you had been happy. When you were like this—mourning—the sparkle in your eyes was gone. He thought you were beautiful when you were happy, somehow still hauntingly so when you were sad, but he would be lying if he said he didn't prefer seeing you smile or laugh.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “I know you and Eddie were close.”

You sighed. “I'll be fine. This isn't my first time dealing with grief.”

Yes, Howdy knew that all too well. The first several days of your marriage had been more awkward than they probably should have been for... obvious reasons. Any time he caught you staring despondently out the window, he knew deep down that you were thinking of Wally.

That didn't have a negative impact on your marriage, though. You were strong and optimistic, and Howdy shared many happy memories with you. You taught him how to play piano, and he in turn taught you how to garden. You even started a small orchard together. Howdy couldn't think of many more signs of a happy home than the smell of apple blossoms in the garden and hallways filled with the sounds of music and laughter. You were comfortable, and your fortunes were secure, (that was the most important thing to both of your parents, and neither of you could ask for much more than your parents' satisfaction).

Most of all, you and Howdy loved each other. Howdy had accepted long ago that yours was a love built off of friendship and mutual respect rather than romance, but it was enough for him, (considering what he grew up witnessing from his parents, he counted that as the greatest success of them all). You recently celebrated your copper anniversary, which baffled Howdy. How could seven years fly by so quickly? Thinking back on everything, he knew that he was completely satisfied with where his life was, as long as you were by his side and happy.

Which is why he hated to see you so sad. He wouldn't rush you through your grief, but he could at least help lighten the load. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.

You looked down at the handkerchief in your hands, wadded up beyond recognition, but still as dry as it was when Howdy handed it to you. You smoothed it out over your lap and stared at Howdy's initials embroidered in green in the corner.

Howdy watched you, patient. A deep rumble of thunder rolled through the sky outside.

“I just... hate how somber it was,” you said.

“Funerals typically are.”

“I know, but Eddie wouldn't have wanted that. He was so much more cheerful and... and colorful than that. He'd want people telling funny stories about him and celebrating his life, not... just standing in silence while the dirt is thrown over his casket.” Your shoulders stiffened. “I should have said something.” Now you could feel the tears building up, but they simply would not come. I should be crying. Why am I not crying?

Howdy leaned forward and took your hand, and you finally looked into his eyes. He was smiling. “He's in a better place, now.”

You smiled at that. Seven years ago, those words would have felt like a hollow attempt at consolation, but now they were a real comfort. Howdy was there when the dead came up to the Land of the Living. He witnessed Eddie and Frank briefly reunite. Now they would never be separated again, and he knew it as well as you did.

Perhaps that was why you couldn't cry: you knew that good things were waiting for Eddie on the other side.

The tears finally spilled over and rolled down your cheeks, but they were not tears of sorrow. You were happy.

Howdy used two of his free hands to cup your face. His smile was soft and understanding as he thumbed away your tears. You stood and shifted over to the seat across from you so you could sit beside him, and his four arms wrapped you up into a tight hug. He pressed a kiss into the top of your head, like he had so many times before. “Everything will be alright,” he whispered.

“I know,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

Lightning flashed outside, followed by a loud clap of thunder. You gripped at Howdy's coat as he leaned forward to look out the window. “That storm is getting much worse.”

“Should we stop somewhere?” you asked.

He nodded. “Most likely.” He reached up to knock on the ceiling of the coach. “Johnson? How are the roads looking?” he called.

Johnson, the driver, shouted something back to Howdy, but his voice was drowned out by a deafening crash. A blinding white light flooded the carriage and the horses whinnied outside in terror. You tried to lean forward to look out the window, but the horses bolted and the momentum sent you crashing to the floor of the coach. You could hear Johnson yelling. Howdy grabbed your arm and tried to haul you back into the seat, but when you looked out the window, what you saw made you freeze.

Lightning had struck a nearby tree. It was on fire. Johnson seemed to have lost the reins, because you could see them flapping in the wind by the window. Howdy was calling your name. Johnson was screaming at the horses to stop.

The carriage was passing the flaming tree right as it started to crackle and groan.

You jumped back into the seat and grabbed Howdy. One of his hands grasped the back of your head and his body tensed around you as if he was bracing himself.

It only took a few seconds—three at most—but it felt like an eternity.

Wood splintered around you as the carriage shattered. A heavy weight came down on you and Howdy, and for a brief, macabre moment, you were amazed by how fragile your bodies really were.

Then everything went black.

There was nothing but darkness for a long time. You tried to move, tried to call out for Howdy, but nothing happened. You were just... nothing.

That thought scared you. There was so much more than that. Light. Color. Noises and smells. Life. You couldn't be nothing, that just wasn't possible. You had memories and goals. You had a spouse and a family. You had an estate to attend to you. You couldn't just... not be.

Panic twisted your stomach into knots, clawed its way up your throat, and came out of your mouth as a scream: “Help! Help me!”

“Alright, alright! Calm down!”

You stopped. That voice sounded familiar, but you couldn't quite put your finger on who it was.

Then you heard another, timid voice. “Is it always like this?”

That one you did recognize, because you had just heard it a few days ago. It was Eddie. Your instinct was to gasp, but you couldn't. I can't breathe. Oh, God, I can't breathe.

The first voice spoke again: “Often, yes. It all depends on the person and how at peace they are.”

There was a shuffling nearby. It was odd, despite the panic coursing through you, your body was strangely... calm. You expected your heart to be thumping fast and heavy in your ears and for your palms to be sweaty, but there was nothing.

The space above you shifted with a low creak and light stabbed your eyes. You flinched, blinked, then stared at the two faces above you blurring into focus.

Eddie and Frank were leaned over, looking down at you. They both offered you sad, soft smiles.

Your neck was stiff as you looked around. Your were laying in some sort of bed. It wasn't comfortable; even though it was all silk, there was no cushion, and the pillow at your head was much too small. Your mind was sluggish like you had just woken from a long nap. You had to blink several times and crane your neck to the left before you realized that Frank was holding open a lid.

You were in a casket.

Your tongue felt like cement in your mouth as you stammered, “Am... am I d-dead?”

Eddie gave you a pitying look. “Oh, Y/N.”

“Come on,” Frank said, “the sooner you get on your feet, the better you'll feel.” He and Eddie grabbed you under your arms and hoisted you out of the casket, which was sitting on a table. They helped you find your footing and Frank instructed you through some stretches to shake off the rigor mortis. You took a moment to look around.

You were in a sort of cavern, full of other caskets sitting on tables. Some looked new, others old and decayed.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“The Land of the Dead. Specifically, an offshoot of our village, just below the graveyard where you were buried,” Frank said.

You felt dizzy. “So... the crash... I didn't make it.”

Eddie put his hand on your shoulder. “No one made it except the driver. When the tree fell, he got thrown off, but he survived. Poor man blames himself for what happened. Thinks he should have kept better hold of the reins or suggested you leave sooner to avoid the storm.” He squeezed your shoulder. “They say you and Howdy died in each other's arms.”

“Howdy...” Your stomach was churning and you wondered if you could still get sick even if you were dead.

Eddie nodded. “Frank had to break a couple of rules, but we went to the Land of the Living to see your funeral—”

“From a safe distance, of course,” Frank interrupted.

“Of course. Your parents spared no expense. They got you a big, beautiful gravestone and there were flowers everywhere. You and Howdy were buried next to each other in the outfits you got married in.”

You glanced down at yourself for the first time and realized he was right, you were wearing the outfit your mother had picked out for your wedding, complete with your wedding band on your left hand.

Not only that, but you were also wearing the other wedding band on your right hand. Wally's wedding band. It was the same ring Wally had worn all those years ago, after you had practiced your vows in the woods. You ended up keeping it for myself since Howdy's mother insisted that you purchase new rings for your next attempt at getting married, (”I'll have no cursed rings at this ceremony,” she said). You could never bring yourself to get rid of it, though, and eventually fell into the habit of wearing it on your right hand while you wore your actual wedding ring on your left.

You were surprised that you had been buried with it, considering everything. Perhaps your family decided that since you wore it all the time, it held sentimental value to you and you'd want to keep it. Or, you shuddered to consider this, your hands were too swollen to get it off.

You shook those thoughts away and looked back to Eddie. “Where is Howdy?” you asked. “If he was buried next to me, shouldn't he be here?”

Frank and Eddie exchanged a glance. “We aren't sure where he is,” Eddie said.

“We've been keeping an eye out for him, but we think he's gone to the upstairs,” Frank added.

“The upstairs?”

“Heaven, Paradise, Nirvana, whatever you call it. You can go to whatever version of the afterlife you choose once you pass on. Unless you're someone like Julie.” They frowned. “Someone like that who has caused suffering for others doesn't get a choice. She's downstairs.”

“So, if there's an upstairs and a downstairs, where are we? The ground floor?”

Frank's mouth twitched into a smile. “Something like that. The people who end up here usually either can't make up their mind where they want to go or have unfinished business. You could join Howdy upstairs, if you wanted.”

You considered this, but the idea made your head spin. Where exactly did Howdy go, and how would you go about joining him?

Frank nodded to a nearby hallway. “We can talk more about this, later. Come on, the others are waiting to see you.”

The others. You perked up a bit remembering them. Sally, Poppy, Barnaby, even your old dog, Scraps. You followed Frank out of the cavern, and Eddie fell into step beside you, whistling a cheery tune as you walked.

The bells were already ringing by the time you reached the village, and as you got closer to the old tavern you could hear a chorus of voices all calling out, “New arrival! New arrival!”

Eddie chuckled beside you. “Poppy is up to her ears in cooking. They just had a Welcome Feast for me the other day.”

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was too dry. God, Eddie's, funeral was just the other day, and now here you were. You weren't sure if you could take part in any kind of feast; your mind was still reeling from everything that had happened.

You entered the tavern and were immediately greeted by Sally, the tragic Shakespearean actor, who gripped your hand and was roughly shaking it as soon as you stepped through the door. “Well, it's about time you showed up!” she said.

“Easy, Sally. Y/N is still adjusting,” Frank said as they came in beside you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sally said as she tugged you across the room and sat you down at a bar. “So how'd it happen?”

You cleared your throat. “Um. A carriage accident.”

She whistled. “Wow, that's a rough way to go. Do you remember any of it?”

“Not really. I got knocked out pretty quickly.”

There was a loud thud beside you as a familiar, tall blue dog plopped down in the seat on your other side. “Welp, that's good at least,” Barnaby said as he handed you a frothing mug of beer.

“Sure is. Not remembering violent deaths makes the transition a little easier.”

Barnaby leaned over, his eyeball rolling into his right socket, and peered at you. “And judging by all the schmutz on your face, I'm guessing it wasn't a pretty sight.”

“Schmutz?” You gently touched your face and realized that you had a very thick layer of makeup on.

“Oh yeah! We need to get that off you right away. It looks awful.” Sally stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Poppyyyyyy! I need a mirrooooooooor!”

“One moment, please!” a high-pitched, crow-like voice squawked from the kitchen. “Goodness me, I'm going to start molting again from all these feasts.” Poppy walked into the space behind the bar, wiping her wings on her apron, and she looked up at you. “Oh, my dear Y/N. I heard the rumors, but I didn't know if they were true. I'm so sorry.”

You couldn't help but smile at Poppy, remembering the way she comforted you when you first came here and were scared out of your wits. “I'm fine. It's good to see you again.”

She smiled back at you before digging through her apron pocket. “Let's see, I think I have a mirror in here, somewhere. Ah!” She withdrew a tiny hand mirror and handed it to you. “Please don't be insulted, but whoever did your funeral makeup certainly did you a disservice.”

You looked into the mirror and blanched when you realized that they were right. The makeup didn't match your skin tone and made you look horribly discolored, and they seemed to try and make up for that by applying huge splotches of rouge to your cheeks and lips. You grimaced at your reflection.

“Uh huh. Here,” Sally said while handing you a rag.

You went to work cleaning up your face and neck, scrubbing the makeup away. You froze when you glanced at your reflection again and noticed just how much you had changed. Your skin had taken on a bluish tint, and you had massive stitches across your neck and down your right temple. You gently prodded at your temple and flinched when a fraction of your skull shifted under your touch. No, the accident wasn't pretty at all.

Sally noticed this and took the rag and mirror from you. “Here, I'll finish,” she said.

“You'll get used to it,” Barnaby said as Sally got to work. “Imagine how Poppy was when she first got here and saw that half of her face was missing.”

Sally finished and nodded with satisfaction. “There. Now you look like one of us!”

“The stitches are a nice touch, too. Makes you look like a pirate,” Barnaby said.

Sally gasped. “Oooo. We could do a production of The Pirates of Penzance! Are you a good singer?”

“Me? Well, uh—”

Barnaby laughed then stood up. “Care if I go ahead and audition?” He started singing “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” before anyone could protest, going out of his way to use a silly voice and make larger-than-life funny gestures.

Eddie took Barnaby's seat beside you and helped himself to the drink that Poppy put down in front of him. “So, what do you think you're going to do now?”

You pondered this for a moment. “I'm not sure. What can I do?”

“Whatever you want, really. You could move on to another afterlife upstairs, or you could stay here. Take care of whatever unfinished business you have.”

You shrugged. “I guess that's why I'm here, huh? I just can't make up my mind?”

Poppy leaned against the bar and giggled. “Oh, no. I think you do have unfinished business.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

Sally's attention was brought back to you and she propped her elbows on the bar, giving you a sly smile. “Oh, yeah. And I bet we all know what it is.”

“I'm confused,” you said.

“Oh, come on. Do we really need to spell it out for you?” she said with a groan. “How about the guy you almost drank poison for?”

Your eyes widened. “Wally?”

Sally and Poppy both nodded. Barnaby gave up on his performance when he realized no one was watching him juggle three empty beer mugs and approached you again. “Sounds about right,” he said.

“But that's not possible. Wally, he... he's gone. I saw him disappear.”

Frank approached you from behind and placed their hand on your shoulder. “He's not gone. Souls don't just disappear like that.”

“Yeah, and he visited us a couple of weeks ago,” Barnaby added.

You felt something deep within you—your heart, maybe? even though it wasn't beating anymore?—jump up at the revelation. “Where is he? Upstairs?”

“Nah, I think Poppy would have let us know if he was living in the attic.” Barnaby laughed when Frank gave him a sharp glare.

“Not precisely. Last I heard, he's residing in another in-between kind of place. It's a little bit harder to get there since it's separate from our world, but he's figured it out well enough that he still visits us from time to time,” Frank said.

Your throat clenched like a fist and your eyes were stinging. You pressed your hands against your mouth and sniffled.

Poppy grinned. “I knew it.”

“Please. We all knew it,” Sally said.

“How do I find him?” you said.

Frank put a hand to his chin. “Well, he told me that there are a couple of ways to get there, but for most of them you have to know what you're looking for. I haven't been able to go there, myself, so I won't be very much help, there.” They tapped his jaw and hummed a bit in thought. “I suppose I could give you the spell I gave Wally before. It's a bit of a gamble, but I'm sure it won't be much of a problem for you. It's a spell to help you find your heart's desire. I gave it to him when he first got here in case he ever changed his mind about that unfinished business of his, and he kept it with him for years. Didn't use it until that day in the Land of the Living.”

You remembered that moment vividly, when you watched as Wally's body dissolved into hundreds of blue and grey butterflies. “That was a spell? I thought he was gone.”

Frank shook his head. “I think once he decided that he was satisfied, he needed something to help him move on. He's happy where he is now, if not a little lonely.”

You hugged yourself. You had never considered the possibility of seeing Wally again, and now that you were told that it was possible, your heart seemed to sing at the idea. But something was holding you back.

“What about Howdy?”

Frank sighed. “I can't help you with that. I'm afraid that's a decision you'll have to make on your own.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Eddie said, “you're not limited to one place. You can visit each afterlife whenever you want. I visited my parents in the upstairs the other day, but I'm staying here to be with Frank.” As he said this, he took Frank's hand and gave them a sweet smile. “So, uh, if you want to see Howdy again, you can. But you don't have to stay anywhere. You're free to do what you want.”

That seemed to loosen some of the tension in your chest. You took a deep breath and let your heart take over. “Okay. How do I use that spell?”

Frank smiled. “We'll need to get some things out of my office.”

You stood and followed Frank out the door. Sally whooped behind you, “Woo hoo! Lover boy's getting his partner back!”

“We'll have that Welcome Feast another time, alright?” Poppy called.

Barnaby just hummed to himself, considering adding another verse to “Remains of the Day” so that the story would have a happy ending, after all. Then again, he'd probably have to sacrifice the catchy instrumental part in the middle so the song wasn't too long, and he wasn't willing to do that.

You and Eddie stood in silence as you watched Frank dig through his various supplies. He scrutinized their spell book as he carefully measured and combined the ingredients. When they were finished, he handed you a small capsule the size of a marble.

“This is it?” you asked.

He nodded. “It looks unassuming, but it is a very powerful spell. All you have to do is crush it in your hand and you'll be sent to wherever your heart's desire is. Though, you may need to try and focus on one thing, or else you may get sent to the wrong place.”

“But don't worry. If you get lost, just find a graveyard and enter a crypt to go underground, and you'll find a village associated with that grave yard. You should be able to find your way back from there,” Eddie said.

You nodded, staring at the capsule in the palm of your hand.

Without warning, Eddie pulled you into a hug. “Take care of yourself, okay, bud? And you'd better visit us all the time, or I'll come find you, myself.”

You smiled and leaned into his hug. “I will. I promise.”

Frank sniffed and cleared their throat, trying to hide the fact that you reminded him of themselves when he was young and fell in love with Eddie for the first time. “Alright, go on before Eddie decides to make you stay here.”

You turned to Frank and gave him a hug, too. “Thank you,” you whispered.

They awkwardly patted your back. “Of course.” He led you out to his balcony that overlooked the village. “I will warn you, it may be a bit of a bumpy ride.”

You walked to the edge of the balcony, looked back over your shoulder at them as Eddie put his arm around Frank. You took a deep breath—just out of habit at this point, and it was an odd sensation to feel your lungs stretch for the first time in a while—then turned your face up. You closed your eyes and pictured Wally, wherever he was, then you squeezed your right hand until the capsule burst and a fine powder spilled out between your fingers.

Nothing happened, at first. You opened your eyes again and looked down, wondering if you'd done something wrong.

But then you felt another strange sensation: an unraveling, like your body was falling away from you. A gust of wind swirled around you, your feet and the tips of your fingers tingled, and your body transformed into hundreds of butterflies.

Just like Wally.

Normally, you would have been frightened. You weren't. Your heart jumped up in your throat with excitement. You almost laughed, but your face and mouth had been transformed by then.

You were jumbling, fluttering, riding on the wind current, spread out in a great cloud of delicate wings. You tumbled through the air, trying and failing to grasp what was happening and where you were going. The world flew past you in a blur. You felt free.

You jolted when your feet suddenly met solid ground. You blinked, held your hands out in front of you and found them whole again.

You were in a circular clearing in the middle of a grove of trees. You spun around in a circle, taking in your surroundings. The trees were all tall and dark, and each tree on the edge of this clearing had a door carved into it. A four-leaf clover, a big red heart, a Christmas tree? An Easter egg? These were all symbols associated with holidays.

“Oh!” a quiet voice sounded behind you. You turned to face them and stared, slack-jawed, at the person who met you. She was a tall, slender woman standing at the edge of the grove. Her skin was made of a blue fabric and she had long, red hair and wore a colorful, patchwork dress. A small basked was hanging from the crook of her arm, stuffed with sprigs of lavender. Her round, glassy, babydoll eyes blinked at you. She smiled and dipped her head down. “I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to find anyone else here.”

You struggled to find your words as you were still wrapping your head around the concept that a giant rag doll was talking to you. This was all a lot for you to take in one day. You coughed and said, “No, I'm sorry. I'm just... looking for someone.”

The woman tilted her head. “Is that so? Who are you looking for?”

“A man named Wally Darling. He's a...” You hesitated, unsure how foreign this would be to her.

But she finished the sentence for you. “A corpse? Like you?”

You smiled bashfully. “Yes.”

The woman grinned even bigger. “Then it's a good thing I found you. He's from the same town as me.”

That jolt of excitement shot through you again. It seemed like the spell that Frank made for you worked like a charm. “Really? Can you take me there?”

“Of course.” She walked up to you, her stride small and with a noticeable limp, thought she didn't seem to be in pain. She held out her hand. “My name is Sally, by the way,” she said.

Another Sally, you thought. You shook her hand and introduced yourself. She nodded, then motioned to the side toward a tree with a door shaped like a jack-o-lantern in it. “We'll be heading to Halloween Town. This is the fastest way there,” she continued. She limped to the tree, turned the knob that was disguised as the jack-o-lantern's nose, and the door swung outward. You cautiously approached it and looked down into the hollow tree. There was nothing but darkness, and the door opened to a steep drop-off that you couldn't see the bottom of.

“I find it easiest to just close my eyes and jump,” she said. “I know it can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but I promise, it's perfectly safe. My husband and I come through here all the time.”

You swallowed, grabbed hold of the doorway, and shut your eyes. A gentle breeze blew through, carrying the comforting scent of fallen leaves and caramel apples. A smile crept onto your face, and you pulled yourself through the doorway and jumped.

There was only a second of free fall before you landed smartly on your rear end in a giant pile of leaves. You grunted and clambered to your feet.

Sally appeared beside you. “Are you alright? That happens a lot for first-timers.”

You straightened up and said, “Yeah, I'm fine. Not like I can get much worse.”

She giggled at that and motioned for you to follow her. You walked together down a dirt path that cut through the woods and she asked you about where you came from and how you got here. She was a good listener as you told her everything.

“How do you know Wally?” she asked.

“We, um...” Your face heated up and you found yourself fiddling with the band on your right hand. “It's a long story. Let's just say we're... old friends.”

“I see,” she said with a knowing look that made you blush more. But then she looked forward and said, “Here we are.”

You both crested a hill and looked down on an archway with “Halloween Town” spelled out in black, iron letters. A large town bustled with activity down below. The architecture was conflictingly made of a combination of twisting, curving lines and jagged, sharp angles, and the citizens seemed to enjoy and monochrome color palette with occasional splashes of bright color. You followed Sally down the path and entered the town.

You had to keep yourself from gawking when you saw the first couple of citizens gathered in the town square: a wolf man dressed in tattered flannel chatting with a bulking man dressed in overalls with an axe stuck in his head. They both gawked at you, though, when you came into a view.

“Look! Queen Sally has brought in someone new!” the wolf man exclaimed with a gravelly voice.

You glanced at her. “Queen Sally?”

She blushed. “Ah, yes, I didn't mention that. I'm the Pumpkin Queen.”

“Oh!” You fumbled and started to bow, but Sally stopped you.

“Please, don't. That's exactly why I don't go around announcing that to everyone. Just treat me like you would anyone else.”

You nodded. “Sorry.”

“And don't apologize, either.” She hooked her arm around yours and said, “Now, let's go find Wally.”

She led you away, but not before you noticed that a trio of women, (witches, you guessed, based on their clothes and pointed hats) had gathered around the wolf man and were whispering conspiratorially.

You hadn't gone far before you stumbled upon two more citizens: a man wearing a long trench coat and tall, thin top hat, and an even taller, thin, and gangly skeleton dressed in a pin-stripped suit with tails on his coat and a bat bowtie. They were both leaned over something on a table.

Sally perked up a bit beside you. “Oh, that's my husband over there. He may know where Wally is.” She waved her free hand and called, “Jack! Jack!”

The skeleton looked up and his face split into a wide, toothy grin. “Sally! Perfect timing! Mr. Hyde and I were just testing out his newest creation. Would you care to see?”

She nodded and walked to the table, where Jack presented her with a large, orange bowl of candy with a small sign taped to the front that read “Just Take One.”

“A seemingly normal bowl, yes? Perfectly welcoming to trick-or-treaters.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“Go and take a piece. Just one.”

Sally did as he said a delicately picked up a wrapped piece of butterscotch. She waited a moment, then raised a brow at him. “Is that all?”

“Precisely, because you were good and only took one. Now, pretend you are a greedy trick-or-treater and try to grab a handful.”

Sally nodded and drove her hand into the bowl, grabbing a large handful of candy, when a ghostly hand jumped from within the depths of the bowl and grabbed her wrist. She gasped, startled, then laughed. “What fun!”

Jack clapped Mr. Hyde on the back. “You see? A brilliant idea! I knew you were an excellent choice for the knew town scientist. Well done!”

Mr Hyde chuckled, pleased with himself. “You flatter me, Jack.”

Sally gently tugged at Jack's arm and whispered to him. He looked at you and his eyes lit up. “Oh, my apologies! I was so caught up in my work, I hadn't noticed you there.” He swept into a low bow. “Jack Skellington, Pumpkin King and Co-Representative of Halloween.” He stood upright and draped an arm over Sally's shoulder. “And you've already met my wife and partner, Sally.” He looked you up and down, then beamed. “We don't get very many new faces, but you seem like you'll fit right in, here.”

You cleared your throat and said, “Actually, Mr. uh, Skellington—”

“Please, Jack is fine.”

“Jack,” you corrected, “I'm actually looking for someone. Wally Darling?”

He raised a brow and glanced at Sally, who only smiled up at him. “Your name wouldn't happen to be Y/N, would it?”

Your eyes widened. “Yes. Why?”

“He talks about you all the time. Oh, he'll be over the moon when he sees you!”

You could have sworn that your heart thudded hearing that, but that couldn't have been possible, could it?

Jack tilted his head and hummed. “I just saw him a moment ago. I may know where he is. Follow me!” He let go of Sally and strode away. You glanced at Sally and she nodded to you, urging you forward, then you jogged to follow the skeleton.

Jack led the way down a twisting cobblestone path that led out of the town and into farmland that mostly consisted of pumpkins. He led you through a graveyard and up a steep hill, and his long strides took him up the hill faster than you could keep up with. You couldn't run out of breath, anymore, but that didn't stop your muscles from aching as you hiked after him. As you reached the top of the hill, you could see another hill in the distance that made the shape of a spiral. As you took in the view, your gaze wandered from the massive spiral and down to the bottom where another there was another pumpkin patch.

You froze when you saw him. There was no mistaking him with his blue, patchwork skin and signature hair style. He wasn't wearing the wedding tuxedo anymore; now he donned a simple white shirt and blue striped pants. He was seated at a stool in the middle of the pumpkin patch with an easel in front of him, hard at work on a painting. You would have gasped if you still had breath, and your body moved before you completely comprehended what you were seeing.

Wally.

As you came closer, you could see that he was recreating the view of the spiral hill on his painting. His back was to you, and he hummed quietly as he worked, so deep in thought that he didn't notice you and Jack approaching until Jack called his name.

“Wally! I thought we'd find you here.” Jack leaned over Wally's shoulder and looked at the painting. “Ah, is this my commission? It's coming along swimmingly.”

All you saw was Wally's side profile as he smiled up at Jack. “Thank you. I'm just touching up a few details, right now. It should be finished in a day or so, when it dries.”

“It will be a wonderful anniversary gift. Sally will love it!”

Wally turned back to his painting, and Jack glanced at you like he'd just remembered you were there. “Actually, Wally, I needed to speak to you.”

“Hm?”

“It seems,” Jack said, putting his hand on Wally's shoulder, “that someone is here to see you.”

Wally gave Jack a confused look, then turned.

His eyes widened, and the paintbrush fell from his limp fingers.

Neither of you moved. His eyes trailed up and down your body. He stood, took a few hesitant steps forward, and said, “Y/N?”

You smiled. “Hello, Wally,” you said.

Jack was beaming.

Wally blinked, then shook his head. “I'm dreaming.”

You almost laughed. Your hands were shaking. “No, you're not.”

“I am. You... you can't be here. It's not possible.”

“Wally...”

“I'm going to open my eyes, and you'll be gone.”

You approached him, took his hand, and pressed it against your face. His eyes dilated and his mouth fell open.

“I'm here,” you whispered.

He studied your face, and his fingers trailed down your jaw and to your neck, where they found the stitches. He glanced at them, and his mouth opened wider. “Oh...” His other hand found your neck and he gently traced the stitches. He gently turned your head from side to side as he looked you over like he was just noticing the bluish tint your skin had taken, and his gaze fell on the stitches on your temple. “What happened?”

“A carriage accident.”

He covered his mouth. “Oh, no...”

You took his hand again. “It's alright. I don't remember anything.”

You noticed tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

You cupped his cheek. “Don't be. I'm alright.”

Jack coughed. “I believe you two will be wanting some time alone?” He leaned down and whispered to Wally, “I recommend the top of Spiral Hill. Very romantic spot.” He winked, and Wally started to blush.

“Thank you,” he mumbled before he gripped your hand tightly and led you toward Spiral Hill. You trudged to the top together, hand in hand, and you looked out over the view of the graveyard and pumpkin patch, grey and black with dots of orange.

Wally turned to you and took a tight hold of both your hands. “Tell me everything.”

You didn't speak, because with him holding your hands I noticed something for the first time. When you had met before, when you were still alive, whenever he touched you his skin was always freezing cold. Now it wasn't. You realized it was because we were the same temperature. It made you want to hold him closer.

“I already told you, I was in a carriage accident.”

“No, no. I mean... tell me about your life. What happened after I left?”

“You want me to tell you all of that? Right now?”

He nodded. “We have all the time in the world, now.”

You grinned, and then you did just that. You told him about your marriage to Howdy, the relationship you had formed, the good and bad times, and you told him that during those seven years, you never forgot him. You were afraid that he would be upset or sad when you told him about your marriage, but he seemed to be the contrary.

“I'm glad,” he said. “I was hoping I was making the right decision. It's good to know that you lived a good life after I was gone, even if... even if it was a short one.”

He had looked away, and you gently cupped his cheek so that he would look at you. “The others in the Land of the Dead said that the reason I stayed behind was likely because I had unfinished business. At first, I didn't know what they were talking about, but I think I do, now.” Despite building up to that, you suddenly became bashful and couldn't quite find the words.

Wally touched your hand on his face and leaned into it. “You were looking for me?”

You nodded. “The thing is... I missed y—”

He interrupted you by pressing his lips to yours.

He had only ever kissed you once before, that night on the bridge. You weren't sure if that even counted since you fainted when he did. You remembered being terrified back then, your stomach swirling and your heart thumping so hard and fast you thought you were about to have a heart attack. You remembered how cold his lips were, and how dizzy you were from the fear.

This was different. Obviously, you weren't afraid, now, but it was more than that. It was rushed and passionate, not the formal seal of the vows that Wally had done before. And it was warm. You still felt dizzy, though.

When he pulled away, you stared into each other's eyes for a moment, then you took his shoulders and pulled him back to you for another kiss. Your hand went to the back of his head and your fingers tangled into his soft hair. His hands trailed up and down your back. You gripped each other as if the second one of you let go, you'd be lost forever. You finally pulled away again when you heard the sound of an applause in the distance.

At the top of one of the nearby hills, a small crowd of monsters and ghouls had formed, and they were whooping and cheering. Jack and Sally stood at the center of the crowd, smiling up at you as Sally leaned into Jack's shoulder.

“So much for alone time,” you muttered. You turned back to Wally to see him beaming up at you. His eyes sparkled.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up into a twirl. You yelped in surprise and gripped his shoulders. He laughed heartily as he set you back down, then he leaned his forehead into yours, and for a moment you simply relished in each other's company.

“Thank you,” he said. “I've missed you, too. I know that I was selfish before, but I really am glad that you came to find me.”

You were surprised to feel your heart melting a bit when he said that—it seemed that even if your heart didn't beat anymore, it was still capable of swelling and melting with emotion.

The ring on your right hand glinted in the moonlight. A knot formed in your throat. “I think... I think I know what my unfinished business is, now.”

Wally tilted his head, curious.

You took the ring off your finger and held it up to him. “I want to try again. Properly, this time. Nothing in our way, and no interruptions. I want to give you the wedding you deserve.”

Wally's eyes widened a bit, then he chuckled and shook his head. “It was never just about the wedding, you know. I wanted true love. A happy ending.”

“Exactly,” you said. “I want to give you that. A big, beautiful ceremony to celebrate true love, and a real happily ever after.” You cleared your throat, suddenly nervous. “If you'd like that, I mean.”

He broke into a wide smile. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

You nodded. “Yes. Will you marry me? Again?”

He laughed again and pulled you into a hug. “Yes. If you will have me.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into the hug. “Of course I will.”

You finally pulled apart once again to slip the band on Wally's finger, right where it belonged.

A/N: Yes, I already know I'm cringe. Don't look at me.

[kyleoreillylover]

Hotel Room

Summary: After you fail to help Sami and Kevin retain their tag team championships at payback, you expect to be kicked to the curb for not being enough to help them win. But Sami and Kevin find it shocking that you would even think that at all.

word count: 3,229

warnings: mentions of abuse (but not in detail, but roman's an asshole in this), cursing, insecure reader that just needs love.

pairings: Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn x Fem!Black!Reader (platonic), Jey Uso x Fem!Black!Reader (platonic)

tag list: @southerngirl41 @venusesworld @jeysbae @reci1996 @tbonesteakwithasideofmashngrav @hope4more @selena-tyler-564 @saintaquarius

a/n: This was inspired by a ao3 fanfic, and I put my own twist on it. I am obsessed with Kevin and Sami ( been obsessed since 2016 but wbk) need more of them!! wish they didn't split them up into different brands, but we got samijey to curb us lol. Hope ya'll enjoy! (also the pic of sami in the far right corner is just 😩)

From Sami 🩷: Hey…you kinda ran off after the match. I know you like to figure things out on your own and I don't expect you to do anything but know that me and Kevin here for you <3

To Sami🩷: Sami, I need you guys.

From Sami 🩷: You'll always have us, that'll never change. We’re in Room 203.

The empty hotel halls stretched for what seemed like forever, like a silent maze, the only sound echoing being the soft click of your heels against the polished floors.

You nervously wrung your hands together as you dragged your suitcase behind you, the heavy luggage not as heavy as the weight of defeat settling on your shoulders. Every step was painful, a reminder of the bitter loss you suffered earlier in the evening, and the almost non-existent tear stains that were slowly drying on your cheeks a reminder of how scared you were of how Sami and your other friends would react.

That was stupid. Sami wasn't Roman. None of your friends were him. But you couldn't help but feel a sinking sensation in your chest, couldn't help but push everyone away as soon as you came to the backstage area. You couldn't help but think they'd be disappointed in you. And most of all, you feared disappointing Sami and Kevin. Their reassurance meant the world, yet the fear lingered, gnawing at your resolve.

Before you knew it, you reached his hotel room, but your hand hesitated before knocking. What if Sami's response wasn't genuine? What if Kevin thinks your a disappointment? What if, despite Sami’s words, you were just a letdown to them too? What if he was being kind to you to later throw your words back in your face? You contemplated these thoughts as your knuckles hovered, hesitant to tap on the door.

Before you could make a choice to knock on the door or not, the door swung open, and all thoughts fled from your mind the second you saw Sami's handsome face peeking through the slightly ajar doorway, concern etched in his features as his eyes locked onto yours. His brown hues made you stop made you stop mid-breath, freezing you in a mix of relief and uncertainty.

"Y/N." Sami breathed out, eyes scanning over your form, taking in the way expression and the faint traces of tears.

"Sami," you managed, your voice quivering slightly despite your attempts to steady it. You peered up at him, feeling small under his gaze but oddly safe. His caring eyes seemed to dissect your worries without needing any words.

"Come in."

The invitation was gentle, almost tentative, as if he was giving you space to retreat if you needed. You hesitated, unsure of how to react. But the concern in Sami's eyes dissolved any hesitation.

You stepped into the room, Sami's hand on the small of your back was warm like the hotel room, the lights flickering dimly as if mimicking the emotions flickering within you.

Kevin was sat on the edge of the bed, looking up from his phone , concern instantly etched across his face as he saw you standing at the door.

"Come sit down. Where were you? You left so fast that it was like you were never there." Kevin's voice was soft instead of the angry growl you expected it to be as he gestured to the empty space beside him on the bed. Sami quietly closed the door behind you, his eyes never leaving your face.

"I-Im sorry… I needed some air," you mumbled, finally allowing your heavy suitcase to drop to the floor with a thud. You moved towards the bed, sitting down beside Kevin, feeling a lump form in your throat as you avoided looking directly at either man. The air felt suffoacting to you, and you knew lookin them in the eyes and seeing their anger and disappointment would be too much to bear.

You felt the bed dip as Sami sat down beside you, the mattress compressing under his weight. There was a heavy silence that lingered in the room, punctuated only by the subtle sound of Kevin setting aside his phone as he and Sami exchanged a silent look, both agreeing that this was way out of character for you.

Sami's hand landed gently on your shoulder, and you flinched at the unexpected touch, your body tensing as you looked up at him, seeing his brown eyes looking down softly into yours. He quickly retracted his hand, offering an apologetic smile though his concern grew tenfold at your reaction. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to explain anything if you don't want to. We're just glad you're here," Sami's voice was calm and understanding, void of any hint of frustration or anger.

Your heart clenched at Sami's genuine concern. It was a stark contrast to what you expected—no judgment, no anger. But you knew better than to take things at face value-that's exactly what Roman used to do. You know the game, and you didn't want to be played again.

"I-I messed up," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotions you were struggling to articulate. "I'm sorry."

Kevin tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at your words. "For what? The only people who should be sorry are Rhea and JD. It's not like you costed us the match. They did."

You averted your eyes as the memories of the match rushed back, blinking away the emotions threatening to spill over. "But it is my fault. I should've been more focused. I should've done better. I should've been better."

You swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to mask the vulnerability that threatened to spill over.

"Y/N…" Sami breathed out so softly that you could've pretended you didn't hear him if it weren't for his warm hand on your face that gently turned you to face him, your body stiffened at the touch, but Sami's hand was so comforting, so gentle, that you couldn't help but lean into it, looking up into his compassionate eyes. There was an understanding there, a depth that made you feel seen in a way you hadn't felt in a long time. "Talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make you feel better. Tell me what's wrong."

"Don't do that." You shook your head, feeling the pressure building inside, the lump in your throat growing larger. "Don't treat me like I'm weak. I can take the punishment."

"Wait, what?" Sami's hand left your cheek and Kevin stood up wide eyed at your statement.

"Did you just say what I think you fucking said?" The growl Kevin let out made you flinch as the man stormed towards you, a fury blazing in his brown eyes. It startled you even more when you realized he wasn't glaring at you, that he wasn't directing his aggression at you, at least in that moment.

Sami's eyes were just as wide, and you felt yourself instinctively shrinking backwards into the bed, as though expecting to get hit. Sami grabbed Kevin by his shirt collar and held him back, a quiet command ringing in the air that had no need for words, even though his eyes told all you needed to know

"What did you mean?" Sami asked gently, ignoring the scowling man in front of him, though the slight anger he tried to hold back in his voice betrayed him. "Y/N, what do you mean?"

Your voice was barely audible as you muttered, "Just…I lost. I have to pay for it now. It's the way it goes."

Kevin's lips curled in anger at your words, and Sami could barely contain himself either, and they took deep breaths, visibly controlling their own emotions before speaking again.

"Sweetheart, you don't have to pay for anything. You did nothing wrong." Sami cupped your jaw, forcing you to look at him, and you could see the anger clouding his usual vibrant irises. "I don't have to guess who made you feel this way, but you don't deserve to be treated this way. You don't deserve to be thinking that this is your fault. This is not your fault."

You waited for the punchline, your expression a mix of pain, sadness, regret and guilt. But it never came.

You looked up at Kevin, noticing his expression had softened as he observed your facial expression intently, searching for something, anything that will reassure you that this isn't true, that you are not the burden you think you are.

Sami's hand on your jaw was warm, and it wiped away a tear you didn't even realize was there. His touch was gentle, so different from what you expected. You were waiting for anger, for disappointment, for something familiar, yet Sami and Kevin were nothing of the sort. They were kind, understanding, and concerned. Sami's voice cut through your thoughts.

"Y/N, listen to me," Sami's voice was insistent yet calm. "Whatever happened out there tonight, whatever you're feeling, it's not your burden alone to bear. We're here for you. You're not weak for feeling overwhelmed or scared. You're not weak for coming to us for help. And you're not weak for a loss you have no fault for."

Kevin's expression softened further as he took a step towards you, his tone much softer than before. "You don't have to pay for anything, okay? We win and we lose together." He sat next to you again, his arm inching towards you hesitely before encircling your shoulders in a protective gesture. "And that's how it goes. We're here to support you, not punish you. We're a team, we're a family, and we will never hurt you."

You looked between Sami and Kevin, feeling the walls you've built around you tremble. Their words held an honesty you hadn't experienced before, a sense of solidarity that contradicted your fears. The tenderness in their actions contradicted everything you were used to. It scared you. But it also made you happy, because it was everything you ever needed.

"I don't deserve this…" You choked on the words, the emotions lodged in your throat making it difficult to articulate your thoughts. "I've always been the weak link… It's always been that way."

Sami's hand on your jaw tightened slightly, not in a forceful way, but in a comforting manner, making you meet his gaze. "Listen to me, Y/N. That is not true. You've never been a weak link, and you never will be. And you know why?"

Sami's hand left your jaw finding yours gently, his fingers intertwining with yours. "Because you are one of the greatest wrestlers I've ever seen in the ring. Your heart, kindness, skill, dedication, no one else can compare to it. And no one has a bigger heart than you, that's why I'm proud to call you my best friend, and I know Kevin feels the same."

Sami gestured to Kevin, and you leaned into his arm as you looked at him, his usual stern expression softened by a hint of concern. His eyes were reflecting empathy and affection, a sight that caught you off guard.

"I know I don't say it a lot," Kevin started, his voice softer than usual, "but what Sami said? It's true." His arm around your shoulder tightened ever so slightly. "You're family. And we would never hurt family for something stupid like a title loss, unlike-"

Kevin cut himself off with an irritated huff, his eyes briefly reflecting an emotion you couldn't quite pinpoint before he recomposed himself. Sami's grip on your hand tightened gently, a silent reassurance as he exchanged a knowing look with Kevin, comforting him as well until he finally composed himself enough to turn back to you. "We love you, okay? I love you, and I can't let you think that you're anything less than the amazing person you are. We've seen you at your best, and we've seen you when you're not okay, and let me tell you, even then, you're badass."

You didn't know how to take it from here. You were not used to receiving such unconditional support and affection since your start in the bloodline. It felt foreign yet strangely comforting. A part of you wanted to believe their words, to let their reassurances seep into your core and heal the wounds of self-doubt that had been festering for so long. So that's exactly what you tried to do.

"Thank you," you murmured, voice thick with emotion. "I… I'm sorry. It's just that.. he used to.."

"You don't need to tell us anything you don't want to." Sami interjected gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "We understand."

You nodded with a meek smile, squeezing Sami's hand in gratitude. "Thank you for being here for me. I appreciate it more than I can say."

Kevin leaned in, placing a firm hand on your other shoulder. "We've got your back, always. No matter what." His tone held a sense of finality, as if he was making a solemn vow.

You took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders, albeit ever so slightly. Their words was a salve to the wounds you kept hidden for so long. It was a warmth you hadn't felt in ages, a comforting embrace that slowly began to mend the broken pieces of your spirit. You looked at them, feeling gratefulness swell in your heart for having these two by your side.

"Thank you," you repeated, your voice steadier this time. "I… I really needed this."

Sami offered a comforting smile. "Of course. Now how bout you take a hot shower, let off some steam, and we can get some rest? And if you don't feel comfortable rooming with us, we can ask Jey if you can room with him."

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "No, this is good. Thank you, really."

Kevin nodded, a brief smile crossing his features. "Alright then. You need anything else, just ask. We'll be right here."

Before you could rise from the bed, Kevin pulled you down and engulfed you in a tight hug. It was unexpected, but the sincerity in his embrace was undeniable. Sami leaned in, joining the hug, wrapping his arms around both you and Kevin, and you relaxed into their embrace, feeling a sense of security you hadn't felt in a long time. The weight on your chest seemed to ease, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

As you separated from the hug, a genuine smile adorned your face. " I'll take that shower and get some rest. But thank you, both of you."

They nodded in unison, their expressions reflecting both understanding and determination. "Anytime," Sami said, his voice holding a softness that touched your heart.

You gave one last smile to them before you made your way to the bathroom, and as soon as the shower was turned on Kevin stood up abruptly and faced Sami, his expression hardening into an angry scowl. Sami, observing the sudden change in Kevin's demeanor, rose cautiously, concern etched on his features.

"Kevin, what's going on?" Sami's voice held a tinge of worry as he watched his friend's reaction.

Kevin clenched his fists, his jaw tensing. "I'm gonna beat Roman's ass."

Sami interrupted, his tone urgent as he put his hand on Kevin's shoulder, trying to calm him down. "Kevin, you can't. Not right now."

"Stay out of it, Sami," Kevin retorted sharply. "This is about her. About what he's done."

Sami hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by Kevin's intense emotions. "I know, trust me I know. But we can't just go in there and—"

Kevin interrupted, brushed off Sami's hand and turned to face him, anger seething in his eyes. "Did you know what he was doing to her? Did you know how he treated her?"

Sami's eyes widened in surprise and hurt at the accusation. "No, Kevin. I didn't know. If I had, that would've been the last day Roman would have a career." Sami's voice held a note of defensiveness, hurt that Kevin would even think he'd knowingly allow such mistreatment.

"How could you not know?" Kevin's voice wavered between anger and disbelief. "You acted like everything was normal!"

The accusation stung Sami deeply, and his voice turned raw with emotion. "Because I didn't know, Kevin! I trusted Roman at the time, you know that! I trusted her judgment, you know that! How could you think I'd let her get hurt? How could you think I'd just stand by?"

Sami's voice raised slightly, a hint of frustration surfacing. "And don't you think Jey would've been the first to know? He was in the bloodline longer than me, he's the closest one to her besides us. We both know Jey would've torn Roman apart for even touching her."

Kevin seemed to visibly calm down at Sami's reasoning, though the tension in the room lingered. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I just... I can't stand the thought of someone hurting her, you know? Of him, out of all people, hurting her."

Sami nodded, his features softening with empathy as he placed a hand on Kevins' shoulder. "I get it Kev. My heart was ripped out of my chest the second I heard what she said."

Kevin nodded, his gaze downcast. "Me too. God, I wanted to kill him right then and there. I still do."

Sami looked at Kevin for a moment, the two of them gazing at each other before Sami brought Kevin into a much needed hug that they both needed in the moment.

Kevin slowly returned the hug, his body tense but gradually relaxing in Sami's embrace. Sami held onto the hug for a moment longer before releasing Kevin, hoping to reassure him, while trying to reassure himself.

Sami held onto the hug for a moment longer before releasing Kevin, hoping to reassure him. "I'm scared too, Kev," Sami admitted softly. "But we'll figure this out, okay?"

Kevin nodded, a steely determination glinting in his eyes. "Yeah, we will." He glanced towards the door after a comfortable silence spread between them and the shower stopped running.. "I'm gonna go grab something to eat downstairs."

Sami felt a tinge of suspicion but nodded in acquiescence. "Alright, grab me some food too, I'm going to bed." Kevin nodded and dabbed Sami up before heading out the door.

Once Kevin left, Sami sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the situation settle on his shoulders. He prepared for bed, trying to quell the swirling thoughts in his mind.

Meanwhile, Kevin stepped outside and pulled out his phone, dialing Jey's number. He knew Jey would go ballistic, and that's exactly why he needed him. He was done with Romans bullshit over the past 3 years. His ego, his cockiness, the pain he inflicts on others.

But that pain will mean nothing like the one Kevin, Jey and Sami will inflict on him for hurting you.

[weltraum-vaquero]

you could have it all (my empire of dirt)

4. hold me (like a knife)

[Chapter 1] ↠ [Chapter 2] ↠ [Chapter 3] ↠ [Chapter 4] ↠ [Chapter 5] (coming soon)

[AO3 link]

Western AU

18+

Jayce Talis x GN AFAB Reader

Word count: 9.5k+

Synopsis: Now that things between you and Jayce have ended, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Until everything takes a turn for the worse.

Tags/warnings: Jayce being the world’s saddest sack of shit. Graphic violence towards the middle and end of this chapter. Character death (but it’s nobody important). Caitlyn being the only person with a brain.

Notes: I can’t quite believe that this chapter is finally done. I’ve had the plot of this specific part of the story in mind for almost two years now, and to say that executing it was daunting is an understatement. I hope I didn’t disappoint, and, just as a heads up, this is about the middle point of the fic. There is still a long way to go, and far from the end for Jayce and reader! As per usual: a big, huge thank you to my wonderful friends, who were so helpful with their valuable feedback, and helped this chapter become what it is now. Enjoy!

“Jayce?” 

The door creaks open slowly, letting in the barest, flickering sliver of light. 

It stings somewhere at the back of his already pounding head to look — he has to squint to even bear glimpsing, but he still does, delusionally hopeful in a way that’s masochistic.

The smudge of a shadow he sees through his lashes takes on the form he aches to see the most — shoulders just the right size to hang onto, neck just the right slope to nestle into, arms just the right size to wrap around him tight and hold him so he’ll stop falling apart — you. 

But it’s not you. Why would it be you? 

Cold hands, colder gaze, you hadn’t deemed him worthy of another word as he’d set to leave. He’d stopped, back turned, shaking with the tears he’d been swallowing, listened to the prairie crickets and waited. Counted all the way up to ten in his head, hoping you’d have the guts to find some inexistent panacea to the wound you’d torn into his heart. 

But you hadn’t said a thing. Why would you?

Jayce had given Topacio the spurs, riding fast enough to dry his tears before they reached his chin, and hard enough to drown his sobs out with the pounds of galloping hooves on the way back.

Why would it be you now, here, in the Kiramman estate, crawling back to him and begging for forgiveness?

“Hi, Cait,” he croaks.

And he wouldn’t fucking give it to you either way. Not after what you did to him.

“Hey.” It’s hysterical just how she draws out the e, hushed little sound, like she’s trying to soothe a spooked horse. 

Empathy’s never been her strong suit. 

But he’s sure he’s a sorry enough sight to be worthy of such a reply. He’d pulled the curtains to his room shut tight to stifle all sunlight, and sat in a sad corner of his room — hadn’t even granted himself the comfort of sitting on his bed — before he’d sobbed the night and day away. And though he’d torn his heart open and wrung it out into every tear, it had not ached any less, it hadn’t grown any lighter. 

How could it, now that he knows the most meaningful relationship of his life matters so little to the one person he would have given everything up for?

“I was sure you were still out and about but… well, Fenton said he’d seen you ride in last night, and I thought… you might be here.” She clears her throat, sliding into his room uninvited. She maneuvers it suspiciously clumsily — it takes Jayce a second to pick up on the fact that it’s because she holds a candle in one hand and a plate of sad-looking, long-cold dinner leftovers in the other. But she shuts the door with her foot, not at all silent, before she sits down across from him on the floor. 

Jayce draws his feet a little closer, hugs his knees a little tighter. Company is the last thing he needs when he wants to wallow in his own misery, when he wants to twist the knife you’ve stuck into his heart and let himself bleed.

But how could he lay in his own metaphorical puddle of blood and physical puddle of snot and tears when Cait is here to watch?

She’s trying very hard to make no big deal of it — of how much Jayce is looking like the world’s saddest sack of shit — as she sets the plate down first, then untucks whatever’s under her other arm so she can put the candle down, a safe distance from the carpet.

“I’m, really— I’m not much company right now,” Jayce tells her. His voice is so hoarse from sobbing it’s just a whistly, airy, pathetic whisper. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated feeling meek. 

You’d nurtured that part of him, had lulled him into believing it was alright for him — protector, hunter, a man of the law — to be everything he wasn’t supposed to be. And he’d let it happen.

Why does he have to be like this? Every part of him seems sculpted for power — his size, his strength, his skills — and still he yearns for weakness. To be cradled and kissed and touched like he’s none of those things.

No other lover had gotten through to him, and he doesn’t blame any single one of them — who would look at him as anything beyond a guard dog with a pretty face, when that’s all he’s supposed to be? Who would want to reach deeper and touch the parts of him that don’t fit the man he’s clearly meant to be? 

But you’d had. You’d called him princess and baby and you’d caged him in protective embraces and had let him grow soft. You’d given him everything he’d never had, and you’d done it all just to fucking hurt him. To wield his own weakness like a knife. You’d shaped it into something sharp and waited for the right time, right place, to tear him open with it.

And yet, he’d let you do it all over again — just to have a taste of the months he’d felt truly understood. He’d lay his head in your hands all the same, willing lamb under the butchering knife. If he’d be back in that saloon, he’d melt in your hands, let you lick into his mouth and sink your teeth into his neck. You wouldn’t need to even ask. He’d just tilt his head back and wait.

Because he loves you.

Choking back a sob, Jayce shivers with how much that realization shakes him — he still loves you, beaten dog licking an abusing hand, runt of the litter crawling back to warmth it will be inevitably chased out of.

You’re gone. And you’ll never care enough to come back.

“Here.” Caitlyn nudges the plate towards him in an attempt to snap him out of the incoming breakdown. “Eat up,” she encourages. “You must be hungry.”

He shakes his head.

Jayce wonders if he ever will feel anything again, except for a dreadful pit of numb pain smack in the middle of his chest. No noxious acid burning in his stomach if he avoids eating, no itch in his lungs when he holds his breath too long, nothing but the sore gaping fucking hole he can’t see but damn well feels so thoroughly he wonders if he could stick his entire hand in his chest.

“Alright.”

With that, she takes the book she’d brought with her and cracks it open. Like they’ve just finished having their late morning gossip session or like they’ve just slurped their teacups dry, like he isn’t curled up on the carpet and shaking with the effort of trying not to sob, Cait starts reading away in deafening silence.

“What… are you doing?” 

She says it like it’s easy. He knows it isn’t — not usually, and especially not now. “Keeping you company.” 

“You don’t have to,” he croaks.

Her smile is so laden with pity it makes him sick. He crawls into the comfort of it nonetheless.

“I want to.”

Jayce doesn’t know what exactly it is about that which does him in so effortlessly, so thoroughly. 

Had you ever wanted to do anything for him? Without an ulterior motive? 

That thought makes him curl in on himself like a hurt animal. A whimper scratches at his throat, and his dignity washes down the drain with a fresh set of tears.

“Shit. I’m sorry.” And he should be, he thinks; maybe it’s his fault, maybe what he had with you could have lasted just a bit longer, if he hadn’t been this… soppy. This sentimental, this needy, this much. “I’m so sorry.”

Wordlessly, Cait shuts her book, and shuffles across the carpet to plop down next to him. Her gentle hand grabs his shoulder, squeezing like she wishes she could absorb some of the pain.

“C’mere.” And he knows how much that means. Caitlyn, raised on proper etiquette and not one for more than the average friendly shoulder touch, offering to hold him though his face is slick with snot and his back’s gone sweaty and he can’t even breathe right.

But she holds him anyway. She holds him like maybe he still matters.

Jayce loathes the way his next sob wrecks him, how he quakes with his whole being. He’d give anything to have you holding him like this, and he hates himself for it.

“I really am,” he whispers. He’s sorry he wishes this weren’t her arm around his shoulders. He’s sorry he doesn’t even know what to do with all the crushing weight of his love, sorry he ever thought you’d want it — want him. He’s sorry it’s so heavy now that he thinks all his bones might crack, he’s sorry Cait has to hold him even though he’s nothing but bits and pieces of himself. “S-so, so sorry.”

She lets him sob through it, rubs at his back. Jayce settles for curling in on himself, as if making himself small would make the pain drip out of his soul any faster, or make his heart mend any quicker.

It doesn’t.

Cait brushes the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead with a careful hand.

“The only one who should be sorry is them.” Her voice is bitter — a smidge too bitter. Jayce doesn’t know why he’s offended for you.

“How do you know?” He wipes at the snot under his nose, and tries not to think about how disgusting he is. 

“I know,” Cait pauses briefly, pondering her words, “that the only mistake you could have made was loving too genuinely.”

The only thing he can think of, the only thing that comes to mind, is to say sorry again. Sorry for being so much — too much. 

And who would want to love so much of what makes him everything he shouldn’t be? 

Who would want to love so much? 

And why had he been naive enough to think you, criminal, cheater, liar, would be up for such a horrific task?

“I’m so… s-stupid,” he mutters. Stupid for believing there was something even remotely worth loving about the amalgamation of too much that he is, stupid for believing you, of all people, would be the one to take on the challenge. Caitlyn shushes him, pulling him harder into the hug. But she doesn’t deny it, which is enough of an answer to Jayce. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Jayce wants to parrot it back at her, but the words seem far too small for the overwhelming amount of regret sitting heavy in his chest. So he says nothing, because he knows he’ll break if he even tries.

And they stay like that. Jayce chokes on another snotty sob when she rests her cheek against his head, a reminder of the closeness he’s lost with you scratching at the fresh wound you’d left on his heart. 

She squeezes him close when he weeps so thorough it wrecks him, she pets his disgusting sweaty back when even crying becomes too much and his body turns to breathless, embarrassing blubbering, she tells him to breathe — shows him how, in and out, slow and steady — when his breath gets stuck between more tears and hiccups, and his brain goes woozy with a lack of air and he feels like he wants to throw up the empty space inside his stomach, inside his chest, throw up the pain, purge all remnants of the ache you’ve left in him.

But that’s all he is — feels like all he’ll ever be. Purging you, purging the pain you’ve left behind… he’s not sure what else would remain of him without the ache for you. He can’t remember what he was before it. He’s terrified of what he’ll be after it.

“Believe it or not — you’ve gotten a bit better at keeping silent while you cry,” she says once he settles into just sniffles. 

“The h-hell’s that supposed to mean?”

He hates how his voice cracks on his words.

“I remember when we’d brought you here the night after we’d thrown you that big party for saving me and mother. I was two rooms away and I could hear you sobbing your heart out through the night.”

He had.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d first raised that rifle to protect Caitlyn and her mother, not for days. He remembers the champagne rippling in the flute he’d been clutching his fist around at that party (mrs Kiramman had to teach him how to even hold the damn thing properly), the rare steak wobbling on the silver fork. He remembers hearing his own heartbeat bouncing back at him in the egregiously fluffy pillow the first night he’d spent at the estate, the way he’d soaked it with tears and snot. He remembers wondering if he’ll ever sleep again.

“That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Cait nods. “It was. I remember thinking you were much too soft for the job mother was going to grant you, that it’d been just a stroke of luck that you’d rescued us when you did.”

“You have no idea how scared I was.” Jayce swallows thickly at the bitter memory. “Promoted from a simple cow wrangler to personal bodyguard to the mayoress and her family — god, I didn’t think I could make it either.”

“But you did.”

Jayce nods.

Caitlyn presses her cheek to him a little harder, squeezes him a little closer. “And you will.”

—

He won’t.

It’s enough to have your face flashing before his eyes, to sniff a distant replica of your leather-gunpowder-campfire scent, or to believe the sheets, damp and warm and rolled tight around his waist from all his restlessness from the previous night are your greedy, loving arms, to have his throat drawing tight and eyes brimming with tears.

And when he does close his eyes to indulge, for the briefest moment, in what he has left of you, in the cruel tricks his mind plays on him, longing shifts to rage.

Why wasn’t he enough to love? What could he have done to make you love him? Why couldn’t he be what you needed?

What was it about him that made you want to run from him, from the generous offer of a peaceful, simple life, and straight back into an existence reliant on scraps and crime? What made that life so much better than him and everything he had — everything he was more than willing to give you? 

What else could he have given you, to make you stay? What was there left to give?

That’s about the only thing that gets him out of his bedroom. Saddling up to ride out into fuck knows where and to just scream.

That’s all he’s good for, really. Weeks pass him by in the blink of an eye, spent in the darkest corner of his bed, so much so even leaving his room becomes a terrifying, daunting task.

He hates the pity the people at the estate treat him with, the way the Kirammans are so understanding. They don’t demand he joins them for dinner, not once. Food finds its way into his room at one point or another, they don’t insist he do anything, they just… let him rot away, in the most literal sense of the word.

Caitlyn spends time with him when she can find it, but as he becomes increasingly inconsolable, her visits lessen. 

Jayce can’t blame her for getting impatient with him. He is, too.

He hates that he can’t blame her, either, when he finds bullets from his drawers missing, his knife dulled, and his weapons suddenly cleaned the way they’d only require after serious use.

Of course his inaction couldn’t go on forever.

The sharp, mean daggers Cassandra’s been glaring his way whenever he did scurry out of his room and met eyes with her, Caitlyn’s growing absence around the house — they suddenly fit together like puzzle pieces: Caitlyn has begun picking up his slack.

And he wishes, god, he wishes he could be proud, because Caitlyn deserves it, she’s wanted to fill in his footsteps since the first time he’d taken her with him on a hunt all those years back — but he’s angry. 

He knows that above all else, this means he has become the last thing he’s ever wanted to be: a pathetic charity case. A failure at his one duty. 

She should not be out there by herself. He should be there. Teaching, watching, helping, but he’s not, he’s stuck, he’s drained, and he’s so bone-achingly tired, even though all he does is sleep and cry.

So when Cassandra slips into his room one evening (trying not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of his unkempt beard or food stained union suit) and hands him a bounty poster of some crooked looking outlaw, it gives him the push he needs.

She tries to put it gently — suggesting it might do him some good to get out there again — but he knows what she means. She doesn’t pay him to sit around and sob, and this bounty… he can see why she would not want her daughter anywhere near such vermin. Even with all his equipment, which by now Caitlyn undoubtedly knows how to use. That’s really all the motivation he needs, aside from some much-needed stress relief.

The fact that Caitlyn catches his wrist on his way out the front door and tells him he doesn’t have to  do this — at least not alone — does very little to deter him.

—

Match strikes matchbox. Dry wood crackles under the birth of new, tiny flames. The night grows a tiny bit less dark, but the prairie’s unbothered and taciturn.

He hasn’t smelled a campfire since… well. Since the last night he’d spent with you. But decidedly, the time you’d smelled most markedly of flames and ash was the night he’d let you kiss him after everything.

God, your eyes, glittering and gluttonous that night you’d spent with him after he’d tracked you down. And your hair, the near-animalic scent of your skin tempered by the freshness of cold air, the smell of leather clinging to you where he kissed and licked, the salt of your sweat, the musk—

God, he aches.

“Jayce, don’t shoot.”

His hand already hovers over his holster out of instinct alone, but he drops it the moment he recognizes that guilty tone.

It’s no wonder that Caitlyn’s decided to follow him.

With a sniffle, and a squeeze of his eyes, Jayce rolls his shoulders when he hears the sound of gravel under her new boots.

She’s already been holding his hand — figuratively and literally — an embarrassing amount these past months. 

Now that he’s finally trying to drag himself out of his slump (and slump is a very light word for sleeping and willing himself out of existence), she’s following him around like she knows he’ll stumble. He can practically hear the tension in her joints, ready to catch him not if but when he falls.

“I said I’d do this on my own,” he says.

Caitlin hums affirmatively. “I never said I wouldn’t let you.”

The audacity of her, to just say that like she hasn’t been doing the exact opposite for some time now.

“You’re a shit liar.”

Caitlyn sighs. “Mother told you.”

“I don’t need to be told. Do you think I wouldn’t notice? Jesus, Cait, your mother looks at me like—” Jayce catches himself before his tone grows cutting — he has no right to be mad at her for doing the job he clearly was not able to do. The very least she deserves, if not a grandiose thank you for doing my one and only job for me, is some kindness. He sighs shamefully, burying his face in his hands before he finds his words again, a smidge gentler. “You shouldn’t have to do this. Not by yourself. I should be teaching you, not letting you put yourself in danger because I’m too—“

“You’ve taught me more than enough,” she assures. Jayce wishes he could know how much of that lie is meant to comfort him, or her. 

Jayce wishes he could tell her that there’s more to it than the punches he’s taught her to throw and the target practice they’ve done. Jayce wishes he could tell her there will be bounties that break her (and that is unfortunately not limited to bounties like you).

But there’s a vigor, a hunger in her for this that he has rarely felt, if ever. His form was made for brutality, but his mind never was — and Caitlyn has the advantage of not sharing that predicament. She’s not soft in the ways Jayce is; she’s just inexperienced. And that is much more easily remedied.

“I hope so,” he decides to say. 

“We can start going on hunts together again,” she suggests. “You could teach me more — and you  wouldn’t have to do this alone.”

And that’s not a horrible thought at all. Except…

“Your mother would kill me if she knew I’d let this continue. I think she already has a quill and paper ready for my will considering what you’ve been doing because of me.”

Caitlyn laughs a little. “Let her. Would free up a position as Piltover’s best bounty hunter for me.”

“Hey.” Jayce tries his best to strike an intimidating tone, but it only makes her laughter swell. Something in his chest feels the slightest bit less empty.

Uninvited (though she knows by now that she is invited, always), Caitlyn approaches him slowly, sitting down beside him. They sit in silence for a moment while she picks at her fingernails, apparently nervous, before she puts herself back together, no less anxious, but fighting it. She lets her shoulders settle back, straightens her back, and glances Jayce’s way.

And though the air had been light and clear with shared humor mere seconds ago, the way she looks at him now is far heavier and more sombre.

“I didn’t track you down because I thought you couldn’t handle this bounty on your own.” For the first time since she’d approached him, her voice falters with uncertainty. 

And that’s a rare sight in Caitlyn. 

“Jayce, I… have to tell you something.”

In some fucked, pavlovian response, a part of Jayce rears its head and perks its ears like a starved dog at the sound of raw meat hitting the floor. 

This can only be about something she knows will hurt him. It can only be—

“It’s about them,” she says.

Every part of him hurls, every part of him hurts, every part of him hungers.

His ears ring. 

It’s about you.

Have you come back? Have you sent him a letter?

“What is it?” His voice has gone tight, throaty, and Caitlyn is overcome with immediate regret — she looks like she wishes she could swallow every word she’s just said back up.

His head reels with a thousand questions and a thousand answers. You’ve come for him. You still love him. You want the life he’s offered, finally, you want it, you want him. Maybe he’s not everything he thought he was. Maybe—

Maybe those hopes are too high, too bright, for the way in which Caitlyn stares him down like death looms behind her.

Maybe… maybe you’re gone.

But you can’t be, not, not you, slippery even in his grasp, you, with your mind just as much of a weapon as your arsenal. You, born wielding a gun, you, born holding a knife — death can’t have earned you this easily, this fast. 

Jayce repeats his question, a little more careful this time. It doesn’t seem to ease her doubts, but she gives in. And really, that’s all that Jayce is after right now.

“They’ve been caught,” she says.

That’s the only thing that could make your death sound plausible.

You… would be sooner dead than caught. He knows as much.

Caitlyn reads his disbelief with a frustrated sigh. 

“They made the front page on the Piltover gazette for it. Frankly, I… considered not even telling you.” She searches his eyes, but if she draws any conclusion, Jayce can’t read it. “You don’t deserve to be reminded of them. They’ve had it coming regardless—”

“Had what coming?”

“Jayce…” She goes silent for a beat, swallowing nervously, as if she dreads the words she’s about to speak. “They’re going to be hanged.”

Every fiber in his being protests at the mere word, but his entire body revolts once it really, truly sinks in — the mental image of your face, plum-purple, rope burns at your wrists, your own skin under your fingernails, hands bound behind your back, the body he’d kissed and loved and worshiped every inch of — lifeless.

On trembling legs, Jayce rises from beside the campfire.

You’re going to die.

The very thing he’d wished upon you, your punishment, is now imminent. And it’s only now that it hits him that he wishes his rage would have been gentler. That he realizes that even though you’d torn his heart to shreds and hurt him in ways that made him want to shove his hunting knife into the side of his neck, he doesn’t want you to die. 

He can’t let you die.

“Where?”

“Jayce—“

He takes a step closer, mustering up some of the intimidation that works so well on his targets — but it does little to Caitlyn.

Her breath leaves her lungs in a frustrated, terrified shiver. Not terrified of him — terrified for him.

And what terrifies him is how little he cares about the prospect of his own death, shall it find him when he finds you, helps you.

“Where?”

He hadn’t realized until then, how small Caitlyn’s hands were, until she took one his in both of hers. They’re not dainty — they haven’t been, since the day he’d taught her how to pick up a rifle, and they’ve grown rougher still since the day he’d taken her on a hunt with him. But they’re still smaller than his, and it hits him where it hurts.

It hits him where she wants it to, it hits him in that one spot that, in spite of being crushed under the weight of his responsibility as a protector, wants her safe. Wants her happy.

She’s like — she is family. 

“Jayce, I can’t lose you.” Her voice, though trembling with fear, does not falter. “If you go, there’s a real chance you could die saving them. I can’t let that happen.” Caitlyn swallows her tears, and something in her gaze darkens. When she speaks now, her voice is as steady as her aim. “And you will not die, not for them.“

He wants to make that promise. He wants to, but— 

“Where?”

He can’t.

She squeezes his hand tighter. And though there’s rage brewing in her eyes, Jayce knows that look — above all else, she’s terrified. 

He is, too.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She grabs both his shoulders, rough now in how she nearly shakes him with how hard she turns him to face her. “Jayce.” Cait swallows her tears. “They deserve this.”

And as much as those three words sink in his gut like he’d swallowed solid lead, he knows she’s right. He can’t leave her. 

“It isn’t even about what they’ve done to you,” she continues. Her voice fades behind the ringing in his head, grows quieter still. “Think of everything else they did. All they stole, all they lied.” She goes on, somehow, but Jayce doesn’t care for any of it. Not until— “All they killed.”

That last word hits him like a jaw-dislodging punch.

“They would never— Not unless it was in self defense, I know—“

“You don’t know that.”

And she’s right. 

He hates that she’s right. 

He’d dug his head into the dirt, blissful ignorance and willful naivete, had consoled himself that surely a killer’s hands could never do what yours do. How could your hands wring throats and stab chests when they could make his body sing? 

How could he be so fucking stupid?

You will receive your punishment. Not because you deserve it after what you’ve done to him — but because of all else you’ve done.

He has to let it happen. He has stepped on his morality enough simply by being with you, by loving you. The guilt will — has to — ease once he stops doing that.

Letting you face the consequences of what you’ve done is the first thing he can do for himself.

And possibly the best. It has to be.

“Talk to me,” Caitlyn encourages just as much as she downright demands. Her hand on his shoulder grows laxer, she squeezes his deltoid gently. But behind it all, Jayce can sense the fear, the way her fingers cramp up and her nails almost cut into the leather of his jacket.

He can’t leave her. He mustn’t.

“I’m not going,” he says. “They deserve it.”

It hurts more than saying he loves you. It hurts more than anything he’s ever said — and he’s scared shitless of how little he means it, now that he’s saying it out loud.

Maybe you deserve it. And maybe he’s not going. But no form of lying to himself can change the fact that he will never want you to die, in spite of everything. And there will always be a part of him that would leave everything behind to spend the rest of his days with you, though the opportunity for that is long gone.

But Caitlyn smiles, and she pulls him into a genuine, bone-crushing hug. Jayce tries his damndest not to cry. 

You’re going to die.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she says.

God, he hopes so.

—

God, he isn’t.

It becomes evidently clear, even as he clings to the false hope that he is. He hopes this hunt will be an easy, clean affair — simply holding his bounty at gunpoint, tying her hands behind her back, then taking her to the nearest sheriff’s office. But it isn’t.

When he finds his bounty sitting by her campfire, Jayce cocks his rifle, and says the right thing.

“We can do this the easy way,” he warns. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

When she turns to lunge at him in spite of it all, he doesn’t shoot.

He meets the impact halfway as the both of them tumble into the mud. He lets her get in a punch that he somehow feels he deserves for everything, after everything, before he lets it wake his will to fight. With some difficulty, he wrestles her into the dirt, until her ribs creak under the weight of his knee on her chest.

“Don’t make me kill you.” 

But she does.

With every fiber of her being, she begs for it. Stubborn, she wriggles below his weight until her bones crack, wincing as she draws a knife from her boot. 

But Jayce is nothing, if not trained in the art of catching dirty tricks. Especially after you. His hand finds her wrist, and bends her arm until the blade stabs the mud below her.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he repeats, but it sounds less like a threat this time around. Dauntingly much more like a plea.

She senses it. They always do, the likes of her — the likes of you — feed on weakness, which is why his never goes unnoticed. Her forehead whacks Jayce’s nose so hard he swears he can see every constellation in the night sky shining twice as hard, and maybe they do, because next thing he knows he’s looking at the stars, and she’s above him, her shadow doubling, regaining its contour, then doubling again, and his head spins.

Some twisted part of his mind conjures up the vision of you, framed by a backdrop of the bright night sky, smiling down at him, hands on his chest, roaming his skin in the pursuit of pleasure.

And he considers letting it happen. Whatever cruelty she has in mind for him — be it death or pain — for one brainless, blissful moment, he wants to be swidden with it. Maybe if there was something that actually hurt, other than that part of his upper stomach where it’s gaping and empty and aching, he could be cleansed of the pain, cleansed of you. 

Something in Jayce wakes when he hears the sound of iron bouncing off stone and stabbing mud, barely missing the side of his neck. That something is trained, automatic, raw, fast, unyielding. That something is the part of him that — in spite of everything — is so scared that it has sunk its teeth into staying alive and would rather lose its molars than unclench its jaw.

One of his hands finds her throat, the other crushes her nose into his second knuckle. She gasps for breath.

She loses enough of her balance to tip over, and Jayce lets his raw strength do the rest. His right hand joins the left on their throat, knuckles bloody. 

And it feels fucking good to squeeze.

It feels good, to have her at his mercy, until her chest draws up to receive air that does not come, until her throat trembles and cracks below his palms, until her hands start clawing at his wrists.

She makes a ghastly, haunting sound, guttural with broken cartilage and wet with blood.

Her windpipe cracks under his palms. It’s fucking satisfying. Like breaking a wet branch or unrooting a weed or hitting the bullseye.

Serves her right, he thinks. Serves her fucking right. She deserves this.

But the words scratch bitter at his brain, at the fresh wound of deserving — and suddenly his hands are not his, but a noose, and the flesh below his hands is not vermin, but breathing, living, eyes glittering with their final seconds of desperate fear, searching, begging, please please please I don’t want to die.

It could have been your neck between his hands all those months ago, outside that very saloon you’d first touched him. It could have been you, in that very bed, before you’d tied him to the bedpost. It could have been you, right beside that creek he’d twisted his ankle in. It could have been you, surrounded by bluebells, it could have been you, in his tent, it could—

It will be you.

It will be you, larynx crushed not by his hands, but by unyielding rope. 

And you will squirm like her. And your eyes will roll into the back of your head just like they had when he’d lick into your cunt just right and you’d squeeze his head between quaking thighs and grab his hair. And you will go slack at the very end, you will exhale what little is left in your lungs like you’re on the verge of falling asleep. 

And then you’ll die.

Her slack hands slide down his clawed up, raw forearms so gently they remind him of what it means to be touched tenderly. 

Touched by a lover.

Cicada squawks scratching at the sweet quiet of the night, arms winded around his shoulders loose, fingers brushing through his hair, reeking of campfire smoke and licking the same smell up from your skin. Kisses at his hairline, fitting together like two cats lounging in the sun, back when everything was alright with the world and he knew what love felt like. 

Before he knew what it meant to lose it.

Before he knew it wasn’t love. 

Before he knew you were going to die.

“Pl—sse…” a voice hisses, pawing at the claw marks on his wrists with a desperate gentleness, the way you would paw at his hips when he told you he had to go now, really, he said he would be back in Piltover by noon—

The neck under his palms swells, her throat gurgles with blood and spit. And he can’t help but let it happen. Jayce lets his palms go slack not because he wants to, a hunter shouldn’t spare, a guardian shouldn’t hesitate, a man shouldn’t back down.

But he’s none of those things. He was never fucking meant to be any of those things and he did them anyway because he had to and you took them from him. You took his perfected charade from him and now he has nothing. 

Not a hunter, not a guardian, not even a fucking man. 

And he can’t remember what he was before he was supposed to be anything– 

And he can’t think of a single thing he could be, when he fails, he fails, he fails. 

He fails at being a son, he fails at being a brother, he fails at being a protector, and he can’t remember the last time he wanted to be anything.

God, he wanted to be loved.

She gasps the way you did when he’d wake you as the moon slid down the sky and he wanted to steal one last kiss, she heaves ugly and pained and human, and she breathes.

It’s a disgusting, moist sound, whistling in and out as she gulps down air, and when his chest quakes and his lungs start struggling as though they’re a newborn calf tangled in barbed wire, Jayce realizes half those wretched sounds are his.

His head spins like he’s been punched again, chest tight, tight, tight, throat strung like he’s the one with a noose – your noose, you’re going to die. 

Fuck, you’re going to die. 

And he’s going to die, the empty space between his lungs constricts as though giving birth to something more rotten than all the months he’s spent hurting for you.

Jayce braces himself against the ground beside her neck with both hands, squeezing at the mud like it’s his convulsing heart. Jayce crawls away from her heaving body but doesn’t make it far.

His windpipe hurts, breathing hurts, he can’t even breathe right, what the hell is he even good for? Can’t breathe, can’t kill, can’t hunt, can’t sleep, can’t stop hurting, can’t, can’t, can’t. Fish on land, he huffs as though he was never meant to draw breath in the first place, never meant to be born at all. He’s going to die and so are you, and someone must be wringing his throat, but when he paws at it there is nothing but his own skin, and she’s heaving and coughing a few feet away, can’t be her. So who’s killing him? 

The answer is obvious. 

His arms cave below his weight, elbows crashing into the mud below him a last resort to keep his face from meeting the ground in an impact that will knock him out if the way his head is pounding doesn’t. 

His stomach clenches as if to purge itself, but there is nothing to purge — except for you, but you’re lodged deep in every fiber of his being. Jayce doubts there will ever be a version of him that isn’t tainted with you.

A gun cocks, the woman’s trembling figure stands behind it. Jayce knows she’ll do what the likes of you and her do. 

He takes his last sob and lets his body shake with the realization and disgusting but oh-so-sweet relief — finally. 

His end.

Out in the wild, bullet put through the head like a lame horse that’s served its purpose, spared from its pain. Spared from a pathetic excuse of an existence. 

The thought of a noose around your neck brings comfort. You’ll join him. It’s all he’d ever wanted.

Instead of pulling the fucking trigger already, she rests her hand on her pink-purple neck as if to appreciate it hasn’t snapped in half just yet. The hatred on her face fizzles out into disgusted pity.

“Please…” He’s not sure what he’s begging for.

Her hand lowers with a tremor, and she inhales a disgusting, cartilaginous-crackling breath that sounds as though it was never meant to enter her lungs. She spits her blood on the ground.

And she leaves. As the likes of you do.

—

Caitlyn,

All the weapons I’ve left behind are yours. 

Jayce considers leaving it at that — but she deserves more than just eight measly, splotchy, shakily penned words. 

He touches the tip of his fountain pen on the rim of the inkwell, and braces himself. Tries not to smear any of the blood dripping down his scratched up forearms on the immaculate paper as he writes, much neater, much prettier.

We both know there is no one standing in your way now that I’m gone. Piltover will be far better off with you protecting it. You have your head on straight — much straighter than I ever will. 

The best thing I ever did was raise my rifle to protect you. Now it’s your turn. May your bullets strike true.

There’s blood on the page. He considers starting anew. 

He won’t.

I love you.

As he folds up the piece of paper and slips it under her door, Jayce wonders if he loves you.

If he ever will again, after everything you’ve done. After everything he’s about to do.

—

To exchange a quarter for such vital information makes Jayce’s hands tremble with the absurdity of it. He presses the coins into the newspaper boy’s hand like it’s something solemn. 

Twenty-five cents to be let in on when and where your death awaits you.

The sound of the cicadas, awake before the first crack of dawn, scratches at the back of Jayce’s brain while the kid fumbles for the paper. He hands it to him with a sleepy smile and thanks him.

He has no idea what he’s just been the catalyst for.

Your infamy spares Jayce the need to manically tear through the whole thing; Caitlyn hadn't lied. You had made the front page, name spelled out in bold letters, the day and place of your hanging jotted down somewhere between a formal invitation and a taunting, final threat.

There will be little sleep to be had to reach you in time. 

—

By the time he makes it past Serpentine River, there’s talk of it already. He doesn’t even need to seek it out; stopping by a general store in one of the bigger but still humble towns down south is where he strikes gold. 

Or his possible death sentence, would be Caitlyn’s opinion. But she’s thankfully not here to talk sense into him — so he pushes the thought to the very back of his mind as he puts on a stunned face and questions the clerk like he’s asking for gossip.

The man is more than eager to indulge. 

“You’d think it’d take some ace-high hunter to bring the likes of them down, but…” he leans over the counter towards Jayce conspiratorially. “I tell you what, when I saw some twig of a kid ride into town with a dopey grin on his dumb face and them tied to the back of his mangled-lookin’ horse, I thought I was havin’ me one of them hallucinations.”

Jayce’s stopped listening to the clerk rambling on about the kid who’d apparently brought you in, and the continental suit he’d bought himself with the reward. He couldn’t care less about who’s caught you or what they look like. He needs to know where you are, and who’s going to stand in his way.

But the clerk has the mark of a good salesman, and he knows when he’s lost his customer’s interest. He’s quick to change the subject: “Can I interest you in some jerky? Now I know the look of hunger on a man’s face, and you, son—“

“And they’re in the sheriff’s office in town? Here?”

That was not the right question to ask. And especially not the right way to go about it. With a slightly wary tilt of his head, the man looks Jayce up and down, then nods.

“Heard so. Not for long, though — our boys — well, I mean, I have nothin’ but respect for our good ol’ sheriff Mallory and that nephew of his — but I sure as shit don’t sleep well knowin’ they’ve got such wretched scum to take care of.”

Jayce nods back, mustering up some solemnity with a dash of malice. “Glad to hear it. I hope they don’t cause any trouble — you’ve got a fine little town here.”

That’s convincing enough. 

The clerk laughs. “Don’t you worry your head, kid, from what I hear, they’ll be taken to the Great City next week and hanged there — for everyone to see. Now that’s a nasty death if I’ve ever heard o’ one; except for bein’ burned alive that is. I’d have me a public hangin’ over that any day, but — speaking of burnt, this bread right here may look it, but trust me—“

“No.” Jayce waves him off. “Thank you.”

—

A sheriff’s office that takes itself seriously would know to double their guards at night. 

This one is either understaffed or ruefully ignorant to the amount of horrifying friends in low places a real criminal could have.

The men who take care of the night watch at the prison in Piltover are some of the meanest-looking Markus has, and they’re never less than three. But you’ve been caught and brought into a scrappy prison in north Demacia, and they’ve bit off more than they can chew before the Great City lawmen show up to whisk you away in their proper prison. 

You always did end up getting too lucky for your own good.

Jayce walks in like he owns the place. His fingers are cold and trembling in his leather gloves.

Two lawmen, one younger and asleep in the corner of the room, the other sitting at a desk, poring over some paperwork with a cigarette hanging loosely from between his fingers. It smells less like tobacco and more like burnt herbs.

“What can we do for you?” He rasps, undoubtedly annoyed at being bothered with the interruption of his midnight cigarette. 

He flicks the ash onto the mucky floor, and clears his throat. Judging by the sound of a chair scratching the floor behind him, the other lawman — presumably his deputy — jolts awake.

The one at the desk not particularly big, and the golden star on his chest is dull with age and lack of care. The gray hairs in his mustache make him look tired not just momentarily, but permanently. Like he’s been plagued with nothing but apathy for well over a decade, like he loathes the day that awaits him tomorrow just like he dreads this very second. 

Jayce can relate.

“I’m here to find myself a bounty,” Jayce says, and consoles himself with the fact that it’s technically not a lie.

“I’d say you have better chances of doing that in the Great City than in this shithole, kid. Better money for it, too. We’re all outta cash ‘til the big boys from down south come to pick up the newest bounty we just had brought in.”

“I’m stuck here for a while,” Jayce insists. “Family matters. And I’d rather bring in a small bounty than nothing at all, sir.”

The man looks him up and down, then, with a lethargic sigh, gets up on his feet. 

“Follow me.”

That’s the first and last time he does as told. 

Jayce’s first step matches the man’s sluggish pace. The second is a stride; wide, quick, intentional. 

The momentum of his weight should have knocked the sheriff off his feet — he’s taken down bigger folks with just an aggressive shove of his shoulder — but all he does is stumble from the impact. So Jayce does the next best thing he can do: act fast. He wraps his arm around the man’s collarbone, kicks his knee in, and unholsters his gun. Presses it to his temple.

“Drop your weapons,” Jayce growls to the deputy. “Or I kill him.”

“Marshall.” The sheriff grits through his teeth, clawing at Jayce’s arm, “Marshall you fuckin’ listen to me, go get—“

A hefty thwack to the back of his head with the butt of his pistol shuts the sheriff up good.

The other lawman looks at him with eyes wide enough to see himself reflected in. Jayce doesn’t care to look too close. He might just throw up.

He steels himself with a breath. Makes sure his voice is as unyielding as his shooting arm.

“You heard me.”

And so he does. The lawman lets his pistol clatter to the ground, reluctantly takes his rifle off his back, and drops it next to his pistol with shaky hands.

“Good.” The sheriff wriggles. Jayce tightens his grip around him. “Kick them away.”

“Don’t do it!”

He does.

The sheriff’s feet take hold against the floor, he wriggles hard enough to make Jayce’s arm muscles strain. He has to end it now, before things get out of control. He has to, he has to— 

The butt of his pistol must have made a dent in his skull. The sound it makes — crackling, visceral — as it hits the back of his head sure as shit sounds like it. 

The sheriff drops back to his knees, then, without fanfare, onto his face. Unmoving.

That’s dealt with.

Jayce looks back to the other lawman, standing trembling and unmoving, one foot placed to make a run for where he’d kicked his guns away, but not daring. Wise move.

“You can get out of this alive.” Jayce points the gun at him. Thumbs the hammer back. A warning. “All you have to do is cooperate.”

The man — Marshall — raises his hands in submission.

“Get the cell keys.”

Cautiously, he approaches the unmoving body of his colleague, kneels beside it. Marshall’s shoulders sag with relief, however briefly, when he hears the sheriff breathing, before he retrieves the keys from his belt.

“Get up. Take me to the prisoners.”

“Mister, there’s law comin’ in from the Great City in two days.” The man’s voice trembles as he stumbles to his feet, Jayce follows him to the door at the back of the office, gun pointed at his head. He drops the keys as he tries to slot them into the keyhole, grabs them in sweaty hands once more, and tries again, the locked door pops open. Before he pushes forward, he turns to Jayce, and looks at him with something putrid. “They’re gonna— you won’t get away with this.”

His patience is running fucking thin. 

“I don’t remember asking you.” Jayce taps the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man’s neck. “Now come on.”

And it’s only now, that he follows him into the moldy, dark room, that his hands truly start to sweat and his heart leaps into his throat and his head goes icy, woozy, at the thought of you, here.

You’re here.

Clutching the bars of the cell so tight your knuckles are white; you must have gotten up because of the commotion. 

You look at him like he’s an angel. You look at him like he can’t be real. 

You’ve never looked at him like that.

“This— this cell.” Jayce croaks. He can’t bear looking at your face. You’re alive. You’re alright. He’s going to cry. He’s going to throw up. “Open it.”

The lawman looks at him over his shoulder, swallowing whatever dumb thing he has to say, before he turns to the lock on your cell.

“I knew it,” he grumbles, “we never should’ve accepted them. God.” The keys slip from his fingers again. Jayce figures a reminder would help, and presses his gun against his nape. 

“Move it. I’m losing my goddamn patience.”

He lets out a shaky, terrified breath, turns the key so hard his fingertips bend. It snaps open with rusty resistance, and slowly, the door to your cell creaks open.

Below the filth and bruises you’re covered in, you’re shining. Brimming with a kind of relieved, dreamy delight that would have made Jayce’s stomach do flips and knees go soft before everything. Some part of him wants to fall into your arms and lick at your lips until they’re raw. Another part of him has his trigger finger itching. He hopes neither part wins.

You open your mouth to say something. Jayce can’t bear the thought of hearing it, hearing you, not now, not yet—

“Wait by the door,” he interrupts. “And get your things.”

Well, what’s left of them. 

You comply without another word, hurrying to a cabinet beside the door, where you start digging through the drawers frantically.

He turns to the deputy.

“Into the cell,” Jayce commands, and makes sure to walk him to the very back of it, just in case. “On your knees.”

“Please don’t kill me—“

“Hands behind your back.”

Shakily, the man complies. Jayce bends down to hold his wrists together, and starts winding some of the rope hanging off his belt around them, nice and sturdy.

A door behind him creaks open.

“Jayce—!”

Your voice shakes him like nails on a chalkboard. Scratches at something angry and brutal in the very center of his brain, at something that doesn’t think. Something that acts.

Jayce shoots.

He hadn’t stopped to notice who it was, arm wrapped around your throat from behind and holding you close enough to be a human shield.

He hadn’t stopped to think how easily he could put a bullet through your head instead of whatever target he’d locked onto. He’d just pressed the trigger.

His bullet strikes true.

Head flying back with the impact of the lead cutting through his brain, the sheriff drops like a stringless puppet behind you. His brains splatter the wall just beside the door.

You cower, clutching your head as though you died with your attacker. You look at Jayce, meek and trembling and utterly terrified, like you fully expect him to put lead through your skull next.

He opens his mouth to say something. 

A weight collides with him before he does, knocks him onto the concrete floor with a nasty impact.

“You piece of fucking shit!” The deputy’s fist crushes his nose so hard his ears ring. The back of his head slams against the floor. 

The edge of his vision pulses, the high shrill in his ears nearly drowns out the noise of the lawman’s growl. 

“M’gonna kill you.” He mutters. “Gonna fuckin’ kill you, bastard!”

The man’s hands are at his belt, groping for a weapon, wrapping around the handle at Jayce’s left hip.

His knife. 

Jayce attempts a tried and true kick to get the man off of him, but his weight won’t budge. He should have budged, he would have, before everything. Before Jayce had spent his days wishing he was dead and eating only when the bottom of his throat burned with acid and moved only when his muscles ached from laying down. 

Before you’d made him as weak physically as he’d always been within.

But he can’t, he can’t, and this is how Jayce is going to die.

He tries a desperate right hook and hopes it will hit something.

And it does.

His arm stops mid-swing, but not because his fist has met a target.

Something in his forearm pulls, pulls at skin, pulls at muscle, pulls at nerves. He opens his eyes, tries to see, tries to see — sees red. Pain, shooting all the way up to his shoulder and down to his pinky, everything in his precious shooting arm screams.

The knife. Lodged inside his forearm.

Your voice.

“I’m gonna paint the fuckin’ floor with your goddamn brains.”  

The next thing he knows, the lawman’s weight is hauled off of him. Something rings as loud as a church bell on Sunday noon. Once. The lawman tries to scream, but only manages a moist, bloody, nasal snarl. Then that grueling sound rings out once more, a metallic resonance. Again. And again.

Blang. Blang. Blang.

Two blurred moving shadows finally fall into one coherent image as Jayce’s eyes refocus — and he’d give anything to hit his head again hard enough to make sure they don’t. 

You’ve grabbed the lawman like a mangy mutt, fingers digging into the back of his scalp. And you’re slamming his face into the prison cell bars with the relentlessness of someone who does this often. Does this easily.

“Fuckin’ filth is all you was.” You grit out. Blang. “All you’ll ever be.”

You ram his skull into the bars until the last bit of his resistance seeps from his body. With a heaving chest, you retreat to let his corpse slide down bloodied steel onto the floor. You brace yourself against the bars, then bring your foot into one last, thorough kick against the back of his head. There is no doubt about it being a killing blow.

“(L/n).”

Jayce flinches at the sound of your name, not coming from himself. A man in another cell, a fellow prisoner he hadn’t even noticed, holds his hand out between the bars of his own cell.

“Gimme the keys. Get me outta here, please.”

You bend down for the lawman’s gun. Put a bullet in the chamber, then turn to the prisoner.

“No,” the prisoner cries, “I won’t tell a soul, I swear! Not a goddamned soul, please don’t do this, please, please, please—!”

“Sorry.” You thumb down the hammer. “I can’t take that chance.”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

you know you never stood a chance - deleted scene #2

you know you never stood a chance series

deleted scene #2: comfort in this run down place

series masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Words: 2.6k

Summary: The first time you and Joel have anal sex. That's it, that's the fic.

set between chapters 3 and 4, but I see it taking place after the flashback from chapter 5.

Warnings: established situationship, free use agreement, enthusiastic consent but could be perceived as dub-con due to the power imbalance, anal sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), very quick mention of rimming, fingering, anal creampie, spit, makeshift lube, we ignore the practicalities of anal prep here but you should not do that irl, qz!joel is a menace

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Joel’s been down there for a while. You’ve no idea how long “a while” is because his relentless tongue has wrung any sense from you. He’s taking his sweet time about it, too, relishing in all the pretty little sounds he can drag from you.

He had come home cranky—it was, of course, a day ending in “y.” But not riled up, just tired. Enough that instead of fucking your face, he was content to sprawl on the sofa and let you indulge in sucking and savoring, basking in the heady musk and sweat of his hard day’s work.

It was languid and gentle, the way you sucked the soul from his cock. So he figures he can return the favor while he waits to get hard enough again to fuck you proper. And if it’s mostly selfish? What’re you gonna do, complain about getting eaten out?

He’s been generous, letting you come a few times, but mostly he just teases. Feather-light darts of his tongue between your folds. The trace of the tip of it around your clit. Sucking and kissing and fucking making out with your pussy.

His finger brushes the pucker of your asshole, and you jerk. It draws a low chuckle from him.

“Where ya goin’, sweetheart? You liked this well enough last time,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down your spine to watch you shiver. His thumb is rubbing circles around the rim now.

“M’not—oh,” you moan as his spit lands on your hole, and he rubs it around.

“Any of those pricks at the whorehouse fuck you here?” he asks before resuming licking into your pussy while working his thumb into your ass.

“N-no,” it comes out in a whine.

He licks up to your clit and pulls away, smirking as your hips try to follow. Instead, he ducks down to flick the tip of his tongue against where his thumb is stretching you open.

“Ya gonna let me?” His voice is low and rumbly, lust stretching out the twang.

You catch your bottom lip between grinding teeth, and he sits back on his haunches.

“Hey,” he says sternly.

You look up to see furrowed brows, most of his face obscured by his own shadows.

“I’m askin’ because I want a real answer. Ain’t gonna take this if you’re not lookin’ to give it.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Oh, you’re gonna. But we’ll go real slow, alright? Getcha nice and ready for me.”

You chew on your lip until a dry, chapped flake breaks off, and you’re forced to either swallow it or spit it out. You try to wipe it surreptitiously onto the back of your hand but end up sputtering as it clings.

Probably not very sexy, you think, but he’s gone back to eating you out anyway, so you don’t have to hold onto the thought for long. It, and all others, leave you with the rush of your orgasm.

“Okay,” you say on the first shaky breath you catch after.

“Yeah? Gonna let me have this all to myself, sweetheart?”

You nod, fingers still twined in the sheets.

He slaps your thigh. “Use your words.”

“Yes, s’yours,” you mumble.

He lets out a low and slow “fuck.” You lift onto your elbows to see him, watching where his thumb wiggles around, gently starting to open up but still squeezing tight around him.

He pulls it free. “Stay there,” he says and smacks your cunt for emphasis before disappearing into the other room.

When he comes back, he has a little jar. A clear, viscous substance is smeared around the inside of the glass, and there’s a small layer on the bottom.

“S’all I got left that ain’t for emergencies, so if ya do like this, we’ll have to wait until I can trade for more.”

“What is it?”

“Aloe. Straight from the plant. Got a connection with a solid medicinal garden.”

“No, what happened to not telling me anything? I don’t need to know that!”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, FEDRA will be really chompin’ for that tidbit. ‘He knows a guy who grows plants.’”

“Great, now I know it’s a guy.”

“Yeah. Wanna know his name?” It’s deadpan, and his eyes are rolling. “On your back or hands and knees?”

“Um,” a wave of self-consciousness heats your cheeks and squeezes your thighs together.

You can tell how bad he wants this because he’s handling you like a Fabergé egg. Or the apocalypse equivalent, which you figure might be a lightbulb.

Anyway. He sets a broad palm on your thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth.

“Just to prep ya. Got another idea for actually fuckin’. Want to just stay where you are?”

You nod, and he nods back before settling back onto his knees.

“Jus’ relax, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

It isn’t long before his slicked-up index finger rubs some of the aloe onto your asshole. You jerk away with a little yelp, and he pulls his hand back.

“That hurt?”

“No, it’s fucking cold,” you whine.

“Sorry, princess,” he taunts, but when he comes back with more, it’s warmer.

You peek down, and he’s nestled the little jar between his thighs.

He catches you looking. “Maybe I should stuff it in your cunt, instead. It’s a fuckin’ oven.”

“Oh, god,” you groan, and flop back on his mattress. You don’t think he’d really do it, and you’re sure it’d be dangerous, but something about the thought has your ears and face burning.

He doesn’t miss it, but he doesn’t call you out for it, either. He does, however, file that information away for another time. And another item.

It’s distracted you enough that he’s worked one finger in to the knuckle. You choke on a breath when he starts to pump it in and out.

“Y’okay?”

“I, um—“ your voice breaks. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Bad weird?”

“Neutral? Is neutral weird a thing?”

“Sure,” he murmurs, drawing the finger out to ease a second one alongside it.

You clench down involuntarily.

“Shh, darlin', you're okay,” his free hand rubs up and down your thigh.

You feel a little like a finicky horse being placated. You don’t get to be affronted for long, though.

“Here, let me help,” he says, sliding the hand over to stroke soft, loose circles around your clit.

He works you up to an orgasm, and after you finish falling apart on his fingers, you fall pliant. You don’t even notice right away, head still pounding and vision gone a little black at the edges, but he uses your lax bliss to work three thick fingers in.

He’s lubed his hand up well enough that there’s a quiet squelch as he pumps in and out. Coming off your high, it’s starting to feel nice.

And that’s all before he leans back over and licks into your cunt.

He doesn’t add any more fingers, but he works you over with the three buried in your ass while he eats you out. Instead, as you’re about to come, he pulls his mouth away and doubles his efforts with his fingers, making you stumble through the orgasm from the anal stimulation alone.

It works. When he takes them away, you whine and reach for him.

“What, ya want my fingers when you could be havin’ my cock?” He’s unzipping and tugging his jeans off while he speaks. He knows the answer.

You whine again anyway. “No, please.”

“You’re gonna get it, don’t worry. Roll over on your side.”

You do, but you crane your neck to watch as he shucks off his tee. Two fingers curl into the pot of aloe, scraping until they’ve gathered a glob of the remainder.

He coats his cock in it, eyes trailing along your body as he tugs. He sees you eyeing the bead of pre cum and smirks.

“Go on, then.”

You reach over and scoop it up, wrapping your lips around your finger, eyes fluttering closed.

“Fuckin’ hell. Didn’t get enough earlier when you sucked me dry?”

“No.” But you’re not really complaining, not after he spent so long with his head buried between your thighs.

“Greedy,” he scolds, slapping your ass and climbing onto the mattress behind you.

He manhandles you into place as usual until he’s pressed against you with his cock nudging against your ass.

“Ready for me, sweetheart?” He murmurs low and close to your ear.

You shudder and nod, before remembering his scolding from earlier. “Yeah, I think so.”

He’s got his head propped up with one hand and elbow. The other is wrapped around his cock as he notches it at your slick, puffy entrance.

He moves so slow. The gentle press is more agonizing than the stretch, the anticipation unbearable.

There’s a sharpness that knocks a gasp from you when the flared base of the head pops in.

You’re already trembling from how taut your whole body is, stuck that way out of fear of hurting yourself.

He holds still, bringing his hand up to rub up and down your side. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Worst part’s over, okay?”

You let out a shaky breath that nearly drowns out the little “okay.”

He reaches up around to cup a breast, kissing and sucking at the line of your neck as he pushes in the rest of the way.

It’s overwhelming. Your clit throbs from the earlier overstimulation, his hand is rubbing and pinching at your nipples, and the wet, hot touch of his lips setting your nerves alight. It’s so hot. Has it been this hot in here the whole time?

“You gotta relax,” he says, low and quiet at the nape of your neck. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“You’re sweaty. I miss air conditioning,” you say before you realize he was asking how you felt about his dick in your ass.

He heaves a heavy sigh, his warm breath flowing over your skin. It doesn’t help the situation.

“It’s uh, it’s good,” you say, wiggling a little. “But like… so full.” You clench down around him experimentally, and he forgets to be exasperated with you, groaning where you choke the neck of his cock. Likewise, you forget all about his oven of a body as he twitches inside of you, your moan mixing with his, salaciously in sync.

“M’gonna give you the rest now, sweetheart,” he says. His folded arm drops to squeeze beneath you as he takes a handful of tit so he can slide his top arm down between you and adjust a little.

You push your hips back as he shifts the angle just so, and he slips in another inch. The breath that punches out of you is wanton and shattered, which he takes as an invitation to shove deeper inside.

You give a little broken sob, one hand flying up to cling onto the meat of his forearm, muscle, and vein bulging under your nails.

“That’s it, I got ya,” he coos, pulling out just a little before pushing even further. His arm holds you tight to his chest, keeping your back from arching too far from him. The fingers strumming your clit are maddening, and when he pushes you over the edge, you jerk back onto his cock.

You cry out, broken and pleading, when his hand flies away from your clit, only to break into a moan when his fingernails dig into your hip, holding you in place.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Gimmie a second. Fuck, you’ve got a tight little ass.”

You want to grind back; you want to pull his hand down to where you’re aching, but he distracts you by pinching at your nipples until you squirm. He swats at your breast as he scolds you to hold still.

“Then stop that,” you say.

“Yeah? You want me to stop?” he says, the fucking menace, while his finger draws light circles around your nipple.

Your frustration sounds a little like a dying cat, to which he snorts a laugh and gives you what you want, bringing both hands to roll your nipples and tug gently.

“Want you to cum just like this,” he murmurs. “Full of me but nothin’ for your poor, achin’ pussy.”

“Can’t,” you whine, squirming. “Fuck me.”

“Nope,” he pops the “p” too close to your ear, but his words chase away your irritation. “You’re not gettin’ any more of my cock until you cream on it, sweetheart.”

Your fingers clench at him wherever you can reach, writhing a little as he overstimulates your breasts. It hurts, but it hurts so good. He gets a little rougher to alleviate the pain, the rough, dry skin of his fingertips pinching and twisting until you do actually cum.

It’s like someone pulled the cord to jumpstart a lawnmower, the way the pleasure is abruptly yanked from your body. He starts fucking into you while you’re still blanking out. This is how cubism got invented, you think. If you cum too hard, that’s just what the world feels like.

You could paint a gallery full of the way he makes you come alive on a metaphysical level.

He’s still taking it easy on you, and while your pride would normally prickle, you’re weirdly warmed by the notion. He knows how easy it would be to hurt you, and he’s… not. Not at all. There was the bit of bite at first, but you’re pleasantly stretched and lubed, and the foreign sensation of his heavy, velvety cock dragging inside you is a soothing hum.

You can already feel another orgasm starting to boil over at the base of your spine, and he must feel it, too, because he chuckles. It’s dark and heady, your back arching a little at the sound.

“Keep giving ‘em to me,” he says.

He’s thankfully abandoned your swollen nipples, and he brings one hand to your neck, wrapping firmly around to squeeze at the sides.

Fuck, he knows your body so well now. The instant you feel the constriction, you fall apart, gasping and hips jerking. He’s rolled you somewhat onto your stomach, twisted at the waist, pounding you down into the bed.

“That’s it,” he gasps, biting wherever he can sink his teeth. He lets up on your neck but drives himself harder, faster. “Fucking take it, that’s it. Good girl,” he moans.

Each orgasm blends with the next. Every time you think you’re going to come down from it, going to be able to catch your breath, he takes another. His hands and mouth never leave you, greedily gathering your desperation.

“Gonna fill you up,” he warns. It’s not really much of a warning, since his hips stutter as soon as the words leave his lips.

It burns. Not because it hurts when he spills inside, but because it rends you into fragments. It’s so good, it’s otherworldly. He cums and cums, cock pulsing and driving you off the brink of another orgasm as he pins you to the bed.

He’s holding himself up by the fists, now, crowded over you with barely half an inch between your bodies. Your back burns where his chest hair had rubbed you raw, and you’re soaked in sweat. A bone-deep weariness settles over you like a blanket.

Oh, wait. No, that’s actually a blanket. But you are tired, and you follow the cue before it even registers that he tucked you in.

When you wake up in the morning, he’s already in the kitchen. But the signs are all there. Not only did he let you fall asleep in his bed, not only did you stay there all night, there’s a very clear Joel-shaped indent in the shitty old mattress. Your waist tingles with the phantom ache of his arm. You can’t prove it, you’ll never bring it up, never speak of it, but you know.

He held you.

*title from "Writing on the Walls" by Underoath

[mxlfoydraco]

Hi. I love your blog and your meta posts a lot. I've recently read harry potter for the first time and I've only just finished deathly hallows a couple days ago. What was the general consensus when everyone read the epilogue? It felt so cliche and the way everyone has children and is neatly paired off just left a bad taste in my mouth. It was the same with Naruto. Obviously I'm quite late but I was wondering what the majority thought? What did you think of the epilogue? :-)

There’s a reason “EWE - Epilogue What Epilogue” is one of the most popular tags on ao3 in the HP fandom. Across most ships, even canon ones, it’s agreed that the epilogue feels too rushed, neat and heteronormative.

Everyone marries their highschool sweetheart, has a baby immediately after a traumatizing war, has no problem whatsoever, becomes super successful, boom. It’s just… idealistic and boring.

It’s also really OOC like. This timeline assumes that Ginny plays professional quidditch for like 4 years (99-03), takes a break to have JSP (04), ASP(06), LLP(08). (Maybe play for one year in there? How?). Is that the retirement point? That’s like a 5 year break from being a pro. Is there a come back from that? It doesn’t seem like it. It’s worded as she “retired and the couple had a family”.

It’s blowing my fucking mind that this girl who broke in the quidditch shed and stole her brothers brooms to practice, who was a quidditch star, a fucking prodigy only played for FOUR YEARS. And retired to pop out BABIES with her wet noodle boyfriend who was wrung out dry by the war. What baby. THEY are babies. Go to fucking therapy oh my god.

SHE needs to resolve her own issues with her own mother and also being kind of possessed and idealizing a relationship with her boyfriend in her head before they got together also the comphet that’s occupying her head and the internalized sexism.

Let her live and leave her alone jesus fucking christ

[rookieleonskennedy]

unholy communion

Just posting one of my fics from ao3 onto here (:

Rookie!Leon x fem!reader

Description: “What a pretty angel, letting a devil split her open on his cock.”

WARNINGS/tags: MDNI, dominant Leon, spit kink, religion kink, religious imagery, praise kink, size kink, breeding kink, choking, unsafe sex, PWP, no y/n

Enjoy!

The motel room Leon found for you two after the events of Racoon City was modest at best, but to your weary and sore bodies it might as well have been a five-star resort. Leon had taken the initiative to check you two in, as you trailed behind him blindly, exhausted from the day’s events.

“I hope you don’t mind…” Leon began, giving you a shy look over his shoulder as he began to lead the way to where you would be sleeping for the night. “I only got us one room. It’s just…after the events of today I didn’t want to be alone.” He cleared his throat hastily, “Didn’t want you to be alone, I mean.” His voice trailed off at that, cheeks flushing red.

You smiled at his bashfulness, “I don’t mind that at all Lee,” you said honestly, as you felt the same as he did. Knowing that he would be close by throughout the night relaxed you, and you felt an invisible weight lift off your shoulders. You knew that if he had gotten you two separate rooms it was unlikely you would have slept at all.

“I can’t wait to wash all this fucking grime off of me!” You groan, looking down at your hands in disgust. They were practically grey, covered in God knows what. Leon chuckled heartily at your exclamation, looking down at his own hands in agreement, “You’re telling me.” He mumbled, finally stopping at one of the motel room doors.

“This is us,” Leon muttered, fumbling with the room key as he worked to unlock the door. You almost collapsed in relief at his statement, your body yearning for the warmth of a shower and the comfort of a bed. He finally opened the door, and you could have sobbed in relief at the sight before you. A beautiful king-sized bed lay in the middle of the room, looking like it could swallow you whole in its comforting down.

“You take a shower first,” Leon stated, nodding toward the bathroom at the back of the room. “I’ll check out the surrounding area to make sure we’re safe while you’re in there.” You hum in grateful acknowledgment, already headed in the direction he motioned to.

You set the water just shy of scalding, shedding your dirtied and destroyed clothes before stepping into the hot spray. You moan at the feeling of the hot water running in rivulets down your skin, taking the dirt and grime from your earlier adventures down the drain with it. Thankfully, the motel provided bath products for you to use, and the calming scent of lavender overtook your senses as you freed your skin from the blanket of grime encapsulating it.

When you were done, your skin was raw from all the scrubbing required to cleanse yourself, but you didn’t care. You were just glad to finally be clean. Toweling off the excess water that still clung to your skin, you found a plush cotton robe to pull on hung in the bathroom and then wrung your hair mostly dry with a towel. You headed out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, finding Leon sitting in one of the chairs by the bed.

He smiled at you as you exited the bathroom, “Well, well, look at you!” He exclaimed, flashing you a playful wink. “All cleaned up and feeling better, huh?” He asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he looked at you, and a blush rushed to your cheeks.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “I feel so much better now.” You flashed a smile at him. “Your turn to clean up, you stink!” You tease him as you sat on the bed. “I’ll order us food while you’re in there.”

Leon laughed at your teasing with a shake of his head, “Okay, okay. I guess that’s only fair. Make yourself comfortable on the bed, I can stay in the chair next to it tonight.” He headed towards the bathroom to clean himself up, and you ordered the food to be delivered to the room.

A little while later Leon walked out of the bathroom wearing a cotton robe just like yours, his wet hair pushed back off his head to reveal his whole face to you. Your face heated once more. While his bottom half was completely covered by the tied robe, the top part was slightly loosened, revealing his bare, toned chest to your gaze.

“Food on the way?” He asked with a grin in your direction, catching you staring at his chest. “U-uh, yeah. It’s coming.” You stuttered, flustered at the sight before you. Leon chuckled at your reaction. “You okay?’ he asked, seeming genuinely concerned for a moment before he winked at you playfully once again. “Your face is pretty red,” he added with a kind smile. “I’m not that pretty to look at am I?”

Your face reddened even further at being caught ogling him before you looked down at your fidgeting hands and whispered “You have no idea how good you look, Lee.” You hoped that he didn’t hear your quiet declaration.

If you had been looking up at him instead of your hands, you would have noticed the slight pink blush that had risen to his cheeks, as he heard you, but decided not to comment. He distracted himself from responding by looking for the remote, which he produced with a triumphant little “Aha!” aimed in your direction. You raised your eyebrows at him, mirth written in your eyes.

He waggled the remote at you, “Anything, in particular, that you feel like watching?” He asked with a small smile. You settled back into the bed with a hum, shaking your head slightly. “Whatever you want is fine, Lee.” He nodded, once again sitting in the chair next to the bed while scanning through the channels for something suitable.

Soon he found some silly reality show on the television, and it had both of you giggling like crazy at the shenanigans happening on screen. The food had arrived shortly after he put the show on, and both of you ate ravenously, bodies craving nourishment after the strenuous events of the day.

Both of you had finished your meals, and Leon had graciously cleaned up the trash before resuming his spot in the chair next to you in the bed. His eyes were glued to the TV screen, while yours were glued to the shape of his jaw, outlined in the soft glow of the show flashing in the corner of your periphery. Your chest felt warm with affection and anxiety, as you worked up the courage to ask him a question.

“Lee?” You spoke softly, trying to grab his attention. He looked over at you with a soft smile, blue eyes searching for yours. “Yeah?” He replied, just as soft as you. “What’s up? Do you need something? I can get it for you.” He could tell by the look on your face that you were nervous, but for what he didn’t know. His own chest fluttered in anticipation.

“Earlier you said that you were going to sleep in that chair…” You fidgeted with your hands, pulling at your fingers in nervousness. “But, can you come and stay in the bed with me, please? I like having you close after…everything.” Your face burned from embarrassment, ready for him to reject you for such a childish request.

However, his face lit up at your words, as he had secretly been craving the closeness you desired but was too timid himself to say anything. He smiled warmly at you, his heart picking up pace inside his chest. “Oh, of course,” He replied immediately. “I would never say no to that.” He was actually quite giddy that you had asked him to share the bed and had no qualms about it. “It’d make me feel better too.” He added, coming to rest next to you under the soft covers of the bed.

You scooted closer to him, the warmth of his body pressing into yours was a soothing balm on your frayed nerves. Tentatively, you rested your head on his chest. “Thanks, Lee,” you whispered against his skin delicately.

His shoulders relaxed upon the contact of your head on his chest, for having you close was as much a balm to him as it was to you. His arms encircled you, pulling you ever so slightly closer, and squeezed you gently. “You comfy?” He asked, genuinely curious, as he brushed your hair back from your face and behind your ear. “I can readjust if you’re not.”

You hummed in the affirmative as his hand stroked your hair affectionately, nuzzling into his firm chest and relaxing at the safe feeling his arms around you brought. His gaze on you was tender, and he smiled down at your figure resting on his chest. He gave your body another squeeze before a hand trailed down to your back and began tracing your spine through the robe in feather-light strokes.

“You’re safe now,” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head in promise. You kissed his chest in response, your hand coming up to stroke his midriff gently. You felt him shiver under your fingers at the touch.

“Lee?” You whispered, looking up at him through your lashes from your position on his chest. “Yes, dear?” He responded softly, raising his eyebrows slightly as he looked down at you. He gave you another comforting squeeze, letting you know that he was listening to whatever you wanted to say to him.

You took a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering. Your gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips quickly before you spoke, “Kiss me?” you whispered, as butterflies took flight in your abdomen.

Leon’s own breathing had hitched beneath the ear you rested on his chest, his eyes immediately flitting to your lips. He swallowed nervously, heart pounding in his chest. His face had a beautiful pink blush as he responded, “U-uh, yeah. Y-yeah I can do that.” He answered in a hushed tone, as if speaking too loudly would make you change your mind.

You smiled up at him in relief, but made no move yet, wanting him to initiate the contact. Leon took a moment to steady himself before placing his hand beneath your chin and guiding your face up to his ever so slowly. You both closed your eyes, noses brushing together tenderly. Leon gently placed his lips upon yours, in a soft, sweet peck before moving back in a bit more insistently. His arms then wrapped around you tightly, his hands desperately winding themselves in your hair. The kisses he gave you were filled with nervousness, but also excitement, hope, and adoration.

You sighed happily into the kisses, your own hands resting on each side of Leon’s neck. His pulse fluttered like a bird’s wings beneath your touch. His lips were unbelievably soft against yours, plush like fine velvet. You shuddered at the feeling of his hands in your hair, your skin flushing red at the intimate touch.

Wanting to be closer to him, you threw a leg over his hips, allowing you to straddle him. The new angle allowed the two of you to kiss deeper, more passionately, and you felt Leon groan heartily into your mouth at the heightened sensations.

His hands traveled from your hair and down the robe covering your sides, coming to rest on the swell of your hips. He was lost in you, his whole being now simmered down to the connection of your lips on his. You felt the same, your world had condensed until all that existed was the man beneath you. His body was the only galaxy in which you existed, and the constellations covering his skin were now yours to chart.

Your hands roamed across Leon’s chiseled chest, thumbs reverently caressing each side of his neck before your hands found themselves tangled into his damp blond hair. Your chests pressed firmly together, and you could feel Leon’s pulse hammering alongside your own.

The revelation that he was just as affected by you as you were by him sent a beam of heat straight to your core, and your thighs tightened briefly. You swallowed the soft moans emanating from Leon’s mouth at this motion eagerly, offering a few lewd noises of your own in return.

The feeling of your hands in his hair had Leon leaning into the touch, a groan rumbling in his throat. Hearing your moans mingling with his own sent him into a frenzy of passion, and he began to kiss you more intensely, your bottom lip becoming entrapped between his teeth. You gasped at the pain as it melted into pleasure, tugging sharply on Leon’s hair in response.

His breathing became ragged at this, a loud whine escaping his throat. The grip he had on your hips tightened, before his hands began to travel back up your sides and then threaded themselves in the hair at the nape of your neck. With a sharp tug, Leon pulled your head back, tearing your lip from the hold of his teeth and angling your neck to the side for easier access.

He began to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the soft expanse of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point hesitantly before he finally gained resolve and sank them gently into your skin with a possessive groan. His body trembled like a leaf beneath yours as the sensation of his teeth marking your neck caused you to keen, high and reedy, in the back of your throat.

You were panting in desire at this point, the arousal coursing through your veins felt like shooting stars beneath your skin, a sensation like no other. “Lee,” you whined. “Feels good.” He huffed against your neck, continuing to softly pepper the skin of your neck with mottled bruises.

A fire was kindling low in your stomach, but you wanted more. You tugged his hair, removing his mouth from your neck, his gaze meeting yours inquisitively. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, Lee. I won't break.” Something ignited within his baby blues at this revelation, his pupils overtaking the soft hue of his iris.

With a desperate moan, he began to handle you more roughly. His teeth sunk into your skin harder than before, and his hands moved beneath the cotton of your robe to squeeze the globes of your ass tightly.

“Oh God,” you keened, your head thrown back in otherworldly bliss. The sting of his teeth on your neck and the brush of his hands on your skin felt like rapture, an exaltation of pleasure you would continue basking in for as long as he would let you.

Looking down at him, and seeing the way he had lost himself in the touch of your skin sent sparks dancing across your nerves. “I’m yours Lee,” you gasp, the words falling from your lips like a lost sinner’s confession. “Do whatever you want with me.”

Leon’s hands shook against your skin as he took in your words, his forehead coming to rest upon the small patch of your chest that had become uncovered in the midst of your kissing. Your words were a hymn that he had once thought to be long lost, a hymn that he thought would never bless the ears of a reprobate such as he. This was a gift he would not squander and a song that he craved to hear forevermore.

He planted a swift kiss on your chest before speaking, “I’m going to take my time with you.” His tone was low and husky, and he flashed you a devilish grin before placing more kisses across the swells of your chest.

A shiver wracked through your body at his darkened tone, your hips undulating down upon his lap beneath you, searching for sinful friction. Having nothing on beneath your robe, you could feel, very well, the bulge that resided beneath Leon’s own covering against your dripping core.

He groaned softly at your movements against him, his face flushed a dark red. His breath was hitching in his throat, and you knew that your hip’s rotation against his was riling him up. His hands fluttered from your rear to the tie of the robe at your waist, fingers slowly but nimbly undoing the knot he found there.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, sweet thing.” He chuckled. You pulled his head back sharply by his hair in response, making him look you in the eye as you ground your hips downward forcefully, gasping as his bulge grew under your gyrations. “I think I have an idea,” you managed to whimper out, eyes fluttering at the sensation beneath you.

Leon let out a whimper of his own, his eyes widening when you grind down on him. “Fuck,” he whispered, looking into your eyes with desperation. You were a new messiah above him, an idol he could gladly worship for the rest of his days. “You like what you feel? What you see?” He continued hoarsely, arousal clear in his voice.

You moaned loudly, dragging his spit-slick lips up to meet yours in a bruising kiss with a rough pull of his hair. He could have sworn he felt God at that moment. “Yes,” you breathed into his open and panting mouth, “I like it so much, Lee.” His eyes fluttered closed as his lips locked with yours and he groaned into your mouth. His teeth nibbled on your bottom lip, another moan escaping from your throat as he did so. His face was dusted red with lust, his hands fervently trailing across your skin under your now untied robe.

He broke the kiss to take a deep breath, his head thrown back against the headboard as he helped you slide the cotton material off your body. “God, fuck.” He panted, eyeing your now naked form, before reconnecting his mouth with yours forcefully. You continued to grind down on his lap, the friction feeling like heaven on your needy and swollen clit.

“Lee,” you whimpered needily. “Touch me, please.” You were practically begging, needing more of Leon. Needing him closer, needing him deeper than sitting astride his lap would allow.

You were an angelic vision in Leon’s eyes, a holy temptation sent from some higher power to break him down until he was nothing but an obedient servant to you. He would readily tear himself apart for this, would gladly bare himself as a sacrifice at the altar of your body day after day if it meant that he could hear the saccharine words of sin spilling from your lips above him again and again until the day he died.

He let out a soft, needy, whimper. “My God…I will.” His hands caressed your sides before resting on your inner thighs with a rough squeeze. He could see the wetness pooling between them, the manna he craved to devour so close, but he could not give in to his temptation to eat just yet.

“I’ve gotta go slow, make it worth the wait for you.” He panted, fingertips moving ever so closer to the wet apex of your thighs. You keened as his fingertips got closer, but not nearly close enough, to where you wanted them.

“Need you so bad, Lee,” You pulled at his hair in sexual frustration, “Wanna make you feel good.” He gasped at your admission, a flustered moan leaving his lips. Your words made him feel weak, like an ancient temple crumbling into ruin.

“I know, Angel. And you are making me feel so good, I just wanna make sure you feel the same way.” His hands cupped your face, “Patience is a virtue, remember?” He smirked at you teasingly.

You leaned into his touch on your face with a small groan, “Damn my virtue, Leon. I want you more than I want it.” As soon as the words had left your mouth, Leon knew that a new Psalm had been written. One that he knew he had to get you to sing, one that he knew he had to sing with you.

With an animalistic groan, Leon flipped you onto your back, shedding himself of his robe while he did so. His cock was hard and proud against his abdomen, and you moaned at the sight of it hovering above you. Swollen and red, the tip leaked a steady stream of precum onto your stomach while Leon’s arms bracketed your head, and his lips swallowed yours in another heavenly kiss.

Your hands found themselves tangling in Leon’s hair yet again, using the leverage gained from their grip to hitch your hips up slightly and run your wet folds across his throbbing cock with a gasp. His answering noise was absolutely sinful , and one of his hands came to wrap around your throat. “Please,” he whimpered, squeezing his hand around your throat. The pressure he applied on your neck was just enough to have you seeing stars, your eyes rolling back into your head from the sensation.

“Not yet,” he ground out, hand releasing your throat. “Be a good girl and let me have my fill, and then you’ll get stuffed full of my fat cock. That okay?” He tapped the side of your face twice as he said this, waiting for your response. “Yes sir!” You whimpered.

This new, dominant side of Leon sent your head spinning. He looked at you reverently, like an apostle looking at their messiah for approval. Having given him yours, Leon moved down your body, whispering praises against your skin as he made his way down to your throbbing heat.

Settling himself between your shaking thighs, Leon looked up at you from his position and groaned in pleasure.

You were the Ark of the Covenant, a beautiful and sacred relic seated before him, forbidden to be touched and sullied by the likes of him. But he had fought his temptation for you for so long, and he was nothing but a dirty sinner, after all. Finally giving in to the carnal desires of his flesh, Leon’s mouth found its way onto your dripping cunt with a hum.

Your body came alight at the touch of his mouth on your core. Your back arched, your hands flew to his hair to lace themselves in it, and your heels dug into his back.

The fervent strokes of Leon’s tongue against your folds was your resurrection. Before this moment you had perished, your body slowly returning to the dust from whence you came. But with each suckle on your clit, and each lap of his tongue against your greedy hole, Leon had gifted your once withering body with the breath of life.

His mouth was insistent, never breaking from its attachment to your wet heat even despite the way your body undulated beneath his divine ministrations. His tongue lapped at your cunt like it was holy water, blessed for Leon by God himself. He would rather be damned than waste a single drop of the liquid manna that had been bestowed upon him.

You cried out in bliss as Leon worked, hands and thighs tightening around him. “M’gonna come,” you slurred, eyelids heavy from lust as you peered down at the man worshiping your cunt.

The sight before you had the fire within your stomach roaring into an inferno, an orgasm washing over you, consecrating your body into hallowed ground.

Leon’s hair fanned out between your thighs like a golden halo as his sapphire blue eyes met yours while you came undone on his face. He looked saintly , an absolute picture of sinful devotion painted between your trembling thighs. You wanted to capture this profane image of him and have it turned into a prayer card, one whose iconography you would eternally devote yourself to.

Leon moaned deeply at the feeling of you unraveling on his tongue. Committed to giving you as much pleasure as possible, he continued fucking you with his tongue until your delicate hands were no longer pulling him in, but rather pushing his head away.

He traveled up your body slowly, placing reverent kisses to your skin as he made his way up to your face. Hovering above you, he was enraptured. Your face was flushed red with arousal, eyes cloudy from the post-orgasm haze. You looked like lust personified, your body the picture of cardinal sin.

“Please, let me fuck you.” His words fell upon your ears not as a mere plea for the secular comfort of your flesh, but as a devout prayer. Here he knelt before you, begging for your intercession on behalf of his engorged cock.

Who were you to deny such a pretty prayer? He had been most devoted to your pleasure, therefore it was only right to answer his request in the affirmative.

“Fuck me.” You said as you nodded, spreading your legs, revealing the altar of your body to him once more. Ever the acolyte to your demands, Leon wasted no time situating himself between your spread thighs.

You helped him guide his aching dick to your entrance as his forearms came to rest on either side of your head. Your noses brushed gently, a gasp being passed between the two of you as his tip slipped past the first ring of muscle separating your sex from his.

He kept pushing forward, and one of his hands moved to cup your jaw as his own went slack at the feeling of you enveloping him. Your pulse danced beneath his hand, and your eyes rolled back into your head as the sweet pressure of him filling you overwhelmed your senses. He was so big, and so thick. You were uncertain if your body could make a home for him inside itself.

That thought quickly banished itself, however, when his dick finally made its final push to seat itself inside you. With a breathy moan, you relished in the feeling of having Leon seated snugly inside you.

He had you crucified on his cock, and yet your body still craved more. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on his shoulders as you mewled at the euphoric sensation of his member stretching you out.

“Oh, My God.” Leon groaned against your mouth, your fluttering walls squeezing him so tightly that he was unsure he could move within you.

“Please move, Lee.” You whined, and ground yourself down onto his cock. His hand on your jaw spasmed, squeezing your face briefly in surprise at your movements.

He gasped, and pressed his lips to yours in a heated and sloppy kiss. The hand on your jaw shifted to your neck, and with a gentle squeeze in warning, Leon began pistoning his hips into yours.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks in their wake, and your legs wrapped themselves around his hips for stability. The drag of his swollen cock against your walls sent your mind reeling, and you swore to yourself. “Fuck!”

This was an ascension. Leon’s hand squeezing with the perfect pressure against your neck, his lips continuously meeting yours in brutal kisses, a litany of filthy and vile invocations leaving his lips between each one, his dick being angled at just the right spot to make you see stars, and each slide in and out of your squelching wetness had you swearing that he was bringing you closer to heaven’s gates.

Leon growled, his voice demanding and wild. “Are you gonna let me come in you, my angel? Gonna let me stuff your pussy full of me?” You keened at his words, the fire in your stomach heating to an inferno once more.

“Yes,” you panted. “Give it to me, Lee.”

With a moan, Leon released your throat, only to use his now free thumb to force your mouth apart. “Open up.” He demanded, and when you willingly complied, his thumb brushed past teeth to rest on your tongue, and he spat into your mouth with a dark laugh. “What a pretty angel, letting a devil split her open on his cock.”

Swallowing his spit around his thumb greedily, you moaned, clenching even tighter around his cock as it continued to forcefully fuck in and out of you.

The feeling of your walls clamping down on his dick, and the visual of you eagerly swallowing his spit, sent Leon flying over the edge of pleasure. His hips stuttered, burying him as deep in you as he possibly could as his cum painted your insides white.

Seeing Leon come undone above you, and feeling his warm release spill inside you, you were sent careening into ecstasy alongside him. Your cunt clamped down on him hungrily as you came with a small yell, your muscles working to keep his seed inside you, a communion offering you were determined to savor.

After a few moments spent catching his breath, Leon pulled out of you with a soft whine, collapsing next to you on the bed. He shuffled a bit before pulling you into his chest and under the covers with a soft, “C’mere.”

You nuzzled into his sternum when he prompted you closer, and you felt him press soft, sweet kisses to the crown of your head as you pressed one to his chest. You two stayed that way throughout the night, sleeping soundly in the arms of one another.

[slicznymartwy]

and all at once i knew

part i (request)

read it all on ao3

billy lenz x gn!reader - billy watches you kill. he could have hurt you but he doesn't because he loves you. warning: includes minor character death(s), brief suicide/self harm mention, obsessive behavior

Billy’s a stray. He’s a kicked dog. He’s going to bite and hump anything that moves. He’s been abandoned at the park, or maybe he just ran away and forgot how to get home. But you own him now. He caught your scent, and he loves you. He’s your good doggy and he’s so terrible he should be put down for what he’s done. 

He’s so loyal to you. You’re so nice to him. You rub his scalp and give him food and water. You don’t beat him. You only make him feel so so so good. He loves you so much. He could bite you. He has, but you forgive him. He loves you. He doesn’t mean it when he draws blood. He’s so lonely and cold, and you let him sleep at the foot of your bed.

You plan in the dark. Sometimes, you face each other; other times, you hold him from behind, arms wrapped around his waist. You hold hands and let your legs touch under the covers. You fix his hair when it gets messy, and he brushes an eyelash off your cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“We’ll do it one by one, while they’re asleep,” you tell him one night, tracing the line of his nose. His eyes are closed, relishing in your touch. 

“Tie them up so they can’t fight. Stupid sluts,” he whispers a week later. He entwines your fingers together, staring at them. You think he likes seeing how close he can get to you. He watches how your body wraps around his with reverence and worship.

“We could set the house on fire. They’ll never know it was us,” you giggle, laying on top of him. His hands are on your hips, and his touch is so warm that it makes you want to take your sweater off. 

“I’ll cut off their heads if they talk to you again. I’ll saw them off and kick them like footballs,” he says darkly, drying your tears with his palm. He’s so angry you think he might kill them right then. 

When Susan left, no one thought to ask you where she went. They knew how she treated you. They all watched her mock you, and they laughed along like it didn’t make them complicit. They cried and wrung their hands while the police questioned them, and you tell Billy about it at night.

“Tonight,” he hisses, holding you down on the bed. He pins your wrists down against the mattress and he sits on top of you. Sometimes, you realize what he is. Rabid, feral, untamed. He can be mollified with fresh food and pets along his back, but he’s wild, even when he manages to speak clearly. “I’m going to kill them tonight. They’re all going to die.”

“Wait, please. One more day,” you say, trying not to look afraid. “Just hold me. Please.”

He does, but you wonder if you let him go too far. You gave him too much lead, and now you won’t get him to heel again.

Like Billy entering your bedroom in the dead of night, some changes happen so quietly you don’t realize what’s happened until it’s too late. You wake up one ordinary day, and your sisters are nice.

Maybe you’re just easier to be around, with how happy Billy makes you. Maybe they felt guilty and wanted to make amends. Maybe Susan had your sisters under an evil spell that made them act like complete cunts to you and, by killing her, you freed your housemates from her mind control. 

They laugh with you, they invite you to eat lunch with them. They still get teary eyed when they think about your missing sister, but they don’t say anything when you don’t cry. They know, and they’re sorry, and it feels good to hold that over them. 

“Billy,” you murmur at night. He moans low and quiet at the back of his throat, and the sound vibrates against your chest. You brush you hand through his hair gently. “I don’t think we should hurt them anymore.”

Billy doesn’t respond. He’s so still, you wonder if he’s asleep. 

“They’re not so mean anymore. It’s better now,” you explain. “I think they’re sorry.”

Still, Billy doesn’t respond. You pick your head up to look at him, but he’s already staring at you. His eyes are hauntingly empty of emotion. You try to smile, as placating as you can. 

“I’m sorry, Billy,” you whisper.

He turns his face towards your chest, pressing his nose against your bare sternum. He groans, but it sounds like a growl. 

“So stupid,” he mutters, sounding far away. “Stupid Bambi. Stupid slut.”

“That’s not nice,” you whisper quietly. You can feel his lips against the swell of your breast, and he kisses you like a lover. 

“Stupid. Can’t see what Billy sees. Stupid disgusting lying whores,” he says against your chest.

“I’m not stupid,” you defend yourself meekly. “Stop being mean.”

“Billy can help. Billy will help his Bambi,” he promises.

“I don’t want your help anymore, Billy,” you say, pushing at him. He doesn’t budge.

“Need Billy. Bambi needs Billy,” he mutters. You wonder if he’s even listening to you, if he’s ever listened at all.

“No, I don’t,” you say, trying instead to stand up. Billy effortlessly keeps you down. “Stop it.”

“Stop it,” he says, matching your tone. “Stop it, Billy.”

You sob out of frustration, trying to squirm out of his hold. He doesn’t let you go.

“I hate you,” you say, looking into his dark eyes. “I wish I didn’t know you.”

Billy freezes at your words. The room falls quiet. He stares at you like you’re food. 

“Something’s wrong with you,” you say, voice shaking. 

“I love you,” he finally manages to whisper.

“Leave me alone. I don’t need you,” you say, turning your face from him. You can still feel his eyes on you, they burn through you like the sun through a magnifying glass.

When you don’t say anything else, Billy stands. He stares at you from the side of the bed, and you pull your sheets up to hide your bare chest. It feels strange, hiding from someone that you’ve already shown everything. 

Billy leaves without shutting your door.

The next night, you lock it. You can hear him on the other side, twisting the knob. He rattles the door, wanting it open. Your pillow is so wet you have to turn it over to go to sleep. Your bed is so cold without him.

In the morning, the house is quiet. No one’s in the kitchen. There’s no line for the bathroom. No sounds are coming from any bedroom. There’s nobody in the house. You find some eventually, a pile of five girls in the bathtub. The tile is wet with their dark blood, so are their pajamas. You scream when you see them. Clare is on top, staring at you accusingly.

Sobbing, you fall onto your ass and kick your legs to get away. You feel like a kid again, throwing a tantrum when faced with consequences. You did this, you tell yourself, you asked for this. 

When he appears by your side, you hug him without a second thought. He cradles you in his arms on the bathroom floor and he lets you weep.

“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head. “I love you. I love you.”

You sob. You keep your eyes screwed shut. You can’t look at them, laying like logs for a fire. You fist your hand in Billy’s sweater, remembering what it was like to hold the knife for Susan. 

“Billy won’t leave Bambi,” he promises. It feels like a death sentence and a wedding. You’re the only two living souls in the house, and maybe the entire world. You love him because of it, but you wish you didn't.

“I need to clean before it stains,” you say, sniffling as you pull away from his chest. There’s so much blood. You wonder if there’s more in their beds, but you don’t want to know. Maybe it’ll be easier to burn it all to the ground with you and him still inside.

You find the bucket and gloves under the sink and turn on the faucet. Through the mirror, you see Billy rise and walk towards the tub. The water burns your hand and fogs the glass until you can’t see him anymore.

© slicznymartwy 2023, please do not repost or copy.

a/n: reblogs and replies are really appreciated

[ssukidesu]

vengeance

Fandom: Inuyasha: A Feudal Fairy Tale

Pairing: Inukag

Rating: T

Inukag Week 2024 ( @inukag-week ) - Day 4: Seasons

Summary: The feudal era isn't immune to the heat of the sun, and neither is the group of shard-hunters. Luckily, there's a nice, refreshing river to take advantage of… but Inuyasha's not convinced it’s worth it getting his ears wet. Kagome convinces him otherwise.

Read on AO3

Read under the cut

To him, there was hardly a worse sensation than having wet hair. He watched as the rest of them splashed around like children, alternating between floating lazily on their backs and submerging to see how long they could hold their breaths, between flinging water at each other by surprise and skipping rocks when they returned to shore for a breather.

“Come on, Inuyasha!” scolded Miroku, who was down to his undergarments despite the offended cries of the women. They were over it now, of course, as even they had removed most of their clothing. Sango appeared mostly comfortable with only wearing her bindings, while Kagome seemed noticeably hesitant to leave the water once she’d jumped in. If he had to guess, it was probably because she was slightly embarrassed by her own attire.

She’d called it a bathing suit, but, well, it was honestly no more than two scraps of yellow fabric that clung so tight to her form that he quite rapidly obtained yet another reason to keep himself fully clothed, lest he expose his own growing problems. 

They had daisies on them. Daisies. She was pure evil, and she had the audacity to blush so innocently about it, as if she was ignorant of its effect.

“Inuyasha?” It was Sango this time, calling out to him from the shore some yards away as she wrung out her sopping hair and moved to plop a piece of fruit into her mouth. “You’ve gotta be burning up in that,” she mused. 

She wasn’t wrong. 

As a demon, he wasn’t as subject to the whims of the temperature; his body heat was roughly self-managing. But even still, he had long ago soaked through his undershirt, and he could feel his fire rat robe growing moist on his back. 

“I’m fine,” he grunted for what felt like the hundredth time. 

Shippo, who was floating on his back near where Kagome was up to her neck, piped up. “Come on, relax a little! It’s super refreshing,” he teased, giving him a knowing look before leaping out of the water and onto Kagome’s head. “Kagome could tie your hair up if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He choked on his own spit, and he fought the blush growing on his face. “No way.”

Finally, after seemingly fighting her own internal battle, Kagome spoke timidly, “It’s really no problem… I’d hate for you to keep baking over there while the rest of us cooled off.”

He was going to refuse immediately, but she started moving toward the bank, freeing her skin inch by inch until he could see her entire form, dripping head to foot. She joined Sango where she was snacking upon a large boulder and brought her water canteen to her lips.

His mouth went dry.

If he’d been looking at any of the others at that moment, he would have seen their condemning smirks. 

Kagome bent down to shuffle through her knapsack and pulled out an elastic band. Her wet hair stuck to the skin of her back, and he could see from afar her eyelashes clumped together with moisture. Her cheeks, nose, and shoulders were pink from the sun. 

Situating herself on the rock, she spoke again with the slightest shake in her voice: “Come here—I promise I’ll be gentle.” Then, as if remembering herself, her cheeks grew pinker, and she grabbed her towel and draped it over her shoulders to recover some modesty. 

In that voice and with that expression, she could have asked him to leap off a cliff, and he would have done it. 

“…Whatever,” he scoffed, and he stood.

Sango took the opportunity to leave her place and return to the water, where Miroku and Shippo still were. They knew better than to say anything with him so near, but he knew they were communicating with their eyes and expressions that they thought the whole ordeal was humorous. 

But he didn’t care too much about that now—since Kagome was waiting for him there. If he sat in front of her on the ground, the good news was that he wouldn’t be able to see her. Maybe then he could refocus his scattered mind before arriving at the dire moment in which he’d have to strip. 

Well, it turned out her fingers in his hair and her shapely legs dangling around him from where she was sitting behind was not much better. He quickly saw that his best bet was to close his eyes and pretend it was someone else—anyone else—combing and twisting his long hair. Thank heavens above she never touched his ears during the process.

His hair was off his neck now and secured not too tightly at the base of his neck in a simple bun. To signal her completion, she pressed a hand between his shoulder blades and urged him to stand. 

He felt that he was safe enough for the moment to remove his garments, and he did so without turning around to face her. He started by shedding his robe, then untying the sash of his shirt beneath. He ignored the near-silent sound of her taking in a sudden breath, and he strode as close as he could toward the riverbank before finally shedding his pants, leaving his lower undergarment the only thing on his sweaty body. Miroku, Sango, and Shippo were at least pretending distraction as he submerged himself one step at a time. 

Well, he couldn’t deny the pleasantry that was that chilled water. It certainly cooled him off—in more ways than one. When he was up to his navel, he turned back to inspect Kagome, and he found that she had dropped her towel and was returning to the water herself, eyes glued to the rocky ground. 

Inuyasha came to where the rest of their group was currently floating, not wanting to be distinctly separated from them. Miroku was on his back, and Sango was playing some sort of water game with Shippo that involved dipping their heads beneath the surface and avoiding coming up at the same time. 

Kagome joined them, and they all five soaked in the bliss of the cold water. 

“See?” asked Kagome, who was up to her chin and likely on her toes. Being covered by the water seemed to bring back some of her confidence, though he did notice how her eyes would fall to his shoulders and clavicle every few seconds. “Much better than sitting in the sun, right?”

“I guess," he said. “So, what—we just gonna float around till we get tired of it?” 

“No,” corrected Miroku, whose eyes were closed to the world. “We’re going to relax."

“Sounds like the same thing to me,” argued Inuyasha. 

Kagome giggled. “You don’t know how to relax, do you?”

He brought his gaze back to her and watched a drop of water trail down her cheek and drop from her chin. She was smiling at him, but something under it put him on edge. “Don’t get the occasion that often,” he defended.

Sango and Shippo had paused their game to catch their breaths. She truly was the mother of the group, and her tone took that softness as she said, “Then enjoy it while it lasts. Who knows when we’ll get the chance again?”

He hummed, and he felt Kagome’s eyes on him again. He caught her gaze. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, not even hiding that she was clearly plotting something. “Say, Inuyasha? How much do you hate getting your hair wet?”

He narrowed his eyes. “A lot.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” she said before lifting her feet up in the water and swimming a few paces away. Just as he thought he was safe, she brought a single foot close to the surface and propelled herself away with one violent kick—and a thick splash of water smacked him right in the face. 

Sango, Miroku, and Shippo all took that as their cue to get the hell out of the way. 

Inuyasha, whose eyes had clenched shut in anger, felt his eyebrow twitch. His hair was still mostly dry, but he knew that was more so from his luck than it was her mercy.

“Kagome,” he growled. Then, he heard another splash. He opened his eyes and saw that she was fully submerged and swimming away, no doubt in an attempt to flee his range.

In normal circumstances, he’d be able to chase after her in no time—but in the water, especially when he wished to keep his head dry, it was surprisingly difficult to catch up. Even the advantage of his height only really slowed him down; she could swim faster than he could wade, and he realized he’d have to forsake his desire to keep his hair dry if he was going to get at her.

Well, it was no big matter if his hair got a little wet, he supposed. He cared more about his ears, anyway.

She came up for air some yards away and was facing him, swimming backwards. Her expression was a terrible combination of mischief and trepidation. Their eyes locked, and he kicked up his legs to swim after her with a glowering smirk plastered on his own face. At his movement, she instantly squeaked and flipped herself back around to swim further away. Despite submerging again for her best speed, she had no hope of keeping it up—he was faster now that he was swimming properly. He could see the reflection of her form, and as soon as he was close enough, he propelled himself forward and latched his hand around her ankle, and yanked.

She popped her head back up and tried to dislodge his grip with a kick, but she only caused herself to flail. Since she couldn’t reach the bottom here, and he was holding one of her legs, she had to flip around to float on her back to keep her head above the water. In a desperate effort for freedom, she swiped a hand to splash him, but before she could fling too much water in the air, his free hand was around her wrist. 

“N-No! she shrieked in defeat. She would have tried again with her other hand, but his grip on her ankle loosened and came to her other wrist in a flash. He held them down by her side, grinning viciously at her failed attempts. 

He grimaced at her, their faces perhaps a foot apart. Her bangs were in her eyes. “What was the point in putting my hair up for me if you planned on doing that, huh?” he grunted.

“Oh, come on…” she tried, a poor attempt at an apologetic smile stretching her mouth. “You can’t blame me for messing with you a little.”

“Yeah?” he prompted, eyebrows revealing the suppressed anger behind his smile. He watched her gulp nervously, and he admired how the bright sun made her eyes appear more blue than normal. “Better hold your breath,” he said cruelly.

Her eyes widened, and she hardly had the chance to obey him before he was tugging her down below the water, submerging her head. He was on his toes here—so she was about a foot and a half from the rocky floor. She kicked at his shins playfully, and he felt a surge of victory fill his chest at his vengeance.

Until he saw a full cloud of bubbles flutter to the water’s surface.

His smile instantly evaporated, and he tugged her back up. “What the hell—why’d you…?” he began, watching her reopen her eyes. 

Not half a second later, he learned exactly why: her lips pursed, and a strong stream of water spewed directly onto his head and into his face. His ears instinctively flattened, but to no avail: they were drenched. 

He’d shut his eyes, but he heard her laughing raucously. His nostrils flared, and he clicked his tongue. “The only thing going for you was that I didn’t want my ears wet.”

“Whoops,” she said between giggles. 

He slowly opened his eyes and glared at her. He still had her wrists, and he was holding her just above the surface, their heads level. “So I’ve got nothing to lose now,” he pointed out.

Her laughing stopped quite suddenly. 

In a swift movement, he brought her wrists together behind her back, collecting them in one hand, and pulled her under again. He dragged her lower this time, even though it meant his head would end up soaked. He wedged his free arm beneath her knees, and forced her to do a full back flip under the water. She sputtered for air once she came up, a look of raw offense marring her pretty face. He unfortunately had to release her hands for the move, and she was free to retaliate. She shoved two hand’s worth of water right at him, then brought her feet to kick at his stomach, using him to propel her away. 

“You jerk!” she shouted, still coughing. “You stay away from me!”

Inuyasha’s eyes flashed, and he felt his mouth grinning more outright than before. “Don’t act like you didn’t lure me in the water. It’s your own fault,” he said, swimming after her at a purposely slow pace. 

Anytime he got to close, she kicked her feet to send more water in his face. When he was thoroughly soaked, he gave into his irritation and did the only thing he could do against her defenses. 

He took a deep breath, and dove under the water.

He felt his ears pop, but it wasn’t as terrible as he thought it’d be. He opened his eyes.

And almost lost his mouthful of air.

The sun’s beams were bright, and his demonic eyes retained their sharpness beneath the water. Her form was on full display for him, everything below the neck, as she fought to swim backwards and keep him away. All of the sudden, the idea of pursuing her seemed to take on a different feeling altogether. He didn’t let himself mull over it. 

He could hold his breath far longer than a regular human could, of course, and he took full advantage; he descended as low as he could to keep himself from being visible to her, and he circled her like a shark. He could see her head whipping around above the water, searching for any sign of him. For naught, of course.

He placed himself behind her, placed his feet on the rocky floor, and pushed himself forward.

Right between her legs.

It was a delicate mission, but he pulled it off perfectly: his head came right between her knees, and as he continued forward, his shoulders caught where they were bent. He swept her legs out from under her, and with nothing to support her in the water, the momentum threw her torso, neck, and head backwards beneath the waves. Inuyasha’s hands came to grip her ankles, yanking her legs even higher until they were out of the water and hooked over his broad shoulders.

To her horror, he didn’t let go—no matter how hard she flailed. She tightened her core and did a full sit up, finally regaining air. Her rear end was flush on his back—much higher than it was normally when he carried her—and she brought her hands to grip unceremoniously at his neck. 

“H-Hey, let me go!” she urged, stuttering not just for want of a good breath. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t splash you again.” She loosened her left hand and brought it to claw at his hand around her left ankle.

“Yeah, like I’d believe that,” he said. 

She would have argued further, but he plunged himself under the water again—and he repositioned her so that she’d be fully sitting on his shoulders. When he came back up, her legs were the only part of her in the water. Her hands instinctively braced on his head. He peered up at her with a smirk. Her face was angled over his, blushing furiously. 

“Inuyasha!” she cried, scandalized.

He couldn’t really blame her for being surprised—he wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into him, either. Something about being in the water with her, having the excuse to touch her freely, to make her a little mad—it filled him with a bit of male arrogance, he supposed. He’d probably wack himself upside the head later for everything, but he couldn’t help himself. He was trusting she wouldn’t punish him with a sitting later.

Well, even if she did, he supposed it’d be worth it if he could land this one final move of revenge.

His hands had moved to her thighs during his last adjustment, but when he submerged once again, he regripped her ankles and put her feet on his shoulders. Her legs were straight beneath her, and when he came back up, she was raised entirely out of the water in a terribly unsound standing position. Her arms flailed in desperation for balance, but to no avail.

With full use of his strength, he heaved—and flung her into the air. 

She plummeted back into the water with a wild scream and a grand splash. 

He made sure to begin his journey back to the river bank before she popped above the water again. He knew if he stayed in after that show, she’d come up with something to get back at him—and he didn’t want to give her the chance. 

He managed to put about ten yards between them before she caught her breath enough to yell his name. The water was now only at his waist, and he was forever grateful for the chilled temperature as he watched her trail behind him, her own body escaping the depths little by little. Once the water was at his shins, he began to run, water splashing with each step. He was cackling, and he thought he’d better get it together before this episode dragged on too long and he did something he’d really regret.

He smartly grabbed his pants as soon as they were in reach and yanked them on one leg at a time while she was trailing behind him. It was hard putting them on while soaking wet, but he forced them, and by the time she was out of the water, he was rearing to sprint his heart out if she looked too violent. 

To his relief, she didn’t come for him right away; instead, she made to go grab her towel. She shouted at him nonetheless, her voice clearly threatening laughter: “I’m never going swimming with you again! ” 

Phew, he thought, shaking his head and twitching his ears to rid them of water. Thought she’d be more angry than that.

She plopped down on the boulder and brought the towel to her hair. 

Well, he considered, might be best to offer a truce .

He warily made his way to her, holding his hands up in surrender. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What now?”

He held out his hand. “Gimme that,” he said simply. 

Kagome looked him up and down, assessing his intentions. “…Alright.” She handed him her towel.

Inuyasha came to sit behind her on the rock, staying propped on his toes just in case she lunged at him. He threw the towel over her head and rubbed, drying it gracelessly.

“Hey, you’re going to tangle it!” she cried, twisting to face him and free her poor victimized head. Retaining the towel, she scooped her hair onto one shoulder and began to pat it more gently, combing it with her fingers. 

“Keh,” Inuyasha grunted, lowering himself fully on his butt. “I was just trying to help.”

Kagome took him in, and something humorous shined in her eyes. “You should probably worry about untangling your own hair,” she said. 

“Huh?”

He lifted his hand to the bun. 

It had devolved into an absolute rat’s nest. 

“Uh… Kagome?” he tried timidly.

“Nope, not helping,” she sighed, beating him to the punch. 

He gave it a testing tug with his claws. It hurt. “H-Hey… are you sure you can’t—”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, placing her feet on the ground and standing yet again. The towel was draped around her shoulders, and her hair was dried enough to be slightly frizzy around her face. She came to prop her hands on the rock and lean forward, judging him with a rather merciless glare. He tried really hard to keep his eyes on her face.

Then, she gave him a sweet smile. 

He gulped. 

Her voice was low, likely to protect her from being overheard by their friends, who were somehow still minding their own business in the water. “You lost the right to my help the minute you put your head between my legs.”

Every cell of blood flooded his face. She watched him blush with cruel pleasure. 

Then, she turned on her heel and left him. He didn’t blink a single time as he watched her take every step. 

His hands twitched where they were braced on the rock, and suddenly, he felt like he understood Miroku more than he ever thought he would.

[lilees]

TPW Bridgerton AU Snippet!! 🌸

Life has been busy lately and I haven't had much time to write :( But I finally finished a scene for chapter 6 of my TPW Bridgerton AU! The whole chapter will be uploaded... Eventually *crying emoji* In the meantime, I'm posting a snippet here to keep myself accountable :) i see how this is gonna go (touch me and you'll never be alone) | M | chapter 6 | lukewarmtacobell on ao3

“You know, if I really wanted to drown you, I wouldn’t have done it anywhere nearly as public,” Nezha grumbled once they were both on dry land, exhausted and soggy. 

She made a face in between heavy breaths. Her arms were on fire. "Good luck getting me alone for that.”

She wrung out her hair, aggressively twisting the moisture from its length. Her clothes were no better, soaked and going cold and clinging to her frame. Who knew silk absorbed that much water? Nezha was trying to do the same with his clothing, wringing out the hem of his tunic with a grimace. It clung to the chiseled contours of his arms and chest, painting a very clear picture of what was underneath the drenched fabric. Very little was left to her imagination. Her lips parted involuntarily. 

Nezha caught her not-so-subtle stare. For a few seconds, she could only gape at him like an idiot. He raised a brow. “Can I help you?”

“You look ridiculous,” she muttered, combing through her tangled hair with her fingers and trying to look anywhere but the expanse of toned skin above his hips, bared by his lifted shirt.

“Very creative,” he sneered, but Rin would be completely oblivious to miss the way his gaze lingered on her. Her breath caught in her throat. 

“So,” he started, slowly and softly, bringing his eyes up to hers. “About earlier–” “No.”

Her face was as on fire as her mind. She turned away rapidly from him, still dripping, and squeezed at the hem of her sleeve till the silk tore in her grip.