#Not only am I older than AO3

[peachandpinwheel]

I've recently noticed a lot more posts begging people to leave comments if they like a fic. There's a reason.

I've been writing fic across various platforms for nearly two decades. I started when I was 12 (writing self insert of course) on fanfiction.net. I have written for big fandoms and small, popular ships and rarepairs. I have been a hermit and I have been a big name writer.

And I have never, in all those years, seen so little comments on fics. Things have really changed, and it's honestly pretty discouraging.

We aren't tiktok creators. We don't churn out loads of content hoping one of them finds an audience. We aren't working an algorithm.

Most writers don't write for praise, they write because they love writing. But we are still human. We want to know if our work means anything to anyone. We want to know that the time and effort it took was worth it. We want other people to find our work, which if they search by comments, gets harder and harder.

If you liked a fic, if you want that author to write more, please leave a comment, however short. Two words means the world when you know someone took the time to say them.

[blustainedfingertips]

remind me never to look up a kpop group on here again, i was just looking for funny text posts and memes WHY ARE YOU ALL SO FREAKY 😭😭😭😭

[orcelito]

yes im going to shameless self promo i have more followers here than i have kudos on ITNL and i think that's a damn shame

ITNL is much more put together than i ever am on here lmao

[meerlichtz]

Oh rarepair hell, we’re really in it now

[gloomwitchwrites]

You get drunk and don't remember giving them a hickey. So you get mad at them.

Oh, anon! I love love love this prompt. Even though the prompt itself is fairly straightforward, there is some wiggle room about how this could play out. I stuck to the prompt but did my best to keep them on the shorter side.

Some of these get spicy but don't fall into graphic detail.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, arguing, sexual tension, kissing, alcohol

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

John Price

“These reports are shit, Price. What am I supposed to do with them?”

You’re trying your best not to sound irritated, but your head is pounding. You agreed to go out for drinks but told yourself you wouldn’t have more than one or two. That went completely out the door when multiple people began paying for rounds. After the fourth, the night started to come blurry. Not all the pieces are there.

Of what you can recall from last night, you remember that you sat in a man’s lap. Well—sat isn’t the correct word. More like straddled. You remember strong arms, an accent, and an excitement in what you were doing. But the face is still foggy.

“What you always do,” replies Price. There’s a tease in his tone you don’t particularly like. It’s too friendly, and it stirs something fierce inside your belly.

Price shifts in his chair behind his desk, the collar of his jacket flops open slightly. You catch a hint of something dark on the side of Price’s neck. You frown, your rebuttal gone.

“What is that?” You nod toward his throat.

Price leans back. “What?” he asks. “This?” He reaches up, pulling back on the collar.

It’s a…oh fuck.

“You were happy to give it to me.” Price shrugs.

Fuck.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, tossing the manila file folder on Price’s desk.

The man you straddled last night was Price? The man who is always fucking up reports and ignoring all your suggestions for corrections? That one?

“You looked good doing it, too,” he continues, that teasing smile falling into a comfortability of a lover.

No. No no no.

You place your hands on your hips. “And you let me do that?”

Price shrugs. “We’re consenting adults.”

“I was drunk.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest. “We were both drunk. And you’re the one who pounced on me.”

Embarrassment rises hot and wild in your cheeks. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You did,” he confirms, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he smirks. “Ambushed me actually.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Your voice cracks, going a bit high.

“I tried.”

That’s almost worse. You jumped him and then sucked on his neck until it left a mark. What an absolute fucking mess.

You roll your eyes. “You tried? A big strong man like you couldn’t stop me?”

This time Price is the one rolling his eyes. He makes an irritated groan. Price pushes up from his chair, one hand waving out in front of him as he speaks. “You said you’d been thinking about me.”

It’s not entirely untrue. While you attend the clerical side of things, you do make excuses to come see Price. He’s older. Handsome. Assertive. His reports aren’t always shit but it’s the only reason you have to bother him.

“I didn’t mean it,” you reply but even you don’t believe it.

Price comes around the desk and steps into your space. “Really?”

You square your shoulders, staring into Price’s face. “Really.”

He shakes his head, clearly not believing you at all. “As I recall, you were in my lap. Practically begging.”

“And you allowed that? In front of everyone?” Even Price couldn’t be that careless.

This time, Price smiles like he knows something you don’t. “You don’t remember.”

“What?” you ask, flustered.

Price starts laughing, but it’s not mocking, more like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“John,” you snap.

Price sinks down into his chair, legs spread wide. “I think I liked it better when you said my name while seated in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into the top of Price’s desk. Pieces begin to return. Fragments of you squirming in his lap. Lips pressed against his.

“How did you say it?” he ponders, almost aloud rather than to you. Then, he smiles, not even answering his own question.

Price rests his palm on his thigh and your gaze drops to its subtle movement before returning to his face.

“Think I’d like a matching one,” he says. He runs his hand down his thigh and then back up. “Or I could give you one just like it.”

“John,” you murmur, not knowing what it is you want to say.

“Doesn’t have to be on your neck,” and his voice is nearly a growl. Price lightly squeezes his thigh and you know exactly where he’s referring to. “Be easier if you sit on the desk.”

You snatch up the folder on Price’s desk, clutching it like a shield against your chest. Price doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t appear fazed at all. Stomping over you shove it against his chest, intending to walk right out the door.

But Price is quick.

With one hand he’s clutching the file and with the other he grabs your wrist before you manage to move away.

“Remove your hand,” you say but there is no venom in it.

Price’s gaze lingers on your lips before shifting up to meet your eyes. “Come back when you know what you want.”

Price releases you, and you nearly stumble forward into his lap. Catching yourself on the edge of his desk, you spin on your heel, exiting Price’s office as the final fragments of memory fall into place.

You don’t want to admit it.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But you will be back.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s unbelievable. Unfathomable.

You’re not angry with Kyle. You’re upset with yourself. You’re upset that you were so careless about how many drinks you had, and how you couldn’t control yourself in the moment. Kyle is not a liar, and he doesn’t take advantage, so whatever you did, is on you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, swallowing down some of the rising irritation. “It’s my fault.”

Kyle shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face. “Not like I pushed you away.”

“That doesn’t matter,” you insist, flinging your arms out in exasperation, nearly knocking over bottles of cleaner.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, catching one of them before it hits the floor.

This little storage room isn’t big enough for this. You need space. You need to run far away from here and pretend like last night didn’t happen. Not that you can remember all of it. You don’t recall giving Kyle that mark on his neck.

“It does matter. We both had too much but I still had more of my head than you did.” Kyle places the bottle of cleaner back on the shelf. “I should’ve done better.”

“We’re coworkers, Kyle. And I had no right. We aren’t together.”

Kyle smirks and you want to smack it right off his face. “We could be,” he murmurs, taking a step forward.

“Absolutely not,” you retort but you don’t retreat.

Kyle’s smirk faulters a bit but he doesn’t shrink away. If anything, he looks more determined, like the rejection is a farce.

“You remember anything you said to me last night?”

You lick your lips and cross your arms defensively over your chest. “Even if I did, does it change anything?”

Kyle sighs and runs his hand over the top of his head. “It does for me.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you consider your options. Kyle is a sweet man, at least to you. Everyone always comments on it to you when he isn’t around, and you’ve always dismissed their observations.

Maybe he does care, and you doing this tipped him over the edge into a place neither of you might be able to come back from.

“I need some fucking air,” you mutter, wanting to escape this situation, even for a bit.

Kyle shoves forward, blocking the door. Your lips move, forming the shapes of words, but Kyle shakes his head, all seriousness.

“We need to talk about this.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” you snap.

Kyle’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline and his head tips slightly to the side, revealing more of the mark. “Everyone knows what happened.”

“What?” you breathe.

“We weren’t alone when you straddled me.” You’re too stunned to speak. All the words you want to say are gone. Lost to the void that is your mind.

Kyle sighs and leans against the door. “Soap got a great view.”

“Stop talking. Just—stop.” Your throw up your hands and Kyle does as you ask. “You are going to move out of my way. I am going to leave. And we won’t talk about this again.”

Kyle only stares, the silence stretching.

When you think he won’t give in, Kyle shifts to his left, leaving the door completely clear. Without taking a second to reconsider, you push open the the door, nearly running over Soap in the process.

He stumbles backward, cheeks bright red. Ghost is next to him, arms crossed, staring at the wall like he isn’t there at all.

Soap’s brief fluster turns into a wide, knowing grin. “Gaz give you a matching one?” he teases.

Ghost makes a noise that sounds like a snort.

“Both of you can fuck off.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Ghost.”

“What?” he grunts, side-eyeing you before returning his attention back to the tablet in his hand. He absently rubs at his neck for the third time in the last few minutes.

You frown. “Are you injured?”

“Why would you think that?” he asks, tapping at something on the screen.

“You keep rubbing your neck.”

Ghost pauses, his finger hovering just above the screen as he turns slightly in your direction.

You’re not trying to be pushy or nosy. Ghosts hates that. But there’s something wrong, and you care enough to ask him about it.

“You know what’s on my neck,” he replies cooly.

“No. I don’t.” A swirling fracture of unease blooms in your belly. It curls outward to claw up your throat. “What are you talking about?”

Ghost’s hand holding the tablet drops to his side. With one gloved hand, he reaches up, tugging the neckline of his jacket down enough to reveal a portion of his throat. The mask he always wears is in the way, but you reach out with a tentative hand, brushing the fabric upward to reveal a mouth-shaped bruise.

You drop your hand and take a step back. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“You gave it to me,” he says, matter of fact.

Sure, you had a few drinks last night, but did you really have that many? Enough that you can’t recall giving Ghost a goddamn hickey.

“You’re mistaken.”

“Never wrong, love.” Ghost locks the tablet and places it on the table next to him. “Especially about a woman sitting in my lap.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, hips adjusting slightly as he pivots to glare down at you. “Try again.”

A deep rush of embarrassment floods your system, curling up your neck to heat your cheeks. “I wouldn’t.”

“You did,” insists Ghost. You glance down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Perhaps you had one too many. Sometimes you can hold your alcohol but clearly not. At least not last night.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry.” An apology is best. You have no idea how Ghost feels about you, but you are irritated that he didn’t try to stop the whole thing in the first place.

Ghost is silent a long moment. “I’m not.” Your head snaps up, but Ghost isn’t done. “I liked it. And you enjoyed giving it to me.”

You need the pieces to fall back into place. You need to remember. Because right now, you’re just confused, and Ghost’s behavior is entirely different from his usual demeanor.

“You don’t know that.”

Ghost shrugs. “I do.”

His certainty is confusing. Ghost is not a liar. He is always truthful, always to the point, even if his bluntness comes across as rude. And that’s what so frustrating about it all because you know that Ghost is right. You probably did like it, probably begged and writhed in his lap. Ghost wouldn’t lie about something like that, but he would tease you. Might even hold it over your head.

“This conversation is over.” You step around him to grab the tablet, but Ghost is quick like a viper, his large hand encasing your wrist.

“Do you remember?”

No. I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter.” You try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, but Ghost holds firm.

“When you’re ready. Find me.” He leans forward, masked face nearly touching the side of your cheek. “We’ll recreate it.”

Then his hand is gone, and Ghost is pulling away, presenting the tablet to you like he didn’t say anything at all.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What the fuck is that?”

Soap’s brilliant smile turns in your direction. He sits on the seat of a bench press, elbows resting on knees, sweat dripping from his brow. Soap is shirtless and a white towel is draped over the back of his neck.

Reaching up with the edge of the towel, Soap wipes away some of the sweat on his face. “What are you on about?” He adjusts his stance, his large palm pressing into his knee as he leans on an elbow.

The small gym isn’t crowded but there are people here. Some of them turn and glance in your direction but otherwise keep to their business. Ghost and Gaz are over by the boxing ring observing a few new recruits who slug it out for bragging rights.

Is Soap so aloof? Does he not see the massive mark on the side of his neck? And who gave it to him? A group of you went out for drinks but you don’t recall who might have given it to him or when.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “Your neck, Johnny.”

That gorgeous smile of his widens and he chuckles. “Did you forget?”

Did you forget? Forget what? Are you part of this?

You swallow, the salvia nearly sticking in your throat as you try to calm your thudding heart. “What do you mean?”

Soap leans back a bit, observing you. “You gave this to me.” His voice is too loud, and you glance over your shoulder to make sure no one’s heard. Everyone appears to be preoccupied with the recruits in the ring.

“I didn’t,” you insist, turning back to him. “I’d remember.”

Soap guffaws and removes the towel from around his neck. “Took a seat right here.” He indicates the spot by tapping his left thigh.

“Did we…” you begin, and then trail off.

“Did we what?” he prompts, clearly enjoying this.

You bend forward, lowering your voice until it’s a hiss. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Soap smirks, and then rises to his full height. “Promise I was a perfect gentleman.” He matches your movement, leaning in so that your faces are close. “But you? You were no lady.”

You inhale sharply, and Soap pushes right past you, heading for the showers.

taglist:

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@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @dakotakazansky

@hantheconqueror

[melancholy-of-nadia]

i'm not sure?! (m) | jjk/pjm/kth

title: i'm not sure?!  pairing: jungkook x jimin x taehyung x show producer!reader(f)  rating/genre: m(18+) ; fluff, smut ; the canon idol au summary: You're a producer working on a BTS travel show, called "Are You Sure?!" staring BTS members Jimin and Jungkook, with their fellow member guest star Taehyung. Everything is going well on set as filming for the night comes to an end, but when Jungkook and Jimin inform you that they caught you staring at their shirtless bodies, things quickly escalate between you guys by the poolside. warnings: fluff, language, pwp, threesome, foursome, tit play, nipple play, licking, some body boob worship, blowjobs, hand jobs, eating out, multiple orgasms, ass slapping, light mlm moment, cumming, oral sex (m and f receieving), biting, praise, they all have a big dicks but they're different!, tatted jk and jimin is a warning in itself, jungkook is a bit more rough, jimin is soft :(((, taehyung dom tease!, insinuation that this is not their first rodeo lmfao, kisses note: i am watching are you sure?! and i've thought many thoughts... i hope this one shot can be prescribed to you and heal whatever insane and nasty intrusive thoughts you guys have when watching. i am a simple woman, but these men only slightly older than me have me wrecked :"))) also s/o to @daegudrama for editing despite her busyness total word count: 6.6k drop date: August 29th, 2024 5pm pst ao3 link

A day of filming wrapped as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the lush greenery of Jeju Island.

The final shot had captured the last rays of sunlight glinting off the shimmering pool, where Jimin and Jungkook had been playfully splashing each other and playing mermaids, their laughter echoing through the tranquil evening air. The crew began to pack up the equipment, the usual post-shoot chatter filling the space as everyone prepared to unwind after another successful day.

You, the producer, had been watching the monitors closely, ensuring every moment was captured perfectly for "Are You Sure?"—the travel reality show hosted by BTS members Jimin and Jungkook. You’ve seen how their chemistry was undeniable since filming started out in the US in July. Now, once again, their camaraderie was infectious as they explored the beauty of Jeju, Korea with their fellow bandmate and guest star Taehyung by their side. Each outing in Jeju had been a hit: indoor rock climbing, go-karting, savoring omakase as well as other Jeju delicacies, and now, the pool at the luxurious house accommodation, where they seemed to find endless ways to entertain themselves, and the audiences who would eventually be watching this.

However, throughout this filming project, you found your eyes constantly lingering. The cool blue water rippled gently as Jimin and Jungkook clambered out, their naked torsos glistening in the fading light. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught yourself staring a little too long, mesmerized by the sight of them so effortlessly carefree and touchy. There was something about the way they moved, their playful energy, that made it hard to look away.

You shake off the thought. Get it together, Y/N! You finally got a big gig producing a reality show for BTS in your mid-20s and you cannot be ruining it over your lust. You sigh. Maybe the lack of touch and a relationship is really getting to you, but that’s what happens when you value your career above other mundane things. You have to remind yourself that you have to continue staying professional to make it to the end of filming this.

What you don’t know is that your stares haven’t gone unnoticed, especially by the youngest of the trio, Jungkook.

As you begin to collect your things, your heart skips a beat when you hear a voice call out to you.

“Hey, PD-nim. Can you come join us by the pool for a bit before you go,” Jungkook says, his tone casual, but his smile inviting. “We wanted to talk about tomorrow’s shoot.”

Jimin nods in agreement, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leans against the edge of the pool. “Yeah, we’ve got some ideas for tomorrow. Plus, it’s a nice night—no reason to rush off, right?”

You hesitate for a moment, your mind racing. The day has been long, and you can feel the exhaustion settling in. But the chance to spend a few more moments in their company, even if just to discuss the next day's itinerary, is too tempting to resist.

“Uh,” you turn to look around at the other staff, seemingly wondering if you should stay behind.

However, the ones who notice the interaction shrug, seemingly wanting to go back to their accommodation next door and eat dinner. Great.

“Sure, I can stick around for a bit.” trying to keep your voice steady as you walk over to where they’re waiting.

All the staff but you fully exit, closing the large doors that encase you in this space with these beautiful men. You sit on one of the comfortable seats by the pool, nervously hugging your knees as you watch Jimin and Jungkook swim toward you. You notice Taehyung is still inside the living room, lying on the floor as he scrolls on his phone. “Is he coming to join us?” You ask, wondering if there are any concerns for tomorrow, wouldn’t it be good to have him hear this information too?  

“He’ll join us later~” Jimin answers, his tone sounding like he’s up to something, but his adorable smirk makes you not question it.

“Ah, alright.”

A brief silence follows as you look to Jimin and Jungkook to start the conversation, but instead, they exchange a glance and giggle.

You’re confused, but you recognize this as typical behavior from them. “Is there something wrong?”

Jungkook’s giggling becomes softer before it cuts, “You know, we’ve noticed you staring at us too much throughout the trip in America and here.”

Holy shit! They noticed!

Panic sets in. Oh no no no. Is this it? They probably think you’re creepy.  What if they think you’re some sort of sasaeng fan who somehow got involved in the production of this show to stalk them? 

You’ll be labeled a pervert, potentially losing your job and getting blacklisted from the industry. All because you couldn’t keep your eyes off of their beautiful faces… and bodies. It’s not your fault! While you were a fan of BTS years ago, you gave that up once you entered the entertainment industry a few years ago and started out as a production assistant. You’ve occasionally seen them at music and end of the year shows you worked on, but you gently admired them from afar, prioritizing your work over anything else.

“I–” You struggle to find the words to defend yourself. “I’m so sorry!” You cover your face with your hands, your words muffled. “I-I didn’t mean to! Y-You’re… He’s…”

The professional and stoic exterior you’ve maintained begins to crumble now that you’ve been caught red-handed.

But despite your panic, Jimin and Jungkook find your reaction completely endearing.

“She’s reacting exactly as cute as you said!” Jimin laughs, splashing water at Jungkook, who swims toward the pool ladder to get out.

“I didn’t realize she’d be this flustered, though!” Jungkook says, a hint of concern in his voice. He climbs out of the pool and walks toward you, dripping water onto the deck. “PD-nim, don’t worry about it.”

You peek through your fingers, still mortified, as Jungkook approaches, looking as attractive as ever with his body glistening from light reflecting on the remnants of water falling down his body. His expression is soft, reassuring, and it only makes your heart race faster.

Jimin lets out a soft chuckle. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re just teasing you,” His voice is light and teasing as he floats lazily in the pool “We’re not uncomfortable. It’s kind of flattering, actually.”

Jungkook nods, his expression gentle yet probing. “Yup! You’ve been nothing but professional this whole time. We just noticed that… maybe there’s more beneath the surface.”

Jimin gracefully lifts himself out of the pool and takes the seat on your other side. His presence is both comforting and disarming. “It’s like there’s something you’re holding back,” he adds, his tone hiding something deeper. “Something you’re denying yourself.”

You exhale slowly, trying to steady your nerves. Internally, you’re awestruck. It’s like they read you like a book. The intensity of their gazes still makes your heart race. Before you can respond, Jungkook’s eyes drop to your chest, his smile turning playful again.

“You know,” he says, “I noticed the black bikini top peeking out from under your tank top earlier.”

Your breath catches as his fingers touch the straps that tie behind your neck. You’d planned to swim later, after filming, wearing the bikini under your tank top and maxi skirt. Seeing how much fun they were having, you’d wanted to join in. But now, with their attention focused on you, you feel exposed in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Jimin leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Why don’t you take off your clothes so we can see it better? We’ll help you~”

Take off your clothes?! Your heart pounds in your chest, the suggestion hanging in the air between you. The teasing is taking a turn, and you’re not sure how to respond. Saying no might kill the mood, and who knows what they’d think—or say. But if you say yes… there’s no telling where this might lead.

You’re not sure. But after a moment’s hesitation, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay…”

Jungkook gently takes hold of the hem of your tank top, his fingers brushing against your skin. His touch is both soft and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine as he slowly lifts the fabric, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath catches in your throat as Jungkook pulls the tank top over your head, revealing the black bikini top beneath. Your cleavage and the roundness of your breasts are on full display, which makes them slightly more excited. The cool air hits your skin, making you acutely aware of how exposed you are. 

But the look in their eyes isn’t one of judgment—it’s something far more intense, more primal.

Jimin watches with a satisfied smile, his gaze flickering between you and Jungkook. “You don’t need to hide, okay?” he adds, his voice soft yet commanding. “We’re all just having a little fun, right?”

Jungkook’s hands linger on your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly against the skin just above the waistband of your maxi skirt. “This too,” he says, his voice almost a whisper as he hooks his fingers under the fabric.

You glance at Jimin, who nods encouragingly, his eyes dark with anticipation. There’s no turning back now, and a part of you doesn’t want to.

With a gentle tug, Jimin helps you slide the skirt down your hips, letting it pool around your feet. You stand up, stepping out of it. Now, your body is fully on display in the black bikini that suddenly feels far more revealing than it did before.

Jimin’s smile widens as his gaze travels over you, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. “Wow, you look even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, his voice sending a thrill through you.

“She’s really pretty,” Jungkook’s hands trail up your sides, his touch light but possessive. “Let’s go in the pool for a swim,” he says softly, his eyes locked onto yours.

You’re momentarily thrown off by the sudden change of scenario, blinking in surprise. The intensity of the moment shifts, and both Jimin and Jungkook burst into soft giggles at your reaction. Before you can say anything, Jungkook takes your hands and, with a mischievous grin, pulls you up from the lounge chair.

In one swift motion, he lifts you into his arms, the strength in his hold both reassuring and thrilling. “Hold on tight,” he says, winking at you before he leaps into the pool, bringing you along with him.

“Huh!? Wahh!!” The water rushes around you, cool and refreshing as you both plunge beneath the surface.

When you resurface, laughing and splashing, Jimin stands at the edge, watching with amusement. “Wait for me!” he calls out before executing a perfect cannonball right between you and Jungkook, sending a wave of water crashing over both of you.

The three of you laugh as the playful atmosphere takes over. The tension from earlier dissolves into something lighthearted and fun. In the pool, you play a variety of games: splashing water at each other, racing from one end to the other, seeing who can hold their breath the longest, and even attempting to dunk each other under the water.

You become more familiar with them and vice versa.

Jimin and Jungkook take turns lifting you up and tossing you into the deeper end, your laughter echoing in the night. At one point, Jungkook even suggests a round of “chicken fight,” where Jimin hoists you onto his shoulders while Jungkook does the same with an imaginary opponent, both of you trying to push each other off into the water.

As the night progresses, the games become more relaxed, the three of you floating side by side, your bodies gently swaying with the ripples of the water. 

Maybe this is all that’s going to happen. Maybe you were overthinking any other scenario. They were just teasing you because you were staring at them throughout the filming. You guys are gonna call it a night, right?

Right–

“Y/N, can I touch your breasts.”

The sudden question jolts you out of your thoughts, and you quickly stand up in the pool, water cascading off your skin. Jungkook is closer now, his gaze fixed on you with a seriousness that wasn’t there before. His eyes are darker, a smoldering intensity taking over the playful spark you’re used to.

You swallow hard, caught completely off guard. “Is there… a reason?” you manage to ask, your voice coming out shakier than you’d like. You are on the bigger side than most girls here, so it’s not entirely surprising that your chest caught his eye.

Jungkook steps even closer, his presence almost overwhelming. “I’m just curious,” he says softly, his voice low and almost hypnotic. “I want to see how they feel.”

Your heart races, every nerve in your body tingling as the situation escalates far beyond anything you’d imagined. You can’t believe this is happening, and yet, there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes it impossible to say no.

“Uh… sure,” you respond, barely above a whisper, your cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.

Jungkook’s hand moves slowly, deliberately, under the cup of your bikini top. His touch is tentative at first, as if he’s savoring the moment, but then his fingers press more firmly against your skin, exploring the softness with a deliberate curiosity. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel his thumb brush against your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. 

The sensation is heightened by the sight of his tattooed right arm, the intricate patterns of his sleeve adding a dark contrast to his skin. The ink swirls and curves with every movement, the bold lines almost mesmerizing as his hand continues its exploration.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle the sound that threatens to escape, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to his touch. The water feels warmer now, the atmosphere is charged with sexual tension. Luckily the cameras outside are now off, but you still can’t let the staff in the building next door hear anything going on. 

Jimin, who had been floating nearby, quietly watching, now moves closer as well, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Jungkook,” he says softly, his voice a gentle reminder that he’s there too, “Don’t hog all the fun.”

Jungkook pulls back slightly, his hand still lingering on your skin as he glances at Jimin with a playful smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jimin leans closer, his gaze intent and voice soft. “I’m going to touch you too, is that okay?”

You nod, anticipation and nervousness swirling within you.

Jimin’s hand moves under the bikini cup to grasp your left breast, his touch gentle yet confident as he begins to explore. His fingers graze and play with your nipple, causing a shiver to run through your body. His thumb and forefingers move in careful back and forth motions. Tenderly tweaking them, carefully observing the way your face reacts to his every touch. He appears as if he is under a trance, and looks at you with such a need in his eyes.

The sensation is heightened by Jungkook, who leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. 

“I’m gonna remove your top so I can suck on them a bit,” He says shyly, pausing for a moment to untie your bikini straps from the back of your neck and remove your bikini top, before lowering his head and softly pressing his lips to your nipple, his tongue darting out to tease. 

His hands push your breasts together as his tongue caresses the inner curves of your tits, swirling his tongue across them. Your hands are on his shoulders as he continues, licking every inch of your chest, nuzzling his face between them and leaving kisses along the path. His tongue flicks your right nipple and your breathing hitches in your throat. Despite the water in the way, you can feel yourself becoming wet from below.

Jimin watches, clearly intrigued, and soon follows suit, his mouth finding the other breast. He rubs his mouth along it, giving it a couple of kisses then wrapping his lips around it. Suctioning and taking in the tit with such hungry delight. 

You feel like you have whiplash, as you cry out from the warmth of their mouths on your skin, your back arches off of the wall of the pool. You want to touch them, reach for them, feel the silkiness of his hair in your grasp. 

But Jimin doesn’t let up, taking his time licking slowly around your areola until your nipple perks up, hard and stiff. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue, and with the sudden cold from the night air, it feels all too much. 

Jungkook looks up at you through his wet hair, through black lashes as he widens his mouth over your breast, his teeth bared, scraping the fat of your breast without ever breaking the skin. You cry out in a cluster of pleasure, maybe pain, as your senses are confused about all of the sensations at once.

Despite the feelings of them against you, their actions are synchronized and perfectly in tune with each other.

The pool’s gentle ripples and breeze seem to fade into the background as the focus narrows to the intimate touch of the two men. Their movements are tender and explorative, a blend of curiosity and desire that leaves you breathless and overwhelmed.

Your mind is fighting for dear life to stay sane and not lose to your animalistic urges,

“Let’s get out of the pool,” Jungkook commands, his voice firm yet enticing. “I want you to sit back on that daybed couch, baby.”

The shift in how he’s addressing you in the past 45 minutes is striking—both intimate and commanding. You nod, your body responding almost instinctively to his command as you all exit the pool. The three of you walk over to the poolside daybed, water dripping off your bodies, cooling in the night.

You sink into the plush cushions, the soft fabric cool against your heated skin. The daybed is large, designed for lounging, but right now, it feels like the center of something much more intense. Jungkook and Jimin kneel on either side of you, their knees pressing into the mattress as they lean over you, their wet bodies glistening under the soft pool lights.

You look at both of them, a daring thought forming in your mind. “I want to… lick at your chests too,” you say, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of eagerness, shyness and uncertainty.

The thought of exploring the contrasting textures of their skin, the difference in their nipples under your tongue, is almost overwhelming. You wonder how each will react, the mere anticipation making your breath catch.

Jimin’s eyes light up with a mischievous glint. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, his voice a blend of encouragement and desire. “We’re here for you.”

Jungkook watches intently, his gaze dark with expectation. “We’re all yours,” he says softly, his tone dripping with promise.

You reach out tentatively, your fingers brushing against their chests to feel the firmness of their muscles under your touch. The warmth of their skin sends a shiver down your spine as you explore the contours of their bodies. Your hands glide over Jungkook's chest first, pausing to tease his nipples with your fingertips gently. His breath hitches, a low hum of approval escaping his lips as he watches you with darkened eyes.

Encouraged by his reaction, you lean in closer, your mouth hovering just above his skin. You start with a soft kiss on his chest before taking one of his small chocolate nipples into your mouth, your tongue swirling around it in a slow, deliberate motion. Jungkook’s hand instinctively reaches up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he lets out a quiet groan of pleasure. His chest rises and falls more rapidly, his breathing growing heavier as you continue to tease him, alternating between gentle licks and firmer sucks.

The sound of his pleasure fuels your desire, making you want to elicit even more reactions from him. But as you pull back slightly, your gaze shifts to Jimin, who has been watching with equal intensity. His eyes are filled with anticipation, his lips slightly parted as if he’s already imagining what it will feel like when it’s his turn.

You move towards Jimin, your fingers tracing the outline of his chest as you did with Jungkook. His skin feels different—softer, yet still firm beneath your touch. Just below his right breast, he has a delicate script tattoo, the word "Nevermind" inked in elegant, flowing letters. You've always found it sexy, this handwritten tattoo adds a personal touch to his perfectly sculpted body.

His nipples are also differently shaped, bigger, and a bit lighter in color. You can feel the slight tremble in his body as you gently roll his nipple between your fingers before leaning in to taste him. Your mouth closes over his nipple, your tongue flicking against it in a teasing rhythm that draws a sharp inhale from him. His hand rests lightly on your shoulder, his grip tightening slightly as you continue to explore him with your mouth.

Jimin’s reactions are more subtle, yet no less intense. His soft moans mix with Jungkook’s heavier breathing, creating a symphony of sounds that only heighten your own arousal. The way their bodies respond to your touch, the contrast in their reactions, drives you to explore further, to discover just how much pleasure you can bring them.

You pull back slightly, glancing toward the large doors that separate the pool area from the rest of the accommodation. A flicker of concern crosses your mind, and you bite your lip before whispering, “You two need to stay quiet. We don’t want anyone overhearing us.”

Any slight mistake and you will lose your job, remember?

Jimin and Jungkook exchange a glance, their playful expressions tinged with a shared understanding. They nod, their eyes never leaving yours as they silently agree to your request. But just as you start to relax, your actions come to a stop when you feel them guiding your hands downwards, placing them on their lower bodies.

Your breath catches as your fingers wrap around their growing hardness, the heat and firmness of their cocks hidden under their swim trunks pressing against your palms. Jimin lets out a shaky exhale, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear. “I’ve wanted to feel you so bad for months now,” he confesses, his voice low and thick with desire.

Jungkook, not to be outdone, adds in a hushed tone, his eyes glinting with a dark sparkle, “Me too. You don’t know how much you’ve been driving us crazy.”

Their words send a thrill through you, intensifying the moment. You didn’t realize you were having this effect on them. You look at them both, their shared longing evident in their eyes. Slowly, you pull their members out from their swim trunks, your heart racing as you position yourself between them, sinking to your knees on the cushioned daybed.

Oh fuck…

The size difference even extends to their dicks. Jungkook’s is much longer, with veins prominent on its sides. Jimin’s is shorter, but the girth is insane. You can’t help but imagine how they’d feel inside your pussy. No, you can’t get ahead of yourself Y/N. Not yet at least…

With a mixture of boldness and anticipation, you lean down, your lips parting as you begin to lick at their members, starting with soft, tentative strokes of your tongue. The sensation of their heated skin against your tongue is intoxicating, their quiet groans spurring you on. You alternate between them, your tongue tracing the veins along their lengths, savoring the contrast in texture and taste.

Jimin’s breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around the tip of his member, the salty taste mingling with the slickness of your saliva. His fingers suddenly tighten in your hair, but he remains obediently quiet, the tension in his body evident as he struggles to hold back his angelic voice.

You shift to Jungkook, taking him into your mouth with a slow, deliberate sucking. His quiet sounds of pleasure are like music to your ears, the low hums of approval vibrating. His hands rest on your shoulders, his grip firm but not forceful, guiding you as you take him deeper, feeling the way his body responds to every movement of your tongue.

At the same time, your hand reaches out to Jimin, wrapping around his throbbing length. You start stroking him with a steady rhythm, making sure to keep him engaged, the sensation of your fingers gliding over his slick skin keeping his arousal high. Jimin’s breath hitches, his eyes half-lidded with desire as he watches you.

The two of them try their best to stay quiet, but the occasional gasp, lust-filled phrases or whispered name of yours slips out, betraying their growing need. 

“You’re so good at this PD nim…”

“Y/N, you’re so fucking fine…”

“Such a good girl, Y/N…”

“Fuck, right there…”

The thrill of their restraint only heightens your own arousal, driving you to explore them further, your lips and tongue working in tandem to bring them closer to the edge.

While working your mouth over Jungkook, you feel Jimin’s hand sliding up your body, his fingers brushing against your wet skin before cupping your breast. His thumb grazes over your nipple, teasing it to a hardened peak, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. The dual feeling—Jimin’s touch on your breast and Jungkook’s heat filling your mouth—intensifies the moment, driving you to pleasure them both with renewed focus.

The tension in the atmosphere thickens, all your quiet breaths turning into ragged gasps. You can feel the subtle changes in their bodies, the way their muscles tighten, and the way their grips on you grow firmer. The anticipation builds, and you know they’re close, teetering on the edge of release.

Jimin is the first to break the silence, his voice low and filled with need. “Y/N… can I come on your chest?” His eyes are dark with lust, the words almost a plea.

Jungkook isn’t far behind, his voice breathless and shaky as he adds, “And I–I want to come in your mouth. Is that okay?”

The heat in their words sends a shiver down your spine. You pause, looking up at them, their faces flushed with desire. 

“Y-Yes that’s fine with me,” You nod, your consent clear in your eyes and the slight smile that tugs at your lips.

With their requests granted, you resume your ministrations with renewed intensity. Your hands work in tandem, stroking their members with a firm, steady rhythm while your tongue flicks and teases them both. The taste of them lingers on your tongue, salty and intoxicating, driving you to push them further, to bring them to the edge of ecstasy.

Their breaths quicken, and you can tell they’re both struggling to hold back, to savor the moment as long as possible. But the pleasure is overwhelming, and soon their restraint begins to falter.

Jungkook’s voice is the first to crack, a desperate whisper as he warns you, “I’m close… so close…”

Jimin removes his hand from your hair. Instead, Jungkook’s hand, adorned with intricate tattoos and the bold "ARMY" inked across his knuckles, slides from your shoulder to your hair this time. The grip is firm and possessive, his fingers weaving into your strands with a fierce, almost primal hold. The veins beneath his tattooed skin pulsate as he uses his arm to guide you closer, pushing himself deeper into you with each powerful thrust. His tattooed bicep flexes with every movement, demonstrating his strength and control, while the rhythmic thrusts become more urgent.

Jimin's breath hitches as soft, erotic moans escape his lips, each sound laced with urgency to let go. His voice quivers, with a strained yet sensual whisper, “Me too… I’m going to come…” The words tumble out in a series of ragged breaths

With one last, deliberate stroke of your hand and a final suck, you push them both over the edge.

“F-Fuck!” Jimin lets out a guttural groan as he releases, his hot seed spilling onto your breasts, painting your skin with his pleasure. The warmth of it spreads across your breasts, the sensation almost surreal as you continue to stroke him, milking out every last drop.

At the same time, Jungkook’s hips buck slightly as he comes, the hot, salty taste of his release flooding your mouth. You swallow him down eagerly, your tongue swirling around him to milk him of every last bit. The taste of him lingers, warm and slightly bitter, but satisfying in a way that leaves you wanting more.

The sounds they make—those broken moans, the gasps of pleasure—echo in your ears, a symphony of gratification. Their bodies tremble with the aftershocks of their orgasms, their hands gentle but insistent as they guide you through the final moments of their release.

When they’ve finally come down from the high, their breathing ragged but steadying, they look down at you with a mix of awe and satisfaction. The sight of you, your chest slick with Jimin’s release and your lips still wet from Jungkook seems to stir something deeper in them—a shared sense of intimacy that goes beyond mere physical pleasure. Your fingers move instinctively, collecting Jimin’s release and bringing it to your lips, savoring the taste as you clean yourself, erasing the evidence of what just transpired. The sensation is both surreal and thrilling, the intimacy of the moment lingering in the air.

Jungkook's voice breaks through the haze, his tone a mix of innocence and desire. “PD-nim, can we do more with you?” His eyes sparkle with the same enthusiasm you’ve seen during filming, making it nearly impossible to deny him.

“H-Huh!? Oh…” you stammer, caught off guard. That look in his eyes—it’s almost impossible to resist. But a small voice in the back of your mind reminds you that you should be heading back before the other staff starts wondering where you are.

“C’mon, we’ll be quick!” Jimin adds, his voice smooth and coaxing, making it even harder to stick to your resolve. “We can eat you out, or we can penetr—”

Before he can finish, another voice cuts through the tension, startling you. “Oh… so that’s what you guys were doing?”

You turn your head sharply to see Taehyung standing there, now wearing swim trunks, with a smirk playing on his lips. Your heart races, the sudden realization hitting you like a wave. “Oh my God, I forgot about Taehyung…” you gasp, instinctively trying to cover yourself, though it’s far too late for modesty.

“Hey, I thought you were going to head to bed?” Jimin narrows his eyes at the slightly younger man. He must’ve been watching you all this entire time, he thinks.

He chuckles, an amused glint in his eyes as he takes in the scene. “I thought you guys were still playing in the pool or something… but I’m not surprised things ended up this way. You two are always up to shit like this.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, clearly unimpressed yet intrigued.

“Huh?” you manage to squeak out, your mind reeling. Always up to shit like this? What’s that supposed to mean–

Taehyung’s smirk deepens, and he steps closer. “Anyways, I’m bored. Let me join in too,” he says casually with a boxy smile, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I won’t disappoint heh~” 

He winks. HE WINKS! 

The three members of the BTS maknae line look at you deviously, waiting to pounce on you at your command.

“I don’t think we should be–”

“Are you sure?” Jimin and Jungkook say in unison.

“I… “ The title of the show is going to come back to haunt you.

“I’m not sure…?” You can’t find yourself to say no, having already gone to the deep end.

You will be closer to getting fired if you get caught at this rate, but to hell with it, “Okay, fine!” 

And immediately, they’re all over your body, reigniting the hidden flame in your heart that reminds you how much you loved them as a fan years before. You won’t survive this.

“Come over here,” Taehyung murmurs, his voice deep and commanding as he settles against the pillows of the daybed. He props himself up, making sure he’s comfortable, then motions for you to crawl in front of him.

Your heart races as you move into position, with Jungkook and Jimin on each side of you, their eyes dark with lust. The daybed is deep enough that you’re perfectly nestled between them.

As you get closer to Taehyung, you feel his hands sliding up your thighs, tugging lightly at the waistband of your bikini bottoms. You gasp softly, a thrill running through you as he pulls them down slowly, exposing your wetness. The sensation sends a shiver through you, heightening your anticipation and eagerness to get this over with. You lift your hips slightly to help him slide them off completely, leaving you fully exposed.

Taehyung’s eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire.

He props himself up with the pillows behind his head, his hands settling on your hips as he guides you closer. “Sit on my face,” he tells you, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Your breath catches at the bold command, but the heat in his eyes, the way his hands grip your hips, sends a rush of excitement through you. You move to straddle him, your heart pounding as you position yourself over his face. Jungkook and Jimin remain close, their hands brushing over your body, adding to the growing heat between you all.

As you lower yourself onto his waiting mouth, the first touch of his tongue against your most sensitive spot sends a shockwave of pleasure through your entire body. 

“A-Ah~ T-Taehyung…” You gasp, your fingers gripping the daybed as Taehyung’s tongue begins to work its magic, teasing and tasting you with skillful precision.

Taehyung’s tongue explores you, from your clit to your entrance. His mouth working in a rhythm that leaves you breathless, and your body trembling with the intensity of it all.

Jimin and Jungkook are on either side of you, their hands moving to your breasts, where they each take a breast in their grasp. Their mouths soon follow, lips closing over your nipples as they begin to suck and tease you with their tongues once more. The dual sensation of Taehyung’s mouth on you and the boys’ attention on your breasts sends your mind reeling, pleasure coursing through you to unleash an orgasm. But you need to be patient and let it continue consuming you.

Jungkook’s hand slides down, tugging off Taehyung’s trunks with a practiced ease before wrapping his fingers around Taehyung’s impressive length. The sight makes your eyes widen, but you aren’t entirely surprised by their actions—after all, you’ve seen how touchy BTS are with one another. Even filming earlier in the day and even back in the States. But this? Seeing them work together to push you to the brink of pleasure only makes you even hornier.

And Taehyung’s dick… it’s massive, much bigger than the other two. The way his tan skin contrasts with the thick, veined shaft is mesmerizing, almost too much to take in. You can’t help but imagine what it would feel like inside you, making you ache with the anticipation of trying it next time.

Jimin, not to be outdone, reaches over to stroke Jungkook, his touch slow and deliberate, making sure to keep him just as aroused. His free hand slips down to touch himself, fingers wrapping around his own length as he matches the pace. The sensation of their hands moving in tandem, coupled with the attention they’re lavishing on you, makes your body tremble with need.

You ride Taehyung’s face, grinding down against his mouth as his tongue works magic on you, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he can. Your hands clutch the edges of the daybed for support, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you lose yourself in the sensations they’re giving you. Since you’re facing outwards, Taehyung’s hands slide down to grab your ass, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer, deepening the connection between his mouth and your most sensitive spot. His grip is firm and possessive, his fingers digging into your skin as he devours you with renewed intensity. He gives it a slap, which makes you cringe before you go back to indulging in the pleasure.

The feeling of the two men’s mouths on your breasts, Taehyung’s tongue inside you, and the sight of their hands pleasuring each other is almost too much to bear. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, your body quivering with the need to release.

Jimin and Jungkook suck harder on your nipples, their teeth grazing them just enough to send jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Taehyung’s tongue flicks and swirls with expert precision, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

And then, finally, it all becomes too much. The pleasure explodes within you, sending you spiraling into an intense orgasm that leaves you gasping for breath. Your body tenses, your thighs clenching around Taehyung’s head as you ride out the waves of ecstasy, the sensation amplified by the boys’ continued ministrations.

As the last tremors of your orgasm fade, you collapse forward slightly, your body spent and trembling. Taehyung gently guides you off him, his lips slick with your arousal, and you fall onto the daybed, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook quickly follow, their own bodies shuddering as they reach their peaks, their releases mingling, landing onto each others bodies or the fabric beneath them.

Now the three of you lay there, breathless and spent, with limbs piled on top of each other. The air is thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction, however a yearning for more still remains. The outdoor area is quiet, save for the sound of your heavy breathing, as you all come down from the high of your shared pleasure.

Jungkook leans in close, his voice low and filled with unfulfilled desire. “I’m so eager to fuck you, but I’ll wait until tomorrow after the itinerary is done,” he murmurs, his eyes smoldering with lust as he looks down at you.

Jimin, still tenderly stroking your skin, adds with a soft smile, “We don’t want you getting into trouble, PD-nim. We’ll be patient.”

You manage a weak smile, your mind swirling with the aftershocks of what just happened. “How have the staff not conveniently come in to check on us?” you wonder aloud, your voice shaky with exhaustion and disbelief.

The three of them exchange a glance, a shared understanding passing between them. 

Don’t say that the staff are aware that they’re doing this…!? Taehyung’s words from earlier were already… odd, but you decide not to think too hard on it right now. You need to head back anyway, so let’s keep this drama-free, you think to yourself. Wouldn’t be the first time you hear about idols doing these things.

They begin to clean you up, wiping away the evidence of your intense encounter.  They’re gentle, their touches soothing as they take care of you, ensuring that you’re comfortable before helping you to your feet to get dressed.

They walk you to the door, each of them pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before they see you out, their eyes filled with satisfaction. You step out, your mind reeling from the events that just transpired.

“Oh my god…” you say to yourself in a whisper.

As you walk away from the daybed, you can’t help but wonder how you ended up in this situation—tangled up with the three members of BTS in a way you never could have imagined. The memory of their hands, their mouths, their words lingers with you, a heady reminder of the connection you’ve just shared. And though you know the risks, the dangers of what you’ve done, you can’t bring yourself to regret a single moment.

With a deep breath, you start heading back to your accommodation, telling yourself you still have more days of this show’s filming to go. And more chance encounters with them as well.

-

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-

The End????

A/N: HAPPY SURPRISE ONE SHOT DROP! OKAY. ALSO I HAD PLANNED TO BLUE BALL YOU GUYS AND NOT GIVE YOU A TAE SCENE BUT RAE SAID I SHOULD WRITE IT SO I DID! I've seen all y'all thirsting over are you sure?! and honestly, the maknae line really FED US SO WELL WITH THIS SHOW. also never in my life did i think there would be no censoring of their bodies, but thank you god for allowing us to indulge in their beauty and cute antics lmao. if you somehow survived this and made it to the end, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think or like bc i was going THROUGH IT writing this 🥴 if it wasn’t good, i am so sorry for wasting your time. 😭

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[venusbyline]

Tears ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 10, oct.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fiancée!reader

— type: smut, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: nipple play + cockwarming

— summary: Jacaerys had a perfect betrothal with his younger sister. But everything changed when you found out about his past affair with Cregan Stark's half-sister.

— word count: 798

— tags/warnings: kinktober 10th day, Targcest/Velaryon Incest (older brother/younger sister), Targaryen/Velaryon!reader, Rhaenyra and Harwin's daughter!reader, nipple play, cockwarming, punishment, degradation, past infidelity, choking kink, loss of virginity, curse words, dacryphilia, crying, masturbation, sadism, sub!Jacaerys, dom!reader, Cregan Stark mentioned, minor Jacaerys Velaryon x Sara Stark, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole

— crossposting: AO3

You were on top of Jacaerys for hours. You were on top of him, without riding, without making any movement, your focus being solely on reading a random parchment that your Mother had asked you to give to your Stepfather Daemon later.

Your body had been still for so long that you could feel your thighs starting to go numb. But you were not bothered at all. The discomfort in your calves was worth it when you could hear the pathetic little noises coming from Jacaerys' lips. The lack of action was making him panic, his thick cock becoming more and more painful inside your warm tight cunt.

Before all this, he pictured several ways of what it would be like to take your virginity. How you would look when he thrust himself inside you, when a little amount of your blood dripped onto the sheets, when you looked at him wide-eyed and scared as he began to fuck you faster. He pictured your moans resounding through the chambers.

Jacaerys pictured so much action and so many sounds. And now he was receiving only your stillness and almost lack of interest. He knew you were doing it on purpose, not allowing him the satisfaction of turning yourself into a mess just for him.

Jacaerys knew why you were keeping his cock inside you, even though you were not riding him, just focused on any other task. And he knew how much he deserved all that.

If only he had not betrayed your trust and slept with Sara Snow...

"My love, please..." Jace begged, trying to lift his hips up to get a little more friction between your bodies. "P-please..."

Your hands went straight to his thick and muscular thighs, pinning his body to the mattress and preventing Jacaerys from continuing his efforts to thrust inside you.

"Stop moaning like a stupid whore." You growled, throwing the parchment to the floor and looking at him with disgust, your dark hair like his, but long covering your breasts. "That's what you learned during your stay at Winterfell, was not it? Besides how to warm your face between the full breasts of northerners women..."

Jacaerys closed his eyes, a mixture of embarrassment and also lust. He did not want to get more horny when he remembered the nights with Sara, but it was impossible when you brought up his infidelity during the act. Or a near-act.

The way his cock twitched and pulsed within your walls did not go unnoticed by you. That made you angrier than you already were, your hand moving up to his bare chest below yours, taking the small, soft and almost flat nipple between your thumb and index finger, squeezing it and earning a startled cry from Jacaerys.

"F-fuck!" He whimpered, trying to push your hand away from his chest, but your hand gripped his neck before he could push you away, his cock pulsing again as you caressed his sensitive nipple and applied pressure to his throat at the same time.

"You dare think about another woman while you are inside my cunt?" Your growl made him close his eyes again and whimper, before looking at you with a sad pout on his pretty lips.

"I am not thinking about anyone else, I swear this to you..." It was not a complete truth and you knew it. You frowned and leaned over, making the slightest movement on top of him so you could face his chest, removing the grip on his throat so you could focus your attention on licking the nipple that was not being caressed by your fingertips. "Oh, Seven Hells..."

Jacaerys hated himself in that instant. He hated himself for cheating on you. He hated himself for letting rumors fly so fast across Westeros. He hated himself for being interested in Cregan Stark's half-sister while he already had a perfect betrothal with a perfect fiancée waiting for him in Dragonstone. He even hated himself for being so horny while you were humiliating him, even though he deserved every second of everything you wanted to do to him

"I am so sorry, my love..." Jacaerys moaned, looking at you with eyes filled with crystal clear tears. You stopped for a while, watching his handsome face and ran your tongue over the other sore rosy nipple, nibbling with little pressure before lifting yourself up, rubbing your own clit so that Jacaerys could feel your cunt crushing him.

"I know you are." You mumbled half-heartedly, before smiling sarcastically at your fiancé and older brother, your gaze so bitter that he had to take a deep breath, understanding that not even the fact that he was the heir could free him from your anger and resentment. Jacaerys knew he was lost and depended on your mercy.

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, eventual smut, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i nearly decided on nuking this because it feels so fucking bad and aimless guess in the end I'M really the tormented spirit huh anyway if I'm glad i didnt and decided to wait it out. if you enjoy this please think of leaving a comment and/or reblog because i need the reassurance. | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

"Father," Alicent pleads, "she needs to see you."

Otto's jaw clenches as he lifts his gaze from his desk. He looks upon his youngest child's features. You were one in the same, his first daughter and last. He thanks the gods that she did not inherit the curse you bear.

Alicent picks at her fingers while awaiting a response. Though she draws blood, no sound leaves her lips. She did not know it, but her father catches this anxious tick. He mentally corrects himself: at least she did not inherit it at equal intensity.

"A man has no place in the dressing room of a bride-to-be," the Lord Hand dismisses.

Alicent knew about as much would be said, yet she still tries, "please. She is having a-"

"And when has my presence ever soothed her?" Otto interrupts, raising his voice to make his point clear.

It was enough. Alicent understood.

He turns back to his papers. He reads them but none of the words register. He says, "I am sure your brother is already there, coddling her as he does."

Alicent does not respond.

Otto lifts his gaze, "go," he speaks as though his daughter missed the obvious, "if she needs someone so badly, coddle her with Gwayne."

Alicent returns to your chambers. Her heart pinched in every which way at the sight of you. Here you stood, clothed in one the few precious dresses that belonged to your mother— a bride. Dark blue satin and gold jewelry embellished your form. Your brown hair was curled and plaited and pinned. Your face had a glow, only because it was stained with tears. It was terrible and magnificent all at once.

Rhaenyra goes to her best friend and the two girls clutched hands before walking towards you. Gwayne spots them and gives your hands a tight squeeze. Because of this, you turn from your older brother to your younger sister. Your eyes are pink with melancholy.

"Lord Hand," Alicent mutters, "is deep in his work."

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw, loathing your father more than normal in this moment.

More than your own, you cannot stomach your sister's duress. You stroke her cheek, "I am well now. Worry no more."

Alicent catches Gwayne's expression and knows that is a lie. Still, she smiles and nods, "I am glad," she looks you once over, "you are an exquisite bride, sister."

Rhaenyra offers a smile, "I agree, dear aunt."

Your face twists at the young princess' words, though you knew she meant well. You will away the dreadful sensation in your stomach and manage a smile, "thank you... sweet niece."

You relish their company for as long as you can in this moment. You gather strength from Rhaenyra's smile, from Alicent's touch, and Gwayne's words. Then, all at once, you were alone, walking towards Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he was not curious of you. He despised you, for after all, you were the spawn of that Cunttower. But, gods, what could possibly be the reason you were taking so long to walk down the aisle? It was not like this room was that big. And so, he turns over his shoulder to inspect you. His hand remains on Dark Sister and his weight still rested mostly on one leg.

He squints at the sight of you, moving like a snail. He is about to roll his eyes, but then he catches a glimpse of your countenance.

Tis strange.

You were not nearly as repulsive as he remembered you, and not nearly as similar in likeness to your rotten twin. How could that be, when it was not only- what, a season since he had pummeled Ser Cuntface to the ground? He will never forget your screaming face in the audience, and how deliciously distressed your father had been from hauling you away.

Even now, as Daemon's lilac eyes appraised your distant silhouette, gliding towards him like a phantom intent on haunting, he second guessed if that weeping woman from the tourney was you. But then he turned to your brother and saw his jaw harden. It was unmistakable then you were the weeping woman, and now, you were his weeping bride.

Gwayne, could not help the way his hands tightened into a fist as he helplessly watched you inch towards his most ardent foe. Beside him, unmoving, stood very man who allow such madness to ensue: your father.

You pass the pew that seated your family. Your twin's expression softens. He he nods, and you know he means take heart. Your sister does the same. But your father, who stood between his children, does not spare you a glance.

Daemon notices the coldness. He would feel bad, but then again, he has been proclaiming his ill-guided brother's Lord Hand was the biggest cunt in the realm for so long, so he doesn't. Oh, but then you look at him with those beady eyes, and he did not know why his thorax felt uneasy.

Twas strange indeed.

Soon you stood in front of your promised, and, finally, Otto lays his eyes upon you. He does not see you though. He does not see the woman dressed in the garments that once belonged to his wife. He does not see your trembling hand and glassy cheeks. He sees his timid, tremoring, little daughter that he had to leave a moon's length for work. He sees her frail body that shook on her tiny bed and found no comfort in the way he held her tiny hand when he returned.

As the septon begins this damning rite, all he could hear was the voice of the maester that promised the new medicine he procured would heal his girl. As tears rolled down your eyes, he remembers how he nearly killed the maester for feeding you herbs that caused you to retch the little food you had eaten.

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

Daemon turns to the pew beside the Hightowers' and finds his brother's face. Viserys seemed pleased to witness this wretched affair, as did Aemma, who clutched her pregnant belly. Rhaenyra beside her seemed more interested in you however, or at least the dress that she and Alicent helped dressed you in.

The septon blabbers and tells you both to speak your vows. You do, one as reluctant as the other. Then, as instructed, Daemon cloaks you and presses a kiss on your salty lips.

Twas bittersweet. On one hand, as he takes your clammy one, the image of Otto's face when Daemon told the King that he wanted to marry you comes to mind.

Oh, how excited he was to see the old fool look as though he was a breath away from lunging at him across the table, and how utterly horrendous that he hadn't. He would have simply, and justifiably, killed him. Then all this bother would not have ensued. The look upon the said man's face this moment, now that he's sullied what he so dearly protected, made his stomach giddy.

As the same time, as he held that same clammy hand of yours and felt it tremble, he remembers that you and he were bound. Though not in the manner of his house, he knew he could escape only so much of his wretched duties. Otto's vexation would only last so long, and deep down the cunt must enjoy that his daughter was now a princess. He knew soon Viserys would also begin nagging him again.

But then out of nowhere, he laughs. It was so abrupt that a few guests looked at him in confusion.

How could he forget? There was the matter of your... affliction. Perhaps he can frighten you to death on your wedding bed.

He chuckles once more.

The idea is so delicious, he is in good spirits the whole wedding feast. He does nothing but embarrass and shame you by entertaining literally every other lady save yourself.

What makes matters worse, at least on your end, is that your father refuses to go to your side and forbids not only your brother but as well as your sister from leaving their spots to come to your aid. There was no need to make the matter bigger than it was. You are left alone at your seat at the table, looking nothing but pathetic and weepy.

You sustain such temperament until you're in your marriage chambers, but then you do a funny thing and down two glasses of wine. Daemon laughs at how it spills from your lips, down your neck.

He, who had already much more than a measly two cups, comes behind you and takes the one you loudly prop on the table. You squeak and bolt away when Daemon's arm sneaks up from underneath your own; it only further amuses him.

"V'you a change of heart?" he pours himself a glass, "ready for debauchery, yes?"

You turn unbelievably pale, and it merits the fondest of laughs from your sadistic groom. Daemon drinks and licks the wine off his lips.

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

He raises a brow at it. Suddenly, he's annoyed— twice was much because he has absolutely no idea what the gesture means.

That is, until you speak, "may I have some more?"

One of his faint silver brows raises. Suddenly, he is greedy with the wine he thought tasted too sour on his tongue. However, a curiosity within him urged to hand over the cheap drink, for why did his shivering wife have the nerve for this to be her first words to him?

He watched you throw your head back as you down the wine just as quick as you did the previous ones. He chuckles and crosses his arms. When you turn to Daemon, he tilts his head, "thirsty?"

You inhale deeply, though it is strangled, "for my anxiousness."

It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean, and when he does, his nostrils flare. Had he breathed fire, surely smoke would have come out his nose at this moment. Daemon releases an airy, unamused chuckle and averts his gaze, "eager to bed me, harlot?"

Your throat tightens, for that was not what you meant at all.

You forcibly swallow a lump that forms when he comes to your side. Your throat only further constricts when he grabs and yanks you into his chest. You whimper as he presses his nose against your ear. Goosebumps form when his hot breath hits your ear, "on the bed then."

Your heart thunders as he shoves you towards the bed. You nearly miss it. Actually, only your head and arms touch the cushion, and the rest of your body collides with the floor and the hard bed frame. Your tailbone throbs at the impact, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your chest that tightened, and tightened, and tightened and—

You barely manage to gasp. You are hard of breathing when Daemon crouches and grabs your thighs, pulling your skirts up. He feels your flesh tremble beneath his palm. His fingers touch your skin, and it brings him to hiss; you are ice against his burning hands.

He looks up at you. A line forms between his brows. You gasped for air that seemed unwilling to enter your lungs. Not only was your face stained with tears, but as well as your neck now

He mutters, "nyke pendagon jaelā naejot sagon ipradāri," I thought you wanted to get eaten, "I do so find fear delectable."

You continue to slump into the floor until you're a melted mess. You can do nothing but clutch your chest, not that it helps one bit.

Daemon is satisfied at this point. He stands and dusts his hands off. He looks at the pitiful Hightower, your dark locks spilled on the ground as if blood from a crime scene.

"Is that your affliction then, wife?" he tilts his head, "do you seize up when you're nervous?"

You look at him, but do not respond.

"S'rather inconvenient, no?" he sighs, as though he actually cared.

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

"Mmm, well, I suppose I will have to claim the womanhood owed of me some other time," he said, uninterested. With that, he exits the room with a skip in his step, pleased to know he had such a tremendous effect on you.

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

By the time you peel yourself up from the floor, your body is encased in sweat. You command yourself to calm; you cannot afford to slip into another bout of insanity. Your tears cannot be contained as you struggle to undo the ties of your dress; at least tremendous relief comes after you do. You struggle to your feet and remove the pins in your hair while making for the vanity table.

You sit before yourself; your horrid face reflects on the mirror that was far too clear for your liking. As you free your hair from its bounds, you think, perhaps it was fortunate that your husband did not lay with you. At least not tonight.

But then, comes to mind, the argument you with your father. Your chest threatens to tighten again as the severity of his voice replays in your head.

It was no secret, Otto despised Daemon. How then could he be so shocked at your horror of learning he had approved your marriage to him. His raging voice still rings in your head: "you ungrateful fool!"

You fall apart in your palms and nearly succumb to yourself again. Thankfully, you manage to take deep breaths and pick yourself up before you fall apart.

You always knew you were the spare in your father's eyes, but you thought that merited indifference. You did not think he hated you so deeply. How could anyone hand their child to their enemy? Perhaps this was his way of finally having use of you.

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

You go to bed and wrap yourself tightly under the sheets. You stare at the ceiling, praying the same prayer you've prayed since you were eight: Seven, let this be my final slumber.

You nearly choke when you are awoken by such violent shaking. You jolt up, or at least as much as you can from the blankets you were so tightly bound in.

Daemon grins and brings the hands he had shaken you with behind his back, "I would say good morn, but it is apparently opposite to you, wife."

The name makes your skin crawl. You push yourself out of the sheets and sit up. You wipe your face and tell yourself; you must get used to this, "good morrow, husband."

Your brown curls spill down your shoulder as you sigh to yourself. Daemon thinks you look much more palatable this way, unlike yesterday, when your hair was jailed so tightly. He motions with his head, "ta. We make haste to the dragon pit."

Your eyes are suddenly devoid of any trace of sleepiness as you look at him.

His lips remain curled, "it would only be proper to do so, no?" He does not let you retort, as he is already making his way out, "tis Caraxes' right to know who his master has been shackled to," he opens the door, "at least momentarily."

If he was self-satisfied with how you shook under his grasp last night, one can only imagine his exhilaration over your severe disinterest in meeting his mount this morning. What's more, Caraxes could smell your anxiety, and it made him chuff and snap his jaws.

Of course, Daemon chastised his dragon, telling him to obey, even though he very much did not want him to. He eagerly fantasizes: oh, a shame my bride died the day I introduced him to my ride.

A true shame.

"Calm yourself," Daemon sniggers as he forcefully pushes you towards the blood wyrm, "the harder you make this for yourself, the harder it will be."

You found no encouragement in that, for no part of it meant to encourage. You continue to writhe against him, pushing yourself back, only to be pressed against the prince's chest and urged forward. It didn't help that he shackled his hands on both of your wrists, preventing you from elbowing him away.

Though your hair was braided to the side, you still manage to whip it to Daemon's face in your attempt to free yourself, only causing him to be more impatient. You could not help the harrowing shriek that left you when he ultimately brought you to the beast's maw, and the said creature pressed himself against your chest to sniff you.

Caraxes rips away and shakes his head at your piercing reaction. He shrieks in like, as if disapproving, or showing offence. He must exact appropriate retaliation. He draws a deep breath, readying to set you ablaze. Daemon would have let him, had he not been a direct target of his mount's wrath, "keligon, Caraxes!"

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

He does not enjoy the order, exemplified by the way he licked his teeth, but obeys, nonetheless. He roars one last time, spit sputtering onto your face as he does. It's enough to make you finally lose your resolve.

You cease your wrangling and find yourself going limp in his arms. Daemon is pleased. He can finally drag you on dragon-back and torment you even more mid-air. What he did not know, however, was that your stomach was tingling; it was not that of the usual dread so familiar to you, but twas familiar still.

Daemon takes you by the arm and tries to make you climb up to the saddle, but then he stills when he hears the sound you make. He pulls away just before the acid from your stomach rushes out of your mouth. You retch so much it comes out of your nose, and you feel yourself grow lightheaded.

"Fucking gods," Daemon recoils in disgust. He turns to one of the dragon keepers and orders you away.

The dragon keeper, who looked far older than your father, spoke to you in a language you could not make out. You understand the part where he says maester as he leads you out of the pit. You manage to convey you no longer needed his assistance once you were out and walked off by yourself. You flinch and shriek when Daemon takes off on Caraxes.

You do not go to the maester's, instead, you have your servants draw you a warm bath and stay in it until it is cold. Only then do you scrub your skin until it is tender.

Once you were clean, you looked for the only person in the world that did not use your name interchangeably with hysteria: your twin.

"That uliginous blinkard," Gwayne slashes the dummy before him. You watch him pace from the bench you were sat upon. "He is incapable of procuring a morsel of dignity out of his wretched existence."

You clench you jaw when he chucks his sword to the ground.

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

"But then I would be no better than he, would I not?" he seethes as he walks to your side, grabbing the towel beside you.

He wipes his face. You look up at him, a line forming between your brows, "remember you are my confidant, not my vindicator."

"If not I," he chucks his towel back beside you, "then who?" His forehead wrinkles, "an affront to my twin is worse than one to myself."

"Then you would know better than anyone that I share your sentiment," you grab his arm, hoping to calm him down.

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

You sigh, "and you know well that I suffer more in circumstances where you've acted on my behalf."

He clenches his jaw. He draws a deep breath and denies the thought with the shake of his head, "father will not hold it against-"

"Father holds everything against me," your eyes instantly water, "he would not be our father if he did not."

Your twin has never spoken your name any other way but in gentleness, yet it is precisely why it chips you apart. Gwayne continues, "be it as it may, but I do not believe that he gave to the prince— certainly not willingly."

You laugh and lift your countenance to the sky. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes, down your ears and neck, "does it matter?"

"It does," he urges, "he fought for you."

"He does not fight for me," you turn back to him, "allow yourself to come to terms with it as I have. It will hurt you less."

Gwayne does not manage a response as someone else speaks in that moment. The way you both tense at the sound is that of instinct.

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

You turn over your shoulder and shoot up from where you sat. You watch as your father walks towards you. He places a hand on your neck and looks you up and down, "did the prince jostle you so on his ride?"

His touch is like a searing rod against your skin, his eyes, even worse. The raised hairs on your neck remain even as he pulls away. You quietly retort, "I did not even touch his saddle."

"Oh," Otto raises his brows, "then perhaps your affliction is that of you carrying."

Carrying?

Both you and Gwayne are mortified by the idea. You stutter, "s-surely it is not that quick."

"The blood of the dragon runs hot," he sighs, "as he would so boldly proclaim."

Your face burns upon hearing this.

Your father looks past you, "take your sister to the maester at once."

"No, I-"

"Make sure that she is good condition and take note of what will be instructed of her."

"That is not-"

"I am sure she will be required to take further precautions because of her affli-"

"We did not!" you blurt, finally regaining the attention of your father.

Your heart races as Otto looks at you. Suddenly, you are like a deer shot by an arrow, pained and powerless. He is annoyed that you interrupted him, only to say nothing. He presses, "we did not what?"

You take a strangled breath before reply, "we... did not consummate ou-"

"You what?!" he steps forward.

Gwayne immediately takes your arm, eager to get between you two, "father-"

But Otto does the same and pulls you toward him, "you did not consummate, or you did not want to consummate your marriage?"

Gwayne's hold on you falters. Your saliva lumps in your throat, "I-"

"You do understand the consequences if you do not bear your husband heirs, correct?"

You turn to your feet, unable to hold his heated glare, "I-"

"Look at me when I speak to you," he shakes you.

You lift your eyes, and hot tears begin to rush down your face.

"You've proven your point, father," Gwayne blurts, "release her."

"Release her?" Otto redirects his ire. Though he does just that, it feels as though an iron clamp around your neck replaces your father's hold. "Even if I were to release her, boy, your dearest twin sister will not be free of the truth," he turns back to you, "nor my point. Your failure to do what is necessary will lead you straight into the dragon's belly."

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

You nod before you allow yourself to breathe. You blurt, "yes, my lord."

Otto looks you once over before turning around and walking away. The moment he is out of sight, you fold like a deck of cards, and Gwayne must keep you upright.

He hushes you and sits you back down. He kneels in front of you, observing if you were about to collapse into another episode. You do not, for he was with you, but you do weep until tears could no longer fall. He leads you to your room after this and urges you to rest.

You repeat the prayer you prayed on your wedding night before you sleep.

[yannawayne]

viii. a little death

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 12:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The rhythmic clacking of a keyboard filled the room, a steady, almost hypnotic sound that gently tugged you from sleep. You stirred, the tangled sheets wrapping around you like a cozy cocoon. Damian’s strong arms were draped around your shoulders and waist, his warmth a comforting presence as he held you close.

As he shifted slightly, his fingers traced absentminded patterns along your back, a tender caress that sent a soft shiver of relaxation down your spine. You groaned softly, turning towards him and resting your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath your ear was a soothing, rhythmic pulse, grounding you in the comfort of his embrace.

Across the room, Morgan was propped up at your desk, her messy hair pulled back with a headband, though a few stray tendrils had escaped and framed her face in an untidy halo. Her eyes were fixed intently on the laptop screen, where a Google document was open, filled with lines of text that seemed to flow endlessly. In her free hand, she cradled a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the room and mingling with the faint scent of the morning air. 

After returning to the tower yesterday, you and Damian had practically slept through the entire morning—this one, however... 

You groaned, burying your cheek deeper into the pillow as you tried to block out the light from the laptop and her typing. 

“You bitch. Do you ever sleep?” you grumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand.

Morgan gave you a lopsided grin, the steam from her coffee curling around her face like a comforting fog. “Sleep? What’s that?”

You rolled onto your back, stretching your limbs. “That’s usually my line.”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “I know. Just kinda hyper tonight,” she said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she continued typing.

"By the way,” she hummed thoughtfully, “what kinks do you think Nightcrawler would have?"

"..."

You could feel Damian’s confusion even before he spoke. "Excuse me?" he blinked at her, squinting as if he’d misheard. “Why on earth would you ask that? And why now, of all times?” “I’m writing fanfic,” she replied matter-of-factly, still typing away. “Ooh! You’re her boyfriend. What kind of freaky stuff do you think her hero-sona would be into?”

You stifled a laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow to enjoy the show. “Choking kink.”

Damian, who had been leaning against the headboard, choked on his own spit. His eyes widened in shock, and his face turned a deep crimson. “What?!”

“Don’t play dumb,” you snickered, reveling in the way his skin turned redder by the second. “I know you knew this one.”

Morgan’s gaze flickered between you two, her expression momentarily blank, though a hint of something inscrutable flashed in her eyes before she quickly shook it off. She returned to her typing, the clacking of keys filling the room once more.

“That’s so basic,” she huffed, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Give me a better one. I need something with a little more flair.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Bondage, then. Webs, remember?”

Damian's face turned an even deeper shade of red at the mention of webs, his mind clearly racing to process the suggestion. 

Morgan’s fingers paused mid-keystroke as she considered your suggestion. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Web bondage? Now that’s more like it,” she said, quickly typing it in. “I can work with that.”

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he muttered.

Morgan grinned wickedly. “Lunatics, maybe, but this is going to be one hell of a fic. And don’t worry, Dames, I’ll make sure Robin gets some action too.”

He shot her a glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“There are ships of us already?” you blink, surprised. 

Morgan coughs into her hand, an odd twist in her face. “There are ships of everyone these days. People have imaginations that just don’t quit. "

“I had no idea,” you said, blinking in surprise. “What do they call it? SpideyBird? WebWing?”

Damian looked genuinely disgusted. “Why do they even need a name for it? Why are people spending time on this?”

You patted Damian’s shoulder reassuringly, trying to lighten the mood. “At least they’re rooting for us to be together, right?”

Morgan just shrugged off Damian’s reaction and continued to write. “The fanfics of you are pretty fresh. Only around a hundred works so far, but the edits…” She trailed off, her fingers fumbling for her phone with a mischievous grin.

Groaning, you shut your eyes as Morgan’s grin widened. 

“Do not show me—” you began, but before you could finish, the audio started blaring from her phone.

Well, come and get it now Come and get it now Baby, show me what you're doing Come and turn around 'Cause it's not just a figure of speech You got me down on my knees It's getting harder to breathe out

“MORGAN!”

She looked up, grinning widely as if she’d been waiting for this exact reaction.

“What?” she laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You can’t tell me this hot.”

Curiosity got the better of you, and despite your better judgment, you peeked at the screen. The video was a shaky close-up, showing you leaning against a car, your hair tousled and your armor cracked. You were breathing heavily, your head thrown back.

The camera zoomed in slowly, and the lyrics that accompanied it were dramatic and overly romantic, turning the entire scene into something far more intimate than it had ever been. You could almost understand why someone might find it “hot,” but that didn’t stop the wave of embarrassment from flooding through you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “That is horrible. I was literally on the brink of death. Was that from last night?” “Yeah,” Morgan nodded as she replayed the clip. “Your fans ate it up. Apparently, it’s going viral.”

Damian, who had been eerily silent throughout the entire exchange, finally broke his silence. “Where is that on?”

You immediately yanked your hands away from your face, your eyes wide with disbelief. “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“Tiktok,” Morgan answered casually, a hint of mischief in her tone. To your horror, Damian pulled out his phone

“Don’t you dare!” you warned, but it was too late. Damian was already typing your codename into the search bar. 

As the search results loaded, an edit began to play, and you felt your face flush with heat. The chosen song only seemed to amplify the humiliation. 

Touch me, yeah I want you to touch me there Make me feel like I am breathing Feel like I am human

Damian, smirked, liked the video, and saved it.

“STOP!”

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Sunday, 8:06 AM - Gotham City.

"..."

"..."

"Why—"

"Don't—" you seethed, sinking deeper into the plush leather seat of Tony’s limousine. The soft leather creaked under your weight as you clenched the armrest, your knuckles turning white. "Don’t even say a word."

Damian pressed his lips together, suppressing a smirk. 

His gaze drifted over your outfit—no, the uniform you’d been practically forced into. The Stark Industries cap perched on your head was like a crown of corporate shame, its logo glaring down at you from the brim. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your torso, the bold emblem stretched so tightly across your chest it might as well have been tattooed on. Even your sneakers were branded with that obnoxious red logo.

You felt like a sellout.

“You look stunning,” Damian said, barely holding back a laugh as he glanced over at you from his seat across the limo. 

“Stunning?!” You shot him a scowl, the edges of your mouth twitching downward. “I look ridiculous!”

“Why didn’t you just wear—”

“I couldn’t!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at Morgan. “This fucking ginger goblin threw my clothes out! Now I’m stuck as a goddamn billboard!”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," she mocked, turning to you from her spot in the limo, sprawled comfortably on the cushions. Her fingers casually brushed against the plush fabric as she spoke, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Dad’s idea, not mine. He wanted you to have a ‘fresh look.’”

You turned to Tony, who was lounging at the far edge of the limo, his dress shoes propped up against one of the seats. He was absorbed in his phone, mindlessly scrolling through this week’s gossip. Occasionally, he chuckled to himself, completely oblivious to the steam practically pouring out of your ears.

Fighting the urge to choke-slam him right then and there, you spoke up “What the hell is this all for, anyways?”

Tony peered up from his phone and grinned, “Oh, come on. It’s a marketing move. There’s going to be paparazzi and everything. We thought it’d be fun to put you in our new line of promotional gear.”

“Fun? You think this is fun?!”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to wear spandex,” Morgan snickered, her eyes drifting to meet Damian’s. He shot her a glare in response. “It’s just a little branding.”

“I’d almost rather be wearing spandex,” you grumble, pressing your cheek to the cool glass of the window. Your breath fogs up the surface, creating a clouded view of the city beyond.

Morgan whistles. "That's a sight I'd love to see."

You roll your eyes. The cityscape outside rushes by, a blur of towering buildings and streaks of light blending into a hazy, indistinct swirl. Outside, the world seems distant, almost unreal, as if you're moving too fast to truly grasp any of it.

“By the way, you’re going to hate me, but…” Morgan spoke up again, reaching into her bag. “I also brought a jacket.” She held out a sleek, branded jacket that perfectly matched the rest of the outfit.

You slammed your head into the glass and vowed to burn every Stark-branded item you owned.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 8:14 AM - Wayne Tower, Gotham City.

Bruce wondered if it was too late to file for unemployment.

He sat at the head of the conference table, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the middle-aged man droning on in a monotone voice. The man's garish mustard-yellow tie jerked awkwardly with each exaggerated gesture, as if trying to bring some life to the dull presentation. His glasses, too large for his face, inched down his nose with every movement, threatening to fall off completely.

“—as you've all been aware, we've been facing issues regarding our stolen drone flight technology due to criminal activity in the—”

The slides projected onto the screen, filled with graphs and charts, were melding into an endless stream of data that felt like it was slowly turning his brain into mush. Bruce barely registered them. Instead, his mind was a million miles away, lost in a fog. He let his attention drift to the ceiling tiles, idly counting the tiny imperfections as the briefing continued. 

TICK. TOK. TICK. TOK.

He glanced at his watch, stifling a groan as he saw only a few painful minutes had passed since he last checked. The meeting, as usual, felt like a slog, but today was particularly grueling. 

His thoughts kept drifting back to the text he received last night. Damian had invited him to your dress shop appointment today, telling him he would be covering the bill. Without a second thought, Bruce agreed and sent his card over—and if Alfred hadn’t intervened, he might have ended up buying out the entire boutique in his enthusiasm.

Could you blame him?

Much like Selina, you were stubbornly independent—always managing on your own, even when you needed support. It was a trait that made him proud, but it also left him wishing he could be more involved in your life.

If Bruce were a better man, less emotionally constipated as he often chastised himself, he might have reached out more. He might have asked if you needed to talk, offered his support more openly, and bridged the gap that seemed to widen with each passing year.

But he wasn’t that man. He was the one who held back, kept his feelings guarded, and let the distance grow because he didn’t know how to close it.

Adding salt to the wound, Stark would be there too, intruding on what should have been his time with you. 

An absolute diva. That man had a way of dominating any room, leaving little space for anything—or anyone—else. It wasn’t just Tony’s overwhelming presence that irked Bruce, but how effortlessly Stark seemed to connect with you.

In just a few months, Tony had managed to get closer to you than Bruce had in years. Where Bruce held back, Tony leaned in, closing the gap he couldn’t seem to bridge.

To make matters worse, Stark had already gotten a head start. Although Bruce would have loved to pick you up himself, he was stuck in this meeting he couldn’t cancel again—he’d already rescheduled it thirteen times.

Which is why, the moment the clock hit 12, he was already on his feet, pushing his chair back and making a beeline for the door.

"Sir, we still need to discuss—" mustard tie stuttered, but his protest was cut short as Bruce, without turning or breaking his stride, raised a hand and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist.

“Contact my secretary if you need anything,” Bruce called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for debate. The matter was closed.

“I’ll handle whatever needs to be done tonight,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

And he would. Bruce had already gathered a significant amount of data on Black Mask and the recent robberies plaguing Wayne Enterprises. Although the case had taken a backseat amid the chaos with the spider vigilante, it was time to refocus. The priority now was to tackle what truly needed his attention.

As he stormed through the hallways, the lens of a nearby CCTV camera tracked his movements.

The camera’s feed flickered momentarily. The image on the screen sputtered and glitched, revealing fleeting glimpses of different worlds—flashes of varying times and places. Colors bled into one another, shapes twisted and warped, and for a brief, disorienting moment, the image seemed to fracture, as if reality itself was breaking apart.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glitching ceased. The feed stabilized, leaving only a faint trace of the anomaly that had briefly unsettled the surveillance system.

Bruce jabbed the button for the ground floor and slid into the elevator. 

The lens refocused, but he was already out of sight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

The vehicle glided to a stop in front of a gleaming marble building, and you all stepped out, heading toward the entrance. The interior was as opulent as the exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, and glass walls reflected the polished attendants who moved gracefully in their sharp suits. Nearby, customers mingled and laughed, their designer outfits adding vibrant splashes of color to the sleek surroundings. 

Your attention was drawn to the sleek signage behind the lobby desk, where a name was displayed in elegant gold lettering.

“La Ouvere.”

French. Expensive. So luxurious it practically oozed excess. Because, of course, this was the place Tony chose.

Grumbling, you adjusted your cap to hide your face. 

You couldn’t believe he made you wear company merch to a place like this. 

CLAP.

You looked up just in time to see two rough hands slam together in a handshake, the sound sharp and echoing through the lobby like a gunshot. Tony and Bruce exchanged pleasantries, their faces stretched into wide, almost painfully forced grins.

"Bruce! Good to see you," Tony started, his voice oozing with practiced charm. "I’ve got to say, I am a huge fan of your recent striptease at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Ha." Bruce’s reply was tight-lipped. "Tony. Always a pleasure."

The handshake lingered a beat too long, both men gripping each other’s hands like they were trying to see who could squeeze the other’s bones into dust first, daring the other to flinch.

Bruce placed a hand on your shoulder with a fatherly air. “I’m glad you saw great potential in her. I’ve always known her to be quite the achiever from a young age.”

Tony wasn’t about to let that go uncontested. He quickly slid his other hand onto your shoulder,  “Well, if anyone’s been pushing the limits and achieving great things, it’s definitely been her.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And it’s all thanks to the support system. After all, it’s not just about talent but the environment that nurtures it.” He gave your shoulder a pat, adding, “Despite the struggles, her aunt raised her well—you just get to reap the benefits. Haha. Not everyone can rely on billion-dollar labs to get ahead.”

“Well, thanks to me,” Tony says, giving your shoulder a shake (again with the shoulders thing.) “I’d say she’s got plenty of both now.”

The testosterone in this room was so thick you could practically taste it.

“Alright,” you shake your head, gently removing their hands from your shoulders. “Lovely. Nice. Wow. Can we like, go inside now?”

Tony tossed you a quick glance and said, “Right. Lead the way.”

Bruce gave a curt nod. “Of course. After you.”

They both reached for the door handle at the same time, their fingers colliding in an awkward, fumbling dance. For a split second, they froze, locking eyes with a mutual glare.

Seconds dragged on, feeling like hours. Neither man budged. Their hands, now tangled together in a bizarre and clumsy struggle, seemed locked in an absurd standoff. Tony’s fingers began to subtly shift, attempting a stealthy maneuver to slip underneath Bruce’s grip. But Bruce wasn’t having any of it. With a deliberate twist of his wrist, he countered Tony’s advance, blocking the move with a firm slam.

Another minute stretched out, each second heavier than the last.

You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Are you two having a staring contest?”

"..."

"..."

Tony blinked first, cursing softly under his breath. Bruce’s smirk broadened, twice as smug than usual.

“Oh my god. Just move!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in frustration. “We’re here to shop, remember?”

The two men released the door handle simultaneously as if startled out of their petty contest. Tony stepped aside with a flourish, giving a dramatic sweep of his arm. “After you, mademoiselle.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

“These are the choices given to you by Mister Stark and Mister Wayne. Social event, oui?” the attendant says, her tone professionally neutral despite the clearly forced, fake French accent. She smooths down your black undershirt, ensuring it's perfectly straight before presenting the options.

She holds up the first suit: “Deep scarlet. Rich, saturated color—like fine wine. A luxurious wool blend. Two-piece. Tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Streamlined silhouette. French cuffs.”

Then she displays the second option: “Now, dark silk. Smooth, so smooth—like velvet in night. Classic sheen, very elegant. Three-piece. Also with tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Slim silhouette. Barrel cuffs.”

With a smile, she adds, “Both have their own magic, non? What shall you choose for the grand affair?”

“Uh,” you gape like the peasant you were, eyes darting between the two suits which seem nearly identical apart from their color. You barely caught onto the details the attendant pointed out.

As you wrestle with your decision, snippets of the conversation between the two men outside drift through the curtain.

“Sometimes, a classic black suit just gets the job done,” Bruce interjected. “It’s timeless and professional, never out of place.”

Tony retorted, “Oh, sure, blending into the background is so exciting. Why not go for red—loud, in-your-face, and impossible to ignore? It’s a damn statement.”

Bruce’s voice grew sharper. “I don’t know if you’re the right guy to make that call, considering the atrocity you dressed her in today,” he said, gesturing toward the Stark Industries merch discarded on the couch in the dressing room.

“Uh, says the guy who thinks monochrome is the pinnacle of fashion. Please, get real asshole. This is a hell of a lot better than your boring black blobs. Grow up.”

“You grow up,” Bruce shot back.

You roll your eyes and spot another suit hung up on a nearby wall—a deep emerald green. “What’s that one?”

The attendant perks up. “Ah, cette tenue! I apologize, it slipped my mind. This one was provided by the young gentleman with you. I should have mentioned it earlier.”

She holds the suit up to your chest, carefully examining the fit and adjusting the sleeve to ensure it drapes just right. 

“Three-piece suit with pattern. Jacket is single-breasted, notch lapels, welt pocket. The trousers are flat-front, slim fit, with sharp crease. The vest has five buttons, V-neckline, tailored fit. Very technical, very structured.”

You nod, satisfied. “This one. I like this.”

“Oh, magnifique! Excellent choice!” 

She quickly helps you into the suit. First, she slides on the vest, adjusting the straps at the back for a snug fit. Next, she drapes the jacket over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric and aligning the lapels. Finally, she fastens the trousers, making sure the fit is right and the sharp crease is aligned.

You step out from behind the curtains, and every eye in the room locks onto you.

Morgan's face drops. “She chose the puke color.”

"Wow. Thanks. Really feeling the support here," you scoff, adjusting the sleeves. 

Turning to Damian, you raise an eyebrow, and it's only then that he truly registers what he's seeing. His expression softens gradually as he takes you in. The hard lines of his face are still there, but now they seem gentler, softened. 

You give him a small smile—nothing grand, just a subtle curve of your lips. But you know that even the smallest smile from you is enough to unravel him.

He watches, mesmerized, as you twirl slightly in front of the mirror. The suit hugs your figure perfectly, accentuating every curve.

“This was the boyfriend's pick," you say, flicking and straightening the lapels. Morgan's head snaps up. "I picked it because it matches his eyes, and honestly, I couldn't deal with your guys' arguing any longer.”

"Tt," Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, and he gestures for you to come closer. You step to his side, feeling the warmth of his hand as it rests gently over yours. With a subtle twist of your wrist, your fingers intertwine naturally, fitting together like they've always did.

Tony huffs, shaking his head. “Alright, well, whatever makes you happy. You look snug as a bug, kid.”

“Uh. Arachnid. Not a bug,” you correct him.

Bruce blinks in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the interaction, clearly missing the joke.

He shakes his head and gestures to a waiting attendant, who approaches with a tray holding three boxes. The attendant opens the first box, revealing a necklace that catches the light and glints brightly. They lift it out, its shine almost blinding, and place it carefully on the counter.

“If you'd like,” Bruce smiles, “I’ve also picked out some accessories for you.”

The attendant then moves to the next box, lifting the lid to reveal a set of matching earrings, which they arrange neatly on the counter. They proceed to the third box, opening it to reveal a bracelet that sparkles just as intensely as the necklace. The attendant sets everything out with careful movements, arranging the pieces in a neat row.

You hold the necklace up to the light, blinded. “This is... a lot of sparkle.”

Turning to the attendant, you ask, “What’s the damage?”

“The necklace is priced at $250,000,” they say with a smile that’s more tightrope than genuine. “The earrings are $150,000, and the bracelet is $300,000.”

You blink, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, the numbers swirling in your head.

“What the actual fuck?” you blurt out, carefully setting the necklace back in its box with the reverence of someone handling a live grenade. “That’s… definitely not in my budget.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just money. If the price is too much, I can always—”

Bruce cuts him off with a grunt. “No need. I already have the check ready.”

"What?!" You turn to Bruce, shaking your head. “No! No one is buying me more than the suit! I appreciate the gesture, but this is way too overboard.”

"It's not that much, beloved," Damian hums, reaching for the earrings and holding them up to your face. "The necklace I bought you for your 18th cost twice of these combined."

Your eye twitches in disbelief. “You... you told me it was of ‘reasonable price.’”

“It was.”

“How much did you pay?!”

Damian remains silent, avoiding your eyes.

“Damian. Thomas. Wayne—”

Before you can finish, Damian calls over one of the attendants with a casual wave. “Excuse me? We’ll take all of this.”

The attendant, looking a bit taken aback but eager to please, nodded quickly and began arranging the items. You stared at Damian, your eyes practically burning and searing a hole through his stupid undercut.

“You can’t be serious!” 

Damian simply smirked, leaning closer. “Consider it a small gesture for someone who’s worth every penny.”

As you continued bickering, Morgan’s gaze lingered on the scene, her chest tightening with an unsettling, heavy feeling. She could feel something bitter and heavy rising in her chest, and she turned her eyes away, hoping that if she didn’t see it, she could ignore the way it made her feel, that gnawing ache she wished she could forget.

But then she heard your voice, soft and inviting.

"Morgan?"

It was like a lifeline, pulling her back to the present. She turned to you, forcing herself to meet your gaze.

"Can you tell them that I do not need this?" you asked with a groan, your smile radiating warmth. It was the kind of smile that could light up any room, even as your eyes drifted to the glimmering jewelry with exasperation. “They’re completely insane.”

Morgan forced a small smile of her own, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and shrugged slightly. 

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think they’re onto something. You’re worth every penny. More than any of this could ever show.”

The words came out easy enough, but underneath, she could feel the bittersweet edge of them, something she kept buried deep where no one could see.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 10:24 PM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

Shot through the heart and you're to blame Darling, you give love a bad name An angel's smile is what you sell You promised me heaven, then put me through hell

Music played from her speakers. The lab was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft glow of various screens and the occasional flicker of a monitoring light. Morgan sat at her workstation, the faint blue light of the holographic display casting a ghostly glow on her face. She was surrounded by a sea of tools, schematics, and half-finished projects, but her attention was miles away from the work at hand.

The thought of how you looked at Damian earlier haunts her deep into the night. 

Morgan’s fingers tapped absently on the console, her gaze distant and unfocused. She tried to lose herself in her work, hoping the details of her projects would distract her from the ache in her chest. But every time she glanced up at the screen, it felt as if her mind was dragging her back to that moment.

It didn't take a genius to see that she had feelings for you.

Woah, you're a loaded gun, yeah Oh, there's nowhere to run No one can save me, the damage is done

On the screen, the potency of the toxin you were exposed to a day ago was being processed. Ivy's old journal lay open in front of Morgan, serving as a reference for comparison.

As she scanned the data, a troubling pattern began to emerge. The readings were unstable, fluctuating wildly and suggesting incomplete or inconsistent results. Hours melted away as Morgan poured over the data, her eyes darting between the fluctuating graphs and the notes in the journal.

An odd, unknown element kept appearing in the results. It was an anomaly.

"This is not supposed to be here...?" Morgan mumbled, scratching at her head.

The journal’s pages fluttered as she flipped through them, desperately searching for any mention of similar anomalies or clues that might explain the glitch. Ivy’s notes were dense with technical jargon and cryptic observations, but none of it seemed to align with the strange data she was seeing on her screen.

BEEP.

Morgan’s head perked up, her attention snapping back to the screen. The familiar, rhythmic pulse of data had been interrupted by a sudden alert.

Element Detected: 𝑜̥̊⃝𝑠̥̊⃝𝑏̥̊⃝𝑜̥̊⃝𝑟̥̊⃝𝑛̥̊⃝

She squinted at the glitching display. The screen flickered and distorted, displaying an unfamiliar string of characters. The text was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The computer screen continued to flicker violently, lines of code merging into chaotic patterns. Cursing under her breath, Morgan fought to stabilize the screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, desperately trying to recalibrate the system.

After a tense few moments, she managed to clear the worst of the glitching. The flickering subsided, and the screen settled into a more manageable state.

Was that someone trying to hack in? The thought crossed her mind with a jolt.

She scrutinized the security logs, reviewed firewall activity, and cross-referenced access records, but found no concrete evidence of a breach. The logs were clear. Everything seemed normal—no unauthorized access, no signs of tampering.

But the unknown element was still there, stubbornly staring back at her from the screen.

Morgan ran her tongue over her teeth, a habit of hers when deep in thought. 

Alright. So. Every sci-fi movie warns against messing with unknown chemicals. And this is definitely one of those “don’t touch” moments. But what’s life without a little risk? Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t faced weird before. 

Problem was… the data on her screen right now was like trying to read a recipe from a cookbook that had been chewed up by a dog—completely useless. If she wanted answers, she’d have to get a closer look.

Morgan quickly set up a new data extraction protocol, isolating the unknown element. The process was slow and tense, but gradually, the substance began to take shape on the screen, its properties becoming clearer with each passing minute.

Once she had successfully isolated the element, she moved on to the next phase: synthesizing it into a serum. With a gloved hand, she carefully heated a glass flask on a burner and began adding the unknown element to the mix, watching as the contents started to react.

The silence was abruptly shattered by a sharp crack that split the air. Morgan’s eyes widened in shock as she saw thee glass flask on the burner shatter into jagged pieces. The once-clear liquid inside had turned into a dark, burned residue, and what was left was a blackened crust coating the inside of the flask.

"Great. Just great," Morgan muttered under her breath. She reached for the shattered glassware, cradling it gingerly in her hand. But as she did, something bizarre began to happen—the flask itself seemed to glitch.

The glass started to flicker and warp as if it were a malfunctioning image. It shimmered and pulsed with an otherworldly light, surface fading in and out of focus, struggling to maintain its form.

"What the fuck?" 

Her eyes stayed glued onto the flask. The constant flickering was starting to give her a headache, a dull throbbing that grew more intense with each passing second. She squinted, hoping to stabilize her vision, but the distortions only seemed to worsen.

Amid her growing confusion, she started to hear faint whispers—strange, disjointed voices that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The whispers were so low she could barely make out their words, but their presence added to the sense of disorientation that was creeping in.

An unexpected impulse tugged at her—a sudden, inexplicable urge to take the serum. Her hand trembled slightly as she considered the syringe lying on the nearby counter, a dark thought creeping into her mind. 

She stared at the flask, her gaze mad.

A part of her wanted to see what would happen if she followed through with the intrusive thought. 

Then, in a sudden, jarring shift, the erratic glitching reached a peak. The flask’s distortion became so intense that Morgan could barely make out its shape. She snapped back to reality, jolted by the sheer intensity of it all. Her senses were overwhelmed, the whispers louder now, almost shouting in her mind.

In shock, her hand lost its grip. The flask slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, the blackened remnants scattering across the lab.

CRASH!

The sudden noise of breaking glass cut through the disorienting haze, and Morgan’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at the mess before her. 

The strange impulse had vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

The glitching that had plagued the flask started to spread outward, expanding like a ripple through the air. Her eyes widened in disbelief as the distortion grew larger, forming a swirling vortex in the center of the lab. 

The portal-like disturbance expanded further, and out of it, a shadowy figure began to emerge. First, it was just a hand, reaching through the glitching void. It grasped at the air, solidifying into a more defined shape. Morgan's heart raced as the figure pulled itself further into the lab.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, as the figure's hand closed around her arm. The touch was cold and otherworldly, sending a shiver down her spine. She struggled against the grip, her heart pounding as she tried to pull away.

With a sudden, violent shove, the figure tossed her back. Morgan crashed into her workstation, slamming painfully into a shelf, sending tools and equipment clattering to the floor. 

Her eyes darted back to the figure, now fully emerging from the glitching portal. 

The intruder was clad in dark green armor, nearly black in the dim light, with a purple shawl draped over their shoulders and a hood shadowing their face. They wore goggles and a mask that concealed their features, lending them a menacing, almost robotic aura. Despite their height and build matching Morgan’s, there was a palpable strength in their movements, an unspoken threat in the way they stood.

The portal behind them flickered and closed, sealing off the strange rift from which they had emerged.

Morgan scrambled to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She clenched her fists, trying to steady herself as she faced the intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?!” she demanded. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she stood her ground, ready to fight if she had to.

The masked figure remained silent, their gaze—hidden behind those reflective goggles—locked onto Morgan. They slowly tilted their head down, taking in the sight of the shattered remnants scattered across the lab floor. 

Morgan followed their gaze and noticed the scattered pieces of a hoverboard. She recognized it immediately from the fragmented components. The design was eerily similar to the one she had in development herself—a project that had been pushed to the back burner.

The intruder’s attention then shifted to the broken glass and the unknown element still displayed on her screen. A soft click of disapproval escaped from behind the mask as the figure nudged the broken hoverboard aside with a booted foot.

“Shame,” they murmured, their voice low and laced with something almost like regret. “I came a minute too early... You should have taken that serum first. You were supposed to. It would have made this easier for both of us.”

Morgan swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what they meant, but she didn’t want to find out. The figure took another step closer, closing the distance between them.

“Who are you?” Morgan pressed. “And how did you even know about that?”

The figure paused, considering her for a moment before answering. “Who I am isn’t important. What matters is what you could have been—what you were supposed to become.”

Morgan’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of the cryptic words. This wasn’t just about the serum—there was something bigger at play. She took a step back, trying to put more distance between herself and the intruder, but the figure only followed, matching her movements like a shadow.

“Don’t worry,” they said softly, almost mockingly. “I should know better than anyone that you would want answers.”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the figure’s gloved hand slowly reached up to their mask. The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching out endlessly. The mask and goggles came loose with a soft click, and as they were removed, Morgan’s breath caught in her throat.

It was her.

Her own face stared back at her, a perfect reflection, yet not. There were differences—subtle but unmistakable. The other Morgan’s eyes held a cold, calculating gleam, their hair was longer and pin-straight compared to her short curls, and their lips curved into a smirk that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine.

“I'm Morgan Stark,” the doppelgänger said, voice eerily familiar yet laced with something darker, something twisted. “But in my universe, they call me the Green Goblin.”

Morgan felt numb. The words didn’t make sense, and yet they explained everything. 

“What... what do you want?” Morgan’s voice was barely above a whisper, the shock of seeing her own face—so twisted and malevolent—making it hard to think straight.

The Other Morgan—the Green Goblin—tilted her head, studying Morgan with a mix of amusement and pity. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, taking a step closer. “I’m here to make things right. In my world, I perfected the serum. I became something more, something powerful. But in this universe, you... you were just about to throw it all away.”

Morgan shook her head, trying to process the flood of information. “This... this isn’t possible. How can you—”

“Exist?” the Other Morgan interrupted, a cruel smile curling on her lips. “Multiverse theory, sweetheart. Infinite versions of you, of me, of everyone. Even our beloved Spidey. In my universe, I figured it out. Became a goddamn genius... and a bit of a monster, too. Here though? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“I don’t care what I—you’ve done in your world!” Morgan’s voice shook with defiance. “You don’t belong here. You won’t get whatever it is you’re after.”

The Other Morgan smirked. “Oh, but I already have. I didn’t come here to take anything. I came to see what I could have been if I hadn’t chosen the path I did. And honestly,” they scoffed, flicking a piece of Morgan’s hair, “I’m disappointed.”

Morgan’s fists clenched at her sides. “Get out,” she spat, her fear giving way to anger. “Get out of my lab, out of my life. Now!”

But they just laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the small space. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t come all this way just to walk away empty-handed. If you won’t take that serum, then...”

Before Morgan could react, her doppelgänger lunged toward the remnants of the shattered serum with blinding speed. Morgan scrambled to intercept, but her doppelgänger was faster. In a swift, brutal motion, they slammed Morgan down onto a nearby table, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

Morgan struggled against the hold, but her alternate self was stronger, pinning her down with ease. The twisted grin never left their face as they reached for a syringe. 

Morgan watched the charred solid remnants of the serum begin to twitch and quiver, as if responding to the presence of the syringe. To her horror, the blackened crust slowly liquefied, transforming back into a thick, dark fluid that oozed toward the tip of the needle.

"Shh," the Other Morgan cooed, voice dripping with mock tenderness as they drew the serum up into the syringe. The liquid swirled ominously inside, as if alive with a malevolent intent. “You’ll thank me for this in the future.”

Morgan thrashed, trying to break free, but her alternate self only tightened their grip, leaning in closer.

“Don’t worry,” the Other Morgan whispered, bringing the needle closer to Morgan’s skin. “This is a canon event, sweetheart. This is the part where you become more than just a bystander. This is where you become unstoppable.”

They leaned down, eyes glowing an eerie green. “This is where we kill Robin.”

“No!” Morgan's scream pierced the air as she slammed her knee into her doppelgängers gut, the sudden impact causing them to stumble back.

The Other Morgan staggered backward, clutching their midsection with a pained gasp. Morgan seized the moment, pushing herself off the ground and scrambling for any advantage. Her pulse raced as she darted towards a nearby workbench, grabbing a wrench and holding it defensively.

Scoffing, the Other Morgan recovered quickly, rising to their full height with their long hair cascading over their face, obscuring their features.

"First off, I’m not some fucking homewrecker," Morgan gasped, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as she took a defensive step back, wrench clutched tightly. "And second, you’re insane! Spider’s happy with him! Do you honestly think she’ll fall for you after everything you’ve become?"

“You think you can stop me?” Other Morgan snarled. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I know enough,” Morgan said through gritted teeth, trying to steady her trembling hands. “And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone.”

The Other Morgan’s lips curled into a smirk.

With a swift flick of their wrist, they threw a small device onto the floor. It hissed and released a dense cloud of smoke that quickly filled the room. Morgan’s vision blurred as she squinted, trying to make out the figure through the thickening haze.

Suddenly, a sharp, electric crackle pierced the smoke, followed by a powerful jolt that knocked Morgan off her feet. The room spun around her as she struggled to rise, her head throbbing from the shock.

Before she could fully recover, she felt a tightness around her wrist. She looked down to see a watch strapped onto her, its face glowing ominously. As she tried to make sense of it, a swirling portal began to materialize around her, its edges flickering with an eerie green light.

“Why don’t you take a trip to my universe for a bit?” the Other Morgan taunted, their voice dripping with malice. “I’ll handle things here while you’re gone.”

Morgan tried to protest, but the portal’s force was too strong. The edges of her world warped and twisted as she was yanked into the swirling void.

As she disappeared into the vortex, she heard a faint, mocking laugh. 

The portal closed with a swoosh, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

The Other Morgan turned their gaze to the workbench, their eyes locking onto a pair of scissors lying casually on the counter.

“Alright,” they said with a chilling smile, “first, a haircut.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

They say you’ll be bitten by spiders no less than 500 times in your lifetime, and you probably won’t even notice 95% of those bites.

Spiders might not affect most people that much.

Damian, however, would have a different opinion. He’d also like to punch those people in the face

Tonight, as Robin swings through the city, his gaze is locked onto you. You dart between skyscrapers with a grace that seems almost effortless. Your Starktech suit, still in for repairs, has you back in your old black kevlar—sturdy, reliable, and showing signs of wear.

Damian, out with you for what was supposed to be a routine patrol and sweep, is seeing your skills up close for the first time. He watches as you maneuver through the urban jungle with an ease that both impresses and frustrates him.

He finds himself pacing alongside your swings, trying to stay close—not just to keep an eye on you but because he’s half-expecting to be called into action at any moment. Watching you is like witnessing a high-wire act where the safety net has mysteriously vanished. Moments ago, you executed a daring twist and jump that had Damian’s heart lodged firmly in his throat. He was practically holding his breath, bracing himself for the sickening thud of a broken leg—or worse—only to see you land on your feet with a carefree laugh.

But then, without warning, you yelp and take a sharp turn, diving into the open air. The sudden change sends a jolt through Damian, and his heart skips a beat as he watches you fall fast.

“Nightcrawler!” he shouts, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind. His grappling hook fires with a crack, and he rockets toward you, every muscle straining as he fights the pull of gravity.

Just as you’re about to hit the ground, Damian’s gloved hands wrap around your front, pulling you into his arms with a fierce grip. He tucks you close, bracing for impact. You slam against the wall of a nearby building with a jarring thud, Damian’s boots taking the brunt of the landing. The impact shakes him to his core, but he holds you tightly, shielding you from the collision.

Heaving, he immediately tucks a strong arm against your back, holding you against him. “Are you—”

You burst into laughter, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press your cheek against his. “Did you see that? I pulled off a perfect dive!”

Damian’s breath comes in sharp bursts as he steadies you both, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury. “You imbecile! What were you thinking? You could have broken your neck.”

You pout playfully, brushing a stray lock of hair from Damian’s mask. “I was having fun! Come on, I wasn’t actually going to fall.”

Damian shoots you a glare that borders on murderous. "Fun?! Fun isn’t worth risking your life."

His fingers dig into your hips as he continues to hold you tightly against him, his muscles tensed like a bowstring. "And you did fall—nearly landed on your face. If I hadn't been there, you'd be eating through a straw right now."

You tilt your head, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Uh. But you were there.”

Damian narrows his eyes, his tone dripping with frustration. "Do you get some perverse pleasure out of scaring me to death?"

"Maybe," you drawl with a teasing grin.

Even with his anxiety cranked up to eleven, he can’t help but feel a surge of warmth for you. The irritation in his eyes softens, revealing a flicker of affection.

“You talk and do too much,” he grumbles, though his actions speak louder than his words. As he starts to guide both of you up to a nearby rooftop, his grip remains firm and protective. 

He’s climbing with you in his arms, every muscle straining under the effort. You can’t help but whistle at the impressive display of strength, watching as his muscles ripple beneath his suit with each movement. 

“Tsk,” he scoffs as he hauls both of you up onto the rooftop, setting you down gently.

Once you’re safely on solid ground, Damian steps back, creating a respectful distance between you. As he stands against the backdrop of the city lights, his figure is dramatically framed by the glowing skyline. His cape flutters behind him like a dark, billowing flag, enhancing his imposing silhouette. Robin stands tall, masked, and cloaked in shadows—dark and lean.

You grin coyly at him, your arms tucked behind your back as you take a few steps closer. 

“My hero,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing gently up his cape.

The gesture almost immediately disarms Damian, his irritation momentarily forgotten.

He snatches your hand away from the fabric, his fingers wrapping around yours in a firm grip. “Is this a joke to you? I am in no mood for your games tonight,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair as he turns his gaze to the city skyline. He bends down, squatting on the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below and casting a soft, ambient glow over the scene.

You follow him, bending down to wrap your arms around his shoulders and drape yourself across his back. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his jaw through your mask, the gentle touch warm against the cool night air.

Damian’s shoulders relax slightly under your embrace, and he closes his eyes momentarily, savoring the closeness. For a moment, he considers chastising you, but the feel of your body pressed against his back makes the words die on his lips.

Instead, he lets out a sigh and shifts his position, guiding you so that you slide down his back into his lap, your legs draped on either side of his hips.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re not making it easy to stay upset with you.”

“That’s the point,” you whisper, your breath warm and teasing against his skin. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, moving to stand and pulling you up with him. 

You giggle, your fingers trailing down his chest, light and teasing. Your claws graze over the contours of his suit, scratching at the armor that covers his chest and abs. The sensation is electric, sending shivers through both of you.

“Careful,” Damian rumbles, his voice a low growl as he grabs your hands once they reach his waist, his grip firm but not unkind. You’re getting a rise out of him, in more ways than one.

You lean in closer, wickedness dripping from your lips. “When have I ever been careful?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, the heat in his gaze intense as he draws his face inches from yours. "You never are. You are a reckless, impulsive, and downright idiotic woman." 

“Yeah,” you press your chest against his, your voice low and teasing. “I get that a lot.”

"And you just love proving them right, don’t you?" he says, his voice low and laden with both warning and something else.

“Is that a threat, Robin?” you whisper, your voice dripping with challenge. Flicking your wrist up, you web his chest and pull him down. 

He crashes into you, his body pressing against yours. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping the supple flesh there.

A smirk spreads across his face. "Merely a promise."

Without another word, Damian tugs your mask off and closes the distance between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, heated kiss. His mouth moves with a possessive intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, his tongue teasing yours as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between your bodies.

You feel the low rumble of his moan vibrating through your chest, a sound that only fuels the fire between you. As your hands tangle in his hair, you suddenly notice something that makes you pause—he’s smirking against your lips.

He’s smirking. The fucker is smirking.

Grinning against his lips, you pull back just enough to murmur, “So my Spidey thing turns you on? Or is it the webs?”

"Keep talking like that and I'll have to shut you up," he grunts, his voice rough with desire before he silences you with another kiss, this one deeper, more consuming. His grip tightens as he claims your mouth again, leaving no doubt about the effect you have on him.

He presses you back, and in the heat of the moment, you take a step backward with more force than intended. Your injured ankle lands awkwardly, sending a jolt of pain shooting up your leg. Despite being healed, it still ached every now and then, and this was one of those painful reminders.

You pull away with a sharp hiss, unable to stifle the reaction. 

Damian's concern for you immediately eclipses his previous frustrations. His hands find your hips, steadying you to prevent you from putting too much weight on the injured foot.

“What happened? Did I—”

“It’s just,” you wince, carefully adjusting your stance, “just my ankle. It’ll be fine.”

"I thought you said you were healed," he fusses.

"Guess I thought wrong."

"I wouldn’t have let you out with me tonight if I’d known you were still having trouble. You should have told me it was still bothering you." he scolds.

You frown, your voice softening as you look up at him. "I just... I just wanted to spend time with you. Are you mad?"

Damian’s expression softens with an almost pained look as he carefully gathers you in his arms, lifting the weight off your injured ankle. 

"Mad? No, I'm not mad," he hesitates then, his grip on you tightening slightly. "But I'm worried. I worry about you, and your actions tonight didn’t exactly ease my concerns."

He looks down at your ankle, gently tracing his fingers over the injury. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—Last night, if I’d just taken time to ask you—you wouldn’t be hurt in the first place,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he brings his face close to yours. The apology is raw, and when he mutters it against your lips, his breath hitches in his throat, overwhelmed by the warmth in your eyes.

“You had your reasons; it’s okay,” you say with your usual forgiveness, the kindness in your voice a balm to his aching conscience. 

His fingers gently graze the back of your neck, the touch tender and almost reverent. 

“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs, thick with regret. “I’ve let my anger cloud my judgment.”

“Damian, it’s fine,” you said, running your fingers through his hair and gently swinging your legs. “I trust you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. We all have our moments, and it was just a bad time for both of us. I love you, and I trust you.”

Damian made a soft sound. Up close, in his arms, there was no space between you, and he seemed softer, more touchable.

“I love you too.”

You cupped his face gently as his other arm slid below your head, pulling you even closer. His strong arms enveloped you, holding you in a way that felt perfectly right—moving closer, exchanging breaths, and locking eyes to see everything there was to know about him.

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut begins

Whispering his name, you kissed him again, and he eagerly returned the gesture. 

He guided you into a shadowed corner, his kisses growing more urgent and insistent as he pressed you against a wall. The world around you began to dissolve into a swirling haze. The only sensations that mattered were the feel of your breath mingling with his, the whisper of your voice against his, and the way your hands tugged at his hair. 

You. You. You.

His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entrance, which you granted immediately, opening your mouth and deepening the kiss. His hands roamed over your body, mapping the curves and contours like a blind man seeing the world for the first time.

You raised your knee and pressed it against him, eliciting a groan from Damian, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Fuck…”

You teased softly, “That good?”

“As always, habibti.”

Damian’s words were swallowed by another kiss as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer, bodies pressing together in an intimate embrace.

His fingers roamed up your back, tracing the curve of your spine with the practiced touch of a man who knows you intimately.

Smirking wolfishly against your lips, Damian slowly dragged down the zipper on the back of your suit. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, amplifying every sensation as he worked his way down.

The heat between you two quickly spiraled into an unstoppable force that surged and twisted. 

His utility belt falls to the ground with a loud clang, the buckle hitting the asphalt. Fingers trembling with impatience, Damian tugs at his suit's zippers, each one loosening with a sharp hiss before he dives back in. 

Every touch, every movement, seemed to ignite a deeper craving within him. Each time you breathed his name, it was like a spark that fueled his losing control, pushing him further into the abyss of his desire.

He wanted more of you—every part of you, every inch of your skin, every breath you took.

He dips his head down, his mouth finding the pulse point on your neck. His tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, as he begins a trail of kisses down your collarbone that sears into your skin. 

"I need to feel you, sweet girl." Damian's words come out in a guttural moan, half-curse, half-plea. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as his mouth found your chest, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Damian,” you gasped, your voice a low moan. “Please.”

A flurry of movements passes, and finally, he's pressing himself into you. Your body welcomes him like it was always meant to be, fitting together perfectly as if he was always meant to be a part of you.

His cape falls over you, enveloping you both in a cocoon of shadows and heat. 

The rhythmic movement of your bodies creates a slow, intense friction between you. The heat between you two was scorching, each touch and caress creating sparks of pleasure that shot through your body. Damian's teeth sank into the soft skin of your neck with a possessive fervor, leaving behind marks that would linger long after the night was over.

He could feel you pressed against him, your warmth melding with his. The taste of you lingered on his lips, the flavor of you lingering with every kiss. The sweet sounds of your pleasure, your moans and gasps, filled and echoed in his ears. The scent of your perfume, intoxicating and familiar, drifted in the air, consuming, overwhelming his senses and pulling him deeper into you.

It was all you. Everything was you.

It comes in waves, each one building and cresting until the final surge pulls you completely out of orbit. Your toes curl, your thighs lock, your heart seems to freeze, and a cry of his name escapes your lips, echoing in the space between you.

“Yes,” Damian pants out. “There you go, habibti. Just like that…” 

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he follows you through the aftershocks. Gently, he guides you down from your peak, his hips rolling slowly against yours until the rhythm gradually subsides. He murmurs love confessions in Arabic, lips trailing loving kisses over every inch of exposed skin, soothing you as you twitch and tremble in his lap. 

As the aftershocks subside, Damian gently lifts you and tucks you against his chest. 

"You okay?" he asks, soft and filled with concern. He gently massages your lower back, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your skin.

He pulls his cape around you like a blanket, wrapping you in a layer of warmth. Even in the middle of the night on a secluded rooftop, he’s focused on making sure you're cared for and cozy.

Damian adjusts his suit and re-secures his utility belt. Taking a cloth from his belt, he begins to wipe you down, removing any lingering traces of the night’s events. Once you're clean, he carefully tugs your suit back on, smoothing out any wrinkles and zipping it up with steady hands. 

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut ends

“Thank you,” you rasp out, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Damian’s response is tender; he nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin. His touch is warm and reassuring. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves your mask and hands it to you.

You tug it back on, but before you can pull it down completely, Damian leans in and kisses you. Smiling, you kiss him back, the mask only partially covering your face, leaving your lips and the lower part of your cheeks exposed.

!!!

You slowly push Damian back, a sense of alarm creeping into your consciousness.

!!!

A loud thud echoes in the distance.

DANGER.

Before you can process what’s happening, Damian is violently knocked away from you. He’s flung onto the ground with a forceful crash, the impact sending a shockwave through the rooftop. You watch, breathless, as he hits the surface hard, pain etched across his face.

Cursing, you try to move toward him, but a sudden, chilling presence makes you freeze. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the dark, sweeping fabric of a cape fluttering through the air. Your heart skips a beat as you turn, dread coiling in your stomach.

Batman.

For a moment, the world narrows to the figure looming before you, the embodiment of shadow and fear. The distant hum of Gotham fades, leaving only the thudding of your pulse, loud and insistent in your ears. The scattered light from the city below creates jagged contrasts on Batman's armor, casting him in sharp highlight. The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

Bruce's hurt gaze flickers briefly to Damian before settling on you, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed cowl. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and gravelly. “Step aside, Robin.”

Damian doesn’t budge, his chin lifting in stubborn refusal. “No.”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Bruce warns, his tone colder, more commanding. “Move. Now.”

“You don’t understand,” he snaps back, voice laced with urgency. “It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce’s gaze hardens as it shifts back to you, scrutinizing every detail of your vigilante form. He’s searching for something—anything—that might give him a clue to your identity. “Who are you?”

You remain silent, your mind racing to assess the situation. Revealing your true identity isn't an option—not now, not like this. You adjust your stance, preparing yourself mentally for whatever comes next, but Damian's presence in front of you is a steadying comfort.

“She’s with me,” Damian states firmly. “That’s all you need to know.”

But Bruce isn’t swayed. He takes another step forward, his towering form casting a long, ominous shadow over both of you. The authority he exudes is almost suffocating, a force that demands obedience and submission. 

Bruce’s voice drops to a near growl, heavy with warning. “You’re making a mistake.”

Damian doesn’t waver, his stance firm, his resolve unshaken. “Maybe I am. But it’s my mistake to make. I’m not moving. Not until you understand—”

“Understand what?” Bruce’s voice, though controlled, cracks with an edge of hurt. “That you’re risking everything for—” His words catch in his throat, and his eyes, now seething, lock onto you with anger. The unspoken words hang in the air, heavy and accusing, as if he’s struggling to comprehend how Damian could make such a choice. 

“Father,” Damian tries again. “Just listen, please. I’m not—”

But Bruce cuts him off sharply. “I don’t want to hear it, Robin. Stand down. Now.”

Damian grits his teeth, his jaw clenching at the command. “I won’t. You want me to move, you're going to have to make me.”

Bruce growls and his posture shifts, his body tensing as he readies himself for combat, cape swirling with a sudden, sharp movement, the dark fabric creating a menacing silhouette against the night sky. Damian rolls his shoulders.

The silent acknowledgment of the fight to come is all that’s needed. 

The first move comes fast and brutal—a sweeping kick aimed at Damian’s legs. Damian barely manages to sidestep, but the force of the attack sends him stumbling slightly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruce presses his advantage. He lunges forward, delivering a powerful punch to Damian’s jaw. The blow connects with a sickening thud, causing Damian to gasp and stagger backward. He tries to recover, swinging a fist toward his father, but Bruce is already moving, effortlessly deflecting the strike and countering with a sharp elbow to Damian’s ribs.

Before Damian can recover, Bruce is on him again. He grabs Damian by the collar and delivers a powerful knee to his abdomen. The impact sends Damian sprawling, crashing hard onto the rooftop. The concrete shudders beneath him, and he struggles to get to his feet, gasping for breath.

“You’ve forced my hand. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to,” Bruce seethes as he advances. His fists come down in a series of blows, each strike aimed at disabling rather than harming. Damian blocks and dodges where he can, but Bruce's assault is relentless, each hit pushing him further back.

THWIP

A web snares Bruce’s arm, halting his advance. His head swivels toward you, confusion and fury flashing in his eyes beneath the cowl. He struggles against the webbing, but you seize the opportunity to yank him off Damian, pulling him forcefully to the side of the rooftop. The webbing binds him tightly against the edge, restricting his movements.

Without wasting a second, you rush to Damian’s side. His breathing is ragged, masked cracked. blood runs down his lip You kneel beside him, gently pulling him up against you. Your arms wrap around him, providing a protective, comforting embrace.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask urgently, voice trembling with fear.

Damian rasps out a laugh, his grin weak but defiant. “At least I know he’ll do the right thing if I ever do you wrong.”

SHLICK.

You look up to see Bruce cutting through your webbing with a knife. The webbing disintegrates under the assault, and you curse under your breath. Without your web-shooters, your organic webs are noticeably weaker—a reminder that you'd need to ask Morgan for new ones as soon as possible.

Bruce continued his advance, his gaze fixed on you this time.

You raised a hand, trying to signal a truce, your voice shaky but earnest. “I... I don’t want to fight,” you said, the exhaustion evident in every word. 

“Then take off the mask,” Bruce commanded, his voice cutting through the air with a harsh edge, leaving no room for negotiation.

The demand hung between you, making your heart pound louder. You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. Slowly, you lifted a trembling hand toward your mask, fingers grasping the edge.

But before you could fully uncover your face, Damian's hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking it away.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, eyes flashing with desperation. He turns to Bruce, getting back onto his feet.

“Don’t come any closer,” Damian warns as he unsheathes his katana, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “I have the utmost respect for you, Father, but if you take one more step, I will have to engage you properly this time.”

Despite the weight of your decision, there’s no other choice. Your sole aim is to end this confrontation swiftly and with as little harm as possible.

With a sharp breath, you square your shoulders and raise your head.

“Nobody’s going to do anything,” you say firmly as you start to tear off your mask. The fabric pulls away slowly, the cool night air brushing against your exposed skin.

As the mask comes free, you are left bare to the elements, your face now fully visible under the moonlight. You hold Bruce's gaze directly, hoping that this gesture will be enough to de-escalate the standoff.

"It's just me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

ruh oh

mmmmmmmm yes 3-4 chapters left

[taintandviolent]

Regular ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You live in Gotham City and are a waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Oz is a regular and you've developed quite the crush on him.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 6.4K | older man/younger woman, semi-established history, making out, cockwarming, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering (female receiving, dirty talk, smut with a teensy bit of plot (but not really).

a/n: to the 99.9999% of my followers... I'm so sorry but I am begging you guys to hear me out about him!!!! I thoroughly expect this to flop, but I needed to write it for my own sanity. absolutely massive thank you to @redravenblogs for beta-reading! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

[morning-star-joy]

a stranger's heart without a home masterlist

Pairing: rivals to friends with benefits slowburn Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak

Fic Summary: Sleeping with Joel Miller was supposed to be a one time thing. When the older brother of your closest friend showed up in Jackson, you hadn't expected him to stay more than a day. You'd both given into a brief moment of passion before he left, and that was the end of that. It didn't matter, you were never going to see him again. Then Joel returns a few months later, and screws up everything about the comforting life you had established in Jackson.

Fic Tags: One Night Stands, Rivals into Friends with Benefits, Emotional Slow Burn (really slow), Eventual Romance, Mutual Pining Idiots, Angst & Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family (lots of Tommy & Reader and Dina & Reader friendships), Long Chapters

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader in her 30s, Joel 56) Themes of Grief/PTSD/Depression with mentions of death (family members, both Reader and Joel) that can be heavy at times, Specific Warnings in each Chapter

Status: Complete

ao3 link

official art by @cynibuns

tribute edit by @dundienominee

moodboard/graphic by @planet-marz1

Reader fanart by @mydzygro-art

masterlist (no longer posting on tumblr, check ao3 for new fics)

chapter 1: I am not the only traveler

chapter 2: the holidays linger like bad perfume

chapter 3: do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways (18+ Smut)

chapter 4: there it is again, that funny feeling

chapter 5: break the silence; damn the dark, damn the light

chapter 6: and I'll never see you again if I can help it (18+ Smut)

chapter 7: look at us, you and I, back at it again (18+ Smut)

chapter 8: maybe I don't quite know what to say, but I'm here in your doorway

chapter 9: I thought that you’d be here by now (18+ Smut)

chapter 10: can the killer in me tame the fire in you?

chapter 11: this slope is treacherous, this path is reckless (18+ Smut)

chapter 12: you take what you get, and you turn it into honesty

chapter 13: burned out flames should never reignite, but I thought you might take me home (18+ Smut)

chapter 14: he built a fire just to keep me warm

chapter 15: speak to me until your history’s no mystery to me

chapter 16: and it feels good to be known so well (18+ Smut)

chapter 17: baby, it's Halloween, and we can be anything (18+ Smut)

chapter 18: yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you (18+ Smut)

chapter 19: either I'm careless or I wanna get caught (18+ Smut)

chapter 20: with your boots beneath my bed; forever is the sweetest con (18+ Smut)

epilogue (18+ Smut)

(listed in order of how they occur after the main fic)

morning after chapter 20

waking up to oral (18+ Smut)

painfully domestic (kisses to get their attention)

lingerie & breeding kink (18+ Smut)

(epilogue takes place here)

half-asleep, half-awake (Joel POV companion piece to main fic)

not much I need (nonsexual intimacy)

kissing scars

easy, plaid-shirt mornings (18+ Smut)

would it be enough if I could never give you peace? (Reader's anxiety)

a feeling so peculiar (seasonal depression)

chapter 13 sneak peek (Jealous!Joel's POV Date Scene)

chapter 13 scene (Jealous!Joel Smut after Date 18+)

chapter 13 cut endings (Angst af)

chapter 14 sneak peek (Reflection Joel's POV)

chapter 15 sneak peek (Totally Casual Drinks Between Friends)

chapter 16 sneak peek (Dina and Ellie Plan)

chapter 17 sneak peek (The Dance)

chapter 18 sneak peek (Joel Pines for You)

chapter 18 secret scene (Tommy finally fucking figures it out)

chapter 19 sneak peek (Tommy and Reader)

fic playlist

MC playlist

Taylor-coded MC playlist (for my fellow Swifties!)

Joel POV playlist

[flowerywoso]

The Babysitter || Irene Paredes x Reader

Summary: You've had a thing for Irene ever since you started babysitting for her. When she comes home after a night out with the team, you realize that your feelings might not be as one-sided as you thought they were. Pairing: Irene Paredes x Reader Words: 3,992 Warnings: 🔞, smut with plot Notes: I haven't written anything in quite awhile (I honestly wasn't planning on writing ever again but here we are), so this might be a little rough! Please don't hesitate to let me know (politely, please!) if you notice any horrible grammatical errors or notes to myself that I somehow forgot to take out. Do not post my works on Ao3. And I am horrible at titles.

You peek your head into the room once more, carefully easing the door open and, just as quickly, shut, once you determine that the toddler is definitely still asleep. It’s a habit you adopted after your friends began to have their own children, and one you’ve maintained for the kids you babysit. Tiptoeing back down the hallway, making sure to keep your footfalls as quiet as you can, you plop back down on the sofa, settling into the corner and taking a sip of your sparkling water, grabbing your novel and flipping it back open as you wait for the boy’s mother to return home.

It’s not that much later, only long enough for you to finish a single chapter of your book, before you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, announcing Irene’s return from the Barcelona squad’s night out. You don’t get up from the couch, merely setting your novel aside and uncrossing your legs, letting one dangle off the cushions.

She enters the room quietly, the low heels she’d left the apartment in abandoned on the mat by the front door so they don’t click on the wood floors, and when you look up you can see the flush on her face. You're not sure if it's the result of the chilly evening air or of her night out, but either way it's enough to make you swallow around a lump in your throat. The top and pants she'd left the house in are just as enticing now as they were several hours ago, and you wonder as she walks further into the apartment how you manage to stay sane around her.

“Hola,” she says quietly, setting her purse down in the center of the coffee table and taking a seat beside you on the sofa, sighing in relief as she relaxes into the cushions after a long night out. Your heart, as it so often does in the presence of the older woman, skips a beat as she comes nearer to you.

“How was everything?”

“All good,” you reply, beginning to recount your evening with Mateo. As always, the toddler had been easy, listening to you as well as one could expect a two-year-old to, and had fallen asleep on the sofa halfway through an episode of Bluey, only stirring briefly when you carried him to bed.

“He ate most of his dinner,” you relay with a smile, shaking your head at the memory of how the toddler had wrinkled his nose at the "yucky green" you'd provided for him, far more enthusiastic about the special treat that was the chicken nuggets unearthed from the freezer. “We had a bit of a struggle with the veggies, but other than that he was a perfect angel, like always.”

Your words bring a smile to the older woman’s face, and you can’t help but stop in your tracks for a moment, transfixed by the way her lips perk upwards, faint lines around her eyes becoming visible. You’ve seen her take an extra minute in the bathroom more than once after you arrive in the evenings, trying to conceal the bags beneath her eyes or the smile lines beginning to form at the corners, but you think that each and every part of her face is a work of art. 

You had no idea, when you first started babysitting for her, just how quickly your feelings for the older woman would grow. In the stolen moments at the beginning and end of the nights, before one of you walks out the door, you've learned more and more about Irene Paredes the person, not just the footballer, and something about her kept drawing you further and further in. You couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but you knew that you wanted her.

“Did you have a good night?”

Irene shrugs, shaking her head with a fond smile as she tells you about the Barcelona squad’s night out. She had mostly stayed on the sidelines alongside the other older players, keeping an eye on the girls closer to your own age as they enjoyed themselves, but Pina and Cata had managed to coax her and Alexia into having a drink and dance before she had excused herself.

The thought of Irene on the dance floor makes your heart pound, imagination beginning to run wild.

You’ve never been to Manuela’s, but from the way you’ve heard Irene describe it, there's absolutely no shortage of beautiful women. You know from the bits of information she’s given you that the Barcelona girls normally stick with one another, even while they’re out, but you’ve never been able to help yourself from wondering if any of the beautiful girls who frequent the club have tempted her enough that she’s taken one of them to her bed.

It's that thought, the unpleasant idea of her tangled between the sheets with a nameless, faceless girl from the club that makes your chest hurt. Before you fully notice what you're doing, you open your mouth and begin to speak, some jumbled mixture of thoughts spilling from between your traitorous lips.

"I mean if... If you ever wanted to stay out later... If someone..."

You trail off, clamping your lips shut as you realize just how inappropriate what you're implying is. You cringe, cursing yourself as you watch for her reaction, wait for her to get up off the couch and hand you your bags, let you know that now might be a good time for you to go home.

But she doesn't. Instead, all the older woman does is fix you with a questioning gaze, seemingly losing herself in thought for a moment.

She’s seated closer to you than she normally would be, than she ever has been before, and for a moment you wonder if she can hear your heart as it pounds in your chest, speeding up as she enters your space. You aren’t sure if it’s your imagination, the way her eyes seem to have fixed on you, tracing the details of your flushing face, eyes following your bottom lip as you nervously run your teeth over it.

“No,” she says at last. “None of the girls there have ever been who I wanted.”

Something about the word there catches your attention as it leaves her mouth, and you're certain that you must be losing your mind. Because there's no way, no way in the world that she wants you the way you want her.

The older woman reaches out and brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and you’re fairly certain that you’ve stopped breathing. Her hand pauses by your left cheek, which you're absolutely certain is flushing redder than the cap on her cherry flavored chapstick.

And suddenly, before you can even fully process the fact that her soft but strong hands are cupping your scarlet cheeks, the older woman is leaning forward and pressing her lips to yours.

You must have imagined this moment a thousand times, but never in your wildest dreams had you imagined it would actually come true. The older woman’s mouth is soft but insistent against your own, exploring your lips with hers, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had is a distant memory as you move with her, kissing her back.

Kissing Irene is even better than you imagined it would be - and you could fill a planner with the amount of times you’ve imagined this exact scenario. Her mouth is gentle, but there’s an edge to her kiss that contains a promise, the knowledge that she’s capable of being anything but.

When your lips finally part, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, you let out a little gasp, pupils blown wide as Irene stares into your eyes, both of you trying to process what has just happened. Even though she’s the one who kissed you first, Irene seems just as shocked as you are. But, behind her wide eyes is the same feeling you know she can easily spot in your own.

Desire.

“I… Fuck.”

You’re the one who leans forward this time, lips pressing against the older woman’s, the faint flavor of alcohol on her lips mixed with a hint of cherry from the chapstick you’ve seen her spread across her mouth more than once. The taste of her lips is intoxicating, and you can feel it going straight between your legs.

This kiss is deeper than the first, your arms wrapping around her strong shoulders to pull her closer, wanting to feel her body against your own. You part momentarily, gasping for air and only managing a brief breath before she’s kissing you again, every movement raising the stakes. You whine as her lips meet yours once more, hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. The older woman uses her own lips to pry yours open, her claiming tongue slipping into your mouth and beginning to explore further.

You let her take control of the kiss without protest, the arousal between your thighs intensifying exponentially with every second her body spends this close to your own. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, breaking away from your lips only long enough to grunt in your ear. “Fuck, I want you so badly.”

All you can do is nod, shaking your head up and down in agreement, because you don’t think you’ve ever wanted another person this badly in your entire life. 

“Irene,” you whine, pressing impossibly closer to her. “Please.” 

“Can I touch you?”

You’re nodding again before the question has even fully left her lips, and the older woman’s pupils go dark with how eager she is for you. She kisses you again, her football player’s strength showing as she pushes you backward onto the sofa, hands working their way up under your shirt. She doesn’t bother with the clasp of your bra, instead slipping her hands beneath the fabric to cup your breasts. Separating her lips from yours with a low groan, Irene immediately begins tracing a path over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a further wave of shivers up and down your spine. You moan quietly, remembering that you two aren’t alone in the apartment, but tilt your head anyway, granting her better access to your throat.

Advantage is rapidly taken, the Barcelona player letting a hint of teeth scrape across the delicate flesh of your throat as she rolls one of your nipples between her fingers, moaning quietly at the way you arch, pressing your chest further into her touch. 

Your nipples aren’t normally this sensitive, but something about the way Irene rolls and tugs at them makes the two buds feel as if they’re direct links to your most sensitive spot. Her touch is magical, and all you want is more.

As if the older woman can read your mind, the hand not busy exploring your chest slides further down, slipping under your black leggings and making you gasp, bringing a hand up to muffle your own sounds as long fingers begin to rub at your pussy over your panties. 

There’s far too much fabric between the two of you, and every thread feels like a cage. You need it off, need the last bits of separation between your heat and her touch gone, now. 

“Off,” Irene commands and, needing the barrier gone just as badly as you do, she doesn’t wait for you to obey before she’s hooking her own fingers in the waistband of your leggings, yanking them down over your legs. Your panties are removed in the same motion, both pieces of fabric coming to rest at your ankles. You try to kick them fully off, but only manage to completely free one leg before the older woman is pushing her way between your thighs, eagerly beginning to explore your bare pussy.

Her experience is clear from the first touch of her slender fingers against your naked heat, and you can’t help but press closer, spreading your legs further to give her better access. The older woman draws in a sharp breath as she circles your clit gently with one finger, exploring, watching for your reactions, the others gathering the rapidly accumulating wetness at your entrance. Irene's touch is electric, and the older woman finds herself becoming rapidly obsessed with the way your clit seems to plead for her touch.

With two of her fingers, Irene traces the outline of your pussy, hyper aware of just how wet you are, how your hole is begging silently for her fingers inside as she continues to rub your clit.

You let your eyes fall shut, eagerly anticipating just how good it will feel when the fingers you can sense lingering just shy of your entrance finally slide home, burying themselves inside your welcoming cunt. You’re practically pulsing with it, with how badly you need her inside, need to know just how she’ll fill you, what previously unknown spots inside the tips of her long fingers will be able to brush.

“Where do you want my fingers, bebita?” 

You whine, shifting your hips in an attempt to get even closer to her, to get her to slide her fingers into your throbbing heat. The digits, wet from your own slick, only withdraw further away from your needy hole, and you nearly sob with how badly you need the older woman, need her touch. 

Obvious as it may be, this nonverbal expression of how desperate you are for her to take you isn’t enough to satisfy the older woman, and she rubs your inner thigh soothingly. 

“Use your words, baby,” she coaxes. “Tell me where you need my fingers.”

The idea of using your words seems borderline impossible at the moment, your brain simply too overwhelmed with the reality of just how close her fingers are to slipping inside, but you can tell that you won’t get what you need until you do.

“My pussy,” you manage to whine, trying to stay as quiet as possible while pulsing with the need for her. “Please, Irene, I need your fingers in my cunt.”

Your words, base and simple as they are, are enough to get you what you need, and when Irene finally slides her fingers home, you can’t conceal the moan that tears its way free from your throat. You’re wet enough that the stretch of going from zero to two fingers inside your cunt brings nothing but pleasure, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from moaning aloud when you feel the ridges of her fingers settle against your walls, the older woman pausing for a moment to let you adjust to the feeling of her digits inside.

Irene has to swallow a wrecked noise of her own as she finally slides her fingers inside your soaking pussy, the sensation of your silky walls against her skin sending her brain into overdrive. The sound of your voice, desperation tinging your whispers as you plead for her to move, to fuck you, is absolute music to her ears, and she doesn’t hesitate to comply with the enticing request. 

Her pace is slow at first as she starts to move, the older woman eagerly exploring every curve and contour of your cunt, leaking around her fingers. It’s so warm and inviting, and the older woman has no idea how she’s lasted this long without knowing what feel like inside.

Once she’s sure you’ve fully adjusted to the stretch of her digits inside of you, Irene speeds up her thrusts, curling her fingers in search of the most sensitive spots hidden inside your pretty cunt. 

It’s clear when she finds what she’s looking for, because your cunt clenches down around her fingers and you squeeze your pretty eyes shut as pleasure rocks your body. 

“Oh,” she says, voice a whisper that tickles your ear and makes you shudder happily. “Is that where you need me?”

You nod desperately, the entirety of your reality reduced to the sensation of her fingers against the sensitive tissue inside you, stroking it insistently as her thumb comes to brush against your swollen clit. As she fucks you with her fingers, the older woman tests out different motions on your bud with her thumb, searching for the pattern and pace to take what’s left of your breath away. 

You can’t help but let out a cry as she presses a little harder, circling your needy clit at just the right angle. Irene quickly presses her lips to yours again, reminding you that you’re not alone in the apartment.

“Shh,” the older woman says, swallowing your noises with her own tongue, collecting each one. “You’ve still gotta be quiet for me, bebita.”

You nod in understanding, kissing her back desperately, bringing a hand up to tangle in her hair. You can be quiet, no matter how good it feels, you can be quiet, just so long as she doesn’t stop what she’s doing between your legs. Irene chuckles against your lips, redoubling her efforts between your legs. Her talented fingers thrust in and out of your pussy, each time hitting the spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispers, lips right beside your ear. “That’s it, take it for me. Take it, just like that.”

You toss your head back, more than willing to comply. Every cell of your body feels like it’s on fire, and you want nothing more than for the burning to consume you completely. 

Your orgasm arrives without warning, Irene’s thumb on your swollen clit combined with her talented fingers inside your cunt sending you crashing over the edge with a fury you haven’t felt in a long time. You have to bite down on your lip to keep in your sounds as your it overwhelms you, nails digging into Irene’s bare shoulders. You can feel the older woman’s smile as she kisses your neck, fingers still moving gently inside you, working you through your climax, helping you ride it for as long as you can.

You shudder, aftershocks still shaking your body as you begin to come down from your peak. She slides her fingers out and you bite down on your kiss-swollen lip to keep yourself from whining at the loss. It takes another minute before you're able to gather yourself, fully opening your eyes and taking in the sight of the gorgeous older woman above you.

Irene presses another kiss to your lips, this one gentle, and you can feel the smile on her face as you give a final shudder, sitting up and leaning into her.

"How was that, bebita?"

"Fucking perfect," you reply, unable to conceal a grin of your own as you note how flushed her face still is. Knowing that touching you has her seemingly almost as worked up as you are sends a thrill through your body and you reach for the button of her jeans, aiming to return the favor, only for the same pair of hands that had just brought you to such an incredible orgasm to push yours down, Irene’s lips brushing against your forehead.

“Don’t you worry about me, baby,” she says, and you feel your heart sink with sudden disappointment.

“Are you sure?”

Irene wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, clearly oblivious to the way your shoulders sink. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”

You blush, wanting to protest that getting to touch her would be just about the furthest thing away from a worry- dream or fantasy come to life would be a more accurate description- but a sudden wave of shyness overcomes you, the whiplash of going from the high of your orgasm to the valley of being denied an opportunity to make Irene feel as good as she’s just made you feel making your throat close up.

“O-Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay. I just…”

You trail off, not sure what to say to that. It feels like, without meaning to or realizing what she’s done, the Barcelona defender has just tossed a bucket of ice water over you.

“I… I guess I should head home then,” you say quietly, trying not to let her hear the hurt in your voice, reaching down and pulling your leggings back up over your calves and thighs until they rest around your middle. Your panties aren’t quite soaked, for the pure fact that they had been around your ankles soon after her lips first met yours, but they’re still wet enough that putting them back on isn’t exactly comfortable. 

And more than that, you don’t want to leave. Your body is still purring with the aftermath of your orgasm, the last thing you want to do right now is leave her apartment and walk the few blocks home to your own. The route between your apartment and Irene’s is one you know well, lit with plenty of streetlamps and well-frequented on a Saturday night, so any anxiety you might feel can be connected purely to leaving her after what’s just happened, without being certain where you stand. 

Irene opens her mouth and you pause with your hand on the knob, waiting, hoping that she’ll say something, offer her bed to share for the night. 

“Let me know when you get home safe,” she says quietly, and you can’t help the way your chest clenches with a strange sort of pain. You hadn’t really expected her to offer for you to stay, not with the amount of eyes that could be watching someone like her at any given moment, but you still can’t help but wish she had.

You nod in response to her question, clutching your bag close to your side as you shut the door behind yourself, beginning the short walk home.

...

“Fuck.”

The second the door shuts behind you, the defender wishes she could throw it open again and call you back in.

She had wanted to, especially after watching you come apart under her touch, seeing how pretty you looked as your orgasm overwhelmed you. The words had been on the tip of her tongue, but you had beaten her to it, reaching for the door handle and exiling yourself before she could even offer, and she hadn’t offered any protests. 

Peeking in the door, ensuring that Mateo is still safe and sound in his bed, the Barcelona player tiptoes quietly down the hall, two doors down, and pushes her own door open and shut behind her.

As she pulls off her top, letting it fall to the floor, quickly followed by her pants and bra, Irene curses herself, pulling back the covers and slipping into the too-big bed on her own. It feels cold compared to the contrast of your warm body against her own, and her chest pangs with the regret of not asking you to stay the night. 

Back in your own apartment, you slide beneath your own covers, mind racing at a million miles an hour.

No matter how your chest might ache at the fact that you’re here, alone in your own bed, the memory of the older woman’s lips on yours, of her talented fingers bringing you to orgasm right there on the sofa, of muffling your moans in her shoulder, still sends a familiar jolt of electricity between your thighs. With a soft whine, you reach for your the bedside drawer where you keep your vibrator, turning it up before pressing it against your still-swollen clit.

Blocks away, Irene is doing the same, quietly gasping out a much-needed orgasm with your name on her lips, the memory of your mouth on hers and your silken flesh beneath her fingertips sending her over the edge.

As the older woman drifts off into an uneasy slumber, the space beside her conspicuously empty, she knows that, now she's had you once, she won't ever be able to get enough.

[absurdthirst]

The Empress and the Gladiator {Gladiator!Pero x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.2k

Warnings: Fingering, oral sex (male and female receiving), loss of virginity, star crossed lovers, mentions of war/death, vaginal sex, mentions of sex workers, rough sex, blood/gore, death, animal cruelty, gladiatorial games, pregnancy

Comments: Destined to become Empress of Rome, your heart has always been Pero Tovar's. When your father decides to host an gladiatorial tournament with your hand in marriage as the prize, Pero becomes the gladiator you are rooting for in the colessum.

A/N: With Gladiator 2 coming out this year, thots turned to Rome. While reader is Empress, no physicality has been described other than 'Roman'.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Pay attention.” Your tutor, Maximus, tuts as you stare out of the doorway to the courtyard. Your scrolls are messy on your table and the breeze through your hair makes you long to be outside and not studying the gods. You hear the clashing of swords and watch as Pero Tovar fights his mentor, a man named Julius, while his mother tends to your needs. His mother is your matron, taking care of your needs like your own mother would if she were still alive. After her untimely death when you were born, your father had brought in a matron while he searched for another wife. He’s had two more since your mother’s death but he claims to be cursed as both women also lost their lives during birth…and their babies. The sole child of the Emperor of Rome, you are in line to be Empress. Something that has never happened. The man you marry shall be by your side and your father had petitioned the senate to allow you to rule, for him to mold you into the perfect leader for the next generation. The senate had agreed and now, you spend your days learning about Seneca and Cicero instead of painting or strolling the gardens. You have been taught to read, you know the laws of the empire, and you have been trained in all manner of war. You are preparing to become Empress of Rome. You just need a husband. Turning your eyes away from Pero, you look back at your scrolls and continue your lesson. Little do you know that Pero is also watching you. His mother, bless her soul, was widowed by his father who fought for the empire. He lost his life in battle and the Emperor let his mother stay in the palace with her son to tend to his newborn daughter. Pero knows he will be sent to train with the army soon. He will fight as his father once did. However, he will be leaving his heart in the palace with you.

****

You walk through the gardens after your lesson, Pero long gone from the courtyard, and you are caressing a flower when you hear your name. “Why are you here alone?” Pero asks, his voice gruff and demanding, “you should not be outside without an escort.”

You huff and roll your eyes, aware of and annoyed by the fact that if you were a man no one would even question you walking alone. “I am in my own courtyard.” You turn to look at the older Spanish boy. Even if you have grown up together, he has filled out with muscle and grown taller over the past few years. “I am the future Empress and I can go and do whatever I wish.” You straighten your spine even though you know your father would not approve of being alone. Too many of his enemies would seek to use you for their own gain. You frown and look around, all the servants out of sight and no one nearby to hear you. “Why are you here, Pero?”

Pero stares at you for a moment, the moonlight reflecting on your face, and he can't help but be reminded of how beautiful you are. When your face is carved from marble and the coins are gold with your profile, he will be one of many to admire your beauty. Your moxie makes him bite his lip to smother a smile and he waits until your eyes fix on him. "I am taking a stroll. Getting some fresh air and admiring the grounds before I have to leave." He sighs, looking down at the grass beneath his feet.

“That’s right, you are leaving……” you frown at the reminder that tomorrow morning he will be leaving for the war that is being fought near Constantinople. You have spent all of your formative years around the man who you have come to view as more than a mere childhood friend. You’ve never seen him as a brother and now your heart quickens at his nearness. “Tonight is your last night in Rome,” you venture softly. “You should make the most of it. Most men would be visiting the taverns, or the whorehouses that I am supposed to pretend don’t exist.” His head shoots up, eyes wide and you smirk. “Or do you prefer the company of the men in the bathhouses?”

Pero raises his eyebrows and he offers you a wry smile, “don’t you know it all, emperatriz?” He chuckles and you snort, “I even know about Hispania.” Pero is impressed by your knowledge of the reality outside of the marble walls you wander in. It will serve you well. “To answer your question, I wish to spend my last night here since I will not be able to return. My barracks will be my new home and I will miss this palace…and you.” He confesses, his dark eyes meeting yours, “I have no need for wine or for women when what I truly want is right in front of me.”

Pero is handsome, his dark eyes seemingly even darker with the same emotion that makes your core throb and turn slick with need. You aren’t unaware of what happens between men and women, even if you are untouched. Untouched beyond your own fingers between your thighs when you lay in the dark, listening to the rustle of the wind against the curtains of your bed. “Pero….” You step closer to him, biting your lip as you inhale deeply, aware your father would have you beaten and Pero executed, but you don’t care. He could die, never to return, and you don’t want to live the rest of your life without knowing what it is like to be touched by him. “Tonight, the future empress will entertain you.” You decide, telling him boldly. “In ten minutes, climb to my balcony.”

Pero’s cock twitches under his tunic and he bows his head, “I will be in your service tonight, empress.” He murmurs, knowing he could be hung for this but it’s worth it. You are worth it. No longer the little girl who used to annoy him when he wanted to play gladiator with his friends, he wants the beautiful woman you’ve become. The oils you bathe in hit his nose and he swallows, taking a step back from you. He looks around to make sure no one saw him speaking to you alone and he strides off, knowing that you will be able to make it back to your quarters alone.

The slap of your sandals accompanies the rustle of your skirts as you hurry along the columned corridor to your quarters. Servants rush to bow, but you pay them no mind as your excitement has you eager to lock yourself into your room. Bursting through the door startles your servant, Corda. “My gods!” She huffs and you shake your head. “Fetch me a tray and wine, then you are dismissed.” You instruct her, making her jaw drop. “But-“ “No buts, Corda!” You hiss, taking a breath and smiling at her to not make her suspicious. “I know you wish to spend one last night with Gavros.” You hum, smirking slightly at her guilty expression. “Fetch my food and drink and then go enjoy yourself.” Her lover is also in the group that Pero will be accompanying to the war.

She bows her head and turns, making her way out of your quarters to fetch your tray and wine. She returns a few minutes later and sets the tray down. “Good night, my lady.” She murmurs, turning and shutting the doors behind her. The gauzy drapes are flowing onto the balcony as Pero climbs the trellis to swing his leg onto the balcony. He grunts as he stumbles but recovers to stand outside of your room. “emperatriz.” He whispers, hoping no one is in your quarters.

“Pero?” You look through the sheer fabric to see him hovering outside and push them aside to usher him in. “Come in.” You command, hoping no one saw him climb up. You don’t wish for the night to be disrupted and you know that if Corda is off gallivanting, no one should come to disturb you. Everyone is celebrating the troops leaving and you are happy that your father is busy as well. He steps inside your room and the curtain falls into place, giving you the illusion of blocking out the world. “You came.”

Pero offers you a soft smile, his hands suddenly damp. “Of course, hermosa. How could I not?” He asks you, “I am leaving tomorrow and if I don’t return, I want you to know…I want you to know that I would kneel before you as my Empress, as your loyal soldier, as your friend, and if you’ll have me, as your lover.” He murmurs, not touching you. You are pure and he could be killed for even being in your quarters.

Your body trembles at his confession, knowing that you feel the same way. He can be coarse and cross at times, but you love him. Reaching up to your shoulder, you unhook the gold leaf brooch that keeps your dress on your body. Letting it fall to the floor so you stand in front of him, completely naked. “Take off your tunic, Pero.” You command, lifting your chin. “I wish to inspect my soldier.”

His eyes widen at the beauty before him. Your body bare and his mouth is dry, his cock hardening as he takes in a sight that most mortals will never bear witness to. He kicks off his sandals and reaches for the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head to display his naked body to your hungry eyes. He stands straight, arms by his side as he awaits your inspection.

You inhale sharply, taking in the hard planes and chiseled lines of his body. The rigorous training has taken the boy's soft body and turned it into the hard sculpture of a soldier, your warrior. He has given you the power and it emboldens you to step forward, reaching out and stroking the smooth muscle of his chest. Biting your lip when you feel it move under your hand and let it drop down to brush against the thick length that juts out proudly from his groin.

Pero groans under his breath, his eyes closing as he lets you touch him how you please. He stands still, not lifting his hands to touch you. You are in charge tonight, his soon to be Empress. You will have what you want because tomorrow, he will leave and this night will be a memory he cannot share with anyone.

“Beautiful.” You murmur quietly, looking into his eyes. “This is for me.” You don’t ask, because you know that it is. Your fingers wrap around his cock and you marvel at how hard and soft he feels in your hand. “How long have you thought of me?” You ask. “Do you think of me when you visit the whorehouses? When you sink into a woman?”

"Yes." He doesn't bother lying. After tonight, you will be betrothed to another and he will likely be killed in battle. He has tonight so he will give you everything, all he has to offer. "Every time." He confesses, knowing that he paid those women to be faceless, imagining you in their place. You jerk him and he groans, letting you touch him as you please and he prays to the gods that he holds off long enough to give you pleasure.

You moan softly, loving how he responds to your touch. His confession of thinking of you while fucking making your cunt drip. “When I slide my fingers into my cunt, I think of you.” You confess. “How you would feel, how you would taste.” You squeeze him slightly as he groans your name. “How you would touch me. You know of such things, you have touched women before. Can you make my body shake in pleasure?”

He nods, throat tightening with arousal as you squeeze him again. "I can make my Empress shake in pleasure until she can take no more." He assures you, "I have learned well from the brothels. I want to show you, emperatriz."

“I am supposed to be pure, to stay pure, until I take a husband.” You remind him. “But I will not be pure.” You let go of his cock and step back. “Because I will have given my purity to my love. The one who holds my heart.” You reveal softly.

His heart pounds in his chest and he reaches for you, grabbing your waist, and he leans in to press his lips to yours. He doesn’t want to hold back knowing he could die and never know your touch. He tilts your head to kiss you, sliding his tongue into your mouth, and he backs you towards your bed.

Now that his hands are on you, he is in complete control. You moan, reaching up and twisting your finger into the short hair at the base of his skull. You can’t do much with it, but you tug gently, wishing it was longer. “Pero…” you whimper when he breaks away from his lips to kiss down your throat. “Pero, please, make me yours for tonight.”

He grabs the back of your thighs, lifting you up to carry you onto the bed. He lays you down, the silk sheets beneath you and he hovers above you, taking you in. You’re gorgeous. Aphrodite incarnate. He leans down to kiss along your throat, his hand caressing your thigh as he settles between your legs.

You should feel exposed, vulnerable, but you feel nothing but the heat of his gaze. Again, your hands slide along his skin and you map the muscles. Knowing that tonight will be a memory that you will cherish forever, keeping it locked away in your heart. “You are so….sexy.”

Pero slides his hand along your thigh up to your breast and he tilts his head so he can dip down and take your nipple into his mouth. Your words make his cock twitch and his stomach clench, knowing you find him attractive. He loves it. He loves you. Your back arches into his mouth and he bites down on your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Pero!” Your eyes close and your back arches up from the bed to his mouth. Every pull of his mouth shoots straight to your cunt and makes it clenches. “Oh gods.” Your leg lifts and you rub the back of your foot against his leg, enjoying the roughness of his hair.

He switches to your other breast, loving the way you cry out his name. “Shush, my love. The guards will hear you.” He warns you, pulling back from your breast and he presses kisses along your stomach, settling between your thighs. Your cunt, covered by curls, has him groaning your name. You smell like the oils you use and something tangy that has him moaning as he wastes no time surging forward to slide his tongue through your folds.

Your gasp is loud, catching your breath and making your breast shake. Your hands grip the sheets and you can’t believe that he is going this. You’ve heard about the pleasure to be had, but you’ve never thought that it would happen for you.

He flicks his tongue over your clit just as the whores had taught him. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his hands caressing your thighs and he groans at the tangy taste of your arousal. You taste like honey. He pushes your thighs further apart and slides his tongue down to push it inside of you.

“Oh fuck.” You moan, clenching your jaw before you have to lift your head and look down at him between your thighs. You had expected him to just take you, but he was surprisingly good at giving pleasure. “You should just stay and spend all day doing this to me.” You moan out the praise as your hips jerk up to meet his eager tongue.

Pero lifts his head from your cunt, his chin glistening as he smirks, “I would spend every day worshiping you if it were possible, mi emperatriz.” He assures you, sliding his tongue through your folds again and he sucks on your clit. His hand slides along your thigh until he’s pushing two fingers slowly inside of you.

His fingers are thick, so much thicker than your own. Making you whimper out his name again, drowning in the pleasure that he pulls from you as he presses them deep. “Yes.” You sigh. “I love you, Pero.”

He loves hearing you say that. His fingers stretch you out for his cock. He pumps them a little faster and leans in to take your clit into his mouth, sucking. He wants you to fall apart for him, to tell him you love him enough times to last him a lifetime because that’s what he will need.

You know that it’s wrong for you to give yourself to Pero. You should have saved it for the man who would become your husband, the man who would help you rule Rome after your father dies. You don’t care, your heart belongs to Pero and you want to give him a part of yourself you can never have back. You chant the words of love over and over as he works you up, until your entire body bucks with broken cry. Your cunt bearing down on his fingers and soaking them with your pleasure.

He loves the way you soak his fingers. Working you through it, he groans into your wet flesh. His cock is hard against the sleeping mat beneath you, and he is aching to be inside of you. He groans your name and kisses back up your body until his lips find yours and he slides his tongue into your mouth so you can taste yourself.

The taste of your cunt on his lips has you moaning, enjoying the flavors mixed tongue and you want to taste him too. “Pero-“ you whimper, making him pull away to look at you as if he wonders if you have changed your mind. “Can I do that to you? Suck your cock?” You’ve heard the servants talk about it, even watched as it happened in the shadows, but you’ve never done it.

Pero's cock twitches at the thought but he can't imagine defiling you like that. Just to touch you like this is enough for him to be killed and his soul to be damned by Pluto. "I am yours for whatever you wish, mi amor, but I must warn you that you cannot do too much otherwise this will be over far too soon." He has wanted you for so long, watched you from afar, and the thought of you touching him in that way already has his stomach clenching.

You push him onto his back as you decide to take his pleasure into your hands. “You will tell me before you find your release.” You say it like it is a forgone conclusion and lean forward to press your lips to his. Then breaking away to kiss down his chest, eager to see how he reacts to your mouth on him. If you only have tonight, you want to gorge yourself on him.

His breath catches in his chest and he watches you make your way to his cock, wrapping your fingers around it and he loves the lust in your eyes. He loves how much you want him. "Fuck." He hisses when you pump his length, the foreskin pulled down to reveal the leaking head.

You preen under his rough praise, feeling the way he twitches and pulses in your hand and against your tongue. It’s thrilling to learn that he enjoys this and you open your mouth wider to take more of his length down your throat.

You moan around him and he twitches in your mouth, loving how you feel surrounding him. You feel incredible. “Fuck, hermosa.” He grunts as you explore his cock with your mouth and tongue.

Giggling slightly, you pull off of him and decide to lick him. Making him groan again. “You must love this, all the noise you are making.” You know that he can be as loud as he wants, no one is in this wing of your home beside you. You tease him and then lick him again. “Tell me what you have imagined while a whore’s mouth is on your cock.”

Pero can’t believe how naughty you are for an innocent woman. “I imagined - imagined this. You. Your mouth wrapped around my cock. My cock inside of you. You. I wanted you while I was giving them my cock, my coin.” He confesses breathlessly as you jerk his cock.

You hum, feeling slightly jealous of them, even if you cannot have a claim in this man. He is free to do whatever he wants, with whomever. Now, you just enjoy the fact that he wants to be yours. “You have me, Spaniard.” You promise, ducking your head down to take him back into your mouth.

He loves hearing you claim he has you when both of you know you only have tonight. He groans when you take him deeper and his stomach clenches. “Hermosa. You can’t - I don’t want this to end too soon.” He chokes, not wanting to finish without making you clench down on his cock.

Reluctantly, you let go of him and kiss back up his body. “You will stay the night, yes? We can do that again after?” You know men can find pleasure more than once and you hope that he is also like those fools who like to brag about being able to rut all night.

He nods, "I will stay there night then I will go before sunrise. We cannot risk getting caught." He promises and pulls you up so he can kiss you, rolling you onto your back. "Are you certain?" He asks softly, nudging his nose with yours after he pulls back from the kiss, his cock pressing against your thigh.

“I have never been more certain of anything else.” You promise. “Not the gods or the Senate could make me change my mind.” Your hand caresses his cheek, the thin strip of a beard of his face slightly patchy with youth. “I love you, Pero. Tonight, make me a woman.”

He doesn't deny you. He can't deny you even if he tried. He reaches between you to grip his cock, pulling back his foreskin to slide the head through your folds until he is positioning his cock at your entrance. He watches you as he starts to push inside of you.

You expected pain and you expected nothing. You really didn’t know what to expect but the feeling of him filling you up is exquisite. Your mouth drops open as you moan his name again, your legs pulling back to take him deeper into your body and you know that you are forever changed.

Pero feels your innocence break and he pushes into you fully, making you his in a way no other will have you. He groans and leans in to kiss along your neck, taking a moment to let you adjust and he murmurs, "I love you."

You whine and wrap your arms around his neck. Closing your eyes and sighing softly. A piece of you is forever his and you know that your heart is his until eternity as well. You might marry for your position and have children, but your heart will be this Spaniard’s. “I love you, Pero.” You promise him. “Forever.”

Your promise makes his heart clench as he starts to move inside of you. He's in no rush. Not rutting into you like he would a whore he paid his coin to. He moves slowly, watching your face as you take him. You close your eyes as he adjusts the angle of his hips and he grunts when your walls clench around him. "Mi emperatriz hermosa." He murmurs as he kisses along your neck.

You know that he is being slow with you and it’s amazing. Making you feel every ridge and vein in his cock as they scrub along your sensitive walls. It’s love making in the purest form and you don’t want to let him go. Another soldier can go fight for the Emperor and Rome. Even if you know Pero would never agree to that, finding it to be cowardice. You have tonight. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you moan his name again. “Pero.”

Pero doesn't want to leave but he has no choice. He has no future here in the palace. He must leave and forge his own path. He has to accomplish something outside of these walls. He must fight for Rome and for the Emperor and one day, he will be fighting for you. His hand finds your thigh, lifting it higher so he can sink deeper and his lips find yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth.

Your moan is breathed into him, encouraging him. Letting him know that he is making you feel incredible. Your nails scratch down his back, not hard enough to break skin, but you wish to leave your mark on him. “Pero, gods, you- you are amazing. I have loved you for so long. Watched you fight in the courtyard and touched myself thinking of how you would touch me.”

Your words make him twitch inside of you and he groans your name, “always pumped my cock thinking of you. Fucked whores with you on my mind. You have my heart and I shall be leaving it here with you forever.” He promises, “you’ll have it until Pluto takes me.” He slides his hand between you, wanting to hear you cum one more time.

He is talented and you are lucky that he has been taught ways to please you. Making you moan again when he starts to rub the flesh above your cunt. “You take my heart with you to war.” You promise him. “It is yours, even if my body must be someone else’s, you had me first and you hold my heart always.”

Pero groans, rubbing your clit a little faster desperate to push you over the edge before he finishes. It’s overwhelming being inside of you and knowing that he will have to leave tomorrow, he is desperate to hear you cry out his name. “I’m yours, hermosa. I need to feel you.” He begs against your jaw as he presses desperate kisses there.

His words make your entire body tremble. You know your core is wound tight and the next time he plunges deep into your body, you shatter. Crying out loudly, your walls squeeze him tight and the liquid hot pleasure washes through you.

“Fuck.” He hisses as you clench down around his cock. He groans your name and tries to fuck you through it but he has held off long enough. It doesn’t take long, only a half dozen more thrusts, until he is pushing deep inside of you and filling you with his hot seed.

You close your eyes, memorizing how it feels and for a brief moment, you wish that you could have him stay and fill you up everyday until his seed takes root. Knowing that a child from Pero would be your favorite, even if he was a bastard. “Perfection.”

Pero kisses you, unwilling to move even as he softens inside of you. He murmurs your name and kisses you softly, caressing your thigh as you keep your legs wrapped around him. His heart aches knowing that this is the only time he will have you like this.

You catch your breath in the silence that lingers between you, both of you lost in your thoughts as you continue to stroke his back. “No wonder people love to take lovers.” You manage after a long moment. “If it is half as good as this, I know why the soldiers immediately go to the whore houses.”

Pero chuckles, “it isn’t as good as this because this is love making. The whorehouse’s are for fucking. This is love between us.” He knows that any man listening would hang him by his balls for being so soft but this is you and it’s your only night together. He won’t deny you how he feels when he won’t get to say it ever again.

“Oh.” You melt at how intimate it is, how romantic. It is like one of the great stories that is sometimes performed for the people. “We will never have this again, will we?” You ask practically, knowing that you could never love someone as much as you love Pero. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair. “At least we got to have each other tonight. Tomorrow you leave to fight for the glory of Rome and her Emperor.”

“And her empress.” He adds, nudging his nose against yours. He pulls out of you, groaning as he shifts to lay beside you before he pulls you into his chest and murmurs your name, “you will always have my heart. I will fight for Rome and for your glory.” He promises. 

“Fight and live.” You urge him. “I hate the ‘die for the glory of Rome’ shit. I would rather you live. Live until you are an old man, gray in your hair.” You caress his chest and press a kiss to where his heart thumps in his chest. 

Pero smiles, knowing it's unlikely he would grow old and even less likely he would grow old with you. He sighs and kisses your hair, "get some rest, amor. We have the night to enjoy before I must leave."

True to his word, Pero had taken you, again and again during the night. Rest only coming in small spurts before one of you was reaching for the other. On and on until your entire body aches with a secret hurt when the darkest part of the night passes and the faintest pink hue starts to gather on the horizon. The wine has been drunk, the food consumed and the water that is always available for you to clean yourself is dirty. Your eyes are gritty with sorrow and exhaustion as you watch your lover’s naked body begin to be covered back up as he dons his clothes. 

Pero redresses while you watch him and he kneels on the bed when he's ready to go. He leans down to cup your cheek, leaning in to kiss you deeply. "Be happy, mi emperatriz. Don't wait for me. Find your happiness however you can." He urges, knowing he could never be with you. Your father would forbid it. "I love you. Siempre." He vows and nudges his nose against yours, kissing your forehead before he stands up straight and walks over to the doorway to leave your quarters. He looks back at you one last time before he sneaks out of your chambers, unaware that his mother is watching from the shadows.

Your eyes close on bitter tears after the door closes behind him, burying your face in the sheets you had shared with him. The scent of his body still lingers and you weep for the love that you know you will never be allowed to share with Rome.

Señora Tovar prepares your tray and carries it into your rooms, finding the silk sheets rumpled, two empty goblets and an empty food tray. There's no denying what happened here last night and she is glad she has prepared a tea. "Good morning." She declares as she walks into your room. She had dismissed Corda to prepare your tray herself.

You pull yourself out of the sheets at the sound of your lover’s mother, biting your lip to keep from crying even more. “Good morning.” You manage to mumble, your voice cracking slightly.

She comes over to you, setting your tray down on the bed. "I have prepared a tea for you, chiquita. We know you cannot afford for my son's seed to take." She speaks bluntly, "you must drink this and your secret will remain between us." She doesn't want to witness her potential grandchild be shunned by society. She wants the best for her son and her family, she needs to protect you as well.

Your mouth drops open in shock as you stare at her. “I- you- you know?” You ask, practically gasping the question and she chuckles softly as she shakes her head. “It was not hard to guess when I see my son sneaking out of your room looking like a man who has visited paradise and been banished.” She tells you. “He has been in love with you since you were children playing together and I know those feelings have never wavered.” You bite your lip, chin trembling. “I love him, too, mamá.” You have called her mama - like Pero - since you were young. She had been like a mother to you, but Pero was never your brother, even from a young age, your heart skipped a beat when he was near.

She reaches out to caress your cheek, "I know, amor. I know you do. He loves you too. You are meant to be together in another lifetime. Your souls will meet in another time. You cannot pursue him. It will mean his death. Let him go and keep last night in your memory, mija." She cups your cheek and offers you a soft smile, "now...drink the tea. It will ensure you aren't with child."

You don’t want to drink it, wanting for a moment to let his seed take root and defy everyone. Looking into her eyes, you sigh softly and pick up the tea. “I would carry his bastard proudly if he wouldn’t suffer for it.” You tell her before you take a sip. “I hope he comes home. Even if it can’t be to me.”

She sighs, watching you drink it. "I know, amor. You would both suffer. You know your father would never allow it. He would have Pero killed." She closes her eyes for a moment, "one day...you'll be married with a baby at your breast and you'll remember last night but you'll be happy and Pero...he will be shrouded in the glory of Rome." She hums, "you'll meet again and when you do, you'll be different people."

You know that you will not settle. You will have a man who makes you feel as Pero does or you will not take him as a husband. “Yes we will.” You hum sadly. “He will be a general of Rome and I will be her Empress.”

*****

"You cannot continue this juvenile resistance." Your father scoffs while you sit at the dining table, servants carrying food and wine to you but you reject the food and take the wine. "I do not wish to marry a man I do not love. Do you wish for me to be unhappy?" You hiss back and your father clenches his jaw. 

"You have been a maiden for years. You should have married years ago and I am too soft. I allowed you to take your time, let you find a husband within our circles but you refuse. In the senate today, we discussed a way to ensure that the empress will have a suitable husband by her side. A tournament. I wish to have every eligible man fight for your hand in an arena."

You snort and roll your eyes. “Noble men would rather lavish their days away in the baths than fight, father.” You remind him, taking a sip of your wine. “Rome grows weak and yet you think I should marry one of them? What will they be fighting at? Who can belch the loudest?” You have had excuse after excuse to not marry, waiting for word from Pero as he is off fighting, but the years have passed and your father’s patience has given way to pressure from the senate.

"Not noble men. You need a warrior by your side. Someone who can assist you with battle strategy. You have not fought for our empire and you do not have the experience for war. You need a man beside you who can advise. You need a gladiator. I have requested the warriors of Rome to compete for your hand." He declares, "the General is particularly interested in your hand."

You grimace slightly but your father doesn’t see that. The general spends more time in Rome carousing than he does with his men in battle. You find him to be rude and demeaning, although you can never find someone nearby when he acts out. “Warriors.” You think of the warrior you would want and then look to your father. “Will all warriors be allowed, or only those you choose and rig the tournament with?”

Your father snorts, "I want a man who is battle worn and worthy of your hand. Any man can compete but it will be in the Colosseum and they will fight to the death. The hand of the future Empress is worth a man's life. He must die if he fails and you, my dear, will have the strongest warrior to be your husband, your partner after Pluto takes me."

Your brow raises at the news that it will be a fight to the death and you hum again, sipping your wine. “Sport will be had and a maiden won.” You snort, secretly pleased that you are not the maiden you pretend to be. “The crowds will love you for this, father.”

Your father hums, a smug smile on his face, "they will, won't there? We will send word to all that the best can compete for the hand of the most beautiful woman in Rome. The future Empress. May the best man win." He smirks, picking up his goblet.

****

Rome has changed since he has last been here. Pero frowns as he shuffles off the horse and groans slightly as he stands straight. He thinks of you, just he does every day and his eyes slide towards the palace where you would still be. “We got here just in time!” His friend, Octavious, slaps him on the back. “There is a tournament that will be held.” The barracks are rife with the news, every man boasting that he will enter. “The winner becomes the husband of our future Empress!”

Pero doesn't allow himself to react but he takes the scroll from his friend and reads the details. A tournament at the Colosseum - a fight to the death for the hand of the Empress. His jaw clenches and the scroll is ripped from his hand. His mother still resides in the palace caring for you. He will go see her now that he has returned and maybe he can see you. He situates his horse and makes his way through the bustling streets until he is at the palace gates. He grunts his name and he is walking through the gates to find his mother in her rooms. "Mi amor, you're home." She cries when she sees him, rushing to wrap her arms around him and he pulls her closer, holding her tight. He hasn't seen his mother in so many years and he's changed. So has she, she has gotten older but no less beautiful. "You're home." She grins, pulling back to cup his cheeks. "Mijo." She leans in to kiss his cheeks. 

"Where is she?" He asks, "I heard about the tournament." He says and she sighs, "yes. She is not happy. This has been the talk of Rome. It will not begin for a while to allow warriors to return to Rome to fight." She reveals, "she is in her rooms." 

Pero nods, kissing his mother's forehead. "I will be back, mama." He promises, knowing he needs to see you after being gone for too long. He remembers how to sneak to your rooms without being noticed and he's soon knocking on the door, heart pounding in his chest from seeing you for the first time in so long.

You sigh to yourself, almost ignoring the knock on the door. It would be Corda, having insisted that the servant wait for permission to enter your quarters if you were present. You are older and expect some privacy, a rarity here because of who you are. Setting down the wine that you had been enjoying, your sandals slap against the hard stone floors as you move to the door and open it. Making you freeze when you see a man in front of you. He’s familiar and yet so different. Darker, older and seemingly more menacing with a large and wicked looking scar bisecting his left brow. Evidence of surviving a nasty fight. The softness of youth chiseled away to leave nothing more than a fierce warrior, a man, standing before you. “P-Pero?!” You gasp, unable to believe that he is here. You know he is alive, his mother had kept you informed when she heard from him, but you are shocked by his appearance and your heart leaps with joy.

“Hola, mi emperatriz.” Pero greets you breathlessly. You’re just as beautiful but you’ve matured and you look like a leader. He offers you a small smile after a moment when you continue to stare and he knows he’s battle worn carrying scars - some visible, most invisible. “I heard about the tournament upon my arrival.” He confesses, “your father’s idea?”

At the mention of the tournament, you realize he is still standing in the doorway of your quarters for anyone to walk by and see. You know that it’s wrong, but you don’t care as you pull him into your room and slam the door behind him. He’s here. You have him back and now, with your father’s proclamation, there is a way for you to be with him. Instead of answering him, you throw yourself at him and press your lips to his desperately.

He doesn’t push you back. He’s seen war. Men die gruesomely in battle. Women and children killed. There were times when he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it back. His hands grip your waist and he pulls you up against him, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he takes a taste of forbidden fruit.

Moaning, you press impossibly closer. Feeling the joy and passion you haven’t once felt since the day he left reigniting in your belly. You’ve not let another man touch you, remaining pure to his body alone. You know that he will have had other women but you don’t care. It had been your decision and now you are grateful that you had. Your fingers reach for the thick leather belt at his waist to untie it, not caring that he is dirty from the road, you need to touch him to make sure he is real and here again.

Pero knows he should push you away. He shouldn’t claim you again. Yet seeing you, how beautiful you are, remembering how much he’s missed you…it’s like he can’t control himself. He’s not gentle as he gathers your dress in his hands, tugging it up your body so he can caress your skin. “I missed you.” He kisses against your jaw as you push his tunic from his body.

“I prayed to Mars everyday to keep you safe.” You tell him frantically, your hands mapping his scarred body and you groan when your fingers wrap around his rapidly hardening cock. “I love you.” You declare breathlessly. “You said I should not wait, but I did. I have only been yours.” You confess. “Make me yours again, Pero.”

He groans, annoyed that you waited for him because you’ve given him hope. “I love you too. Never stopped.” He vows and guides you back towards the bed. “I’m not going to be gentle.” He confesses, his fingers sliding up your thigh until he’s sliding them through your folds.

“Don’t be.” You beg, knowing that you might be sore, but you will cherish the aches. He pushes you down onto the bed and you slide your dress up to your waist and hurry to unclip the shoulders. “I want my warrior to take the spoils of his conquest.”

Your words make his cock throb and he hisses when you expose your body. Your curves made his mouth water and he surges to dip down and take your nipple into his mouth while he settles between your thighs, gripping his cock to slide it through your folds.

“Pero…” you whimper his name, fingers digging into his longer hair and you love how you can tug on it slightly. “Tell me you didn’t marry.” You beg, gulping back a sob of pleasure when he bites down. “You didn’t find a woman while you were away?”

“I would not be here if that were true.” He assures you, “I wouldn’t betray your soul like that, hermosa.” He vows against your sternum and he starts to push inside of you. “You are still the woman I love.” He promises and you moan as he stretches you out.

Your eyes close and you feel complete for the first time in years. “Fuck.” You whimper, clenching down around him and making him hiss quietly. “That is what I have been missing.” You moan. “Move Pero, take what is yours.”

He doesn’t hesitate to start moving. No longer the younger version of himself making love to you. The desperate older man wants to fuck you, to claim you when he knows that you won’t be his to claim soon. He hisses when your walls flutter around him and he pushes deep when he thrusts back into you. His hand squeezes your breast and he nips along your neck until his lips smash against yours.

You feel the desperation and the need in his kiss, responding in kind. Your fingers drag out of his hair and you scratch down his back again as you rock your hips up to meet his frantic pace. “Pero! Oh fuck, Pero, you, harder- please, harder.”

He won’t deny you when he desperately needs this. He thrusts harder, his skin slapping against yours and his breath puffs against your skin as he pants your name. “So - so fucking perfect. Mi amor. Never stopped loving you. Fuck. I- I missed you.”

“Never stopped.” You gasped, arching up and moaning loudly. Unable to imagine anyone else touching you like Pero is. “Missed you every day. Every day.” You promise. Your body responds to his harsh thrusts and you feel your core start to clench down. Your fingers slide down to his ass and you grip it. Encouraging him as he pumps into you ever harder.

He grunts as you push him deeper and he shifts onto his knees, dragging you into his lap. His strong arms grab the back of your thighs and he lifts you up and down on his cock while he thrusts up into you. “Fuck. Fuck.” He groans, leaning in to kiss your shoulder.

You moan, wrapping your arm around his neck. Pressing your lips to his jaw as he fucks you frantically. You want this always, just him. “I love you. I love you, Pero.” You groan. “You feel so good.”

“Te amo, hermosa. I thought of - of you every day. Every fucking day I’ve been away from you.” He vows, thrusting up into you and his thighs ache but he’s desperate to feel you fall apart around him.

Every thrust pushes you closer to pleasure and you help him. Rocking down when he thrusts up, each one of you groaning and whimpering in pleasure. “I love you, I’m going to- fuck!” You cry out when he pushes deep. Throwing your head back as your cunt clamps down around him.

“Mierda.” He groans when you grip his cock inside of you and soak him. You feel so fucking good. “That’s it, hermosa. Fuck.” He pants, shifting to lay down and you shake as you shift to straddle him. “I want my Empress to ride me.” He orders, smacking your ass with his hand.

You giggle slightly, clenching down around him again from the sharp slap of your skin. Leaning forward, you press your lips to his as you start to rock your hips and moan into his mouth as you push your tongue to meet his.

He caresses your skin everywhere he can reach. Moaning your name as he watches you move on top of him. You aren’t as skilled as a whore but you haven’t done this before. Even with your hips moving a little rigid, he enjoys this far more than any whore he’s given coin to. His hands find your hips, helping you find a rhythm.

He moves you more naturally, making you moan as your tits are pressed into his face. “Pero…” your eyes roll back again and you hold tight to his shoulder as you follow his rhythm and ride his cock.

His mouth finds your nipple, sucking on it as he groans against your flesh. You’re so pliable and he loves how you take him inside of you over and over. Rocking back onto him, you let him control the rhythm and he bites down on your nipple before soothing it with his tongue.

He never wants to let you go. If he could stay in this moment, he’d stay like this forever. His cock twitches inside of you, watching as you take him over and over. His hands caress your back and he kisses up to your neck, aching to suck his mark there but he can’t, no matter how much he wants to.

“I want to feel you inside me again.” You pant breathlessly. “That feeling of your seed inside me was the best feeling I ever had.” You turn and press your lips to his, needing to be close to him in all ways.

He is selfish. If his seed takes and you marry another, his bastard will be killed. They would not allow a bastard to be the future emperor of Rome. His logic knows that it’s not a good idea but his heart and his cock desperately want to fill you up. His heart wins and he rocks his hips to thrust up into you, pushing you forward onto his chest and he wraps his arms around you. “I will fill you up. You’ll be dripping me.” He promises with a growl.

You whine his name and reach down to touch yourself, your fingers brushing against his cock as he rocks up into you. Stroking your flesh quickly as he groans your name, coming apart again with a soft cry. “Pero!”

When you clench down around him, he grabs your ass and thrusts up into you harder and faster, grunts escaping his lips as he seeks his own climax and it doesn’t take long. He hisses your name and clenches his eyes shut as he cums, painting your walls with his seed for the second time.

You moan softly, holding him tight and closing your eyes as he fills you up. The warmth spreads and makes you sigh in pleasure. “That’s so good. I love it, I love you. I want you.” You promise softly. “I- I want you for my husband.”

Pero sighs, stroking his fingers along your spine. “Your father would never allow it. Unless I win the tournament. I need to fight for you, mi amor.” He murmurs, knowing he could be killed but he has to try. He has to fight for his love.

You close your eyes, sighing softly. “Please tell me that you have become a fierce warrior?” You plead. Reaching up, you caress his face and press a kiss to the bottom of his scar. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve lost you once before and now you are back.”

“I am a great warrior. I have survived many battles and it would be incredible to fight for a cause I truly believe in: you.” He murmurs, “I will fight for you. For us.” He vows, “and if I die…I will die knowing that I fought for us. For our future…even if I never get to witness it.” He whispers, knowing it’s a risk but how can he stand by and watch you marry someone else?

You don’t want him to fight, but if he wins, your father would have to accept Pero as your husband. “You will be the only warrior I will be cheering for.” You promise, kissing his cheeks and then his lips. “You will carry my love onto the sands and defeat all others for my hand.”

Pero nods, caressing your cheek, “for you, my Empress.”

****

He lingers in your quarters for as long as possible until his mother finds him after you are dressed. “Mijo.” She smiles, “you must go before the guards see you.” She warns and he nods, leaning in to kiss your forehead and he squeezes his mother’s hand as he passes her, knowing he cannot remain in your quarters. He must prepare to fight. “I shall prepare the tea.” His mother says and you shake your head, “no tea.” Her eyes widen slightly but she won’t argue with you.

It is a risk for you, but you don’t care. Emboldened by Pero’s return, you are ready to risk everything. “Pero is fighting in the tournament.” You hope she doesn’t get upset at you for making her son risk his life again in the deadly games. “He will win and then you will longer be a servant in this house.” You promise. “You will have your own servant to attend to you.”

His mother is not surprised to hear that her son will be fighting. She’s concerned that he might not win and she will lose her son and the woman she’s come to love as a daughter. You will not survive the loss. She offers you a smile and a nod, not wanting to voice her worry.

****

“I want to win the tournament without too many issues. You know that I am the best man to marry your daughter. Your general. I am fit for war and she will not know of the issues we face on the battlefield. You have sheltered her and she will be a weak leader. She needs a man to guide her.” Atticus, the general of three Roman army explains to your father as they sip their goblets of wine. 

“She is naive but I have trained her well in all matters. It is true she needs a man to guide her in the subject of war. Perhaps you are the best candidate.” Your father hums and the general smirks, “then shall we call off the tournament and announce our betrothal?” He suggests but your father shakes his head, “no. We must show the people of Rome that the best man won her hand. You shall fight but let me make it easier for you. Let the riff raff kill each other and you shall be a late contender. You’ll have five men to kill. Maybe less. You shall be the victor.” Your father decides and the general grins, holding up his cup, “to the glory of Rome.”

****

Pero stands with his sword and his shield in hand, helmet on his head as he stands in line. There are many men here to fight for your hand and the hold beneath the colosseum is packed full of men eager to win you and the power of Rome.

The roar of the crowds fill the colosseum and you sit under the shade as warriors file out from the catacombs below to stand in the bright sunshine to bask in the adoration of the crowds. Blood will be spilt today and you wish that none would die, but the more violent the sport, the more entertained the Romans would be. Several from the senate come to greet you, but you keep your eyes on the sands, looking for Pero. He had said he would not fight with a helmet on so you can spot him. Ever since his return a month ago, he has come to your chambers every night to tangle his limbs with yours and leave you limp with pleasure and full of his seed. Your heart is twisted with worry and hope as you wait and look for your lover. Any moment now, your father will arrive to commence the games. 

Pero remembers his promise to you to survive and win, and so he sets his helmet down before he steps up onto the sands and winces as the sun hits his eyes. The warriors line up, prepared to fight to the death for the hand of the future Empress. He’d heard many men talk about taking your innocence, leaving your blood on the sheets, and he had to stop himself from killing them before the battle and from revealing the secret he holds close to his heart. He was the one to take your innocence all those years ago. His eyes dart up to the stands where you are and his heart pounds in his chest. This is his chance. His only chance to win your hand and the approval of your father. With his blessing, you could marry and Pero would be by your side until he dies. Your eyes find him in the crowd and he stands straighter, watching your father raise his hand. The crowd goes silent and your father begins to speak. “Today, you fight for Rome, for her honor, and for the honor to be by her Empress’s side as a leader to all Romans. You must earn this privilege and if you fail, you will die. May the best gladiator win.” He nods and the crowd roars back to life when the battle commences moments later.

It’s an impossible task, pretending to be uninterested in the games when your eyes are riveted to one man. You don’t blink, don’t look away for fear of missing some small thing that could be life or death for the man you love. He is amazing, his speed and skill are obvious as he moves, his sword flashing in the sun as he cuts down his rivals.

It doesn’t take long for the first round to be over. Covered in blood and surrounded by bodies, Pero takes the chance to look up at you. You are watching intently and he knows he can’t fail you now. At least two thirds of the warriors are gone. “And now…we introduce a new element…lions.” Your father gleams with maniacal joy as the lions are brought into the arena. The crowd cheers and you gasp “no.” Pero growls, “fuck” under his breath. This just got more complicated but he will kill a fucking lion if he has to.

“Something wrong?” Your father turns and looks at you with a smirk, but you shake your head. It’s already a needless slaughter of Rome’s most capable warriors, but if you show favoritism towards Pero, you are almost sure the games will be directed towards taking him out. You don’t trust the general to not cheat and he has not even stepped out into the area yet. “The tall one.” You tell him, pointing towards a giant of a man with a golden crown of hair peeking out from under his helmet. “He seems like he would be a good husband. Provide me with strong babies to further our line.” You lie, knowing that you would never accept anyone but Pero into your bed.

Your father smirks, “he is not Roman, my dear. He’s from the west. He will not provide the line you wish to have.” Your father declares and raises his hand once again, “commence.” He orders and the warriors begin to battle once more but this time, the lions are released. Pero grunts as his sword clangs with another, the roar of the lion behind him followed by a scream of a man who gets chewed up. Pero’s heart is pounding but he fights, knowing that he can’t lose. You’ll be married to someone who would treat you like a servant when you are destined to be Empress. You need a husband who will support you.

Your heart sinks, knowing now that your father will cheat to have the man he wants you married to win these games. The servants behind you fan the Emperor and you against the heat and you know it must be sweltering down on the hot sands. You gasp when the lion closest to Pero takes a swipe at him, narrowly missing his flesh with those large claws. “Gods.” You mutter, clenching your jaw as another man is dragged down by the great beasts. A splash of blood staining the sands beneath the carnage.

Pero’s chest heaves and he’s covered in sweat. Blood streaked on his body but it’s not his own. The sun is burning but he fights to stay alive, swinging his sword over and over until he’s facing a lion. The lion roars and he grounds himself, swinging his sword. The lion swipes him, making him hiss from the gash on his arm but he ignores it, focusing on killing the beast.

Your entire body tenses and you lean forward. Watching the fight between lion and man. You see the animal cut into his arm and you press your lips together to keep from crying out. You know that your father is watching the games, but he will notice you. You pray to the gods that the lion doesn’t win as you watch the beast lunge towards Pero and drive him to the ground.

Pero scrambles to protect himself with his shield while the lion snaps his teeth at him. He struggles and he sees his life flash before him in that moment and he sees the future he’s losing. A future with you and he won’t let that go so he swings his sword, driving it into the chest of the lion who roars and swipes but stumbles to the ground. Pero pants as he allows himself a moment to regain his strength while the battle continues around him until it’s him and one other man. Your father holds his hand up and the crowd goes silent. Pero’s chest heaves as he looks up at the balcony, waiting for the next announcement. If it’s a fight to the death one on one, he plans to win. “We have a late contender.” Your father declares, “General Atticus throws his hat into the ring.” He announces and the crowd cheers when the gates open to reveal the General in his gleaming armor.

“Father!” You hiss in annoyance, knowing that Pero is exhausted after fighting for hours, while Atticus has watched from the stands and is fresh. He turns to you and smiles, “he will be a good warrior beside you.” He declares and you know that Atticus will cheat. He’s a snake.

Pero rolls his shoulders, knowing that he has to wait until the other man goes for Atticus. He can regain some strength. The horn sounds and as predicted, the other man rushes towards Atticus who easily takes him down. The man was exhausted as is Pero but he won’t lose. He can’t. Atticus smirks as he withdraws his sword from the dead man and wipes it on the sand. “Give it up. You can’t win.” Atticus taunts Pero who growls, chest heaving. The two men appraise each other for several moments and Pero waits for him to make the first move.

You are on the edge of your chair, a small scream clawing up in your throat when you see Atticus attack. The lunge and slash is too close and you see that Pero is exhausted. You grip the arms of your chair as your lover spins away from the general and puts several paces between them. The general shuffles slightly, feinting a move to the left but then goes right, Pero watching and moving with him so he deflects the attack easily. “Mars protect him.” You murmur quietly.

Pero spits onto the sand, his throat dry, and his muscles aching but he refuses to yield. The general smirks at him, “you will never have her. Oh, Pero Tovar, I have heard all about you. How you have been in love with her since you were children. She isn’t yours to have. She will be mine. Rome will be mine.” He grins and surges forward. His sword slicing Pero’s shoulder and your lover cries out in pain. The general attacks again, slicing Pero’s side and he’s exhausted. He falls to his knees, his sword in his hand and his eyes turn to you as Atticus raises his sword.

You lunge to your feet, horror making you shout out the secret you have been keeping from Pero the last week. “I’m carrying your child!” You scream out, “Fight, Pero! I love you!” The entire colosseum is deathly quiet, waiting for the death blow to be delivered, so all of Rome hears your shame. You don’t care. You just want Pero to live.

Pero’s eyes widen as your scream echoes in the colosseum. You’re pregnant. With his child. His jaw clenches and Atticus stares at him in shock, momentarily distracted, and Pero jumps onto his feet, swinging his sword and within moments, Atticus’s head rolls across the bloodied sands of the arena. The crowd roars to life and your father stares in shock as the general’s body is sprawled out on the ground, his head on the sands, eyes wide in shock.

Screaming in joy, you refuse to even look towards your father, knowing that you just ruined his plans for your future rule. Tears start to stream down your face, ecstatic that your lover has won and will now have your hand in marriage per the rules your father set down. The thunderous applause of crowds are deafening, their approval meaning that there is no way your father can change the rules again. “Pero! Pero!” You shout, the crowd picking up on it and starting to chant his name through the colosseum.

Pero pants, exhaustion seeping into his bones and he wastes no time in rushing through the stands, making his way to the balcony, and when he swings his leg onto the balcony, he reaches for you and pulls you close. Pressing his lips to yours, he sighs your name and smiles against your mouth. His hand finding your stomach between you. You can be together. Finally, your father smiles and applauds but you can sense his disapproval.

The people of Rome witness your fussing over him. The frantic kisses and the happy tears they swear everyone in the stands can see. Your hands grab his face to caress and coo over him, overjoyed by the fact that he won. The sands of the colosseum are littered with bodies and blood, signifying how hard Pero fought to win. “I love you.” You promise him breathlessly. “I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to surprise you after you won.” You admit.

“Hermosa.” He murmurs, “I will protect you until my last breath.” He vows, “you and our child.” The crowd is applauding, roaring with screams of joy and your father waves to the crowd until he gestures to you and Pero who takes your hand as he approaches the edge of the balcony. Your father claps as you raise Pero’s arm and your lover grins as it sinks in that he has won. “Your future empress and her warrior. They will be wed in two days time.” Your father announces and the crowd cheers once more. 

“Come, my love, you need to wash and rest.” You coo and Pero nods, the adrenaline wearing off and he stumbles slightly as you guide him from the balcony to the chariot waiting to return you to the palace.

The ride back to the palace is quiet, neither one of you speaking, although children and dogs run beside the chariot. The children cheer and wave and the dogs bark as they race alongside the spinning wheels. You are elated that he won, but you need to keep him close until the wedding. Your father will be furious that you had slept with Pero, but hopefully your public confession will keep him safe. Once you are back at the palace, you order food and wine to be brought to the baths, intending on taking care of your lover yourself.

You guide Pero to the private baths of the emperor and yourself, the servants fetching the trays you requested, and Pero watches as you work on removing his armor. “You are going to be mine.” He murmurs, unable to quite believe it. You smile and continue removing the armor from his body, depositing it on the marble floor that surrounds the baths.

Once Pero is naked, you take a cloth and wet it in the water, washing his wounds carefully. “It will scar.” You tsk slightly, knowing that he won’t mind the additional marks on his battle riddled body. “Your victory will be the talk of the Empire for years to come.” You tell him, dropping the cloth and reaching for your own dress to disrobe. “Now you will reap your spoils.” You smirk. “An Empress, bathing you of your sweat and blood before she rides you. Sucks your cock like a common whore. Rome will be on her knees for you.”

Your words make his cock throb, already hard from the adrenaline, and his eyes take in your body. The knowledge that you are having his baby makes him inhale sharply and he groans your name, “my Empress.  You shall want for nothing. I am yours. Rome is yours.” He vows as you take his hand to help him step into the warm waters.

The warm water is soothing and you know that your lover is thirsty, so as soon as he sits down you bring him a cup of wine. “My Spaniard.” You hum, holding it up to his lips. “My love, my future warrior and the father of my children to come.” You coo as he takes a sip.

He swallows down half the goblet and after you set it down, he reaches for you so he can cup your cheek. He presses his lips to yours and slides his tongue into your mouth, wanting to show you how much he loves you. He killed half of Rome for you.

You go willingly into his arms, wrapping yours around his neck and straddling his thighs in the water. Kissing him back with just as much passion as you can show him. You know that he’s both exhausted and invigorated and you reach for the cloth and soap. “Let me tend to you.” You murmur, kissing along his jaw as you pick up the goblet and press it into his hands to drink while you tend to him. “Relax and enjoy.”

Pero slides his hands along your back, enjoying the way you care for him. It’s tender and just what he needs after his body has been through hell and back. “Amor.” He murmurs, sighing when you kiss his cheek. The goblet of wine in his hand lowers slightly as his grip loosens. You start to wash him, his hair full of blood, and he watches you bite your lip in concentration.

You take your time, soothing his muscles with the heat and the wine. Knowing that the water feels good and being clean will feel even better. You might have been raised to be the Empress of Rome, but you want to take care of him. He has done so much for you. “My love. My brave and wonderful love.” You praise softly. “I was so scared for you. Even knowing you would win.”

Pero snorts, “you were that sure?” He asks, not believing you. “I know that you weren’t sure. Especially when those fucking lions came out. Your father…he’s a cruel man. Lions.” He shakes his head as you caress his chest with the cloth. “I thought I was going to fail when the lion was on top of me.” He admits softly, “but then you said you were with child and I couldn’t - I had to fight. Even if I was cut down. I had to try.”

“I’m glad you did.” You admit softly, leaning over and kissing his shoulder right above the wound he had taken from Atticus. “I would never wanted to be married to that man. He is just as cruel as my father, maybe more so. I have heard the rumors, and I’ve never liked him.” You soap up your fingers to wash his hair, knowing he will feel better when he is clean. “I missed my bleeding last week.” You explain quietly. 

Pero's cock twitches at the fact that he has gotten you pregnant but he remembers the way you screamed it. "You screamed it for all of Rome to hear, mi amor. The people...they will look at you as...impure and I do not wish to have that. We must marry as soon as possible." He murmurs, closing his eyes.

“I don’t care.” You promise him. “I would rather be known as impure and have all of Rome know I love you, than to be viewed as pure and have to marry Atticus.” You sigh softly. “I want to believe Rome would be happy for me. They cheered for you.”

Pero opens his eyes, "they cheered for you. They adore you. Their future Empress." He murmurs, "carrying their future Emperor. They would be fools to cast you aside when you simply followed your heart." He groans when you rub your fingers against his scalp.

You smile as you watch him relax, his eyes closed and enjoying the sensation of your hands in his hair. “They cheered for us, for we are the future of Rome.”

Pero smiles, knowing that it’s always been you. He’s never loved another. His hands sliding down to squeeze your ass as he starts to harden beneath you. “I can’t believe I get to have you. I never - siempre - I always imagined I’d have to watch you marry another.” He confesses, “but now…you’re mine.”

“I am yours.” You promise, picking up a clay pitcher to pour clean water over Pero’s hair. “And as soon as I finish, you are going to sit while I ride your cock and bring you pleasure.” You hum.

“Mmmm mi amor, I would love to let you use my body for your pleasure.” He murmurs, tilting his head back to let you wash the soap from his hair, the blood washing away. His cock is hard beneath you, “mi emperatriz, full of our baby.” He groans, his hands squeezing your ass.

“Full of your baby.” You whisper, pressing your lips to his. “I refused to drink your mother’s tea after you returned.” You admit, wanting him to know that you had no reservations about carrying his child. “If there had been no tournament, I would have asked you to flee Rome with me.”

Pero sighs, reaching up to cup your cheek, “I couldn’t ask that of you. You have been raised to lead. I could never ask you to abandon your empire.” He sighs, “but I would’ve followed you anywhere.”

“That is in the past.” You reach between you to wrap your fingers around his cock and line up so you can sink down on him. “You will be my right hand, the sword and shield of Rome.” You predict as you slowly start to take him into your body. “Leader of my armies and master of my heart. My gladiator.”

Pero’s breath hitches as you sink down onto him. His hands find your waist and his lips press against yours once more. His tongue sliding into your mouth, and he savors his victory. He was nearly killed but he survived, he won. He can enjoy his reward…you.

****

“The general approaches.” Your servant announces it as if you do not see the crowds parting for the large retinue of soldiers, the crests of the regiment held high and the confetti littering the streets for the celebration of your husband’s victorious return to the capital. Your hand idly rubs the large, swollen bump under your breasts where his child safely lies. Kicking at the noise and feeling your happiness at Pero’s return. In the last eight months, your life has changed. You married Pero, ignoring your father’s unhappiness at the union since it was the best thing for Rome. Your father had passed away in his sleep days later, making you the Empress of Rome and your baby its future heir. Pero had been made the top general of your armies and had been dispatched to bring peace to your lands. Successful, he is now returned to you and hopefully, the expensive wars will be no more for a long time. You smile at the crowds, but your eyes are fixed on the noble figure of your husband as his horse canters up the streets, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“Gods, she has gotten big.” He murmurs to himself, riding up the steps of the palace where you are standing and he swings off of his horse as the crowds close in below you. A servant takes the reins as Pero strides over to you, his hands cupping your cheeks to kiss you deeply in front of the people of Rome. The crowd cheers and Pero caresses your bump. “I’ve missed you, emperatriz.” He murmurs, nudging your nose with his. “I missed you too, my gladiator.” You whisper and he smiles, waving at the crowds as he steps back to take your hand. “I need you now.” He demands, escorting you into the palace and you try to keep up as he guides you to your quarters.

Pero’s long strides eat up the marble flooring between the front of the palace and the quarters you had taken for yourself after your father passed. The furnishing had been replaced and the room to the side that had been used for his mistresses had been turned into a nursery for your future child. His eagerness to touch you has you giggling as you are practically dragged along the corridor. Despite your advanced pregnancy, it’s obvious that your husband desires you. “I have missed you between my thighs, husband.” You tease.

“I missed you more than you can imagine, amor.” Pero pushes the doors open, slamming them behind you when you’re inside and he wastes no time dropping to his knees on the marble floor and pushes your dress up your body. His hands caress your bump and he surges forward to bury his face in your curls, his tongue sliding through your folds.

“Pero!” You cry out in pleasure as your sensitive body reacts to his skilled tongue. You had learned so much about each other’s bodies when he had returned and you were sneaking him into your bed every night, but after your marriage, your couplings became even more blissful. Pero is an attentive and giving lover, you don’t doubt that he had been faithful to you while he was away for so many months despite knowing that others take their ease with the whores that follow the army. “Fuck, your tongue is so good. I have missed you beside me at night.”

He groans, missing your tangy taste, and he hisses as he flicks his tongue over your clit. Your bump prevents him from seeing you but he groans as you tangle your fingers in his hair. He’s dirty from the road but he doesn’t care as his hands slide along your legs, caressing your skin while he works you over with his tongue.

Pero eats your cunt eagerly, with a hunger that sometimes takes your breath away as he pushes your body towards pleasure. “Pero.” You whine, holding steady to his shoulders when he lifts one of your legs to his thigh to delve into you deeper. “Make me cry out and then I want you deep inside me, want to feel you fill me up again.”

He wants to push you over the edge. Sucking on your clit, he can feel how close you are and you tug on his hair. His cock is aching for you and he wants you to cum for him. He flicks his tongue over your clit and pushes it deep inside of you, his nose pressing against your clit.

Your stomach heaves and your fingers dig into his hair and tug when you come apart. “Pero!” You scream his name, your eyes rolling back as you soak his tongue in your pleasure. It makes your legs tremble and threaten to buckle but you know his strong arms will keep you upright.

He grips your ass, keeping you upright, and he works you through it, loving the way you moan as you come back down to earth. He caresses your skin and lowers your leg back down. “Come on, amor. I want to be inside of you.” He stands up and takes your hand to guide you over to the bed. He unclips his breast plate and sets it down, his leather tunic swaying as he works on untying it to expose his body to your eager eyes.

“My love, my gladiator.” You moan, his strong body always making you feel desperate for him. He is still strong, even if he is not as lean as he was when he had left you before when you were nearly still children. His cock is hard and jutting out proudly, making you moan. “After you have bathed, I want to be on my knees for you again. Have you sit on the side of the baths while I take you down my throat.”

Pero knows he won’t win if he argues with you that you shouldn’t do that in your condition so he doesn’t protest. “Hands and knees, mi amor.” He knows that’s the most comfortable position for you right now. He kneels on the bed as you shift onto your hands and knees, the baby bump beneath you as your toes dig into the bedding. Pero pumps his cock as he shuffles closer and he positions himself at your entrance before he starts to slowly push inside of you.

Your eyes close, cunt squeezing him tight as you moan his name. You’ve never had another lover but you know that no one else would be as good as your husband. He twitches inside you, making you whimper. “I want it hard, Pero.” You beg. “It won’t hurt me and I crave the ache.”

His hands caress your back down to your ass, pushing your dress higher to expose more of you and he groans when your walls flutter around him. “I love you. Mi emperatriz.” He vows, “I am yours. I serve only you.” He promises and he rocks into you a little harder like you want.

You moan quietly, loving how he adores you. Anyone else would have been hungry for what power you could provide to him, but Pero doesn’t care about that. You are his priority. “I love you.” You gasp out. “You are my Emperor. I give everything to you.”

Pero groans, leaning over you to press his lips to your neck. “I love you. You are everything.” He never wanted to be Emperor. He never wanted the power. He only wanted to be with you, to have you. Even if it meant running from Rome. You’re his life. “My Empress.” He murmurs, rocking into you a little faster, his hand sliding down your bump until he’s pressing his digits against your clit.

You moan his name again, frantic to cum around his cock after so long without him. Pleasure rockets through you and you push back against his thrusts eagerly. “Pero- Pero, I’m going to cum!” You cry out, seconds before stars burst behind your eyes and you clamp down around his length.

He grits his teeth when your walls grip him. He fucking loves it. He’s missed you so much. This is why he could never fuck a whore. No one has ever made him feel like this. He pants against your back as he rocks into you, “fuck. I- I’m gonna fill you up.” He grunts, pushing into you a half dozen more times until he cums, painting your walls with his hot seed. “Te amo.” He pants, breathing you in.

“I love you too.” You slowly roll to your side, Pero still buried inside you so he can stroke your belly and both of you can relax. “You are home now. No more wars until our second child is at least five.” You hum, knowing the people of Rome are tired of costly wars.

“Your empire is secure. Your people love you. We shall be legendary. Our family, our children will be remembered forever.” He murmurs, caressing your belly and he kisses your forehead. “You are my Empress. I would die for you. I would kill for you.” He vows and you stroke his cheek. He already killed for you. Your gladiator. You and Pero were always meant to be and the history books will write of your epic love story. The Empress and her Gladiator.

[inkedtae]

elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦

⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.5k

⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.

⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪  please enjoy this final Chantober fic!

On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting  over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.

It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.

The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.

Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.

There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.

In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.

Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.

He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.

“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.

Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.

Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.

Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.

More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.

Sand invades his shoes.

Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.

He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?

Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.

Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.

The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.

He wonders if— No.

His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.

I have time , he mentally hisses.

The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.

Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.

Then the reality of his being sets in.

He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .

Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.

Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.

Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.

Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.

When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.

Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.

And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.

Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .

Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.

Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.

However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.

Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.

Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.

While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.

So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.

A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.

The sun is rising.

His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.

Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.

Fuck .

How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.

Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…

A murder of crows circle the island to his right.

Crow’s Nest.

“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.

Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.

He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.

Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.

Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.

“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.

The sun .

Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.

Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.

He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.

Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.

Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.

Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.

Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.

So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.

Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.

Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.

And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.

Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”

Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.

“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.

Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”

Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.

And then, all at once, darkness claims him.

Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.

You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.

Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.

A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.

Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?

A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.

Chills run down your spine.

You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.

Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.

“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”

Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.

Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.

And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.

“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.

You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.

His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.

Vampire .

Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.

“Are you insane?”

He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.

As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.

Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.

“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”

The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.

Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.

Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.

You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.

“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”

More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.

Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.

You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.

Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.

But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.

He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.

Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.

Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.

You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.

Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.

“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”

The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.

Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.

Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death? 

Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel. 

You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself. 

The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages. 

Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off. 

You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.

You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple. 

Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers. 

“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”

The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left. 

He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile. 

You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.

With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.

You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.

A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips. 

You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat. 

Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body. 

“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky. 

You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame. 

Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze. 

You are pathetic , you think to yourself.

Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.

You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”

Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame. 

“Who are you talking to?”

You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face. 

While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin. 

He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back. 

“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”

He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution. 

“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.

He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you. 

You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain. 

He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow. 

Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot . 

“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.

You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform. 

Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication  of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful. 

“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze. 

You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.

“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”

Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you. 

His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention. 

So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .

You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on. 

Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. 

Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”

He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”

You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout. 

Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird. 

“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.” 

Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”

He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds. 

Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence. 

“Yup,” you nod. 

He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.

“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”

“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”

He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands. 

A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”

“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”

“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”

Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.

“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away. 

Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”

“About eight years.”

“Eight?”

He confirms with a nod. 

What the fuck?

Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.

But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it. 

Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.

“Am I missing something?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”

He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”

“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze. 

Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him. 

“So, what is it then?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”

You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.

“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”

His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face. 

“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”

There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights. 

You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact. 

“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.

Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat. 

You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him. 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”

“Training?”

“I was a swimmer.”

Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.

“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”

You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement. 

“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh. 

You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”

“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you. 

“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”

“I wasn’t bitten either.”

“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”

Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”

Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before. 

 “I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters. 

Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.

While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once. 

You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you. 

Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended. 

He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone. 

“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce. 

Chris blinks at you. “What?”

“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”

His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”

“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”

At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief. 

“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”

Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice. 

You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.” 

As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening. 

Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours. 

Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.

You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow.  And you won’t be deterred.

Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of  life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.

As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.

He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room. 

The door clicks shut on its own.

Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles. 

Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.

“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back. 

The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure. 

“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration. 

Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear.  But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood. 

Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?

Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too. 

He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands. 

You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched. 

Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen. 

Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?

A series of gentle taps rap at the door. 

Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap. 

The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him. 

Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair. 

The door opens for him as he approaches it. 

I can get used to this . 

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?” 

The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply. 

Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more. 

Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?” 

A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy. 

Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted. 

A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs. 

Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him. 

They caw again, hopping in place. 

He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off. 

One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.

With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”

The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.

You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives. 

It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze. 

“They haven’t returned with your clothes?” 

Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. 

Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”

You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. 

Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen. 

With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth. 

“They were donated,” you clarify. 

Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips. 

“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”

He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again. 

There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit. 

Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?

He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.  

You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you. 

“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.

Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.

Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day.  Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.

“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”

“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page. 

He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something. 

With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast. 

You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.” 

Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”

Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips. 

“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.

Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.” 

With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge. 

“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.” 

“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”

When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.

 “Why are you here?” 

Your face folds in confusion. “What?”

“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”

You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer. 

But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.

“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened. 

It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction. 

“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies. 

“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”

A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.

“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”

“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”

“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips. 

Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?  

“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again. 

There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?” 

You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”

Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.

You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back. 

“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”

You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.

“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”

You shake your head. 

Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”

With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”

He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects. 

A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.

“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say. 

The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver. 

“Happy conjuring, little witch.”

A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.

True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire. 

Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.

Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.

 He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness. 

You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too. 

“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”

His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”

Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”

“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart. 

“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”

You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met. 

And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn. 

That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.

Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.

Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.

And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous . 

Tomorrow is the full moon. 

You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir. 

“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.

He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood. 

You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”

You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.

At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.

However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:

“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.

The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”

You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed. 

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”

And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”

Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now . 

Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention. 

You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style. 

Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot . 

A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night. 

You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off.  Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs. 

A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper. 

What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering. 

Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name. 

“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”

A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now. 

As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in. 

“ Oh!”  

You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.

Your body trembles at the thought. 

“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?

The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them. 

“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny. 

Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .

The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.

That pretty pussy looks so delicious . 

Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum. 

“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers. 

After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue. 

You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth? 

Click.

You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty. 

With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle. 

Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind. 

Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.  

“It’s almost time,” you say. 

The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans. 

Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?

“Did you hear me?” you ask.

Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”

You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?” 

“Of course.”

“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”

Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding,  “I want to feel normal again.”

You nod, inhaling deeply.

Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation. 

Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously. 

“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh. 

Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts. 

Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”

One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing. 

He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are. 

Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you. 

“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles. 

Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks. 

You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection. 

Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.

“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet. 

You shake your head. 

“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send. 

“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name. 

A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”

Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?” 

You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”

He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”

You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”

Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile. 

“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”

Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs. 

A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers. 

His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you. 

Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”

With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin. 

He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy. 

Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart. 

As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night. 

“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit. 

Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth. 

Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes. 

Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach. 

He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change. 

Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?  

However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you. 

A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans. 

Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans. 

“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”

Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time. 

A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can. 

But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps . 

He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger. 

The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.

“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.

A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .

Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.

Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied. 

Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again. 

You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks. 

“Talk to me, baby.”

The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret. 

“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”

Chris smirks. “What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”

Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy. 

“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”

Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.

Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”

You nod eagerly. 

Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek. 

The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form. 

Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.

You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”

Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”

Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”

You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin. 

Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him. 

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine. 

Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke. 

“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.

Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.

Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again. 

“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth. 

Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.

But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”

Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in. 

You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name. 

“Please, Chris,” you cry. 

He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.

“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”

His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.

Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.

"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”

Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him. 

“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”

Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ” 

He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.

Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.

Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases. 

You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”

Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.

Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.

“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.  

“I’m pretty always,” you retort. 

Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.

“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.

You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”

You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.

Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs. 

You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.” 

There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word. 

You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.

Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”

You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper. 

A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?” 

Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”

Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”

Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”

Chris nods, urging you to continue. 

“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”

“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease. 

You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand. 

Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around. 

Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”

“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.

What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar. 

You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”

Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–

Shit, did I just read his mind?  

Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”

You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”

“How could you have missed this?”

“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue. 

Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects. 

You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”

“Temptations?”

“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows. 

This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide. 

“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again. 

You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.

“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”

Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”

Your little smile is enough confirmation. 

Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again. 

“But the elix–”

“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”

The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress. 

And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.

You eagerly oblige him. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[slut4thebroken]

Pathetic

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Stepbro!Neil Lewis x reader

Summary | Your stepbrother is weird and annoying, but you’ve found a way to make good use of him.

Warnings | Smut, dub con? but like not really, incest technically, dry humping, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, he’s very pathetic, and subby, reader is very mean.

Words | 1.2 k

Notes | Idk in my head they’re both in college but still living at home lol. Also once again, I can’t think of a title😭

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 17: degradation

You thought your step brother was super weird and honestly a little annoying… but there were some redeeming qualities. He’ll pretty much do whatever you say— he’s only a few months younger, but he acts like it. Even though he’s taller and probably stronger, you can still boss him around like an older sister should. Then there was… his other useful quality. 

“You’re such a fucking pervert.” You spat, almost disgusted, and he whined behind you as his hips sped up. You were currently on your hands and knees on his bed, wearing just a shirt and panties. Neil was behind you, holding your hips still so he could dry hump you with his clothed dick in the cleft of your ass, over your underwear. “This is what gets you off? Humping your sister like a dog?” You snickered. 

“Oh god…” He moaned, rutting against you harder and faster. “Fuck, I- I’m gonna come.” He whimpered and you barked out a laugh. 

“Already?” His whines got louder and louder until his hips stilled a little and he was moaning and whimpering instead. You could feel his come soaking through both pairs of underwear and his cock twitching as it stayed pressed between your cheeks. “That’s all it takes? You just rub your dick on something and come in less than five minutes?” 

“Stop..” He whined pathetically. 

“Get off me.” You huffed, leaning up to push him down on the bed. You got him on his back, then straddled his hips and began grinding on him again, this time with your cunt.  

“Wait- wait,” He choked out, grabbing your hips. He let out a pained whine at the overstimulation, only encouraging you. 

“Don’t be such a baby.” You started grinding down on him harder, mostly to make it hurt more for him, but also to finally get yourself close to the edge. 

“Please stop..” He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, barely coping with the overstimulation. 

“God- do you ever shut up?” You groaned, leaning over him to put a hand over his mouth. The new angle was stimulating your clit even more, making you curse under your breath. 

He sobbed out a moan behind your hand and looked up at you with glossy eyes, his brows scrunched together in pain. Pink dusted his cheeks and you couldn’t help but enjoy the sight. 

He’s never looked more pathetic. 

“Y’know, if you actually knew how to make a girl come, I wouldn’t have to do this.” You said bitterly, making him whine. “Of course I had to get stuck with a fucking virgin for a step brother. Maybe I’ll go find one of your friends— see if they have better stamina than a fucking teenager.” His hips bucked under yours, making you smirk a little. 

“Oh, do you like that?” You sneered. “Is that what you are, a cuck? Should I let you watch your friends do a better job than you ever could?” In response, he whimpered and shook his head. 

“You’re so fucking useless. This isn’t even worth it— I’m just going to get off by myself.” You started to lean up and when he reached out for you in a panic, you slapped his hands away. 

“No! I- I’m sorry. I can help.” 

“Can you?” You scoffed. “I don’t think your pathetic excuse for a cock will help me very much.” 

“My— my mouth..” You huffed, but laid down on your back, making him frown when your come soaked underwear got on his sheets. 

“Get to it then.” You snapped, bringing him into motion. He laid down between your legs and wrapped his arms under your thighs, then pulled your underwear to the side. He started with slow kisses and licks, quickly testing your patience. “Why am I coming like this and not with my vibrator?” You asked sarcastically, egging him on. Which got him to start moving more enthusiastically, sucking on your clit and slurping up your arousal. 

“God, you even eat pussy like a fucking virgin.” You muttered, sounding almost bored. He whined against you, sucking on your clit even harder and occassionally fucking his tongue inside you. 

You waited for him to bring you to the edge, but it was taking a while, so you decided to grab your phone and watch something to help you get there. The movement of you picking up the device caught his attention and he looked up at you without removing his mouth from your pussy. When moans started playing through the speaker, he immediately frowned and his ministrations faltered. 

“I let you come. Do the same for me or I’ll tell your mom about how much of a pervert her ‘precious baby boy’ is.” You snapped. He stared at you with slightly wide eyes, then reluctantly put his attention back on your cunt. 

The porn was definitely helping, as was knowing how degraded he probably felt. After a few minutes, he pulled back and you looked down at him, raising your brows. 

“My tongue is getting sore.” He explained with a pout, making you scoff. 

“You’re the one who begged to eat me out. Stop fucking complaining.” Using your free hand, you grabbed his hair and yanked his head back down, burying his face in your pussy. You held him in place like that for a few minutes, but when you started nearing the edge, you put his head in a leg lock, keeping his mouth pressed firmly against your cunt, giving him no other choice but to make you come. 

When you finally fell over the edge, you squeezed his head with your leg even tighter and your back arched off the bed. He was moaning against you and humping the bed, apparently enjoying your orgasm almost as much as you. 

After the pleasure faded, you let out a heavy breath and sagged back onto the bed, closing your eyes. Neil let out a soft sound against your pussy, so you sighed, but let your leg fall back down onto the bed, allowing him to pull off. The bottom half of his face was completely covered in his spit and your arousal, and he panted heavily for a few seconds as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. 

“Can I please come again?” He asked timidly, waiting until you had mostly recovered from your orgasm to ask. 

You looked down at him, then rolled your eyes and reached for your phone again. “Whatever. Hump my leg I guess.” He whined quietly, but straddled your thigh and started rutting against you while you scrolled through your phone, waiting impatiently for him to finish. 

Soon enough, his breathing was starting to pick up and his hips were moving more desperately as he neared the edge. “Fuck.. I’m gonna come.” He choked out, humping you frantically. When the front door slammed shut though, both of you froze. 

“Can you help bring in the groceries?” His mom called out from downstairs. 

“Be right there!” You yelled back, then sat up, making him whine loudly. 

“No- please.. I’m so close.” 

“Not my problem, loser. Get off.” You spat, pushing him off your leg onto the bed. You stood up, but paused when you heard quiet whimpering. More come was leaking from his underwear and he quickly reached down to try and salvage the rest of his ruined orgasm. You watched him stroke his erection through the fabric, getting his come all over his hands and crotch, making an even bigger mess. 

“You’re so fucking gross.” You scoffed, making him whine pathetically. Before leaving, you picked up his shirt from the floor and wiped the rest of his come from your ass, then put your shorts back on and walked out. 

[pedgito]

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐘 — two: first to lose | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

chapter summary | Left to your own devices in the cabin with Joel, you lean toward other means of entertainment and a game over food leads to more than you're expecting.

author's note | beta'd by my lovely jo (@jolapeno) who i originally undertook this idea with. it has been really hard to focus lately, but i am itching to work away at my wips and this one has been sitting around for a while unedited. we're in a rut right now, but powering through.

chapter warnings | 18+, early outbreak, age gap (early 20s, mid 30s), morally grey!joel with trust issues, tommy is buffer, sex games, fingering, oral (m receiving), mentions of hunting and animals, joel is only softer when he's exhausted, they're both sore losers jsyk (more to come on that)

word count —4.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST, PLAYLIST, AO3

“There’s more out there,” Tommy says over your canned dinner, huddled around the fire in the living room as Joel stuffed his mouth full of beans, his conscious distance from you not going unnoticed. You were less layered, more comfortable, stripped down to your jeans and a tank top, your socks stuffed into the boots placed beside the couch, “I think another trip tonight and we’ll be good for at least a month, it’ll give us time to plan.”

“For?” You question, taking the last bite from your bowl before shoving it aside.

“Gotta find a QZ,” Tommy offers in response, “can’t survive like this forever.”

Joel seems less than hopeful, his eyes flickering away from the conversation and toward the fire. And Tommy, oblivious to the events that had transpired in his absence, doesn't address his brother’s pessimism. He’s learned to work around it, listen to his older brother when he sounded reasonable, and remain amicable around the rest of it.

He knew Joel’s tendencies, but found ignoring them was easier than bringing up the issue.

“Can I tag along this time?” You ask curiously, those pleading eyes falling on Tommy.

He chuckles, his spoon clanging against the ceramic as he shakes his head, halfheartedly as he speaks around the food he was chewing in his mouth, “I can handle it, kid. Besides, someone’s gotta keep an eye on Joel.”

You tense at the mention of his name, forcing a soft smile. Tommy doesn’t suspect a thing, wouldn’t even have the inclination, but the look of disdain Joel offers to you both stings.

“It’s a long drive, probably a couple days,” Tommy nods his chin up toward his brother and kicks at his foot, the boot scuffing against the wood, “you can teach her how to hunt while I’m gone.”

Joel doesn’t respond immediately and Tommy presses, leaning slightly to obscure his brother’s glare at the wall across from him, eventually Joel nods but it was entirely unconvincing and Tommy shakes his head in amusement, disapproval crossing his face as he chews at his bottom lip.

“Don’t hurt each other while I’m gone,” Tommy jokes, “alright?”

You smile half-heartedly and spin your knife on the barely standing end table to your left, “I can behave—right, Joel?”

Joel grunts, barely an acknowledgement at your expense as he walks between you two and lands on the couch, kicking off his boots over the edge and allowing himself to get comfortable, forearm slung over his eyes as he shimmied his shoulders down until he was comfortable.

“We’ll be fine.” You tell Tommy softly and he nods, looking at his brother with a brief frustration.

He could take you with him, he knows that. But, he’s almost fearful that Joel would run off in the middle of the night, that Tommy would never see his brother again. Losing Sarah had taken a toll on both of them and while Joel tried his damndest not to show the effects, Tommy feels them lingering. You were the most rational out of all of them, despite your inexperience and hesitancy to fight for yourself, your emotions were in check. For the most part.

You could be the perfect little watchdog Tommy needed.

But, in the back of your mind, you knew Joel was in command. It had been that way from the beginning; the dutiful little brother, the helpless young girl who had nowhere to go. It just worked.

Tommy departs with a nod, chuckling quietly at the already snoring Joel on the couch to your left. And you sigh with your own creeping feeling of exhaustion taking over, falling back against the balled up coat on the floor and finding yourself drifting to sleep eventually too. 

–

You wake up in a different spot, feeling the rigid but somehow softer fabric of the couch under your body as you roll over, peeking your eyes open to the blinding light. You groan quietly, stretching out tense limbs as you spot Joel. He’s leaned back in a chair, feet propped up in another as he flicks away at a solid chunk of wood, knife gripped in his hand.

“That’s mine,” You grumble weakly, spotting the weapon in his hand. His eyes flick up briefly, a chuff of acknowledgment from his nose has you squinting in his direction, “—you didn’t ask.”

Joel squints in response, flipping the knife in his hand until the handle is facing out, offering up the knife to you. You rise slowly, feeling slightly wobbly on your feet as you approach him. He brings the knife back toward his chest as you reach for it, “I think you’re forgetting, it was mine.”

You snatch it against his weak grip, too irritated from the lack of decent and comfortable sleep to argue, tossing it away on the couch as you round the dining table, peering through the slip of curtains covering the window, spotting the pile of burnt and charred bodies outside the window.

“Why did you move me?” You ask idly, dragging your fingers down the silk curtain, watching a few drops of rain hit the window before the trickle becomes stronger, followed by a low clash of thunder.

Joel stares at the chunk of wood in his grasp, fiddling with it until he slides it on the table, speaking to you nonchalantly as he stands, “You looked uncomfortable,” Within a few second he’s at your side, looking out the window at the incoming rain storm, “besides—you kept tossing and turning, once you were on the couch it stopped.”

“Oh, so I was disturbing your sleep,” You snark at him, turning your head to look at him. He mimics the movement and chuckles lazily, nodding in agreement, “add it to the list, I guess.”

“Of?”

He’s feigning cluelessness, watching the rain take on a stronger current as it pounded against the roof and you speak absently, “So, hunting is out of the question?

Joel’s arm rises to rest against the wall beside the window, hand tucked at his hip, “No. There’s still plenty to hunt ‘round here, if you have enough patience.”

“Well, I’m hungry.”

“Well, that’s an issue, ain’t it?”

For you, yes. For him, no.

He knows you don’t have the first clue what to equip yourself with, what animals to look for and your head turns, peering up at him curiously with the beginnings of a too sweet smile gracing your features.

“Not happenin’, don’t even ask.” Joel tells you, your smile immediately falling as you step away.

Whatever intensity had lingered the night before—the adrenaline from the attack, was gone.

Joel looks exhausted, conveys it in the slow and tired blinks he aims your way. He’d given up sleep to allow you to get rest, sacrificing his own without outwardly admitting it.

He’s only now starting to regret it as his head pounds, attempting to work through his exhaustion but feeling it catch up on him in waves, “We’ve got a can or two left to pick at, try that.”

Your face contorts in subtle disgust, “We need meat. Beans and peaches can only get us so far.” Joel doesn’t hear your complaints though, departing for the couch with a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, tense and knotted up muscles causing a deep ache in his back. He falls to the couch and throws his head back, allowing a few minutes to pass where he feels himself drifting into a slumber with his large hand rubbing at his forehead, thumb and middle finger digging into his temples as he nurses a headache, only looking over at you when the couch dips under your weight.

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

Joel huffs at that, knowing that only you could find how to pull the levity out of a shitty situation. 

“I’m not—” Joel shakes his head, his hand falling to his lap, “We’re not doing that. It can wait until the rain clears up.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

There was no way to tell, really. It was all an educated guess, the darkened clouds hovering overhead letting you know that it didn’t have any plans to leave quite yet.

Joel doesn’t offer a response, his head tipping back against the back of the couch with his eyes closed, his hands resting in his lap as he shrugs his shoulders and settles, you tilt your head curiously.

“You seem tense,” You tell him, “like—more tense than usual.”

Admittedly, he was restless too. But, unlike you—he could fight it. 

All that energy, nowhere to put it toward.

There’s so much silence, a thickness in the air that lingers as his own gaze on you does. He’s become used to studying you; upset, worried, irritated—he’s got it all down by now. Although, he had one that stumped him hard: want— but, he seemed to be picking up on the cues, noticing the look on your face as your lip pulled between your teeth in absent thought, tilting your head at him. You’re staring at his exposed skin, the scruffiness of his jaw where he’s allowed his beard to grow out. 

“Fine,” You sigh, noting his stubbornness, “what about a game?”

He doesn’t like the way the word slips from your lips, noticing how much closer you’ve gotten. Your knees pressed into his hip as you slowly worked your way over, legs tucked under your ass. Joel’s eyes narrow before they relax, turning away with a grunt of indifference.

“Impossible,” You mumble under your breath, “look—either I go out there and risk my ass or you do it for me. It’s late, I’m hungry,” And, as if on cue, Joel’s stomach growls too, “and so are you.”

Joel relents, watching his chest rise and fall in one heavy breath, “What game are you talkin’ about?”

You could think of something on the fly, although Joel has done everything but touch you since the night prior—because if he did, he was doomed. So, you make the first move.

Your finger drags along his open flannel until it catches on the first button it finds, the rest of your hand slipping under the fabric and noting the lack of undershirt. He must have taken a layer or two off at some point, unbeknownst to you. His skin is warm under your hand, his chest hair soft against your fingertips.

Joel grabs at your wrist but doesn’t take the step to move it away—a warning. Stay still, don’t go further. He’s looking at you by then, eyes wider and more present and darker around the edges than usual, icing out the warm brown.

“Whoever loses goes hunting,” You suggest, “sound fair?”

“That still doesn’t explain the game,” His fingers tightening around your wrist, feeling your quickened pulse under his touch, “besides—you also don’t know shit about hunting game birds.”

“I can manage, Joel,” You argue, “can’t be that hard to kill a fuckin’ duck.”

Joel chuckles at the thought, a subtle smirk pulling at his lips and his cheek dimpling with the expression. He can appreciate the confidence, the stubbornness that you carried with every word.

“Rules?” Joel inquires again, a smile creeping its way onto your face as he takes the bait.

“You come, you lose.” It really was that simple. 

Besides, it was a better way to pass time than tense, uncomfortable silence. Sex could be easy–detached, emotionless, and fun. Something you desperately needed right now.

Joel is quiet for a while, longer than you’d like. The gears are turning in his head, his eyes trailing slowly over your frame, like he’s dedicating it to his memory, before they fall upon your face. His softer around the edges like this, still guarded, but less…vengeful. 

Fuck it, he needed this.

“I hope you can manage huntin’ on your own,” He taunts, earning a squeal of laughter as his fingers dig into your side and pull you to him, your leg swinging over his lap in time with his movements, “‘cause I don’t lose.”

Neither of you bother with anything other than your jeans, wrestling against each other’s confines and flicking open buttons on deft fingers, wiggling them down your legs and off as you leave his lap for a millisecond before he’s pulling you back to him with his hand wrapping around the back of your neck and squeezing, pulling you back far enough that you can see his opposite hand dip to your cunt, thick digits pressing against your clit as your eyes flutter shut.

While you expect intensity, his movements are torturously slow. Slow circles with his thumb against the sensitive nub while his middle finger teases your hole, clenching around the emptiness that yearned to be filled. He only grunts when you wrap your hand around his cock, hardening under your touch as you squeeze, jerking him to full attention.

Joel was a mystery still and you’re working out what he likes as you move, noticing the way his face twitches when you drag your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the small dribble of precome at the tip as you rub, noticing the way his jaw tenses at the motion.

And you want to watch him, study him. But, his fingers are making it near impossible. Your sated sigh turns into a pathetic whine as he slips a digit inside of you to the first knuckle. It wasn’t nearly enough to quell the growing ache in your core, but then his teeth are on you.

Not his lips or his tongue—teeth digging into your collarbone as he pulls you to him, one large hand pressing against the center of your back and you hiss, cunt pulsing at the tinge of pain it allows but then his tongue is soothing over the marks his teeth left behind, lazy kisses following as he repeats the process along the expanse of your chest and eventually biting into the side of your neck as his fingers circle your clit quickly. 

Your opposite hand digs into his shirt at his waist, crumbling the material in your hand as you hand moves against his shaft quickly, hurried. It didn’t help that you couldn’t think, foolishly you expected to have the upper hand but it was easy to forget how quickly Joel could cloud your mind and rid you of any coherent thought besides want. And with that, Joel adds another finger, sinking them deeper inside of you

“You’re not even puttin’ up a fight,” Joel taunts, “I can feel that pussy squeezin’ around my fingers.”

You gasp, the heat in your gut swirling around as you try desperately to regain control. Your forehead drops against his shoulder, feeling pitiful as you moan and move your hips in time with his efforts and Joel chuckles beside you, so quiet you almost miss it. 

He’s amused clearly. It’s a taunting laugh, no deeper meaning than a ‘gotcha’. Because he did, he had you so wound up against his touch that you couldn’t think, making this game an easy win on his behalf. 

“Let me—let me suck your cock, I wanna—” You beg weakly, rambling incoherently, “—this isn’t fair.”

“You rules,” He retorts, “can’t go switchin’ up on me now, just ‘cause you’re losing.”

You feel the spiral coming, his hot breath against your neck as your hips jerk and the pressure builds. There was no use fighting it, giving into Joel’s selfless touch and his dirty words, moans growing in volume and intensity as he brings you over the edge with a satisfied remark.

“That’s right,” he declares with a deep growl, “go on, give it to me.”

The lewd sounds of your slick as he presses his fingers inside of you a few times as you catch your breath are enough to make you shove him away, too ashamed to allow him anymore satisfaction as he wipes his hand away on the inside of his flannel and reaches for his jeans, his eyes tracking the frown on your face as you settle into your own clothes again.

His fumbling with the button on his jeans as he leaned back, adjusting them better on his hips as he speaks to you, “I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells you, your eyes flicking up curiously despite your silence, “—you’re still hungry, right?”

If anything, you were ravenous now. 

“But, I lost.”

Joel shakes his head in amusement and slight disapproval, a smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“Either way, I was still goin’ out there,” Joel tells you, adjusting his still half-hard cock in his jeans and your gaze pulls down, unconsciously reaching for his arm but he shakes it off, standing on his feet, “—game’s over, I won.”

“But, you didn’t—”

Joel unravels his sleeves where they’re bunched at his elbows, buttoning up the loose buttons on his shirt before he’s wandering, reaching for his jacket folded over the back of a chair, effectively ignoring your attempts at returning the favor. He clearly didn’t care, so neither should you. 

He already seemed satisfied enough by the look on your face, knowing you were overconfident in the moment and hoping to knock him down a peg, but that had backfired. He considers a thought for a moment, knowing it was a bad idea. But, he wasn’t one for good, thoughtful choices as of late.

“Next time,” He offers quietly, tucking a knife away into his coat pocket and slinging the cheap bow over his shoulder, “keep quiet—shouldn’t take long.”

The words come as a shock, any inclination or acknowledgement toward your weird arrangement was enough to make your eyes widen in surprise, but you mask it well. Joel leaves without another word, braving the pouring rain for a desperate meal. It had been a long time since you’ve had a decent, filling meal. A handful of canned food a week, spread out sparsely to keep the three of you just on the edge of satisfaction. It wasn’t the best way to live, but it was all you had. 

The lighting cracks through the sky and is followed by a low, booming thunder that shakes the entire house as you sink into the couch, waiting anxiously for Joel’s return.

-

You can’t be accurate, but it feels like Joel returns right on time.

The storm had dissipated to a steady rain by now, occasionally fading into a soft trickle. He’s nearly drowning, but two ducks richer as he slaps the dead game on the table and slowly strips himself of his damp clothes, struggling with the sopping wet layer of his flannel. The fire was a welcomed warmth, his eyes closing as the floor creaked under your footsteps. He feels you hands before he sees you, helping him silently to unbutton his shirt.

It was harder to undress like this, the layers sticking heavily to his skin. When his flannel is unbuttoned you reach for his jeans, taking them to the sink to squeeze out the excess water before you lay them out in front of the fire, hoping it would be enough to dry them by morning. 

You repeat the process as he discards the layers, a silent chore to busy yourself while he strips to his underwear, not nearly as wet as the rest of his clothes but he hesitates, knowing he had an extra change of clothes in his pack.

He decides against it, finding that his hunger was far too persistent to allow him to go any longer without eating. He nods toward the already skinned and prepped animals on the table.

“Let’s eat,” Joel suggested, “before we ended up starvin’ to death.”

You weren’t going to argue, fetching the ducks off the table and presses them into Joel’s waiting hand, watching as he knelt down in his underwear and reached for two pokers resting in the holder besides the fireplace, situation the soon to be food onto the iron rod before he’s resting them directly into the flame.

You fetch a couple blanket off the couch as you watch, tossing one silently to Joel that he accepts with a nod, his eyes following you as you took a seat across from him, staying quiet as he turned the food a few times, allowing it a hopefully full cook—not that you could complain about eating slightly raw meat at a time like this.

The meal is messy but delicious, wiping your fingers against the blanket wrapped over your shoulders and licking away at the juices left behind and Joel mirrors you, devouring the food without a thought. It feels oddly domestic when you forget about everything happening around you, belly full as you set the iron rod aside and settle deeper into the cover.

You watch curiously, like a cat, while Joel rises to clean up the mess. His movements are slower, his stomach slightly fuller now that he’s eaten but it still amazes you at his broadness when the blanket drops to the floor. He strips out of his underwear without any acknowledgment, tossing them alongside the other slowly drying clothes and begins to depart for the bedroom, stopped by your hand scrambling for his wrist as you appear beside him.

He hadn’t even heard you move, wondering how you managed to keep so quiet. You’re startled by the warmth in his face, his gaze dropping to the fingers wrapped around his arm. His other hand is cupping himself, attempting some layer of decency but you’re only looking at his face.

“Tommy won’t be back ‘til morning,” You remind him, “how about a rematch?”

Joel doesn’t answer for a moment, feeling your stomach flutter with a disappointment you’ve never felt, but then he’s surging forward, fingers curling into your hair and tipping your head back as he kisses you, forcing in a sharp breath as his other hand mirrors and presses you backwards, guiding you toward the bedroom rather than the couch. 

His lips don’t leave, guiding you toward the mattress that was covered in a curtain Joel had ripped from its hinges. This kiss isn’t gentle, driven by lust and a need to keep you quiet. Joel finds it impossible to think around you sometimes and shutting you up was the easier route. So, it wasn’t genuine but it was needy, desperate. His tongue licks into your mouth as his hands trail down your body, lifting at the back of your thighs until you’re seated on the bed, level with his cock and eager to redeem yourself.

You pull at your top that Joel is itching to remove, his fingers tucking under the end of it and pulling up before you’re grabbing at his cock, dragging your tongue along the side and under, tracing the tip of your tongue along the vein that ran from base to tip, taking the thick girth of him into your mouth as you peer up, finding that he was staring right at you, eyes half-lidded and cloudy in the darkness but it was there. Admiration, a crack in his facade. He hisses under his breath when the tip of his cock presses against the back of your throat, repeating the motion until your eyes string with tears, trading your mouth for your tongue against as you circle it around the head.

“Up the bed,” He coaxes, gently pulling you away with a hand pressing against the front of your neck, a frown of disapproval thrown his way, “go on—up.”

You don’t argue though, crawling back on your hands as he tugs at your jeans, removing them alongside your underwear and leaving you in a complete state of undress alongside him. The clothes pile on the floor and Joel climbs over the edge of the mattress, prowling toward you slowly as you breathe consciously, comforted by the spread of Joel’s hand over your chest, his fingertips tickling the center of your throat.

“What’s the prize this time?” You ask softly, terrified that speaking too loud would spear the thick cloud of tension surrounding you both, “We never established that.”

“We can figure it out later,” Joel affirms, allowing the hand at your chest to trail down your stomach, to your core, fingers dipping inside of you again without warning, “when you lose.”

His confidence is attractive, but the smugness only infuriates you further. 

And with full stomachs, nearing the edge of exhaustion, you find that the delirium hits you both faster than you’re expecting. The pace is slow, exhausting—tantalizing and teasing touches that drag you both along the edge for far too long and you can’t tell if Joel’s doing it on purpose, bringing you so close to the end before letting you slip back, but eventually it happens by accident.

You flip him to his back when he’s distracted, his cock trapped between your stomach and his own as you grind yourself against his thigh lazily, his eyebrow pinching together at the surge of the sensation that hits him and he comes without warning, painting his stomach with the spurts of cum that spill from his cock with a low groan in his throat, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“You lose.”

Your voice is distant in his ears, but he chuckles quietly at your words.

By then, you’re both too tired to move and fall asleep as is, pressed against his chest as his cum dries against your skin and surely you’ll both regret it come dawn, but for now, sleep consumes you.