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gripefroot · 1 month ago

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Taken in the Night

You wake with a gasp, muffled by the hand covering your mouth. A hard body presses against yours from behind, the bedroom dark enough to indicate it can’t be long past midnight. Then, warm breath on your neck, a whisper:

“Don’t make a sound.”

In an upper bedroom of the baker’s house in town, your winter abode, the danger of the baker finding Law in your bedroom and then throwing him out in a fury was more than a distant fear. Across the house, something creaks. All you hear is your breathing, Law’s, and the frantic thudding of your heart. The baker is a man to throw out not only Law for uninvited entry, but you, too, for disregarding the baker’s fastidious rules about guests.

Law, knowing little of all this, groans softly in your ear.

“I missed you bad.”

Your fingers grip his hand, pulling it away from your mouth. “You couldn’t have sent a note?” you hiss. “Don’t wake me up like that again!”

“Okay.” Amenable of him, wasn’t it? Or he was distracted, with his arm tight around your middle, fingers groping. Then you feel his lips on your hairline, hot and insistent. A responding moan rises in your throat, but you swallow it. The baker, the baker…

“We can’t do that here,” you whisper. “They’ll hear for sure.”

Another creak. A cough. Above the roof, a whine of winter wind. The clouds yesterday promised a storm. It must have started, the early cries of a worse tantrum to come.

“Come with me?” Law asks in a ragged voice.

Even if you want to be annoyed with him, it’s impossible. It’s impossible with the heat he presses into you, the hard angles of his body encompassing yours. Something about your racing heart and how hungry he sounds could get you to agree to anything.

“We can’t take the stairs,” you murmur.

“Won’t have to. Hold on tight.” He squeezes tighter. You grip his arm, fingernails digging into bare skin - hadn’t he worn a coat? - for the split second before the world tilts and shifts and bursts around you.

“Ouch!”

The landing was hard, a slab of metal with all your weight and Law’s weight sending you straight to bruises. When you try to sit up, your head hits something equally hard, but this time, it’s his head.

“Ouch!” you cry again.

“Sorry, sorry!” Unusual repentance for him. “I thought the pillows were on the bed but they must have fallen to the floor. It’s storming outside.”

Orientation came in stages. The storm - wherever Law has whisked you off to is shaking side to side, slowly, in great swells that make your stomach churn uncomfortably. Your eyes adjust to the milky blue lights glowing from various points of the room. A bedroom. A bedroom with a small bed with blue covers (or they were simply blue in the light) and a desk and cupboards and shelves. The books and knickknacks on the shelves must be secured in place, to not be falling off with each rise and fall of the room. Law sits back on his haunches, strangely abashed as he watches your face. The blue light makes his eyes as velvety black as a summer night, and just as warm. Abashed? Now why would he be…

“This is your ship,” you say faintly. The throb from where his head bashed into yours heightens in intensity. “You brought me to your ship.”

“Sorry.” There, that’s more normal. He’s not sorry at all. That devilish smile transforms his face. “I’ve heard stories about your landlord. And I’m not gonna give you up. Even if it’s just for a night.”

Just for a night?

Law plucks off his hat, running his opposite hand through his inky hair, making it stand on end. “We’re only passing through,” he says. “My crew wanted to go deeper to avoid the storm to make it to our next port by morning, but…”

There’s a wealth of sentiment in what he doesn’t say. The room rises and falls twice more before you give in and have mercy on the man, smiling as you get onto your knees. It’s more stable - somewhat. The familiar twist of sadness and joy winds around your sternum, again and again, making your insides a proper candy cane of contrasts. Everything about Law was so good and so wretched, all at once. It was horrible. And wonderful.

“Well, it’s only fair,” you purr, scooting closer. Law doesn’t move, his eyes hooded as his eyes rivet on your face. Then, your mouth. “You know my bed. It’s time I acquaint myself with yours.”

His throat bobs. You lean in. “Only fair,” he repeats in a croak. “But - most of the crew is sleeping. There’s two on watch. You’ll have to be quiet.”

“The crash of our entrance is okay but a few little moans aren’t?” The question is a whisper, breathed against his skin. He’s near enough to kiss, but why ruin perfectly good foreplay? One side of his mouth lifts.

“Crashes are normal,” he murmurs, reaching up to touch the ends of your hair. “Moaning is not, I’m afraid.”

“What a sad life your crew must live.”

“If I’m doomed to sleep alone, they oughtta, too.”

“So. You’re a tyrant as well as a thief, a tease, and a bully.” All three things which you’ve called him before. He remembers, too, because he snorts true amusement despite the sardonic gleam of his eyes. The blue light is enough. Enough to treasure every feature of his face, but not too much to ruin the hazy dreaminess soaking around in a mysterious place in a storm.

“Don’t see you complaining,” Law says. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Thinking you’re about to kiss him, most likely. He’s eager. He’s eager and he’s charming and he’s Law, which is the best part of all.

“Do you think of me while you’re here?” you ask softly.

“Yes,” he says at once.

“What do you think of me doing?” It’s bait. He knows it, too, because he snorts again. Undeterred, you suggest, “Reading some of those books, perhaps? Writing letters at the desk? Folding blankets?”

“Definitely,” Law plays along in his characteristically dry tone. “In fact, my favorite way to think of you is sweeping the floors.”

“Sweeping! Where’s the broom, then? We can play into this little fantasy of yours.”

“Later.” He seizes your wrist when you make you stand, keeping you in place. “Why not a different fantasy first?”

“Oh?” It’s impossible not to smile. It’s impossible to keep the joke going, too, because if it’s only going to be one night, the desire to spend it teasing each other pales in appeal. Law must sense this, because he lowers his head, stealing a kiss that makes your heart pound and your skin to go tingly from head to toe.

His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist when he pulls away. A good kiss, but not enough. Never enough. Rising on your knees, you shake his hand off to wrap your arms around his neck, dislodging his hat once and for all.

There. That’s better. A longer, deeper kiss; the rasp of his facial hair on your sensitive skin while his hands roam up and down the shape of your curves before resting on your hips. And every second your body moves, moves with the waves of the sea and the desire Law so skillfully conjures. Life is so still when he’s not around - expectant patterns that repeat every day. And then he shows up and whisks you away in the middle of the night because he wants you, because he wants to see you.

But not because he loves you. He’ll never say it. Maybe he doesn’t need to. That old conversation rankles, from time to time, but only when he isn’t there. And right now, he is.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, taking advantage of perpetually-undone buttons to slide the entire garment right off his shoulders. His skin is smooth, rippling from muscles as delicious to feel as they are to see. The hardness of the metal floor sends aches through your knees when he drags you closer, by the hips, until every heave of breath touches your chest to his, his eager mouth plundering where you’d meant to do the plundering. Lungs tight, you break away for air. Law does hesitate: his whiskered chin scrapes against your neck while his lips and tongue do wonders on your neck.

“Oh, Law,” you say, half-piteously. “Why can’t it be longer than one night?”

He doesn’t answer. Why would he? You know, and he knows you know. His response is to grip you by the backside, standing steadily despite the gale outside and all around, to tip you onto the bed.

His eyes are the dark depths of a sea, black and beckoning. He doesn’t look away while he undoes his belt and pants button. Gnawing on your lips, your legs squeeze together, as if that’ll help.

“Kinda like your nightgown,” he drawls.

“Oh,” you say again, with just as much self-pity. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have worn something different.” It’s an old wool thing, meant for warmth during the winter more than seducing handsome ship captains coming to claim their woman. Consciously, you put a hand to the ratty ribbon around the collar, mercilessly cut in several places from tickly threads over the years.

“I ain’t lying,” Law says. “I mean it.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” you say crossly.

A mischievous light catches in his eyes. Oh, no. Whatever brilliant inspiration he just had, probably won’t end well for you.

“I’ll just have to prove it to you, then,” he says. Pants shaken off, he crawls onto the bed stark-naked. Apprehension about his intention makes it less of a thrill than usual. “Oh, c’mon,” Law says with a hint of exasperation. “Stop looking at me like I’m some kinda creep.” A laugh huffs out of him as he shakes his head. That reaction makes you more mulish.

“Only a creep would be turned on by this rag,” you say.

“Ever considered that I’m turned on by you, not by what you wear?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do,” he says. “Until then - ”

He ropes his arm around your back, dragging you across the bed and over his body. Your leg swings over his hips in an attempt to stay balanced, which mostly, you think, gets him what he wants. He settles in against the mattress, shining with lazy triumph. Your breasts are pushed against his chest until his arm loosens enough to allow you to rise. He’s successfully perched you right on his groin, skirt of the nightdress flowing around like a shroud of modesty.

“Trafalgar Law,” you say severely, though the irresistible urge to laugh bubbles incessantly in your throat.

“Present,” he says, lacing fingers behind his head. He gazes up at you, like a child would the night sky. When the fondness in your chest makes it hard to speak, he tacks on, “Leave the nightgown on. I want you to think of me whenever you wear it from now on.”

He’s too much. Too cocky, too sweet, too honest. It hurts.

His smile doesn’t fade when you lean over him again, this time kissing him with all those feelings wanting to get out. Law isn’t one for feelings, and frankly, you aren’t either. Not when the recipient can use them to hurt you. And Law could hurt you like no one else, because he’s like no one else. Would he? Would he be so cruel? Perhaps not - but he also never stays, so he is cruel, even if he doesn’t mean to be.

He accepts the tender pace. His hands are all over the nightgown, plucking at the fabric with theatrical, appreciative groans.

“The hem,” you pant. “You can grope me from the inside.”

Evidently, Law can’t take the joke much further, because he takes your advice and slides his hands inside the nightgown. His hands go up your bare legs, down your back, making paths from limb to limb. Without warning, his hips bucks and his teeth bite down on your bottom lip.

“Ouch!” Hopefully, cries of pain are also normal on the ship. You sit back, rubbing your mouth with a scowl.

“Sorry. It was the storm.” His hands stop on your hips, hindered by underwear. His eyes are shadowed, squinting slightly. “Will you believe that it’s the storm if I rip these off?”

“No,” you laugh. “But go ahead. They’re old, too.”

Underwear discarded in three pieces (ripping one seam would make a tidier job, but this is Law), there’s nothing left between skin. His lips are parted, breathing steadily between them, though his expression is anything but steady. Tipping your hips forward, the sensation of his erection rubs against you.

The kissing made you sensitive. The slippery sensation brings out a tiny moan, not too loud, and Law’s response is much louder.

“I only tease you because it makes you wet,” he says, his voice low and rough enough to be a growl.

“You make me wet,” you tell him, sliding over his cock again. “Not the teasing. Like you said about my nightgown.”

His crooked half-smile promises more teasing, so you bend over to kiss him to keep him quiet. It works - partially. No teasing, but his responsive noises to each little motion are enough to turn your veins to fire.

Time stops. Each swell of stormy wave feels longer than a passing moment, each whoosh of desire flooding your body saunters instead of shoots. Law’s fingers make paths in your bare skin, one inch at a time, as if he, too, feels the yawning stretch at the cusp and refuses to rush it.

Why does it have to be only one night?

Better one night than no night.

The ship rises and falls. When waiting feels like a shackle instead of a long-lasting sunset, you reach between your bodies to slide him inside. The waves help with that, rocking up and down and up and down. Law’s eyes are almost inscrutable, hiding what he doesn’t want to say or share behind those walls he puts up. Silly man. He’s let you in too far already; almost as long as you’ve known him - hiding can’t erase that.

“You’re so good,” he says. “You’re my good girl.”

A shiver spreads from your neck downward, the tips of his fingers brushing gently against your throat. Eyes close. Your hips go forward and back, fighting against and moving with the storm while pleasure swells thunder. Moans vibrate your throat, but go no further. Finally, with a gasp, your eyes flutter open, though you don’t stop riding him.

So, this is what he looks like in his own bed. The blue softens his face, the swallowing blankets and pillows make him less the tattooed vagrant and more…well, more an ordinary man. The kind that could stay, if he wanted, not the phantom who comes and leaves like a storm. Gold earrings wink reflections of blue. And his expression…it must be nice for him, you muse, putting in the lesser amount of work. But it’s nice for you, too, to watch him experience it with such a lovely view.

“That’s it,” he mumbles, a little like thunder himself. “Tell me how much you like it.”

“Why don’t you?” you say. “You’re the one being lazy.”

Law peeks open an eye, but he only grins. “I like it alot,” he says. “And I like that you’re sassing me.”

“I can tell.” With a smile, you slow your pace, taking your sweet time to take him deeply. A short grunt from him betrays how much he likes it. His eyes glaze over. His fingers dig into your hips, trying to move you more.

“I want you to come.” The words rasp out of him. “Then I wanna switch.” To prove his statement, he thrusts upward, slow but delicious as stars burst behind your eyelids. A gasp parts your lips.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay. Keep going. Do what feels good.”

It must be near dawn by the time the bedroom is as quiet as Law threatened it had to be. Cuddled up in the blankets (the nightgown was discarded long ago), you breathe deeply the scent of his bed. Of him. Because he only came for one night. And now that night is ending, the prickling pain deepens.

“Hey.” Law pulls your shoulder back, leaving a kiss on your bare skin. “Are you falling asleep?”

“No.”

“I think I did.”

Bemused, you twist your head back, smiling at the glaring evidence: one of his cheeks is visibly red, even in the blue light, and a wrinkle from the sheets stretches from his jaw to his forehead.

“Cute.” You reach up to pat his cheek. “You did enough work to earn a nap.”

“I wanted to keep going,” Law says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Because if you’d had to go from lovemaking straight back to your tiny room in the baker’s house with your heart still racing and your skin still tacky from sweat, Law’s departure would have felt a thousand times more raw. Idly, you stroke his facial hair, then jingle his earrings together. His eyes crinkle with a smile, sweeter than you’re used to, but it’s still very him.

“You’re gonna be tired all day,” he prophesies.

“I don’t care,” you say. “I work less in the winter. I’ll take my nap later.”

Later, when he isn’t there and you won’t lose your last moments with him. You don’t say it, but he must guess, because those dark eyes soften.

“But you got your nap, so you’ll be fine,” you tease, rolling onto your back. Law hovers over you, grinning all the while like a satisfied cat. The storm had stopped - when? The rocking of the ship had noticeably slackened before Law had collapsed on the bed (and evidently fallen asleep) but it must have ceased completely while you were lost in dreary thoughts. Missing him before he left.

Perhaps he reads some of that misery in your face, because his brows crinkle and he says, “Sorry I have to go.”

“You’re so full of sorrys today,” you say, put-out that you hadn’t concealed the truth of your feelings and he’d latched onto them.

“Strange.” He picks up one of your hands, kissing each knuckle tenderly. What he is hiding, you can’t tell, because his eyes are lowered, hidden behind lashes and lids. “You know what?” he says suddenly. “I’ll buy you a new nightgown one of these days.”

“I thought you liked this one.”

“I do. But you don’t. And I want you to like it.”

How could he say such sweet things and then leave? It’s the one part of him that you can’t understand. He goes out of his way to see you but still happily departs with the dawn? What logic was he clinging to?

“Want me to take you back naked?” Law’s eyes shine at the prospect. “Bet your baker is awake and won’t notice all the noises we make.”

Pursing your lips together, you seize a pillow to whack him in the face. He startles, then laughs. And laughs and laughs, when the pillow turns into a ball of dust. Your fingers close on nothing, the dust ball lost somewhere in the sheets when he tackles you.

“Where did the pillow go!” you ask indignantly.

“Don’t worry about it!”

But you don’t have the heart to exacerbate the joke, giving him the upper hand. The sun might be rising, but this night had more light in it than any day for a long, long time.

If he has to leave, at least he leaves laughing.

#trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #one piece #one piece fanfiction

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mqrrstarr · 2 months ago

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Gladiator Headcanons! (1/?)

How the Characters would act if you: Had A Cold!

Character x GN! Reader

Warnings: s3x implied

Characters Featured: Maximus, Lucilla, Commodus, Acacius, Caracalla, Geta, Lucius, Macrinus (edited: I never actually wrote anything for him but I did now)

A/N: First Tumblr post in a while, and I'm actually writing things too! This is the first time I've written elaborate headcanons, so please forgive if they seem a little off. I apologize for any historical/character innacuracies, and I hope to get better!! xoxo -mqrrstarr

Summary: headcanons!!

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Maximus would immediately notice something is off. You kept complaining about a headache that didn’t seem to stop, and your temperature was high.

“Darling, I don’t think you should fight today…”

You could only cough in response, and the guards wouldn’t let you rest. As the day’s challenge was fighting in pairs, he rapidly volunteered to fight with you. Maximus protected you from the other gladiators, and killed them as fast as you could sneeze. By the end of the day, Maximus gave you his blanket and other amenities, ushering you to a more comfier cell. (He had placed a bet with another gladiator.)

“There darling, rest up nice and easy.”

I can also see Maximus getting the other gladiators to create a soup/stew sort of mixture. Not good. But he’s very fatherly, if you can get that?

- - - - - - - -

Lucilla knows everything. After taking care of Lucius as a child, she can rapidly tell when you’re not feeling well.

“Sweetie? Do you feel alright?”

She’d do the mom thing, put her hand on your forehead and try to figure out what was wrong with you. Your head was practically boiling, so she’d get her servants to make tea, lay you in her triclinium and keep you company.

“The servants will prove useful sweetie. You’re a strong warrior, so keep hanging on.”

She’d hum a lullaby, read poetry (the same she’d read to Lucius) and tell stories until you fell asleep.

- - - - - - - -

Commodus was rarely comforted growing up, so he knew how to handle sickness easily. Growing up semi-independent, he knew homemade tricks and tips to feel better.

“Y/N, are you not feeling well? Just get some herbs and drink an elixir. You’ll be fine.”

He realizes that he sounds a bit harsh, and reminds himself that he never wants to treat you how he was treated; with solitude and no gratitude. Commodus gets you all the snacks and food you want, and even hugs you for as long as you want.

When you question him after it’s been a whole afternoon of him on your chest, he simply says,

“Y/N, do not question the Emperor. I wish to lay with you, and I do not fear sickness. The Gods can protect one of their own.”

He keeps hugging you and falls asleep, and the next day you’re both coughing and sneezing.

- - - - - - - -

Acacius has been through so many battles and massacres, yet he’s never truly encountered a cold. The soldiers that cough, are usually dead. Coughing up their own blood, that is. He really doesn’t know how to help you properly, but he’ll try his best.

“Angel, can you tell me what’s wrong? I’m not really sure what to do. Should I get a doctor? Are you feeling a certain way?”

and as he says this, Acacius would use his hands to caress yours, and treat you even more like a princess/prince. He’d lay you in his own bed, and give you massages until you’d feel better. He’d also do a little more if you’d want. Iykyk. You’d fall asleep quickly, and you’d wake up to Acacius either next to you, or on a chair by the bedside and he’d be all sprawled out. His soldier senses would wake him up though.

“Angel? Angel? You’re all right now, that’s wonderful. My lovely Venus, you’re all healed.”

And his words, he would seal with a forehead kiss. GOD HE’S SUCH A SWEETHEART I NEED PEDRO PASCAL

- - - - - - - -

Caracalla had his own sickness, the one of syphilis. His wild mentality usually was what kept him going, and the love of ruling over Rome. Yet the Emperor cared for his significant other, and refused to let anyone else; even his closest servants touch you.

“My Wife/Husband, the most holiest of them all, I shall take care of you. Please tell me what your most vivid desires are? Allow me to assist you.”

He’s such a sweetheart, and he’d definitely tell you so many stories of him and Geta in their childhood, Roman mythology, and anything to keep you entertained. As he also has mommy and daddy issues, he also do a Commodus-esque move and lay on your chest and probably fall asleep first haha. When the both of you awake, he'd hear your stomach rumble.

“You’re hungry? Well then I shall feed you. Anything for you my love.”

He’d keep you filled with food and him to help your weak state. (CARACALLA COME HOME THE KIDS AND I MISS YOU)

- - - - - - - -

Geta was always stressed. Getting much more to do as Emperor, as Caracalla had his own “duties” to fulfill. When you started coughing and sneezing as you strolled in the palace garden, he’d send the servants away to prepare a room where you could quarantine. As much as he loved you, he’d refuse to get sick. (Rome needs a healthy representation.) So you’d be alone the first few days with the occasional knock on the door. When you seemed less sick than before, he’d spend all the time with you.

“My love? I’m here for you. The Gods have finally allotted time for our get together. It will be only the finest in Rome for the night; us.”

He’d definitely turn the situation into a fun (fucking) night and then the days after that would be a cycle of laying together, fine dining meals, and caressing. (your bodies, of course.) When he has to return to his Emperor duties, he’ll leave with a long romantic and passionate kiss, one that made your entire body warm.

“Won’t be long. I’ll be back in the night.”

(if you couldn't tell i love the idea of geta as needy all the time)

- - - - - - - -

Lucius knew what it was like to feel sick and tired constantly, so he took care of you. Like a shepherd tending to his favorite sheep. Both of you grand warriors and gladiators, so there was no time to feel bad. He reassured you he could fight without you, and vowed to come back every time.

“Dearest, I promise to return safely. I couldn’t leave my soul with you, it has to be me truly here always. I vow on our love to fight for freedom and the peace of Rome. I will also fight for you.”

You trusted Lucius, (WHO WOULDN’T WITH THOSE BLUE EYES) and he is a man of his word. Day after day, you slowly healed and was able to rejoin Lucius and the others again.

“See? I knew you’d heal. The Gods give power to those who are great. And you are great.”

You fought as usual, but he’d still protect you a little more to ensure you were actually okay.

- - - - - - - -

Macrinus would see you and get together some gladiators in your presence, hoping they would entertain you and help you ignore the pain.

“Sickness is nothing but temporary Y/N. You can and have the power to move on.”

You’d take his advice and eventually keep doing your work as his assistant, and he’d make sure you were well taken care of.

“Y/N? A true warrior does not dawdle. Good job keeping up with your tasks.”

Surprisingly, you were able to keep up with work and healed faster than expected. (THERE I WROTE FOR MACRINUS)

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agent-cupcake · 9 months ago

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Amen

Pairing: Suguru Geto x f! Reader

Synopsis: No matter the severity of your actions, Suguru would never actually hurt a member of his sorcerer family. Luckily, there are other ways he can think of to punish you. It's for your own good.

Warnings: Explicit smut, dubcon, possessive behavior, manipulation

Tags: Punishment, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, dirty talk, vibrators, bondage, orgasm torture, cunnilingus, humiliation

Word Count: 10.4k

Notes: This story is for @laurenzel. I think this can be almost seen as a companion to my previous Gojo story since there's similar toxic motives and means used by the men, but a difference in method.

“Would you care to join me tonight?” was what Geto said to you, smiling so sweetly, so gently. He said it like an offer, or a question, but you both knew the answer. It was the same as it had been since the very first time he asked, since the first time he kissed you, since the first night you spent together.

And you, finally given direction in the big, confusing world, couldn’t even conceive of saying no to Geto. You didn’t have to do, say, or think anything on your own—just follow him. And you did. Happily, you did, thinking nothing of the offer other than how pleased you were that he asked.

Chills prickled over your bare arms and legs when you walked into his room. The air felt a few degrees too cool, especially when you were accustomed to the August heat. Everything about his room seemed cold. It was furnished in stark contrast to the simple, traditional temple façade the rest of the complex maintained outwardly. Black painted walls, a hard floor, and ebony furniture upholstered with dark leathers and suedes. There was a flat, modern utilitarianism to the room despite its luxury, all at once inviting and off putting. The silky black sheets and dusky saturation of velvety vanilla and citrus lent a sex appeal to the room that you inextricably associated with Geto.

“Will you help me with this?” he asked, gesturing to his clothes.

“Yes, of course,” you said, rushing to his side to help him undress. Even though the vestments Geto wore were for show, the articles were genuine and required careful handling. A perfect costume needed to be authentic. You unfastened the kasaya first, hanging it up.

“I think,” he said while your hands were busy, “we need to talk about what you did.”

You paused, turning to him with your brow furrowed, your stomach dropping in response to the accusatory tone of his voice. “What did I do?”

“You killed Kurokawa.”

Your frown deepened, your chest tightening with a harsh burst of guilt. “How do you know that?”

Geto raised an eyebrow. That was the wrong thing to ask, it made you look more guilty than you were. Besides, the answer was obvious. He knew everything. You shook your head fast, trying to come up with an explanation that didn’t sound like an excuse.

“I… I thought you would be happy I took care of him,” you said. “He was causing trouble. He was a bad man.”

“If you thought I would be pleased, why didn’t you tell me right away?”

There were reasons, weren’t there? Good ones, explanations that could help you smooth this over. Beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t think of any of them. “I… I don’t, um… I was going to, but I didn’t want to distract you or anything. I’m not… I didn’t mean-”

“No. You didn’t tell me because you knew you were wrong,” Geto stated, telling you so directly that you couldn’t help but believe it.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“To be clear, I’m not concerned with his death,” Geto told you. “I’m worried about you. About what you might do without my intervention. I have been for a while.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you said. That was probably the most true thing you could say, the sentiment that defined your existence. You did not understand.

“I like to think that you’ve grown since you joined the family, but sometimes I don’t know if I can trust you to act with a clear head. Kurokawa was a doctor, wasn’t he?”

You bristled at the reminder, mentally pushing back on the idea that you did it for such a personal reason. “He was… he was dangerous,” you argued. “He wanted to get the police involved.”

“That isn’t my point,” Geto explained. “You acted out on your own. I knew Kurokawa was causing problems, but I didn't ask you to kill him. He still had value to me, in his own way." He paused, considering you with pursed lips. "If you told me what you did immediately, maybe I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, but as it is, all this proves is that you haven’t moved beyond your past experiences. I can’t trust you."

You bit your lip, swaying back as if those words had been a physical blow, only becoming more confused. Completely and utterly confused about how killing somebody who was a bad man, killing a hateful monkey upset Geto. You did it for him. You did it because the man was evil, and because he said terrible things, and because he was a hideous embodiment of the type of person who would see you locked up tight in another drug dispensing, mind-numbing, monkey hospital.

All you could understand was that you had disappointed Geto, and the cutting violence of his doubt cut deep into your chest as physically as a knife.

“I’m sorry,” you said again.

“Are you going to finish this?” Geto asked rather than acknowledge your apology, pulling at his collar. You nodded, rushing back to his side to untie the obi sash and fold it, helping him shrug off his black yukata to hang that up as well.

Left in a tight undershirt, a pair of loose pants, and socks he was quick to peel off and toss aside, Geto-sama emerged from his costume looking a decade younger and twice as dangerous. Like this, he was Suguru. You weren’t equals, but you were more than a little familiar. Although, you weren’t sure if you would dare to be so friendly with him now that you understood you were in trouble.

Before, you assumed you were here because he desired you. Now that felt presumptuous and silly.

You averted your eyes and stepped back, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The silence physically hurt. Apologies built up like a dam in your head, stopping any other sort of thought from getting through as guilt brewed and boiled in your stomach. Worse, you couldn’t say he was wrong. Maybe you had knowingly acted against Geto, against the family, because of what Kurokawa represented to you. Maybe you couldn’t be trusted. And, if that was true, maybe you deserved his anger and all of the terrible things that followed anger.

“Are you nervous?” Suguru asked.

“No,” you said quickly.

“Liar. I can hear it. Your heart is racing. You’re scared. Is it me?” He nudged your chin up with the side of his hand, forcing you to meet his eyes and the little smile he wore. “Are you frightened of me?”

“You’re angry,” you said, shrinking back. “Angry with me.”

“Oh,” Suguru hummed thoughtfully, “so you’re scared that I’m going to punish you. Is that it?”

Hesitantly, you nodded.

“You’re right, I am.”

Your breath caught before you shook your head fast, panicking. “No, you… I’m really sorry. I mean it, I was just trying to… He deserved to die.”

“I understand,” Suguru said, “and I appreciate what you say you were trying to do. The problem is that I don’t believe that was your motive. That is why I’m upset.” He ran his fingers through his hair, putting into a messy bun. “Do you understand the distinction?”

You blinked fast, feeling the horrible bite of tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now… what do you think would be a fitting punishment?”

You looked up at him in stark shock, hoping desperately that you misunderstood him. He didn’t clarify anything, simply waiting for you to answer. You shook your head again, your mouth opening and closing before you managed a meek, “I don’t know.”

“But you agree, don’t you?” he asked, going over to his chest of drawers. Suguru looked at you over his shoulder, eying you up and down, drinking your awkward nerves. “You deserve to be punished for your disobedience.”

You exhaled sharply, conflicted about what kind of answer to give. More importantly, what kind of answer he wanted. If you were smarter, you would be able to talk your way out of this situation. If you were better attuned to Suguru’s needs, you would be able to give him what he wanted. If you were loyal, he wouldn’t have been mad in the first place. Those thoughts weren’t helpful, all you could do was stare and try to solve the puzzle of his mood. You had seen that little smirk on his face when he teased Nanako, but also when he killed non-jujutsu sorcerers that had outlived their usefulness.

“You’re really asking me?” you finally got out, the only response you could muster.

His back was turned to you now as he looked through the drawer, but you saw his shoulder raise in a casual shrug. “I’m curious.”

Your gut instinct was to deny that you deserved punishment to try and spare yourself, but you held that impulse. You had already agreed that you did something wrong, so denying that you deserved punishment could make things worse. Then again, if you agreed, then maybe he would take that as permission to do even worse. Either one could potentially upset him too, because it would prove that you didn’t know what he wanted. Suguru did nothing to alleviate your nervous indecision as he turned around, holding an unmarked red box, watching you with that enigmatic smirk.

“If you think I do,” you said carefully, “then-”

“No,” he said, cutting you off. “I am asking if you acknowledge that you deserve punishment for what you have done.”

“I won’t do it again,” you told him, your voice soft. “I promise.”

Suguru frowned. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know, but it’s true,” you insisted. Rather than relent to your distress, his eyes narrowed dangerously, finally giving you some indication about the response he actually wanted. “I do!” You said quickly. “I…” The words were thick like syrup, awkward to get out. “I deserve to be punished.”

Suguru smiled, setting the box on the bed and sitting on the black leather footboard bench, his legs spread wide and comfortable and head slightly tilted.

“Are you going to hurt me?” you asked softly.

“Hurt you?” Suguru asked, raising a thin eyebrow. “I would never hurt you. I don’t think you’re likely to learn from pain anyway, hm? It wasn’t effective for your parents or doctors.”

“But… but you said you were going to punish me?” you asked, looking between him and the box with an increasing amount of anxiety.

“Take off your clothes.”

Your jaw dropped. “I… My… You mean it?”

He raised both eyebrows, daring you to deny him. You clutched at the front of your dress, your shoulders curling in.

“But why?” you asked. He immediately gave you a pointed look, like you were stupid. “This… it’s… You want to…?” You couldn’t even finish the question, the whole thing was so divorced from any coherence you could wrap your head around.

“You're allowed to say no and leave, I won’t stop you,” Suguru told you. He considered that for a moment, his head falling to the side. “If you stay, we’ll switch to your safe word rather than no. You remember it, don’t you?”

Safe word? You remembered him establishing that the first night he allowed you into his bed, but you hadn’t really thought much of it. Why would you ever want him to stop? Now the thought of it made you feel a little cold, and not because of the air conditioner valiantly chugging away in an attempt to keep the August heat at bay. It had taken a few days to come to terms with sleeping with Suguru after it first happened, but this was unreal in an entirely different way. You felt like you were looking down a very long, dark tunnel, like you were hopelessly and utterly lost.

“I do,” you said faintly. “I remember.”

“It’s your choice then.”

You winced, unable to look at him. You weren’t going to leave. That was unthinkable. The idea of undressing in front of him like it was some sort of show wasn’t especially comfortable either, but you understood that you would do it. “That’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“I’ve noticed,” Suguru said. “You don’t want to think of yourself as the type of woman who would strip for a man. But you are, and you will. For me.”

You flushed darker, avoiding his eyes. Trying to keep your breathing from going completely out of control, you nodded. It was easier to obey. You wouldn’t know what you would do if you left his room right now, where you would go, how you would feel. It wasn’t about you, it was about what you had done to disappoint Suguru, and how you would make it right. He wanted to know that you were loyal, that you had left behind the pathetic wretch you used to be.

Humiliating as it was, he was helping you. That was all he had ever done.

“Yes, sir.”

With shaking hands, you unzipped your dress. Considering the summer heat, you were wearing as little as possible. Three articles of clothing separating you from his eyes. You weren’t sure if that was better, making it so the process of undressing wasn’t so drawn out, or worse because it meant you couldn’t stall.

“Keep going,” Suguru said when you hesitated with your thumbs hooked beneath the waistband of your panties. Closing your eyes, you pushed them down. The only positive you could think of was that you had the foresight to shave the night before. Ever since the first night you slept together you’d been taking personal grooming extremely seriously. Removing your bra was the worst of it all, but you dutifully undid the clasps and pushed the straps down your arms. He had seen you naked before, you reasoned. Even if you were disappointing, he still had asked to see you. It was fine.

If Suguru wanted it, it was fine.

“You’re too pretty to be so self-conscious,” he told you in a very calm, matter-of-fact way.

You tried not to shuffle awkwardly, clasping your hands in front of your stomach to hide their shaking. “Thank you,” you said softly, unable to meet his eyes even if you could feel them heavily on your flushing skin.

“Come here,” Suguru ordered. In your peripheral, you saw his hand raise, a single finger curling to draw you towards him.

You obeyed on awkward feet, glad to close the distance. He sat up to meet you face to face, having to look up at you for once and pulling you closer. You automatically parted your lips to kiss him. That was something you knew how to do. But his parted lips only brushed the corner of your mouth. When you tried to tilt your head to catch him, Suguru pulled back. Your eyes fluttered open—when had you closed them?—to see him smirking at the little trick.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, releasing you.

Nerves knotted and tangled in your stomach. There was something hot about his detached control, but you weren’t sure you liked it either. Vulnerability was discomfort. And still, you knew better than to argue or question. Trying to preserve as much of your modesty as was possible, you got onto his bed. It was easier to comply. Better to be obedient like he wanted. You didn’t want to disappoint him again.

“These are for you,” Suguru said, finally revealing the contents of the red box by lifting the glossy lid.

You stared into the box with curiosity, and then with a sharp pang of recognition. After that, nerves. Dread. Excitement. Blinking over and over didn’t change what you saw, there was no mistake about what lay inside. A lot of leather. Some chains. Scarf-like ties. You were pretty sure the wand-shaped item was a vibrator.

Suguru choked you last time you had sex, and he pinned your wrists down and pulled your hair and left marks on your thighs and chest, but this was different. Dangerous. This was scary.

“Geto-sama…” you said nervously, sticking to the formal address in the hopes that he would understand the sincerity of your doubt. “I’m not…”

“As I said, you’re allowed to stop this at any time,” he said, dropping the lid back onto the box with a crisp snap. “I would never force you into anything. If you truly feel bad for what you have done and want to prove yourself to me, I shouldn’t need to coerce you.”

Guilt and nerves writhed in your stomach. And excitement, always excitement for the simple reason that it was Suguru. You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? He had saved you. You disappointed him, it was only right that you did as you were told. You pushed the lid off again, forcing a sort of resolve. Your heart beat like a frantic war drum in your chest, and you were flushing so hotly it felt like a fever.

“What’s this all for?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“You won’t be able to hold still on your own,” he replied simply. “Besides, I think you’ll look sexy like this. I was waiting for an opportunity to try it.”

The bottom of your stomach gave way to anxious lust. You licked your lips, trying to calm yourself down.

“Okay,” you said softly.

“Put them on for me,” Suguru said, pulling out four of the leather cuffs. Your eyes widened, your lips parting to argue that as a step too far. It would be so much easier for you if he did it himself, if you didn’t have to actively engage with putting yourself in a literal bind.

Although maybe that was the point. This was punishment.

Prove your loyalty. You could do that for him.

Despite your forced mental affirmation, the whole task seemed too daunting for a moment, you had a nervously suffocating sense like drowning, but you forced that down. You would do anything for Suguru. That’s what this was about. Proving to him that you were loyal, that you would do as he said. That you were devoted.

You did the wrist cuffs first, slipping the first over your left hand and tightening the strap with your right. There was only one size; they would fit snugly. Thick chains hung from both cuffs. Although they weren’t as bad as pure metal bracelets, the leather wouldn’t be kind to your skin if you resisted too much. Tightening the strap on the right cuff was even worse since you were working with your non-dominant hand.

“Do you need help?” Suguru asked, laughing at your frustrated attempts to get the tongue through the buckle.

“Don’t laugh, please,” you begged, talking very softly to hide your increasingly unstable emotions. “I’m trying.”

“Here,” he said indulgently, “let me.” Suguru held out his hands for you to let him finish securing the cuff. “Do you need help with your ankles?”

“No, I… Thank you,” you said, unable to look at his expression. You could do this. You had to do this.

Still, your hands trembled unsteadily. When you nervously fumbled with the leather strap around your ankle, he laughed again.

“Don’t look,” you mumbled. The chains hanging from your wrists playfully clinked against the chains on your ankles.

“I have to make sure you do it properly. You could hurt yourself.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you whispered, more petulant than anything.

“I know,” Suguru told you sweetly, “but you’ve been such a good girl so far.”

Your breath caught at the praise. At the very least, he looked away to pull off his shirt. You used the distraction to get your ankles secured, watching him remove his pants with your hands between your legs to retain some modesty. Suguru, stripped to his boxers, surveyed your handiwork, a little smile growing on his face.

“What?” you asked nervously.

“Given how shy you are, I thought it would take more than this to convince you to do this for me. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or impressed.”

You frowned with a twisting sense of betrayal, but he cut off your displeasure by grabbing your legs to yank you towards him, leaning over the bed so he could kiss you.

Before Suguru, you hadn’t really understood what the point of kissing was. It was an act of affection you mirrored with others because it was what people did. When Suguru licked your lips open for himself, you understood. Any touch of his body against yours had a potent effect, but the openly intimate domination of his tongue against yours, his fingers slipping up your hair to tilt your head, the hand on your bare waist, it was enough to clear your mind all over again. Igniting the purest type of motivation—lust.

You wanted to show him your devotion. You wanted him to know you were sorry. You clung to his shoulders, hoping he could feel it.

All too soon, Suguru pulled back, his lips hovering inches from your own. You tried to follow, but he held you in place by your hair.

“I’m impressed,” he said, answering his comment from before. “I admire your dedication. I only wish it extended to your actions. I can’t trust you until I know you obey me.”

“I do,” you said. “I…I will.”

“Not yet.” Suguru didn’t wait for your response, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips, your cheek, and then tilting your head to whisper in your ear. “Move back. I’ll take care of the rest,” he told you, his husky voice making you shudder.

“Yes, sir,” you muttered so softly you wondered if he heard you. When Suguru pulled away, you scooted back to sit in the center of his bed, waiting and watching with equal parts nerves and anticipation. He picked through the red box again, pulling out another set of leather cuffs and a bundle of those silky scarves.

“Open your legs,” he ordered in a business-like voice as he joined you on the bed, crawling up to you and readying one of the leather straps. The sudden shift of tone surprised you, throwing you off all over again.

“What’s that?” you asked nervously. He gave you a sharp look and you relented, opening your legs. Being exposed so brazenly made your skin crawl, but he paid no attention to your naked body, wrapping the strap around your thigh and fastening it, repeating the process on your other leg.

“What is it that the monkey said to upset you?” Suguru asked casually as he tested the straps for give, deeming them satisfactory. The conversational tone burst your bubble of rose tinged intimacy, sending your thoughts back to unpleasant places. “I assume something set you off.”

“I… um…” As if revealing a magic trick, he unwound a length of the red scarf-like fabric, distracting you from a question you hadn’t really understood in the first place.

“Or did he try to attack you?” Suguru pushed, neatly doubling the scarf and pulling it around your back. He had to sit close as he blindly tied the knot and the cashmeran twilight scent of his skin filled your senses, you held your breath when he pulled away just to keep it close for a moment longer.

“Have you done this before?” you asked as he wound the scarf around your chest and shoulders with a practiced hand, searching for a distraction from the embarrassment.

“Does it bother you if I have?” Suguru asked.

“No, sir.”

He had to lean forward again to fasten the final knot on your back. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said softly. “What happened?”

You winced. “He called me delusional. He said I’m just a… a bitch in your harem, and that I’d go down with you.”

“I see,” Suguru said, pulling back, his expression impassive.

“I’m really sorry, Geto-sama,” you said.

“Are you worried he’s right?” Suguru asked, his voice so saccharinely sweet it had to be mocking.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“You are special to me,” Suguru told you sweetly, petting your hair.

“You’re special to me too,” you said, eager to try and express your adoration. “Very, very special.”

“I’m doing this because you’re so special to me. I can help you grow, and help you move on. I can show you the benefits of an honest life without the petty influence of the weak, but I cannot force your obedience. I need you to choose to listen to me, to obey me.”

“That is my choice,” you said.

“Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘actions speak louder than words’?” Suguru countered, revealing the final trick of his little magic show. The chains on your wrists connected to those on your ankles with a few inches of slack, your ankle cuffs connected to the straps on your thighs, and the loose ends of scarves from the harness he had just finished tying were threaded into the D-rings on your thigh straps. Unable to balance upright, you rolled onto your back, fully exposed and unable to do much of anything about it. “This is your chance to make amends.”

Suguru put his hand on your bare chest, right above your racing heart as it beat against your ribs. “You’re scared again,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. Do you not believe that?”

“I’m just…” you squirmed uncomfortably, unable to articulate what you felt. You didn’t know what you felt, couldn’t figure out anything beyond the intensely physical embarrassment and the panicked disquiet of being bound and exposed.

“You know what to do to make this stop,” he pointed out, his hand dragging down your chest to your flinching stomach. “Just say the word, and I’ll let you leave.”

Suguru told you that almost like it was a joke. He was daring you to use the safe word and stop him, to show him that you weren’t as devoted as you claimed. His hand reached your pelvis and you whimpered, your hips wiggling in an undecided way. Did you want him to touch you, or were you nervous for that part? You couldn’t tell. The feelings were the same.

He finally dropped over you, both of his hands resting on your ass before brushing up your thighs, pressing them further apart as he kissed you with an open mouth. Suguru’s tongue urgently met yours, teasing enough to invite your active and enthusiastic participation. To show him how much you wanted him. Of course you did.

With a surprising bite on your lower lip, Suguru left your mouth to move down, licking and kissing his way across your jaw, following the line of your neck. He stopped there, sucking hard right above your pulse until you shuddered hard, making a soft, helpless noise. Your hands anxiously jerked, but all that did was snap the chains taut. Taking his time, his hand trailed down your thigh, his fingernails scraping the skin, until he reached your pussy.

When Suguru’s fingers made contact with the sensitive flesh, you yelped, and he bit your neck hard enough to draw that yelp out into a pathetic keen. Your attempt to free your hands so you could push him back served only to pull your legs open wider.

“Was that too much?” Suguru asked, lightly tracing your slit.

“Hurts,” you said, your breathing hard and fast. He chuckled warmly, finding your clit and tracing little circles over it, just teasing. You whimpered.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asked, his lips brushing your skin as he moved down your chest.

You made a choked, conflicted sound in your throat, any coherent response leaving your head the second his mouth closed around your nipple. Electric pulses of pleasure zipped down to your core, made that much more intense by the fingers on your clit. Suguru added more pressure against it, the weight sweetened by the friction of his calloused fingertips. Your hips rolled into the touch, your back arching for every delicious movement of his tongue or teeth on your nipple.

A hoarse wail left your mouth when he released you with a wet pop, moving to do the same to your other nipple. His fingers were truly grinding against your clit at this point. It wasn’t the sweet enticement of pleasure, but a brute force motion that guaranteed you would come fast.

You whined and moaned and shuddered, fighting the restraints. Sweat slicked up your skin, chafing beneath the restraints as you jerked, your body going taut to prepare for the sudden orgasm. You managed a choked, “I can’t, I can’t, I-” And then that tension snapped. It was good, but the rush was too fast and fleeting, fizzling itself out before you could savor the feeling. All it really did was make you want more.

With another lewdly wet pop, Suguru pulled off your nipple and sat up, his hand retreating from between your legs. “How did that feel?” he asked.

You swallowed, nodding fast. “‘s good. Tha-aa-nk you, sir.”

“It’s interesting to me how much more sensitive girls are after coming,” Suguru said, teasing you with his fingers lightly tracing over your slit. “It’s almost obscene. Men need time, but you already want more, don’t you?”

You shuddered, panting and flushed. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He smirked, although you couldn’t say you really understood the joke. Your entire body twitched, the chains clinking, and he licked his lips, looking at your flushed body like he was eying up a meal.

Your eyes squeezed shut when he ran two fingers from your entrance, dragging a smear of slick arousal up to your clit.

“No, don’t close your eyes,” Suguru said, beginning to draw patterns over your swelling clit. “Look at me.”

You nodded, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze despite how overwhelming it was to be watched while he touched you so intimately. You squirmed, inhaling sharply through your teeth, already feeling the tantalizing build.

“What about you?” you asked. “You don’t have to, um… um…” Blinking fast, breathing hard, your words scattered like dust and you felt the same tightening in your core, the sparkling promise of release. At the exact moment you were about to come again, Suguru pressed his hand flat between your legs, denying you that final push over the edge.

Whining and desperate and so, so close, your hips bucked upward, desperate to come again. It was already too late, out of your grasp. “Geto-sama, please, I was-”

“No,” he said simply.

“What?”

“No. I’m not going to let you come again. I’ve already given you one more than you deserve.”

“No,” you whispered, horrified. “You… You can’t.”

“No?” he repeated, his fingers tracing your clit slowly, with the barest amount of pressure. “You remember why I’m doing this, don’t you? I’m punishing you.” He pressed more intently against your clit. Unable to comprehend denial, your body began the process of drawing up tight. “You need to learn to be obedient. You have to learn to take whatever I see fit to give you.”

“I am,” you gasped out. “I do, I-I will, I’m…” Your back arched, your arms and legs falling aside as if to make an offering of your body in the hopes that he would let you come this time. “I’m sorry that I… that I did that,” you babbled, your pussy tightening around nothing as your body got ready to come. “I’m really… really… I’m-”

Suguru stopped just when you were on the precipice again, tapping your folds as if to mock your need. You squinted at him, your chest hitching a heavy breath, tears pricking your eyes. “But I said… Oh…” You didn’t finish what you were saying, too distracted by the slick slide of his fingers inside of you. So good. You swallowed hard, your cunt squeezing his fingers desperately as his fingers curled, dragging against your g-spot as they pulled out before thrusting forward.

“If your words meant anything, you wouldn’t need to be punished in the first place,” Suguru pointed out, although you weren’t paying very close attention, your body awkwardly trying to roll into his fingers as they slowly fucked you. He touched your clit with his other hand, once again ensuring that you would come quickly.

Too quickly, really. The intensity of pleasure shocked you, especially since you were so sensitive, desperate for more. “Please, can I… will you please… Please?” you begged, your animal need curbed slightly by fear.

“You should know that no other man will do this for you,” Suguru said. “No one else will ever care for you the way I do.”

You nodded fast, knowing that was the truth. No other person in the world had ever been as kind or compassionate to you as Suguru. Nobody had ever wanted you, or made you feel important, or given you purpose. You loved him. You felt that affection swell alongside your building orgasm.

He would let you come this time, he wasn’t slowing down. His fingers made a sickening wet schlick as they pumped in and out of your pussy, working in time with the finger on your clit. You were there, your body taut and ready and desperate and-

A wail escaped you when he stopped at the last moment, your entire body jerking in desperation to reclaim your ruined orgasm. As soon as it was gone, he returned to touching you in the same way, vigorously chasing you back to the edge and abandoning you seconds before you could get off.

“Please,” you begged.

“I told you no,” Suguru reminded you, adding a third finger to pump and curl into your pussy as if to punctuate the cruel statement. You were off the edge now, but your body still stupidly strove to take more pleasure. You blinked tears, confused and needy and trembling, your breathing shallow.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. The touch on your clit had you throwing your head back, your nostrils flared and teeth clenched. Chains clicked together when you tried to free your arms, but it was a fruitless struggle. You didn’t want to respond to his touch in the same way, you needed a reprieve, but there was no escape. You were sensitive. Your body remembered coming once, and that was enough of an incentive to try to get more.

“You can always stop me,” Suguru said. “If it becomes too much.”

“It’s…” you told him, although your attempt to seem brave was weakened by your breathy, pathetic voice. “I’m… I can take whatever you give me. I’m…” You sobbed, overwhelmed by the drag of his fingers against your g-spot. He barely had to put any pressure on your clit, it was so swollen beneath his teasing fingers. “Please, sir. I just… Just one, please?”

“I already let you come once,” he reminded you, amused.

You moaned miserably, your head tossing back and forth as you readied yourself for another orgasm. You hoped that maybe if you could just come before he noticed, then that would be enough to soothe the horrible ache, the fearful deprivation he kept stoking to a blaze.

It was there, right at your fingertips, on the tip of your tongue, and Suguru hummed happily when he suddenly pulled his fingers out of you. You shouted, thrashing against your bindings. They all held, keeping you helpless beneath him.

“Please, I… please.”

“No,” Suguru said, slowly pushing just one finger into you. You sobbed when he used it to massage your g-spot. Not giving you any real pressure or weight or friction, just that constant reminder of the pleasure you had been denied.

“I can’t,” you said tearfully, straining to get more out of that single finger like a starving woman being thrown crumbs.

“You can,” Suguru told you. His word was gospel. It didn’t matter what you thought.

He pulled his finger out before you could get too used to it, only to return with three. You choked, your body jerking hard enough against the restraints to hurt, suddenly thrown into high gear as he properly finger-fucked you, bouncing your entire body.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t touching your clit, you could get off just on this. Your body was thrumming with denied pleasure and you wanted it so bad you could scream.

“Yes, yes, please, yes—No!”

You were properly sobbing this time when he stopped, almost horrified by the intensity of your body’s disappointment when his fingers pulled out. You had no idea how he was getting the timing so perfect, but it was worse than if he was just hurting you. Suguru shoved his fingers into your open mouth while you were still reeling, smearing the taste of your pussy onto your tongue. You didn’t need his instruction to suck on them, hoping that the display of thoughtless obedience would earn you some leniency.

“Good girl,” he cooed, pushing his fingers deeper into your mouth, almost enough to make you choke. When he pulled them out, he didn’t linger, kissing a line down your stomach. Your arms fought the restraints when you realized his intentions because you weren’t sure you could handle feeling his mouth on you like this, not if he was going to keep denying you.

“No,” you whined. “Please, I… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Suguru said calmly, not even bothering to look up at you.

A heavy, almost guttural moan left your mouth when his tongue licked past your folds, tossing you right back into the abyss of lustful need. All he had to do was brace his forearm across the backs of your thighs and you were unable to do anything, your trapped arms and legs twitching, your feet kicking uselessly into the empty air, the chains connecting them to your wrists clicking.

Suguru was good at this, switching between flat-tongued licks and pointed patterns, closing his lips around your clit until you were choking out these pathetic little chirps, your body reacting in a way entirely out of your control.

And when you were there, right at the very edge, he pressed a kiss to your clit and looked up at you from beneath his dark eyelashes.

You sobbed, throwing your head back in a childish display of disappointment.

“You’re alright. Breathe,” Suguru said.

“Please,” you begged.

Suguru hummed as he lowered his head, shaking it side to side with his tongue flat against your clit. Your toes curled, your hands forming pathetic fists.

It didn’t take much to build you up all over again, your entire body was wired and ready. You didn’t think you had ever felt so aware of yourself. Your skin, your pussy, your heart, your body, everything crackled and blazed. What was he doing, drawing kanji with his tongue? You didn’t know, but it felt amazing. You chased that feeling knowing you shouldn’t, thinking that maybe this time, maybe if you were fast enough. Maybe, maybe, maybe-

“No, please, I just wanna…” Suguru’s tongue stilled and he pulled away, watching you fall apart at yet another denied orgasm. “No!”

He casually pressed two fingers into you, massaging them against that spongy spot with a wet squish that was beyond obscene. “You know what to say to make me stop,” he told you.

“I know,” you said, wishing you could cover your face, wishing for some point of sanity here in this lust-mad haze. “I don’t want… Please, Geto-sama, I just wanna come, please.”

“Oh?” he said, his other hand returning to rest on your pelvic bone to playfully tease your clit. “Do you think you deserve that?”

“I…” You tried desperately to figure out the correct answer by looking at his expression, but you couldn’t tell and his hands kept you distracted. Deserve didn’t matter, all you could think was that you wanted to come. “Yes?” you said, hoping very much that was the correct response, practically praying for the torment to end. His fingers slowed and you let out an embarrassing little keen. “Ah… No, no I…” His expression still didn’t change, leaving you scrambling. Your chest hiccupped with a sob, your confused spiral boiling down to the pit of desperate need. “I don’t know.”

Rather than respond, Suguru’s head lowered between your legs once more to tongue your clit in time with his fingers. You felt a hot rush of hope that you got something right, that he was finally going to let you come. Your entire body surged towards the feeling, going so stiff that it made your trembling muscles ache.

And there, right on the edge, he stopped. You didn’t have it within you to do anything other than cry, openly weeping at this point. If he were only teasing you it would be one thing, but he was purposefully working you right up to the edge and then abandoning you there. It was the feeling of being unable to sneeze amplified to a million, that torturous feeling of almost.

“I’ll do anything, please,” you told him, your voice coming out broken.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t before?” Suguru asked. You opened your mouth to argue, only to realize that it didn’t matter. Nothing you said or did mattered, you were helpless to him. You had already surrendered everything else, the only thing you could do was obey and hope for his mercy.

You understood. He didn’t want you to beg. He wanted you to obey. To be good for him without question.

You could do that.

Suguru pushed his fingers back into you, repeating the whole process of working you up and abandoning you again. And again. And then he added his mouth. There were several times in your life you’d been pushed to the absolute brink of sanity, and right then you were convinced that you were going to go mad. But you grit your teeth and endured it. You had to. This was your punishment, and Suguru would decide when to end your misery.

You had to be good for him.

Had you ever been this wet? Swollen too, all of your blood flowing dangerously hot between your legs. It was disgusting, your pussy was sloppy and red and he barely had to touch your clit at all to build you right up to that edge. And it was just as easy to let you fall, disappointed and unfulfilled and growing increasingly, painfully distraught from the denial.

You beat your fists pathetically against the bed, hitting your head into the pillow like a madman. Air puffed out of your chest fast and hard enough to make your head spin, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

Rather than continue the torture, Suguru grabbed your chin, dragging you out of your spiraling haze. His fingers were slick from being inside of you. You met his eyes through a veil of tears. “Have you had enough?” he asked, his voice wavering with a parody of pity. “I’m worried you’re going to hyperventilate.”

You blinked fast, trying to gather the coherence to respond. “I can… I can take it,” you told him with a miserable sort of resolve, your voice thin and breathless.

Suguru smiled. “Really? And if I said I intended to leave you like this, perhaps to go find a way to fix the mess you made?”

The thought was enough to make you sob. His attention was torturously uncomfortable, but being completely denied any resolution, being left bound and soaking wet and electrified with unfulfilled need, you almost would have rathered he hit you.

But you nodded, forcing yourself to accept it. Anything less would be to reject his authority over you, right? It would make you seem less loyal. “Anything,” you whispered.

“Ah, that look in your eyes is wonderful,” he cooed. “You mean it, don’t you?”

You nodded insistently. “I love you,” you told him, speaking without thought, saying it because it was true. “I’ll do… I’ll do anything.”

“Okay, I’ll let you come,” Suguru said, releasing your face so his hand could wander back down between your legs.

You made a weak noise, your body unconsciously jerking, straining towards him.

It was pathetic, he barely had to do anything, simply brushing his flat fingers in light circles over your swollen clit. And that was enough. Fear flooded your insides alongside the same frantic, hot rush of pleasure. All of your muscles contracted in a mass of sore, shaking muscles and bestial desperation because you were afraid he would stop again, afraid that he would deny you and there would be no recourse other than pathetic acceptance.

“Please, please, I-I love you,” you plead, your voice whispery, rough and desperate, borderline incoherent.

And he didn’t stop.

That wet, hot snap of release was one of the best things you had ever felt. You convulsed, chains clicking and leather chafing against your skin and his name spilling from your lips over and over. He worked you right through the orgasm. You were crying again, sobbing and shaking and sticky hot. It felt good. It felt like forgiveness.

“Another?” Suguru asked. Your eyes had been shut, but now they opened to see his smile.

You just shook your head, lacking the capacity to respond.

He didn’t wait, pushing three fingers into you while teasing your clit with his other hand. It forced your body through a surprisingly uncomfortable rubbery mixture of overstimulation and mindless need. It left you feeling like an elastic band being stretched and stretched. In spite of that feeling, a few solid, harsh pumps later and you were coming again, your pussy squeezing his fingers to keep them there while he worked you through it. There was very little drama to it, you were already wrung out. But it was good. Hot and wet and good.

Suguru didn’t stop. You fought the restraints, wanting to move, to writhe, to get more comfortable, to take some control back because you needed a moment to collect yourself.

“I really-” It was hard to speak. Hard to form the words. Hard to get them out. “Oh God, I—ah.”

Almost painfully sensitive, the rough pounding of his fingers against your g-spot started to register as too much. You fought the restraints, a different sort of panic setting in. To keep your body from rejecting the pleasure of his touch, Suguru doubled down against your clit, pressing a little harder. You had been starving, but now you were splitting full from the assault pleasure.

“Too—oo much,” you got out through your teeth, although it probably didn’t seem like it was too much when your back was arching accordingly, your pussy clamping down around his relentless fingers, that coiling buildup of release reaching its apex.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream, your fingers and toes clawing helplessly at the sheets as you came, practically choking on the hot feverish intensity of your orgasm.

“No, it’s not,” Suguru told you. His fingers slowed at least, and then pulled out. It wasn’t much of a reprieve, he immediately shuffled down the bed so he could situate his head back between your thighs.

You hissed, tensing up, your arms jerking against the restraints. Your clit was too sensitive for his tongue, he had to understand that. “You… You don’t… Have to,” you got out, your voice unsteady from how hard you were panting. “I don’t need-”

“Don’t worry,” Suguru said sweetly. “I’m not doing this for you.”

The wet, warm patterns he drew on your clit with his tongue sent you into a sort of delirium. No matter how sensitive you thought you were, it was intoxicatingly good. He focused entirely on what made your hips try to jump, what made you moan and whine. When he slipped two fingers into your pussy at the same time, you felt ready to lose it entirely. You were falling apart. Splitting at the seams. You came with a harsh cry, Weeping at the fizzling heat of pleasure.

Suguru didn’t stop. He just hummed and flattened his tongue and kept going, forcing you right past that sickening few seconds of sensory rejection and towards another orgasm. You could do it. You focused on that because even if you weren’t entirely sure you wanted more, you wanted to be good for him. How ungrateful would it be to not come when he was kind enough to eat you out?

Covered in the sickly shine of sweat and shaking so uncontrollably that it felt like the world itself was trembling, you came again.

When he was content you were done, Suguru stopped, pulling his fingers out with a final brush against your g-spot to make you whine, your body mindlessly writhing. He sat up, brushing back strands of sweaty black hair with the back of his hand.

You wilted in place, closing your eyes to focus on your breathing while he messed with something else. It was hard to collect yourself, but you could already tell that you would be sore tomorrow.

Hearing the shift of fabric, you opened your eyes to see Suguru remove his boxers. Despite your messily deteriorated state, the sight of his cock roused enough of your mind to focus. He was hard, the red-flushed head bobbed as he casually stroked himself which might have been for your benefit. Despite the sensory overload, your pussy tightened in anticipation of feeling him inside of you. If he fucked you and you did good enough to make him come, then you would be done. That was, at the very least, an end goal. One more thing you could endure for him, and then he would forgive you.

Suguru looked down at you with a fond smile, an expression that seemed more than a little cruel when he was stroking his dick, when he knew fully well that you were painfully oversensitive and this would make it that much worse.

“Should I make you beg?” he asked warmly, tapping the head against your painfully sensitive folds. You whimpered, squirming. You weren’t entirely sure you wanted this, and he probably knew that, but maybe that was the point. It didn’t matter, you wanted him, you wanted to be good for him, and that superseded every other thing you felt.

“Please, Geto-sama,” you begged, defaulting to the formal address because you needed him to accept it, because he was your lord and master in every way except by name, because you adored him and worshiped him, and you needed him to understand that. “Fuck me, please. I’m yours.”

“So vulgar,” he said, sliding his cock up and down through the wet, sloppy mess he’d made of your pussy. “I wonder what happened to the sweet, innocent girl you used to be.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “Please.”

“I’m kidding,” Suguru told you, bracing one hand on your thigh to force your hips to curl while lining up his cock. “Aren’t you going to beg?”

“Please-”

“No, no. Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, forced yourself to look up at him through tear-covered lashes. “Please, Geto-sama. Please, I’m yours.”

It was nothing for him to push in. You were wet and eager and it felt good. The feeling of his cock popping past the initial barrier of muscle and driving deeper into your pussy was one of the most uniquely pleasurable sensations you had ever felt, no matter what the context. It gave you the sort of fullness nothing could replicate, physically grounded you in a way nothing else ever had.

Since you were watching, you got to see his expression slacken into one of pleasure. Your pussy fluttered and squeezed, just making room for him.

You gave up keeping your eyes open as he drove himself even deeper, throwing your head back to just take it, to ignore the discomfort of his cock grinding against what felt like raw nerves. Suguru braced his hands on your thighs as he rocked his hips, taking his time.

“What does it feel like?” he asked.

“Good,” you said quickly, your tongue feeling loose like you were drunk. “So… So good.”

“I want to feel you come again,” he said. “You don’t mind, right?”

Your eyes fluttered open in confusion, shutting when he suddenly snapped his hips forward. “I can’t,” you whined. “Not again.”

“You can,” Suguru told you, grinding his cock as far into as he could, pressing as deep as possible, deep enough to make you whimper and writhe. Could he feel that? Could he feel the way you were shaking all the way down to your bones, feel the way your heart raced and fluttered and skipped?

And then you heard it turn on. When you heard the buzzing, your brain was wildly scattered enough that you thought it was an electric toothbrush which made no sense whatsoever. When he pressed the vibrator directly to your clit, you yelped, trying to buck it off but only serving to grind yourself into his cock.

A few little circles with the thing against your clit was all it took for you to choke, your body seizing up with another orgasm. You were acutely aware of the way it caused your cunt to squeeze and suck his cock, coating it in a fresh wave of arousal as he pulled out, making a horrible wet slap when he thrust back in.

Suguru groaned, keeping the vibrator directly on your clit as he chose a slow, steady pace.

“I can’t,” you tried to tell him, squirming and writhing with renewed vigor as your body started to tense up to come again. You couldn’t stop it and of course it felt good but it was too much, almost burning. You could handle it. If you came again it would hurt, especially coming with his cock grinding so persistently into your overly sensitive cunt.

“I thought you were being good,” Suguru said, rewarding you with a heavy, harsh thrust that made you wail. And another. That sent you over the edge, whimpering and shaking and incoherent with the overwhelming influx of heat and tingling overstimulation. Like the brittle snap when breaking a glow stick, or taking a crisp, juicy bite of an apple. It should have been good, but all you could feel was the wet, helpless violation of something ruined.

Suguru moaned openly, driving himself deep enough for his hips to slap your ass with each heavy thrust. Your head whipped from side to side, the only form of protest left to you. He kept moving the vibrator to make sure you didn’t get too accustomed to any one type of stimulation. It was torture. Horrible torture. You wouldn’t have thought coming could be so agonizing, and yet when you drew up for another sharp, shuddery orgasm you couldn’t recognize it as anything else.

“Is this better or worse than before?” Suguru asked, his words stuttered with each hard thrust.

“I don’t… I can’t…” You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t do anything except convulse and cry and come. Again.

You didn’t understand.

“You don’t know?” he asked, breathy yet amused. “You’ll have to—to tell me later.”

The problem was that you had no place to think. You were too full. Suguru continued fucking you hard and steady. All you could hear was the slick slapping of wet skin and that infernal buzzing. There was so much weight behind every movement, like he was trying to batter his way into your womb. Each thrust was followed by a whimper or moan or cry. And the relentless vibrator against your clit. It hurt. It burned.

“I don’t… don’t…”

“You’re… not done,” Suguru told you, his voice heavy and breaking with exertion. “Come again.”

You weren’t sure if you were actually crying anymore, or just sobbing and panting and so sweaty it felt like you were crying. You couldn't form any coherent words, or even incoherent rejections. So you obeyed, the taste of blood on your tongue and stars dotting your vision, your pussy burning and inner walls pulsing around his cock as you came again. Suguru groaned, his lovely lips parted and eyes closed.

“One more,” he demanded. “Just… Just one… More.” That word was punctuated with a hard thrust and an especially cruel grind of the vibrator against your overstimulated clit. There was no point in saying no, or even believing it wasn’t possible. He knew more than you did. You didn’t know anything.

With a miserable whine, you came again, although at this point it felt like there was just a long, helpless flow of overstimulation marked with waves of overbearing heat, and then your pussy tightened around his cock and it dragged cruelly against your g-spot, and that was all you could manage before you were tossed back into the mindless daze of agonizing excess.

“Even though it hurts, you’re…” He didn’t finish that breathless thought, although his amused smile went away when his hips suddenly stuttered and he fell forward, his forearm resting by your shoulder.

Mercifully, Suguru shut the vibrator off, letting it fall somewhere to the side, bracing his other arm on the bed next to you as he sought his own end. Your arms and legs fell to the side, slack except for when your muscles spasmed or jerked. Every thrust added to the relentless cycle of too much, especially from this angle, you could feel the way your body worked itself up to come again, responding to his pleasure as if it were your own.

“Geto-sama… Suguru please,” you begged and there was a chance he couldn’t make out that you were attempting to form actual words, but even with your sanity fraying at the edges from his torture, you wanted him to come. You wanted to know there was a reason for your complete unraveling, that you had a real, good purpose, some sort of justification to exist.

Suguru forced your knees all the way up to your chest, pushing his cock as deep as possible as he came, working himself through it with shallow thrusts and these intoxicatingly sexy stuttered moans. Distantly, beyond the hellish, sweaty shell of your shaking body, you had the distinct thought that everything was worth it just to hear him moan like that. Just to be rewarded by his pleasure. Because you loved him. Because you belonged to him. Both of you were flushed hot and disturbingly slick with sweat and it hurt for him to be pushing so deep. Out of all the little cruelties he had subjected you to, the fact that you were unable to hold onto him like you wanted was one of the worst.

When Suguru pulled out, that hurt too. Every part of your body hurt. He left you to fall bonelessly limp onto the bed, rolling around to lay next to you.

In the relative quiet, your ears rang with a tinny discordance, paired with the engine roar of rushing blood. Your tongue was sandpaper in your mouth—little wonder, you had no idea how you had any liquid left in your body—and your limbs hurt from being stuck in the bound position for so long, but you couldn’t say you wanted to do anything to fix those things. As soon as the severity of those discomforts occurred to you, so were they carried away by the lapping tide of exhaustion. You felt like a sponge that had been squeezed dry. That’s probably what you looked like too.

“I didn’t expect it to be so… Difficult to contain myself,” Suguru mused softly. You didn’t respond, marveling at his voice. It was very nice. So soothing and smooth. Perfect, just like every other part of him. “It’s wrong, but necessary. You never learned the right way to live, I have to guide you. Otherwise you could hurt yourself. You could hurt our family.” There was more conviction in those words, like he was trying to argue against a point you hadn’t made.

Even if you were to be unbound, you wouldn’t dare close your legs. You couldn’t feel his cum slipping out, maybe you were too swollen. That would explain the painful heat.

“I wish I didn’t have to make my point like this,” Suguru continued. “But I'll do whatever it takes for you to get it.”

Mute confusion was the only thing you had left—you were barely aware enough to listen to what he was saying, let alone divine any meaning from the words. Your body hurt and you were thirsty and sweaty and tired. You didn’t think anything. You couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t say anything. It wasn’t even confusion, it was just pure exhaustion.

“Ah, you’re a mess,” Suguru said, sitting up. You groaned in disapproval when he started messing with the straps around your thighs, taking them off. Without the harness's support, your legs dropped limp onto the bed. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t fathom moving. “Hey,” he chided, “don’t go to sleep.”

You grunted unhappily.

“Will you open your eyes?” Suguru asked, touching your fever-hot cheek. After a second, you did, meeting his gaze with your own dazed, blank stare. His expression was tender, you thought. So kind, so sweet, so gentle. “I need you to listen to me now, hm?”

You made a sound to show that you were listening, looking up at his beautiful face with a marveling sort of adoration. Suguru really was beautiful. It was little wonder so many people thought he was a holy man. He undid the chains keeping your hands and ankles connected, letting your arms flop lifelessly into the sweaty sheets.

“I forgive you,” Suguru told you, his eyes scanning your body slowly, taking in the sweat and the reddish flush and the twitching, trembling of your muscles with some kind of affection. “But, and I need you to remember this,” he continued, his eyes returned to yours, “next time you disobey me, it will be worse.”

Worse? You couldn’t imagine worse. The idea of worse made your eyes sting, panic threatening to crawl back out of the abyss of your exhaustion to send you into a fit of tears.

You blinked and swallowed against your dry throat. “I’ll be… be good, I promise,” you said in a voice that was little more than a hoarse croak.

“Shhh,” Suguru shushed softly, brushing your damp hair off of your sweaty forehead. “Don’t be scared. Everything I do, I do because I love you. You are precious to me, you know that, don’t you?”

Those words worked like ether sweet anesthesia through your head and you believed him, loved him, trusted him. He did this because he loved you, and because you needed to learn. Of course. That made sense even if nothing else did.

#geto suguru #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen geto #geto suguru x reader #jjk geto x reader #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #my writing #tw.dubcon

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spacedace · 11 months ago

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“Hey, I need to get married for bullshit Infinite Realms reasons, you two in?”

“Tt, of course.”

“Sure thing! Do we need to get going for that like, right now? Or later?”

“Eh, like in a couple of hours? The Observants are demanding some Royal Ball or something and they pulled out some stupid old laws out of their collective asses that if I’m not married by the time it starts they can assign me spouses of their choosing, can you fucking believe that shit?”

“Woah, what the hell? Can they even do that?”

“I was under the impression they were only permitted to observe.”

“Right? It’s total crap, but apparently there’s like this super old law on the books and they didn’t bring it up until now when there’s like no time left to try and force me to marry someone they pick.”

“They are training to gain influence over you?”

“Eh, more like they’re trying to get control of my Dad by way of me. But still fucked as hell.”

“So why do you need to marry both of us? Or do you just need to marry one of us and we should play rock paper scissor for it?”

“Technically I only need to marry one of you, but I don’t want them pulling out any loopholes or something. So, it’d be great if one of you could be my consort for my role as Queen of Mirrors, and one could be my consort for my role as Crown Princess. You two can figure who’s who on that all that, I’m good with whatever.”

“Oooh, can I be consort for the Mirror Court? I can annoy Kon more that way.”

“I am amenable to that. Grandfather will have a fit when he learns that I can cut his access to the Pits off at my discretion and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Awesome, okay are you two good for meeting up at like, three? We can pop over to my Lair and get everything sorted out there.”

“Works for me, my only class til this afternoon is at one and the professor already said we’re cutting out early because she has to go out of town this weekend.”

“Four would be more agreeable if possible, I have to take Titus to the vet for his checkup.”

“Okay let’s aim for four then. It’s just signing some paperwork, making some quick blood-slash-ectoplasm pacts and swearing a couple binding oaths… Should only take like five or ten minutes?”

“They’re not gonna make you have a huge royal wedding or anything?”

“Nah. Dad keeps things pretty chill so as long as the paperwork is all in order we’ll be good. Though once Auntie Dorathea finds out she’s absolutely gonna make us have one. She loves planning weddings. Swear its what she makes her hoard out of somehow.”

“So long as we have a say in some of the proceedings I have no issue with that eventuality.”

“Same, it sounds like it’d be a fun way to annoy the Observants even more.”

“Don’t for get all the weirdos trying to be my suitors and all that bullshit.”

“We have an accord then. We can reconvene at the usual place.”

“Awesome, you two are the best! I gotta jet and let everyone know and get the ball rolling on the paperwork stuff. See you guys at four!”

With that, Nomad - Stella Phantom, Crown Princess of the Infinite Realms, Queen of Mirrors, Core of the Speedforce and ghostly hero of the Titans and the Justice League - tore a rip in the fabric of space and time and darted out of the room the same way she came. Through the mind-bending tear in reality the eerie, eye-searing green of the Infinite Realms glowed in all its unsettling glory, Phantom Keep a glittering expanse of night sky made solid in the distance.

Jon waved at her cheerfully as Damian gave a nod of farewell before both silently turned their attention back to their respective tablets as the portal closed behind their friend and teammate and the glimpse of the Ghost Zone disappeared again. Completely unbothered by the conversation just held or the life changing implications that came with them.

Jon was humming as he tapped away at something on the screen before him, Damian propping his head up on his fist in vague boredom as he frowned down at the information he was reading.

The rest of the room Nomad had left behind was caught in a frozen, stunned silence in the wake of the baffling conversation they’d all just been witness to. All eyes in the room darted between Flamebird and Pheonix seated calmly at the end of the table, then to the space where Nomad had disappeared to, back to the young men, and then towards the head of the table where Superman and Batman sat looking bewildered and a bit on the verge of heart attacks.

The short status update meeting was about to become much, much longer it seemed.

Though a lot more entertaining.

#dpxdc #dani phantom #danielle phantom #elle phantom #jon kent #jon el kent #damian wayne #justice league #super serious chaos #possible platonic super serious chaos it's up to yall #clones are called mirrorborn in the infinite realms #elle is the ancient of the speedforce #Dani Phantom is the Ancient of the Speedforce #I will make this happen if it kills me please someone else write something for this I'm going feral #impulsively marrying your friends to fuck with some of the most powerful entities in existence is a fun pass time everyone should try #their friends and family are exactly as unhinged as these three - sometimes even *More* unhinged - and can't say shit about it #so many justice league members are torn between sobbing because 'This was going to be a short meeting for once!' 😭#and being SO EXCITED because the chaos that is about to break out in this meeting room is going to be SO GOOD #There is so much tea that is going to be spilled at the cafeteria after this

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ronnyraygun · 2 years ago

Note

“We are NOT keeping a cobra baby!”

[proceeds to go through a multi chapter AO3 Fic experience with the baby]

Tim date Danny Temple is so funny cause now he take after Bruce

Bruce: he’s the leader of the cult of the cobra

Tim: you’re acting like we don’t have the Al Ghuls on speed dial, how is Talia by the way?

#tim drake #danny temple #birdsnake #kobra snake baby tag #ron’s art tag #funny haha #shut in the fuck up ron #I made an entire fic in my brain because of this post #even named the baby #Tim wanted to name him Tony Hawk and Danny was like “YOU DIDN’T EVEN WANT HIM?!”#and Tim’s like “WELL I’M STAYING WITH YOU SO I SHOULD GET A SAY! >:(”#and then they agreed on Cody because Danny didn’t want their kid to be a meme 😞#they saved him because some villain was hired to nerf all the babies and Tim and Danny only got there when there was one left :(#beat the shit out of the villain and then took baby Cody and went into hiding.#they have bite marks all over their arms and legs because…snake baby #y’know?#Cody isn’t loud…which is why they’re sleep deprived #quiet baby = they don’t know if/what the baby wants/needs and that’s scary!#they take turns staying up to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t get hungry or sad or lonely or cold or…etc #they’re doing their best cobra babies are hard work!#Tim can handle staying up because…y’know #but Danny…doesn’t really…DO this…so his body has a harder time keeping up #tim has found him passed out mid-action on several occasions #he just leads him to a chair or couch or bed and takes over said action for him #however Danny can and WILL put a stop to Tim over doing ANYTHING.#he’s forcibly made Tim sleep in the past…and he will do it again. amen.#they like each other #lmao “is it gay to raise a baby with your homie and look out for each other’s well being and slowly gain deeper feelings for each other…?”#imagine Red Robin’s back in Gotham after being MIA for MONTHS and gets caught up with killer croc who’s about to fuck him uP only to see RR #with a little scaley bundle of joy strapped to his chest

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lucifersdickriderdotnet · 5 months ago

Text

Emergency Contact

Summary: Having siblings sucks. Having siblings who are constantly getting into life threatening situations is worse. 5.9k words.

Disclaimer: as usual, if they're ooc no. uhm. Diavolo and Barbatos are here and they are referred to as Lucifer's boyfriends but it's in like a fun jokey teasing way that siblings do. except Lucifer actually is dating Diavolo in my head so. asmo and solomon ARE dating because I want them to be. maybe next time I'll make solomon date satan. you can only call a man a cute kitty so many times before people get ideas. if you couldn't tell by the title and the summary, people get #sick and break their #bones. oh. there is one (1) cannibalism joke. not demoncest just bros being bros.

Notes: this took so long because I've never written a decent ending in my life and i spent two days on it. also that anon really pissed me off for some reason idk. if you don't like how anyone is characterized write your own fanfiction man idk. solmare doesn't even have consistency with this nonsense. Lucifer is nice to his brothers in this because I want him to be. amen.

It’s a little known fact that Lucifer is everyone’s emergency contact. When it comes to those he cares about, he is protective, almost annoyingly so. So, it makes sense that the person who knows everything about everyone should be in charge if something goes awry. His phone hardly ever rings for emergencies, half because his brothers’ manage to get themselves out of trouble through a series of convoluted and confusing hijinks and half because most of them would rather eat nails than call him to tell him something is wrong. He’s even Barbatos’ emergency contact, despite the fact that Barbatos has never been sick or injured.

When his phone does ring, though, it’s almost always because someone has managed to damage themselves beyond repair, which is why he’s staring at the caller id on his D.D.D. like he can make it stop ringing if he glares hard enough.

“Lucifer Morningstar speaking,” it hadn’t stopped ringing and Diavolo had almost reached across the table to answer it for him.

“Hello this is Devildom General Hospital. We received a patient today and your name was on his–”

“Who.” It comes out dull and flat. He’s gripping his fork so hard he can hear the metal squeak.

“Excuse me?” The demon on the other end of the phone sounds perfectly polite but Lucifer is already so strung out all it does is grate his nerves.

“Who are you calling for?”

“Mam–”

“I’ll be right there,” he’s standing up in a hurry, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and ignoring Diavolo’s many questions as he leaves their dinner.

“Sir, if you’ll just–” he hangs up before the nurse can say anything else.

Mammon managed to break a bone or two in a scuffle he won’t tell Lucifer the details of.

“Do you know how hard it is to break a femur, Mammon?” Lucifer is gripping the steering wheel of the car so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t snapped in half.

“Pretty damn hard, all things considerin’.” Lucifer exhales sharply out of his nose and looks at his brother from the corner of his eye. He’s staring out of the window, and the white of his hair is dirty with mud and something red that Lucifer knows didn’t come out of his skull but worries him regardless.

“Mammon, this isn’t something to joke about.”

“I know,” he taps the hard cast of his leg with a bruised knuckle, “‘m the one with the broken bones.”

“If you know why are you doing it?” Lucifer can’t stop his voice from raising a few decibels towards the end of his sentence and has to mentally count to ten to not start screaming.

“‘Cause I just got the shit beat outta me ‘n’ I don’t wanna listen to yer lecturin’.” Mammon finally turns his head to stare at Lucifer and the elder looks away from the road for a second to meet his eyes. It’s not often that Mammon genuinely argues with him, not often that Mammon gets mad enough to let the blue of his eyes light with fury. Whatever happened tonight was not something that he wanted to happen, and it’s not something he needs a scolding for.

There’s a tense silence where Lucifer sighs and then flicks the turn signal, sliding across the lanes of traffic to take Mammon somewhere else before they go home.

“Did you win?” He’s pulling into Madame Screams’ drive through when he asks.

“‘Course I did.”

“Good.”

They both silently agree not to tell the rest of them about their little pit stop, and it’s as Lucifer’s pulling into the garage that he turns to his brother.

“Mammon.” A hum sounds from the passenger seat. “Next time, call me yourself. I don’t want it to be the hospital unless you’re physically incapable of talking.”

“Roger that.”

—

Lucifer is not known as the most comforting of his brothers. The six of them tend to rely on each other for that, going to Mammon or Beel if they have emotional troubles. Lucifer, as the oldest, is good for cleaning up messes. Putting things back together and making it look like nothing was ever amiss in the first place. It’s his job to protect them, from the world and from themselves, and he takes it seriously. Still, despite his brick wall in place of a heart and his general ineptitude when it comes to being affirming in any sense, he is not incapable of helping his brothers out of a tight spot. He’s just not preferred.

“Lucifer,” Levi’s voice is shaky and stuttering on the other end of the phone. He knew something was wrong when his phone started ringing in the middle of class. His brothers all know how much he hates distractions during class time, just like they know when he has a class so they don’t bother him. He knew something was worse when it was Levi’s name flashing across the screen. Levi refuses to call any of them unless the world is ending. He knew something was horrible when he remembered that today was one of the few days that Levi is mandated to come to campus.

“Yes?” He’s already left class walking down the hallway towards the abandoned wing where he knows Levi is. He keeps his steps measured and even, keeps his breathing calm. It won’t do to have two of them panicked at the same time.

“Are you busy?” They both know the answer to that question, just like they both know he’s going to lie.

“You caught me in the middle of a break. Why?” He tests the door handle for the swimming pool. Closed for renovations, the sign says. The same thing it’s said for the past several millennia. The door swings open without any effort on his part, the magic seal already broken before he got here.

“Would you like to go for a swim?” There’s a splash on the other end of the line. Lucifer snorts.

“I’m not one for water.” There’s silence and another splash and Lucifer lets out a heavy sigh. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yay,” Levi says, soft and timid, and Lucifer can see him now, all of him, filling up the entire pool. He doesn’t get in yet, just removes a glove and sticks a finger in the water to let Levi know he’s here. He watches as the miles and miles of indigo scales shift and slide along each other until he’s face to face with thousands of sharp teeth.

“You’re going to break the pool again,” is what he says, voice dry. He sputters indignantly when that earns him salt water to the face. He’s soaked now, head to toe and he’s going to miss these shoes.

“Oops.” Levi’s voice is sprinkled with something mirthful, no longer halfway to tears as it was just a moment ago. “Get in. The water’s nice.”

“Yes,” Lucifer swipes a hand across his face to push his bangs back. Salt water drips into his eyes anyway. “I can see that.”

Levi giggles and his face moves away, body coiling in, on, and over itself, too big to fully fit in the pool.

“You said you’d swim with me.”

“Yes. I suppose I did.”

Truthfully, Lucifer doesn’t like swimming. He is not a bird that is built for water, and getting wet usually means being cold and grounded for a while. Truthfully, he’d rather finally open one of the many letters Michael has sent him over the years. Truthfully, he would do anything for his brothers. Truthfully, Lucifer doesn’t think he’ll fit, but a promise is a promise, so he slides out of his uniform and climbs in.

Levi doesn’t ever tell him what made him so upset he rebroke R.A.D. 's pool, but he does leave a box of Princess’ Poison Apples on his desk the next morning, so Lucifer sets his sights on re-fixing the swimming pool. Maybe this time he’ll convince Diavolo to make it bigger.

—

Satan would rather rip his own teeth out with nothing but a Q-tip and a single milligram of ibuprofen to numb the pain than ever ask Lucifer for help. Their relationship is getting better, he will admit, but he’s filled with a rage towards the oldest that could melt even the strongest of metals, and it will take a while to temper the flame. So, no, he will not ask Lucifer for help, but, if he’s annoying enough about it, Lucifer will fix it anyways.

He starts by mentioning it to Asmo, squinting at him and saying that no, he can’t tell if Asmo’s eyeliner is uneven, because he can’t see.

“Can’t see?” Manicured fingernails are digging into his cheeks as Asmo grips his face and moves his head from side to side. He has to shelve books in his mind’s inner library to not rip his brother’s face clean off his head.

“Doesn’t look like cataracts or anything,” Asmo hums, dropping his face. Satan massages his jaw slightly. “What do you mean you ‘can’t see’?”

“I meant what I said. Your face is slightly blurry and I can’t tell if your eyeliner is even because it just looks like a blob. Ergo. I can’t see.” Satan crosses his arms over his chest and dodges Asmo’s subsequent grabs for his face.

“Oh,” a snort, “you probably need glasses.” He turns back around to his vanity and Satan has to stop himself from saying no shit out loud.

“Glasses are for losers.”

“Lucifer wears glasses.”

“My point exactly.” Asmo twists his lipstick back down before popping the cap on and pulling open a drawer. He gestures for Satan to look inside and he does and–

“I didn’t know you wore contacts.”

“Not very many people do. Mammon has glasses too, you know. He’s sensitive to bright lights. The sunglasses indoors are not just a poor fashion statement,” Asmo sighs and shakes his head, like the image of Mammon wearing his sunglasses inside brings him physical pain. “And, I think Levi has some because all of those screens destroyed his rods and cones.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for calling you a loser.” Asmo waves him off.

“The point, Bitty, is that you wouldn’t be the first.” It wouldn’t be just you and Lucifer is what he’s saying. Satan nods and then frowns.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Why?” Asmo reaches over to poke his cheek. He narrowly avoids getting a finger bitten off. His voice rises several octaves, turning into a coo. “You’re just an itty bitty baby– Ow, dammit fine.”

He then proceeds to complain about it as loudly as possible, as frequently as possible. No, he can’t help Mammon with his homework, the words are bleeding together. Yes, he does have to sit front and center now because otherwise the board is unreadable. No, he did not catch that last slanderous missive about Lucifer in the R.A.D. Newspaper because he couldn’t read the draft that was sent to him for editing. (He made Belphie read the drafts to him out loud and thought that the article was funny.)

“Satan,” everytime Lucifer has to talk to him he looks constipated and it makes Satan laugh inside.

“Big Bother.” Lucifer’s eye twitches.

“You have an appointment with the optometrist. Get in the car.” Satan sets his book down.

“Can’t Mammon take me?” He doesn’t want Mammon to take him. Still, it’s funny to see the vein pop on Lucifer’s forehead.

“... Get in the fucking car.”

Satan plays heavy metal in the car because he knows Lucifer hates it and makes him sit in the lobby during the actual check up because he thinks it’s funny to watch his leg bounce up and down. (And because Lucifer gets a copy of all of their medical records anyway. The freak probably checked Satan’s eyes himself while he was sleeping and already knows his prescription.)

“Those glasses look nice on you,” is all Lucifer says when he picks out the frames.

“I changed my mind. I hate these ones.” (He doesn’t.)

—

He’d been in his room, up to his eyes in paperwork when his phone rang. It’s not unusual for Asmo to call him, the younger always wanting to chat and gossip for as long as Lucifer will pretend to listen, but it is unusual for him to call in the middle of an Asmo Night.

“Hi Asmo, what–”

“Lucy!!” He has to pull the phone away from his ear to avoid rupturing the drum.

“I believe I have asked you not to–”

“Hey! Give me my–” There’s a scuffle on the other end before a voice that Lucifer recognizes as Solomon’s starts speaking.

“Lucifer! I believe Asmodeus has had enough for tonight and needs to be deposited home. I would do it myself, but as per our agreement, I am not allowed–”

“Within twenty feet of my front door. Yes, I know. I’ll come get him. Please keep him out of trouble until I get there.” He rubs the bridge of his nose before standing up and making his way to the door.

“Wonderful! Now, about that pact–” Lucifer hangs up before Solomon can finish the question and hits Levi’s door on the way down the stairs.

“Bed, Leviathan.” There’s a small squeak in response. “Or at least pretend to be sleeping. I can hear your game from out here.” The RPG music leaking from Levi’s room into the hallway quiets drastically.

He stops by the kitchen to find Asmo his crackers and a bottle of water before leaving, instructing Beel to carry himself and Belphie to bed on his way out.

Lucifer does not like parties. He thinks they are loud and annoying and too many people try to get handsy with him when really all he wants is to drink his Demonus in peace. He’s dealing with that now, batting off people’s hands and ignoring requests for a night alone as he makes his way to Asmo’s booth.

“Asmo,” Solomon’s voice is soft and fond as he rouses Asmo from a short nap, “Lucifer’s here. It’s time to go.”

“Mmkay.” Asmo rubs his eyes and gives Solomon a peck on the lips that Lucifer has to fight the urge to gag at. He crawls out of the booth and grabs Lucifer’s hand, and somehow the crowd parts to let him past with no fuss. They barely make it outside before Asmo is hurling all over the sidewalk and Lucifer is remembering that Asmo smells like warm, sugared peaches.

Asmo smells like peaches. Allegedly, he smells like whatever is the most alluring to you, but Lucifer thinks he has always smelled like peaches. He smells like the holy peach cobbler that Michael used to make in the Celestial Realm. Asmo smells like the peach flavored macarons that Barbatos makes when he and Lucifer have tea. He smells like the Georgia peaches the human made him try once. Asmo smells like peaches, he smells like home and love and care, and you would have to hold Lucifer at gunpoint to get him to admit this to his brother.

And now, Lucifer is getting a face full of that smell mixed with vomit as Asmo leans over a bush and loses whatever meager dinner Beel had shoved in him as well as half his body weight in alcohol. There’s a flash from the corner of his eye and he makes a mental note to follow up on that.

“It will sound hypocritical coming from me,” he starts and is promptly interrupted by another retch.

“Then don’t–good Diavolo, that tastes awful–say it.” Asmo takes the water bottle that Lucifer dutifully hands him and rinses his mouth out.

“Are you done?” Lucifer starts fishing around his jacket pocket for a pack of Asmo’s favorite crackers. They taste like flowers, allegedly, and they're one of the few things that Beel genuinely doesn’t like to eat.

“For now.” Asmo takes the crackers and starts munching on them gratefully, leaning heavily into Lucifer’s side as they both walk home.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. Lucifer scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I would never leave one of you alone.”

“Aww, that’s so–”

“The paperwork alone would take at least a decade.”

“Nevermind.”

If Lucifer hunts down the demon who took the picture and threatens them within an inch of their life, that’s between him and his Father. And if Asmo finds out and gives Lucifer a hug at breakfast the following morning, that’s between him and Mammon’s camera roll.

—

Lucifer hates Fangol. Well, that’s not true. He admires the dedication someone has to have to play it and to play it well. He admits that sometimes it’s fun to go to games and get caught up in the hype of the crowd. He also likes that it makes Beel happy. What he doesn’t like is sitting in the stands as his second youngest brother makes a game winning play and then gets tackled onto the turf so hard you can hear the sound his head makes when it hits the ground.

The crowd goes silent and the players and the band take a knee and Lucifer is half dragging half carrying Belphie down the stands to the ambulance as the EMT’s check over their brother.

“Sir, I understand–” The paramedic cuts themself off when they see whose shadows are looming over them. They heave a sigh and gesture to a patch of grass near where they have Beel laying on a gurney. “Try to avoid being in our way.”

It’s a fight to keep Belphie from being underfoot, but there isn’t one when Lucifer says he’s riding in the ambulance with Beel to the hospital. Only a curt nod and then a muttered threat in his ear that he rolls his eyes at and then their off.

“Sorry.” It’s the first thing out of Beel’s mouth after he’s done being asked routine questions.

“It’s not like you asked to receive a concussion.”

“We don’t know that it’s a concussion,” Beel says, wagging his finger slowly. Lucifer rolls his eyes.

“You told the paramedic you wanted to throw up and pass out at the same time.”

“Average Beelzebub activities.” It makes Lucifer snort, lips twitching up into a smile.

“That is the exact opposite of a Beelzebub activity. You’ll be okay, though.” The you have to be goes unsaid.

It turns out to be a concussion and Beel is barred from playing for a while and then everything is fine.

Lucifer has changed his mind, he definitely hates Fangol. He has half a mind to ban Beel from ever playing it again, but if he didn’t have something to focus his energy on, they wouldn’t have a House to live in.

He stayed home from the game, wanting to relax, for once, with a new cursed record and a bottle of his prized Demonus. He might have also paused the record to watch the stream of the game on his phone, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s busy cussing out one of the commentators for their clear bias against Beel–they haven’t been angels in literally thousands of years, people need to find a new excuse–when it cuts suddenly from a replay of the last down to a live feed from the field. And then his phone rings.

“Mammon,” he already knows what happened before he picks up.

“I know ya said not ta call ya tonight, but,” he sounds haggard, and his accent gets thicker when he’s panicking, “ya also said not ta let the hospital call ya so–”

“Mammon,” it comes out snappier than he wants it to and he has to soften his voice when he opens his mouth again, “breathe. What’s happened?”

“Dear Father who art in Heaven–” Lucifer curses again because Mammon only reverts to praying when something is seriously wrong. “Beel got tackled ‘nd– Lucifer, ya could hear the crunch from Diavolo’s good seats.” Lucifer sucks in a breath and considers sending up a couple prayers himself.

“I’m on my way. Beel will– Beel will be okay, Mammon. He’s strong.” He hears Mammon’s assent from the other end of the line just as he hears Levi mumble something to Mammon.

“Oh, yer kiddin’.”

“What? Mammon, what’s going on?”

“We can’t fin’ Belphie.”

“Shit.”

If Lucifer breaks traffic laws on his way to the stadium, no one who pulls him over will be able to make anything stick for very long. He watches as the ambulance pulls away and his D.D.D. buzzes with a message.

Mams

I went with Beel. Everyone’s still tryna find Belphie.

“Lucifer–” he’s met with an armful of brothers before he can put his phone back in his pocket and he’s not strong enough to pretend he doesn’t want to hug them back.

“Did you find–”

“No, obviously not Levi, he just fucking got here.”

“Satan, now is not the time–”

“I’ll decide when the fucking time is, Asmo. Did you see what they did to our–”

“Yeah, I was sitting right next to you. You’re not the only one who’s upset–”

“Guys,” Lucifer raises his voice above their arguing. “Now is not the time.” He hands Diavolo his keys, grateful, for once, at his many attempts to bond with his brothers. “Will you please take them to the hospital? I have a brother to find.”

It doesn’t take him long to find Belphie, but it does take a toll on his knees.

“Belphegor.” He wonders how the youngest climbed on top of the press box without anyone noticing.

“The stadium lights are too bright,” Belphie says, “you can’t see the stars. They drown them out. It’s a bad omen, Lucifer.”

“Belphegor, please come back down.”

“I can’t see them, Lucifer.” His voice is thick with tears.

“They’re still there, Belphie. I promise.”

“We made them together, and I can’t see them.”

“If you come back down we can visit Beel and the two of you can find them together.” Diavolo’s Father help him, he is not climbing on top of that box to bring Belphie down himself.

“Promise?”

“On my life.”

The bad thing about the press box for the R.A.D. stadium, is that the ladder has rusted away. People never go on top of it to watch or film the game anymore because they started to use magic to get the good camera angles. The bad thing about the press box is that when Belphie makes to climb down he slips and has nothing to grab and lands on the concrete stadium seating with a snap that makes Lucifer’s stomach churn.

“I can’t believe you fell while getting down. That’s like, one hundred times easier than goin’ up.” Mammon is beside himself with laughter while he doodles on Belphie’s cast.

“Haha. Laugh it up Mammon. When I’m out of this thing, I’m going to break every bone in your body.” Mammon rolls his eyes at Belphie’s threat.

“The witches have used that one before. Try again.”

“What are you, a magic eight ball?”

“Reply hazy. Try again later.”

“You know,” Asmo says from his spot opposite Mammon, doodling on Beel’s cast, “it is kind of cool that you guys managed to break the same bone.”

“It’s because we’re twins.” Beel says, smiling brightly.

“Yeah,” Satan snorts, “or cause you’re both stupid.”

“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” Levi cuts in before Belphie and Satan can start in on each other.

“Indeed. Although, I believe it’s best that Fangol is heading into its off season.” Lucifer says, and there’s noises of agreement throughout the room.

—

It’s a simple fact of life that Lucifer doesn’t get sick. The Demon King is asleep, the Earth’s year is 365 (365.25) days long, the Crown Prince of the Devildom hates pickles, Michael is a massive loser, and Lucifer doesn’t get sick. He does not get sick or injured or cursed or hexed or anything of the sort because he does not have the time. Except. Except he is most definitely sick right now.

Belphie realized something was wrong when Lucifer didn’t come down for breakfast. He’s a stickler for meal times, always wanting them to share a meal together. Something about family and tradition and will you just do what I say for once that Belphie doesn’t care about or want to listen to. He comes to breakfast and dinner and lunch on the weekends anyway, because Beel does, not because Lucifer wants him to. So, when he looks up from his spot at the table, the cloth permanently drool stained despite the oldest’s best efforts, and watches all of his brothers leave except Lucifer, he gets confused.

“Beel,” he asks, tilting his head just so, “did Lucifer have a meeting today?” Usually he would tell them. Several times throughout the week if it was planned and then again in the morning before he leaves. He’s weird like that, he doesn’t like not knowing where everyone is. Belphie thinks he’s a control freak, even if he finds knowing his brother’s whereabouts comforting.

“No,” Beel says this around a mouthful of muffin, “I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. Well. I guess we’ll see him at school.”

They do not, in fact, see him at school. Mammon shares first period with him, which means he can never skip the first hour and a half of R.A.D. Except today, there’s no harsh pokes in his back whenever he starts to zone out, and there’s no pointed coughs when he pulls out his phone and starts playing games. He looks around and there’s no Lucifer.

Demon Brothers

Mams: ayo. where is. lucifer.

Catan: he’s not in class?

Mams: if he was I wouldn’t be askin.

Catan: the phone screen makes you bold, brother. watch yourself.

Mams: o7 aye aye cap’n.

Beel: Belphie says he wasn’t at breakfast either

Mams: is belphie’s phone broke???

Beel: he says typing is too much effort

Mams: understandable have a nice day

Asmo: o.o Lucifer not at breakfast? But he’s always weird when we miss it!

Catan: typical Lucifer hypocrisy

Levs: you know he can still read this chat right?

Catan: when has that ever stopped me -_-

Levs: you guys have hit like all of the Summoning Lucifer Bullet Points

Levs: 1. Mention his name fifty times

Levs: 2. Blow up his phone

Levs: 3. Text during class time

Levs: 4. Slander him at least once

Levs: 5. Ask about his private business/goings on

Beel: and yet

Mams: no Lucifer

The real header comes during the afternoon, when Lucifer doesn’t show up to the scheduled Student Council Meeting.

“Alrighty!” Diavolo says, chipper as ever, “when Lucifer gets here, we’ll start the meeting. He has all of the paperwork, anyway.”

So they wait. And they wait.

“Yo, dude,” Mammon calls to Diavolo and he turns his head, Barbatos coughs into his fist at the lack of formality. “I don’t think Lucifer is gonna show.”

“Yeah,” Belphie yawns, “he wasn’t in school today, either.”

“Or at breakfast, apparently.” Levi says, though it’s hard to hear him over the music of his game.

“That is. Odd. Is he still at home, then?” Diavolo pulls out his phone and starts texting.

“No use,” Asmo says, “we’ve been bothering him all day.”

“Privately and in the group chat,” Satan adds. “Though, he may not have opened my messages because they were all cursed.”

“He didn’t open mine either,” Beel says. “I think he’s just been off his phone.”

“Unusual,” Barbatos says, stepping out of his shadowy corner. “Perhaps something is amiss?”

“With Lucifer?” Asmo sounds incredulous, lowering his compact just long enough to arch an eyebrow at the butler before tapping more powder on his face. “Nothing is ever wrong with Lucifer.” Belphie yawns before nodding in agreement and adding his own two cents.

“Even when we curse him things aren’t wrong. He always manages to make it seem so … normal.”

“I remember that time his pants kept falling down,” Levi says. “I thought it would make him less intimidating. I was wrong.” He shudders. “Very wrong.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Barbatos says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why does he do anythin’?” Mammon stands up as he says this, grabbing his bag and his phone and making his way towards the door. “Lucifer does what he wants and shows no remorse for it.” There’s a pause where he remembers the Fall. “Mosta the time.”

“Well, if we aren’t going to do anything,” Asmo’s compact shuts with a click, “I have people to do and things to see.”

“It’s ‘things to do and people to see’, Asmo,” Satan says, following his brothers out.

“I know what I said.”

Barbatos and Diavolo watch as the brothers leave, one by one, all citing different excuses before sharing a look.

“Is it rude to stop by people’s homes uninvited, Barbatos?” Diavolo asks, pushing his chair back.

“Yes. But in cases where Lucifer is concerned, manners and politeness have never stopped you, my Lord.” Barbatos follows behind the Prince, steps silent in contrast to the clacking of Diavolo’s shoes on the Academy’s stone floors. Diavolo’s laugh echoes throughout the hallway.

“I suppose you’re right. Come, I believe I must pay a visit to my right hand.”

“Always.”

The House is cold when Diavolo gets there. He can hear Beel rummaging in the kitchen, and Belphie’s soft snores accompanying him. He can hear Levi and Mammon fighting over something and he can hear the thud of books falling over in Satan’s room. He can hear Asmo because Asmo greets him when he enters.

“Oh, hey!” He waves excitedly, before pointing at his feet. “Which shoes do you think look better with this outfit?”

“I think they both look nice,” Diavolo replies and Asmo pouts.

“Not helpful.”

“The ones on your left, Asmodeus.” Barbatos’ eyes peer from behind Diavolo’s shoulder and Asmo smiles in response.

“Thanks! Hey,” he tugs the shoe on his right foot off and tosses it into a pile next to the door before grabbing his left foot’s twin from seemingly nowhere, “you guys didn’t see Solomon out there, did you?”

“I thought I told you that he isn’t allowed within twenty feet of the front door.” Lucifer’s normal baritone is raspy with sickness, vocal cords raw from coughing.

“He’s not going to be within twenty feet. He’s going to stand an inch outside of the barrier.” Asmo turns and places his hands on his brother’s shoulders, spinning him around and pushing him back towards the living room. “I also thought I told you to lie down and sleep. I suppose we both aren’t good at listening, hmm?” Lucifer grumbles at him despite following Asmo’s guidance to the couch.

“I heard the door open.” Diavolo follows the duo towards the living room, Barbatos his ever present shadow.

“There are six other people who can answer it.” He watches as Asmo pushes Lucifer into a sitting position and shoves blankets around him.

“That’s what I worry about.” Asmo rolls his eyes.

“Stop being a baby and just lay down. How can you catch Mammon and string him up by his toenails if you can’t go a second without coughing?”

“I can,” Lucifer pauses to cough, “I can take any one of you down, even in this weakened state.”

There’s a snort from the entrance to the kitchen as the twins walk in, Beel carrying soup and Belphie carrying nothing.

“You couldn’t block even the lowest level curse from Satan at this rate.” Belphie says, curling up on the couch next to Lucifer and resting his head on his lap.

“I could–”

“You’re very strong, Lucifer,” Asmo placates, patting his older brother’s head condescendingly. “Now, eat your soup and shut up. I have a date to get to and I’m running late.”

“Maybe I should cough on you so you can’t go anymore.” The threat is empty, but Asmo’s smile still sharpens in response.

“Maybe I should take a seam ripper to all of your clothes,” he turns on his heel. “Oh, also. Diavolo is here.” The responding squawk Lucifer lets out sends him into another coughing fit, one that disrupts the sleeping Belphie on his lap.

“My Lord,” Lucifer makes to get up and is physically yanked back down by Belphie, “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

“No worries! You didn’t show up to the meeting today, and you weren’t answering your phone, so I stopped by to see how you were.” Diavolo gestures to the bottles of cold medicine on the coffee table and the bowl of soup being shoved at Lucifer by Beel. “It seems you are all taken care of.”

“Indeed. I appreciate your concern–”

“Beel, Lucifer’s boyfriend was worried about him. Isn’t that sweet?” Beel nods at Belphie’s joke, resting his head against the side of Lucifer’s knee from his newly acquired spot on the floor.

“The sweetest. Someone tell Asmo he’s being beaten in the best boyfriend competition.” There’s twin thunks as Lucifer smacks the both of them on the head, face now flushed with something other than fever.

“That’s enough out of you two.” He sighs and looks back up at Diavolo and Barbatos. “Would the two of you like to stay for dinner? Satan’s in charge tonight and he likely won’t poison it since I’m too ill to eat much of anything.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Diavolo sits in an empty armchair that he thinks is Lucifer’s regular seat when his phone buzzes.

Emergency Chat ONLY

Belphie: hey satan, lucifer’s boyfriend is staying for dinner

Catan: man. now I can’t put this human world poison I found in it.

Belphie: probably wouldn’t work anyway

Beel: Barbatos is also staying

Belphie: my apologies Beel. you’re right

Belphie: lucifer’s boyfriendS are staying for dinner

Levs: this is great

Levs: I wanted to talk to Diavolo about the new chapter of the manga we’re reading

Mams: the rule is no loser talk at the dinner table

Levs: why do you open your mouth so much then

Mams: i’m gonna fucken get you

Asmo: if Lucifer gets to bring his boyfriends why can’t i bring Solomon

Catan: because Solomon sucks.

Catan: actually

Catan: would Solomon be able to con a fever high Lucifer into a pact

Mams: the downside here is that Solomon would be at dinner

Beel: I’d lose my appetite

Asmo: he’s not that bad

Asmo: and don’t lie Beel

Asmo: we aren’t going to let him cook

Asmo: we aren’t stupid

Lucifer: This chat is for emergencies only.

Belphie: i know. that’s why we’re discussing dinner

Lucifer: If I see Solomon anywhere near the House I will find a way to reverse his immortality.

Catan: wear a blindfold

Asmo: kinky

Catan: freak

Lucifer: I believe I also told you to stop referring to Diavolo and Barbatos as my boyfriends.

Mams: sucks 2 suck

Levs: L moment

Lucifer: I also believe they are in this chat.

Belphie: i know. that’s why we’re discussing dinner.

Belphie: keep up old man

Lucifer: I will remind you that you’re laying in my lap.

Belphie: what’re you gonna do

Belphie: cough on me??

Levs: chat, clip this

Mams: what was that scream???

Diavolo: Belphegor.

Barbs: Lucifer did more than just “cough on him.”

Mams: oh damn.

Mams: so what’s for dinner

Beel: Lucifer says Belphegor stew

Mams: I thought it was Satan’s turn to cook????????

Catan: lucifer just tried to shove belphie in the oven.

Barbatos: With no seasoning? How revolting.

Diavolo: Demons taste better fried, anyway.

Mams: PARDON???

202 notes · View notes

florenceafternoon · 7 months ago

Text

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

These fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon complaints.

A while ago I posted about how one of my favourite part of reading canon jily is when they're a bit older and Lily is looking back in retrospect. The part where James shows her how he gets that this war that's looming over them, it's bigger, older, than they are and even though the world feels like it's ending his top priority is that they remember to enjoy the happy moments. To live in those moments.

Jily has always been a hot cup of tea on a cold and rainy day for me. I hope these fics give you a short break from life, even if it's just for a moment.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries.

These first few fics are all by @gigglesandfreckles-hp. Abi's characterisation of Lily and James as individuals are so special to me. How she writes jily is perfect - I mean the banter, the tension, the overall dynamic between them is just on point!

basic maths

Euphemia cuts Sirius off sharply. “I was simply verifying whether this is indeed the same Lily Evans whose name is written under my dining room table with a heart around it.”

or: Lily meets the parents and James tries not to hyperventilate. over and over and over again.

we suffer in silence

"It's fine, Evans," James interrupts, waving off her apology and offering a reassuring smile. "You've always been an exception to the rule." A hint of warmth spreads through Lily at his words. "You've never liked rules." He chuckles softly, his lips quirking up in a lopsided grin. "Which is why I never had a difficult time liking you."

or: James has had a bad day and Lily gives her best go at cheering him up

I've already made a whole post about how much I love this fic with my favourite quotes and everything, but god please if you read anything today let it be Abi's jily fics because they are legendary.

star light, star bright

It's seventh year, somehow, that clinches the case, claiming the grand prize in the annals of Lily Evans's misfortunes. Because, as it turns out, harbouring feelings for James Potter while also navigating the precarious terrain of friendship with him is a fate crueller than death.

or: James keeps accidentally touching Lily and she's about to lose her mind

amenable parameters

“Truth or dare, Lil?” “Dare,” she replies without hesitation, leaning back into the worn leather booth. “Obviously.” Hestia’s eyes gleam. “Go snog Potter.”

or: lily gets brave and james's patience is rewarded

here lies

James can't hold his drink, or his affections

the start of (something) new

“Oh, really?” Petunia crosses her arms. “What’s his name then?”

Lily pauses here, but only for a moment as her mind flashes back to the field at Jubilee Gardens. “James,” she says confidently. “James Potter.”

TW: this fic does depict a slightly descriptive panic attack.

Lily you are so valid for looking. For those of you who've seen the AU rec list I just posted, please know that this fic is the reason why I added all those footballer!james fics (well this fic and the euros).

common ground

Lily pauses, suddenly aware of James’s intense gaze. “What? Why are you…” Heat rushes to her cheeks, and she hates it. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just…it’s a good look on you, Evans.” “What is?” she asks, self-consciously. His grin widens. “Mischief.”

sidewalk chalk, covered in snow

She didn’t mean to get used to any of them.

or: Lily Evans is strictly anti-Marauders…until she isn't. one by one.

waiting for the light to take us in

James removes his glasses again. “Evans…” He searches for something to say and settles on, “You don’t even like flying.”

“I could like flying,” Lily says, shrugging. “I like you.”

He doesn’t take that bait in the way she wants, and her heart sinks just a bit more. Instead, he chews at his lip, considering and considering and considering some more. Lily wants to scream.

A reminder that even though it seems like others may have it harder, you deserve a break too.

Questions and Answers by lizardcookie (on ao3)

The simple question of whether or not they're dating doesn't exactly have a simple answer. Seventh Year Jily.

A Very Sick Dear by Nostalgicdragonfly (on ao3)

It's a very rare disease, but James gets it anyway and he has to endure the pain of having the favorite flower of the person he loves growing in his chest. He's been hiding his struggles. Lily loves roses yet James is the one getting cut by their thorns. But when a new healer arrives and things get out of hand, a lot would depend on whether or not James accepts his only treatment.

or James has hanahaki disease

Thank You For The Music by @thelighthousestale

Lily Evans is homesick during her first year of Hogwarts. Then she hears a familiar tune.

Erasmus Lovegoods’s Guide to Brewing Love Potions also by @ /thelighthousetale

At the start of every school year, the Ministry of Magic distributed leaflets to all students taking potions classes regarding the regulations and legality of highly controlled potions.

Lily Evans thought the Ministry would probably have more success in decreasing illegal potions brewing on the castle grounds if they didn’t give such detailed instructions about the potions in its published propaganda literature.

Of course, every year's most popular leaflet was the one warning about the dangers of brewing love potions.

Or how an accidental explosion in NEWT-level potions finally forced Lily and James to confront their feelings.

falling into place by @charmingwillow

Lily overhears something that maybe she shouldn't have.. things sort of happen from there.

Limbo by Random-Musings (on ff.net)

Lily's sour Hogsmeade weekend takes an unexpected turn.

The next few fics are all from it's about the Gazing collection by @firefeufuego. I recommend this collection to my friend who doesn’t read jily and the first fic alone had her texting me "I get why you love them so much and I also get why you want James Potter"

(get on out of your seat) all eyes on me

As James stops to catch his breath, he also catches Lily’s eye, already fixed on him in the blatant, unblinking way he hasn’t seen since she used to verbally eviscerate him for minutes on end. It hits with the same mortifying heat as it always did then, when he used to stand there watching her yell at him and imagine her mouth doing everything else. He’s ridiculously grateful for whoever throws the ball straight towards his face for saving him from the fate of just standing there, watching her watch him with his dry mouth open for the rest of eternity.

In a movement of pure reflex, he grabs the ball out of the air and starts back towards the end of the pitch before Orie comes out of nowhere and takes his legs out from under him. Winded and disoriented, James sighs at the universe’s rather unsubtle visual metaphor. Is it even worth getting up again when he just keeps falling and falling and falling for her?

(soft spoken in the dead of night) all eyes on you

Lily has watched him do this multiple times before and it’s just tea and it’s just James and there should be nothing special about this particular moment, except that the sight of him, the fact of him, is suddenly earth-shattering.

Something like nostalgia fills her in a flood, only it’s the future she’s longing for, a future she can see with absolute clarity. The features James inherited from his parents are so faithfully recreated on him that it’s easy to imagine him at their age, with a shock of white, still unfairly thick hair framing a face lined by a lifetime of laughter, making her a cup of tea exactly the way she likes it and smiling as she teases him.

Don't be fooled by the summery, this is pure self indulgent smut. I complain a lot about pretentious people but the Austen and Keats reference had me swooning. The myth of Eros and Psyche is probably one of my favorites so…

in the morning when i wake or the morning after

With trembling hands, James brings the smaller piece of parchment closer to his face and starts to read.

To the love of my life,

You idiot. Get back here.I’ll be in your room.

Lily.

Surface Pressure by @eastwindmlk

Lily dealing with the weight of her own expectations in 7th year

no, i could never give you peace by @kay-elle-cee

James blinks. “Are you breaking up with me, Evans?” he jokes softly, resting his hand on hers. It’s a joke, but her body tenses and it immediately puts him on edge. The silence that follows is excruciating.

“I’m not doing anything.” Her nails begin to tap on the mug again—a nervous habit that James spots immediately. “I just think we should have a conversation.”

Trust Kels to serve Order!jily angst and pair it with one of my favourite songs of all time

bury it and rise above by @startanewdream

"James? Do you believe in magic?"

Or Lily is a Witch. James is a Muggle. It's not easier.

When It's You by idreamofjily (on ao3)

James is naturally affectionate and Lily really isn't. But maybe she can make an exception, if the way her stomach drops every time James touches her is any indication.

desiderium by @missgryffin

Sometimes all it takes is champagne and a slow dance, and then there's no going back.

The Vow also by @ /missgryffin

When he was thirteen-going-on-fourteen, James Potter did something truly, unbelievably stupid. Now that he’s seventeen-going-on-eighteen, he has to deal with the consequences.

Accidental Magic also by @ /missgryffin

What else is there to do after confessing feelings in the middle of the night than spend a lazy Saturday in bed?

Are You Experienced? by @annabtg

James Potter decides to ask Lily Evans to a Muggle live music show. This noble mission, however, requires a series of steps he is entirely clueless about: from procuring the tickets to finding the correct outfit, and most importantly, to spending an evening with Lily Evans without making an absolute fool of himself.

Also including the gorgeous cover art by @constancezin

by the lake by @possessingtheproperspirit

james finds lily by the lake.

not in need of a knight by @thejilyship

“If they start something, I’m going to finish it.” James said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And if it ends with you in the hospital wing?” “What do you care?” “Do you really think I’d bother to argue with you so much if I didn’t care?” Lily said, breathing sharply through her teeth.

#lily evans #james potter #jily #lames #jple #jily fic rec list

217 notes · View notes

wreckedandpolemic · 8 months ago

Text

dancing is a dangerous game - matty healy

(mdni) in which a last-ditch attempt to garner respectability may just hold the key to your lovelorn heart after all... 10910 words.

warnings: fingering, oral (f receiving), period-typical misogyny, excessively purple prose

You snap the Society Papers shut with a huff, glowering at your mama over the top of the paper. As if it weren’t bad enough to be married off to some stranger, must the entire ton know about it? You already know what they’ll say; false compassion murmured behind fans, just loud enough for you to hear. Poor thing. Three seasons out, the family must be getting desperate. That marriage is sure to be a loveless one. Perhaps there’s something… not all there about the girl. Your fists clench, blinding anger rising in you the longer you stew over your predicament. Sold off like cattle to a man you don’t even know, your entire marriage a spectacle in which you’re an unwilling performer.

Well. You know Lord Healy, in much the same way a chamber-maid knows her mistress. You remember him well, his last season your first, every girl in your set tripping over herself to catch his eye. You remember him as handsome, certainly, but little else; not worldly or clever, not remotely interested in propriety or the role he long should have stepped into by now. Content to just lounge about, rakish, his utter lack of interest in taking a wife had only served in making the mamas more ambitious and their daughters more desperate. Then, as the season came to a close, he had announced his distaste for polite society and disappeared, ostensibly to travel the world.

His return had already been sure to cause a stir, not in the least after his mother had sent yours a letter you can only imagine to be pleading for you to take him off their hands. The news had spread fast, gossip travelling faster than wildfire among the gentry, and you can’t imagine the bedlam he’d been greeted with when he docked has made him any more amenable to the idea than you are. And yet, you can hear gravel crunching under wheels and hooves, your skirts splayed out and arranging you into a perfect, demure little picture as the shackles you’ll wear for the rest of your life stroll up the steps to your door.

“You’ve a caller, my lady,” says the maid, curtsying hastily as you wave a hand to have her beckon him in.

Getting to your feet as he enters, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He’s more handsome than you remember, once-cropped curls now loose in a halo around his head, the silver in one ear standing out starkly against the dark backdrop. His sleeves are rolled up, and… good Lord, does he have a tattoo? As if you weren’t enough of a laughing stock to the ton, the only man willing to have you is a pierced, inked rake whose defining characteristic is flagrant disregard for the aristocracy. He holds his hand out to your mama, bowing politely. “Lady Marlowe. A pleasure to see you again.” His voice is smooth and rich, yet tinged bitter, expensive coffee poured over your senses.

You curtsy to him as he turns to face you, taking your hand in his own, calloused from hard work and smudged with ink. “My lord,” you murmur, eyes to the floor as he lifts your hand to his lips, warm where they meet your skin. Something sparks between you, flaring to life as you meet his eyes.

“Miss Marlowe. So lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I was rather… shocked, to return to England and find myself betrothed, but I suppose I ought not see a woman so beautiful as you as anything less than a blessing.” You flush, swallowing hard. Of all the reactions you might have expected from your first meeting, this certainly isn’t a turn of events you could have predicted.

You give a high, tinkling laugh, polite and artificial. “You flatter me so, my lord. I am not deserving of such–”

“You certainly are,” he interrupts, his smile disarming. Your traitorous heart longs to trust in his honeyed words, your rational brain desperately beating out the smoke before anything can catch alight. “Would you care for a turn about the garden? I find it so stifling to be cooped inside on days like this.”

With your mama following at a distance, you loop your arm through his and allow him to lead you through the garden. The last lingering raindrops clinging to the grass wick into your skirts, cold and grounding as they brush against your stockings. “My lord,” you begin, low enough that your mama won’t overhear.

“Matthew, please. I have spent three years travelling the world simply as Matthew, and I’ve taken quite a liking to it. Lord Healy sounds to me like someone rather tiresome.” The nails of your free hand bite into your palm. It’s all very well and good for him to flout every maxim of polite society, scoff and bite his thumb at whomever he likes; you don’t have that luxury.

You’d been perfectly happy to live as a spinster, well-learned in the thin line you’d have to tread for the few remaining years before the season closed its doors on you, and you resent that he has the luxury of walking out of his own volition, that open arms were waiting for his return. “That isn’t proper, my lord,” you reply, clipped and irritable.

Lord Healy’s answering smirk is exactly what you’d expect, louche and irreverent. He leans close, and you shiver. “Fuck proper.” You give a shocked little gasp. “Listen, darling. I can tell there isn’t anywhere in the world you’d like to be less than here, but I’m afraid this is our lot. The way I see it, proper’s what’s trapped us like this. Won’t you break the rules with me? It can be our little secret.”

He smiles earnestly, and you feel a sick sense of guilt even as you swoon. So charming and handsome that he could have had any woman he liked, now saddled with a girl best known for being a lost cause. And yet there’s something undeniable and sincere in his eyes, and you find yourself meeting them boldly. “Very well, Matthew. I suppose a little secrecy never hurt anyone.”

“Well, I’m glad that we settled that. I suppose if we’re to spend our lives bound together in matrimony, we ought get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, love, please.”

You smooth your skirts, the practised spiel springing easily to your lips; the laundry list of qualities that might make you a suitable wife, a successful mother. “I am accomplished on the pianoforte. I am fluent in French. I am talented at needlework.” You don’t even attempt to sound as if you care for any of it.

Matthew makes a short, disparaging noise. “That all sounds… incredibly dull. I feel as though you agree, love. I want to know what you enjoy, not what you think might please me to hear.”

A flush creeps up your chest, a traitorous stain high on your cheeks. You aren’t certain whether that question has been asked of you once in the last ten years. “I am… an amateur novelist, I suppose. I was, in youth, a skilled fencer, although I am out of practice, to say the least.” The admission feels tight as it escapes you, a confession that belongs buried in the drawers of your writing-desk under piles of correspondence and spilled ink.

Matthew smiles, boyish and almost fond. “A fencer. You must remind me to cower behind you, should we ever encounter bandits.”

Scowling, you slip your arm out of his and fold it across your chest. “If you were going to tease, I don’t know why you would ask.” That butterfly of hope you had foolishly allowed to flicker in your chest is snuffed out, and you curse yourself for even letting it take root in the first place.

A warm, concerned hand rests against your arm. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to be hurtful.” He draws a deep breath, tipping his head back and exhaling slowly before he speaks. “I know this isn’t remotely how either of us pictured spending this time. But, truly, I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. I’d like to make this as painless as possible for the two of us, so I implore you to humour me, just for a little while. And I promise, if the thought of being my wife still reviles you by the time we’re wed, you’ll live out your days wanting for nothing with as much freedom the constraints of society allow you.”

His words are sweet, flowery, surely born from the ink staining his hands. On the surface, it sounds a charmed life, an ideal outcome; to you it’s nothing more than empty words, the bitter taste of arsenic disguised in sweet almond marzipan. You’ve long accepted living without love, made your peace with the pitying looks of the ton, and yet he presents you with further ways you might be humiliated, arranges them on a silver platter like you wouldn’t notice the rotting centre.

You aren’t an imbecile. You understand what such a marriage would mean for your already-tattered reputation. You can practically hear the murmurs, read the gossip rags, feel the prying stares. Can you believe it? The new Lady Healy couldn’t keep her husband’s interest for even a month. I can’t say I’m surprised. Always an odd one, wasn’t she, like a repellent of the opposite sex. Certainly, you’d be free, with your husband in any bed but your own, but free only to wither and rot in the darkness of his country home with only a swaddled heir for company.

It’s been too long since you’ve spoken, Matthew expectant at your elbow. “I don’t believe I have much of a choice, my lord,” you murmur faintly, and his face falls.

Your conversation is stilted, polite but stiff as you make your way back to the house. At the door, Matthew bows to you, lips warm against your hand. “Please, think on what I have said. I eagerly await seeing you again.”

No sooner has he climbed into his carriage than your mama practically accosts you trying to climb the staircase. “Well?” she demands. “What on earth did he say to you?”

You sigh, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream. “Not an awful lot, mama. That is what happens when you attempt to force a rake and a spinster into matrimony.” Folding your arms across your chest, your mama presses her lips into a thin line, displeasure etched into her features.

“You are not a spinster, dear.”

You scoff. “No thanks to you. I hope that whatever agreement you reached with the Healys is worth the cost of my happiness,” you say bitterly, not staying long enough for your mama to formulate a response and sweeping up the stairs. For the best part of an hour, you sit at your writing-desk, quill poised above parchment, writing and scratching out the same handful of words over and over in a Sisyphean rhythm. By the time you decide to give up and go to bed, ink-stains blotch your hands and bloom across your skirt with nothing at all to show for it.

Your sleep is restless, dreaming of engagement rings looming into shackles, binding at your wrists and ankles. Matthew’s smirk and his honeyed words drift through your dreamscape, a cruel torment disguised as remedy. Relief fills you as sunlight slants across your bed, your eyelids cracking open and letting you shake off the dream. You sluice cold water across your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes gratefully. Naturally, though, your relief is short-lived, your mama bustling into your room with three housemaids in tow, far too chipper for the hour.

“Good, you’re awake. Come, we are to the modiste this morning,” she says firmly. Resistance is futile, so you stand, letting yourself be primped and squeezed and poked at until you at least resemble a respectable lady. You rattle through the streets of London, the bustle of the city only serving to feed your longing for the worn paths and quiet streets surrounding your country house.

You hesitate deliberately at the door to the modiste, long enough that your mama scowls in frustration and seizes your arm harshly to drag you inside. The seamstress bustles over, your mama immediately lighting up and engaging her in conversation about the quality of her fabrics. Quickly, you tune it out, wandering idly across the shop floor. A hushed conversation drifts into your ear, and you pretend to be admiring the bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling as you inch closer to its source.

“...Cannot imagine he’ll stay that way,” says a first voice, high and haughty. “Lord Healy was always the rake of his set, and has since travelled the world, surely… sampling many worldly women on his travels.” She pauses to allow her companion to titter snidely, giving you time to place her voice; it belongs to Evelyn Mountfitchet, a girl your age who had married in her first season, her tongue sharp and cruel, weaponised with her seemingly endless stores of gossip. Her companion, then, must be her sister Elizabeth, surely thrilled to be out in society and now privy to scandal. “I tell you, he’ll take what he wants from that girl, then leave her ruined and without a ring. It wouldn’t even be the first time,” she adds smugly, and you feel a pit open up in your stomach.

You hadn’t even considered the possibility of such a scheme, and now you feel even worse the fool for not seeing it. Everything dichotomous about him clicks into focus as if Evelyn has lifted opera glasses to your eyes. It couldn’t be plainer — his sweetened words, promising what he surely knew he couldn’t provide; his disinterest fading into persuasion as he determined you a desirable, susceptible target. You’re trapped, utterly and completely, worse than you’d thought. Until moments ago, the worst-case scenario had been living with a husband who carried on behind your back, with at least the respect tied to being a lady to cushion the blow. This is worse than you could have imagined. Lord Healy is going to leave you utterly ruined, whether you give yourself up or not: if that is precedent, that will be what the scandal sheets announce, that will become gospel to the ton, leaving you cast out, dishonourable, utterly unmarriageable. You won’t even be able to retire peacefully as a spinster with the stain that will stick to you.

“My goodness!” gasps Elizabeth, shocking you back to the present. “Who is the poor girl?” She sounds eagerly scandalised, a voracious little gossip-monger in the making.

Evelyn makes a non-committal sound. “I know not. The family are being ever so tight-lipped. Although, I suppose I should be, too, knowing my fate was either to have my daughter married off to or ruined by a man like him. Do you know he has tattoos? As if he were a shipyard worker or some other such lowlife,” she scoffs bitingly.

“He is ever so handsome, though. Perhaps the girl is so vile of face that his progeny will save the family from ruin. Or overwhelmingly poor, and they–” Elizabeth’s excited diatribe is cut off by exaggerated hushing, and you slowly sink into a chair as you attempt to process all that you’ve heard.

“You shouldn’t speculate so. Not where anyone could hear, at least.” Evelyn’s smirk is audible. “It is most likely that the family are simply desperate, that the girl failed to capture any man’s attention in her seasons, and must be married before she winds up in spinsterhood.” She pauses to giggle. “Perhaps it is the Marlowe girl.” Your blood runs cold. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but ever so odd. Fits the bill exactly, I’d wager.”

Nausea roils in your stomach. Having the news broken at a debutante ball would have been scarring enough, even with dozens of other girls for the vultures to circle. But having it found out early, allowing the scandal sheets days to pick over you and your history before you even set foot in a ballroom? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Delicate footsteps pick their way toward you and you scramble to stand, ducking around a corner to escape from view. No such luck, though. “Darling, where did you go?” your mama calls, obnoxiously loud. “I must see how this fabric will look against your complexion.” Face flaming, you pick your way back to your mama and the seamstress, letting them drape a delicate lilac silk across your shoulders.

“Oh, how wonderful you shall look, miss,” the seamstress declares. “Your engagement shall be the talk of London, I will make sure of it.” Your heart sinks, so fast and far that you’re sure it lays in two pieces in your slippers, Evelyn and Elizabeth exchanging a proud, shocked glance, and you know for certain you’ll be plastered across every gossip sheet in London the instant they come off the press.

You grit your teeth. “Yes, I am certain it will.” Your voice comes out scraped over gravel, your venomous glare in the sisters’ direction most definitely not helping matters. The dresses you paid for will be beautiful, to be sure, but hardly worth the stinging slap of humiliation you endured to get them.

When Lord Healy calls on you the next evening, you don’t even attempt to hide your scowl, listless as he attempts to ply you with flattery while leading you into the gardens. “News of our engagement will reach the gossip rags by morning,” you warn, tone flat and eyes directly forward, lest he disarm you with that deceptively sweet smile of his.

“Bollocks,” he swears. “Nobody in this godforsaken city can mind their fucking business.” His jaw clenches, furious, and you hate yourself a little for how undeniably attractive you find the emotion on him.

“Must you be so vulgar?” you snap. “Are you not putting me through shame enough for your selfish goals that you think it fair to humiliate me even before this farcical engagement meets its end?” The words come out bitter, corrosive and acrid on your tongue, genuine hurt written across Lord Healy’s face. “My lord,” you add poisonously.

His nails dig into your arm, halting you in your stride and forcing you to face him. “Are we really back to my lord? Damn. I had thought you might be warming up to me.” He throws you a grin that you’re sure makes the women he’s used to weak in the knees. When it doesn’t work, he switches tack. “Look, love. I don’t know what you’ve heard to make you think so lowly of me. I would have thought you of all people would know not to believe the scandal sheets, but–”

“Do not patronise me,” you hiss, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know that you were engaged before, that you ruined some other poor girl. I know that you plan to do the same to me. I plead that you at least allow me some final months of dignity before you leave me with nothing.” Something sour has rooted in your chest, decaying from the inside out; your insides withering to match your reputation.

To your surprise and disgust, Lord Healy tips his head back and laughs. Revolted, you start to turn away, and he reaches his arm out. “That’s what this is about? Love, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was never engaged, I was courting the girl.”

“Oh, well, I’m ever so glad that was clarified. I suppose it shouldn’t matter, then.” Anger is boiling in your veins, his flippant tone only serving to further enrage you.

Lord Healy takes your hands, his skin soft and warm against yours. “If you’d let me finish,” he scoffs, but there’s fondness colouring his tone. His wide, brown eyes shine earnestly, and something convinces you not to pull away. “That girl was a friend, and I was doing her a favour, I swear it. She needed a way out of the ton, all its rules and restrictions, in order to live and love freely. And she is. Much happier these days, lives a more honest life than this.” He waves his hand, collecting your house and gardens in one insouciant motion. “I’ll take you to meet her someday, if you like. If you won’t be too scandalised by the kind of unsavoury company I keep,” he adds with a smirk, and some of the ice in your veins thaws.

Really, you have no reason to trust Evelyn Mountfitchet over him, spiteful woman that she is. Mollified, you slide your arm back through his, and his relief is palpable. “I’m not such a delicate flower, you know.” You pause, weighing your words carefully. “That was a kind thing to do for her, knowing what the scandal sheets would say.” You’re certain you know what sort of love the girl wanted, to necessitate such a sure and dramatic departure from polite society, and it’s a comfort to know where he stands in regard to such relationships. “I think that, perhaps, if it is til death that we may part, we ought to be friends,” you say cautiously. Matthew’s answering smile is brilliant, so dazzling that your heart melts just a little, like fondant on a hot day.

“I’d like that very much,” he says softly, something like affection in his gaze. “And, it was only the decent thing to do. I hate to see a friend struggling, especially not when I could help. Besides, it was rather mutually beneficial — the ambitious mamas kept away as if I were diseased,” he laughs.

“And now you are saddled with me,” you say. It’s intended as a joke, but it comes out self-deprecating and a little pathetic.

“There are far worse women I could be saddled with,” he says, playful enough that you aren’t offended. He pauses, still and pensive. “Truly. You are a most unique manner of woman, and I mean that in the most earnestly complimentary way possible. If I were the marrying type, I would surely have devoted myself to capturing your affections.” You flush, pressing an embarrassed palm to your heated cheek. “I must commend your skills in deception, to convince so many that you are undesirable. Kind of you to allow the other girls in your set a chance.”

At that, you laugh outright, clapping a hand to your mouth in embarrassment. “It isn’t an act. I simply have no time for such things. Or, had, I suppose. I should have liked to be a spinster and utterly invisible to society, but I see that fate had other plans.” You wander your gaze over him, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle slope of his cheek, the alluring lines of his body. You wonder, briefly, if maybe your life isn’t over. Maybe, just maybe, Matthew is a gift.

Something must change in your expression, because Matthew mirrors it exactly, a fond smile crossing his face and his hand moving from your arm to low on your waist. The contact is thrilling, scandalous and precious, a thing to be held onto and treasured. “We do make quite the pair, don’t we?” he chuckles. “An aspiring spinster and a rake with the heart of a romantic.” It’s eerily similar to what you said to your mother, yet woven through with the thread of gold that links you; a flimsy, frail thing, but shining nonetheless, and you allow the hope you had killed to flutter back to life, a butterfly beating its wings against your ribcage.

“A romantic, hm?” you begin, circumspect. “I don’t know if I believe that. If you are only playing the rake, you play him very well.” You hope your tone is coming across light and teasing, that you’re only curious at his motivation behind the falsehood, if one exists. “I have seen your behaviour firsthand, you know. Three years past, my first season out. You were quite the catch, and I don’t recall seeing you ever dance with the same girl twice.”

“Do you want the truth?” You nod eagerly. “My first season, I truly looked forward to the prospect of finding love. But there was never any thrill, any excitement, any romance. Every girl just a two-dimensional caricature of what is considered desirable, and most just sold off to the highest bidder. It’s all so proper, and it disgusted me. Earnestly, it reviles me that you haven’t a choice in this arrangement. If I could grant you one, I promise I would in a heartbeat.”

Your chest warms, heart softening with every word, passion spilling over every syllable. “I know,” you say softly, and mean it.

“The reputation as a rake came that year, I suppose. Polly and I came to the arrangement that we would pretend to court, and I would leave her ‘ruined’ and free. The scandal sheets simply ran with the idea, and I didn’t stop them. It kept the expectations off of me, but the more I came to know how the rest of England lives, the more I was overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of it all. A friend of mine, my best friend, is deeply and irrevocably in love with a woman, a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman. The kind of love that should be shouted about from the parapets and paraded in the streets. And yet, he is forced to love her in secrecy and solitude, because she is not the ‘right kind of woman’ for a man like him.”

You frown, filled with sympathy for these lovers. “It sounds like a love story in a novel I would be forbidden from reading.” He laughs, liquid and mellifluous, the sound worming its way into your chest and cradling your thumping heart. “Well, that explains the rake. When does this supposed romantic heart come into play?”

Snorting, Matthew digs you in the ribs. “I’m getting to that. So impatient, aren’t you?” Something about those words runs cool water down your spine, a feeling you can’t place buzzing to life under your skin. “When I left England, I fell a little bit in love with everyone I met. So many people, so many places, so many lives, all unique and blessed in their own way. The wide world is true poetry, and I suppose that I long for a romanticised place in it.”

Your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth, words you might struggle for hours to pen falling easily and thoughtlessly from his plush lips. For the first time, you notice that your mama has retreated inside, affording you the tiniest moment of snatched privacy. Emboldened, a wave of brazen desire overtakes you, so strong that you go lightheaded. Your mouth opens without permission, words spilling free before you can stop them. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”

Matthew smiles, eyes crinkling as one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. The simple touch makes you weak in the knees, your gaze curious as he leans down, so close that his lips are a hairsbreadth from yours. He murmurs one simple word. “Please.”

Your lips connect, head spinning as his mouth moves against yours. You’re floundering a little, at a loss in unfamiliar territory. Time slows around you; Matthew’s lips on yours the only feeling you know, your head going hazy like you’ve drunk far too much wine. It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning, like you’ve lived all your life in a sketch and suddenly been ripped into three dimensions.

The world blurs around you, grounded by his hand at your waist, his lips on yours. It’s all top lip, shockingly chaste despite the passion spinning between you, all your desire poured into the kiss. He’s breathing heavily when you pull apart, lips slick and face flushed. “Was that… I… I’ve never…” you trail off, suddenly riveted by the grass beneath your feet.

“Then you are a natural,” he praises, and you flush impossibly redder. “So adept on your first try, darling. I’ll surely die a happy man if you continue to kiss like that.”

“So presumptuous,” you tease, audacious bravado fuelling you. “Who says I’ll continue? Perhaps the desire has been flushed from my system,” you say with a smirk, laughing when he clutches his heart in mock-horror.

“You wound me so,” he laughs, taking your hand. That butterfly seems to have multiplied in your chest, a kaleidoscope of them fighting to burst free from your chest the longer his palm warms yours.

You find yourself forlorn when he leaves, the mere hour you spent in his company having shifted your worldview on its axis. As you had expected, your engagement is plastered across every gossip rag you come across, but you don’t find yourself debilitated by it; you have a confidant in Matthew, at the very least, and a chance for companionship to bloom into something more. You don’t dare tease yourself with the word, refuse to prop open the window for him until you’re certain of what you want.

That night, your pen flies across paper, inspiration flowing free. You even pen a letter to Matthew that will never again see the light of day, a messy, raw untangling of your sudden feelings that bares your soul uncomfortably. Instead of dreaming of shackles and snide words, your head is filled with sparkling jewels and soft lips, hands in your hair and… You wake flushed and sweating, the mirage of his touch still on your skin, certain that you wear your shame plain on your face.

To make matters worse, your mama has invited a dozen respectable, recently-married ladies to pass the morning in your home, insisting that you must become acquainted with your peers in ladyship. Among them, of course, will be Evelyn Mountfitchet, sharp tongue poised to entertain the other ladies with a colourful recounting of your every misstep disguised as concern. Really, it’ll be an open forum to discuss your shortcomings while you’re forced to smile like you’re being lavished with compliments, and you’ll hate every minute of it.

Nonetheless, you are dutiful first and foremost, and knowing now that your married life shan’t be an utter torment buoys your spirits a little as your maid laces you into a sage-green daydress. Sipping at your tea, you peruse the morning’s scandal sheets, grateful that the vultures seem already to have moved on. The day’s transgression appears to be a lord having taken a fancy to a merchant’s daughter, leaving the family horrified when he presented her at dinner. You really ought to stop purchasing the gossip rags, but your curiosity wins out each time your fingers hover over the paper. In all fairness, the gossip is already printed — is there such harm in you being one of the hundreds of readers?

You curtsy idly to the women as they cross into the parlour, mentally reciting their names over and over to save yourself from any faux pas. Tight, awkward smiles and knowing glances thrown at your expense across the table in lieu of conversation, until the silence is miraculously broken. “My compliments to your cook, Miss Marlowe. I don’t know that I have ever been so delighted by tea and cake in my life,” says Mrs Vincent, a woman you remember as having a good, sensible head on her shoulders. You had been rather disappointed when her attentions were captured, hoping that you might have found a friend whose ideals lay in a similar bent to your own, but she and her husband seem a true love match, which is rare enough that you cannot begrudge her for choosing happiness.

“You are most kind,” you say, grateful for a conversation topic that allows you to hold your own. “Our cook comes from France, brings with her the most wonderful French cuisine.”

Evelyn titters snidely behind her hand, and you swivel to face her, annoyed. “Don’t you find it rather fanciful? Personally, I prefer a good, honest English meal. But, I suppose you ought ensure your palate is discerning to the tastes of your betrothed. He has rather a taste for the European, no?” The implication is clear, the other ladies watching with bated breath for your response.

Careful, practised calm holding you still, you take a pointed sip of your lemonade before you reply. “My betrothed is well-travelled, certainly. I could not be satisfied with a man who has no regard or curiosity for the wonders of the Earth beyond our borders.” It’s a simple, dignified response — that doesn’t acknowledge or address her insult. Exactly what the women at the table expect. You can see pity in their faces; they think you haven’t perceived it at all. “Although…” you add, a dozen heads suddenly perked up with interest. “If I recall correctly, your husband took a similar trip just months after you were married. Perhaps you concern yourself with the wrong man’s European… proclivities.” You try not to grin too smugly, eyebrows raised across the room and Evelyn turning an unattractive shade of puce. None of the other women thought you had it in you, and you know it.

Having spent years curbing your tongue, sitting in shadowed alcoves at balls, you’ve enough repressed wit and stockpiled gossip to start your own scandal sheet, should you so choose. Keeping your lips sealed and your cards close had seemed the best option when you were aiming to avoid notice, but with your position changed, you suddenly harbour a most esurient need to make the ton take notice of you. “Would anybody else like to offer their unsolicited opinion of my intended, or should the discussion perhaps turn to something more productive and befitting women of our station, hm?”

Newfound respect is written across their faces, carefully reframing their social games in order to take you seriously as a player. You even enjoy the conversation a little, filing away each new piece of gossip with a grin and accepting invitations to social events you’d never have even glimpsed before today. Proud, satisfied and even a little excited as you wave your guests off politely, your mama stands smugly at your shoulder. “It is lovely to see you engaging willingly in your role, dear. Perhaps you might allow me to gloat a moment, for I recall telling you numerous times that if you would just–”

You square your shoulders. “I shan’t,” you say brusquely. Ordinarily, you’d never speak so bluntly to your mama, but the knowledge that you’ve mere weeks until you’re a lady in your own right emboldens you. “There is a difference between going somewhere willingly, and going there without complaint due to the executioner’s axe at your back. It is fortunate that Lord Healy is a good man, and one I could come to love, yes, but that could easily not have been so. He could have been any manner of man, a gambler, a drunkard, a sinner.” You aren’t yet entirely sure he isn’t the lattermost, if the heat you feel under his gaze is any indication, coiling under your skin and knotting in your chest, working its way down, down, down… Heavens, this is hardly the time! “And nonetheless I would be his wife. So, I implore you, do not mistake my acquiescence for forgiveness. I had made a choice, and you took it from me.” Your mama gapes at you as you leave, stalking into the library to lose yourself and forget all your troubles.

The passage of time escapes you, and you don’t realise how long you’ve been in the library, resting in a patch of sunlight like a house cat with your nose buried in a book until a maid finds you and informs you that you must dress for dinner. In all your distaste of the morning, your evening engagements had entirely escaped your awareness, and you dimly remember dinner with the Healys scheduled for the night.

Your ride is spent in stony, cold silence, your parents looking anywhere but your eyes. It’s not a long journey, thankfully, but it feels like an eternity before your carriage pulls to a stop and a footman helps you to the ground. You dip into a polite curtsy to Matthew’s parents, softening into a smile when you lock eyes with your betrothed. “You look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Matthew?” his mother says, nudging him unsubtly.

Matthew clears his throat, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I— Yes. I don’t quite… have the words for how lovely you look,” he says, his gaze intense as you meet it boldly.

“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” It’s a stiff response, measured and polite, born from uncertainty over your company.

His smile is winsome, your mama pinching your back as if to say I told you so, and you bite back a scowl. “I am afraid dinner is not quite ready yet,” he says with a polite nod to your parents. “Perhaps you might like a brief tour of the house, Miss Marlowe. It is soon to be your home, after all.”

Your mama makes a soft noise of protest. “That would be rather improper, no?” she says, casting glances at Matthew’s parents for support she evidently doesn’t find. You conceal a smirk; perhaps if she’d had a care to learn anything about the man she was marrying you off to, she wouldn’t need to be so concerned of what was proper.

“Oh, I do find the rules of propriety so stifling at times, don’t you? They are a young, engaged couple, we ought allow them a few moments of privacy. Come, we will take tea, and the men can have their whiskey and cigars. Dinner shan’t be long,” she says, and though your mama desperately wants to argue, a retort hanging from her lips, her own imposed rules of politeness prevent her — they are the hosts, after all.

Matthew takes you by the hand, the contact sending a pulse of warmth spreading from where his skin touches yours, and leads you deeper into the house. The moment you’re alone, he pulls you against a wall, his hands falling to your hips and grasping tightly. The closeness thrills you, heat prickling under your skin as he watches you with heavy, lidded eyes. “I have thought of nothing but your kiss since your lips left mine. May I kiss you?” he asks, hushed and reverent, and you nod slowly, eyes closing and head tilting up in anticipation. His lips meet yours, sweet and soft and gentle, but interlaced with a foreign, breathtaking hunger.

You melt against him, letting him take control of the kiss, determined but tender. You part your lips eagerly for his tongue, the taste of him suddenly overwhelming your senses. Breathing hard as you pull apart, you look up at him with wide eyes, feeling foolish and lovesick, some unfamiliar feeling of want pulling under your skin. “Is there really going to be a tour, or was that simply a facade to get me alone?” you tease, and Matthew smirks, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“I have often found that mixing an honest goal with an impure one can be… pleasurable… for all involved,” he answers, almost a purr. Something unknown thrills in your belly, licking down to settle in your core, forbidden. Then, his intense gaze breaks into a smile, and the tension breaks. “No, there really was somewhere I wanted to show you.”

Your footsteps echo through the cavernous halls, interspersed with breathless giggles when he pulls you a little too fast and you stumble into his arms, meeting in a sweet kiss before you start off again. You almost can’t believe your luck, that you’ll get to spend your days traipsing through these halls and kissing him whenever you like; you feel as though you’re waiting with bated breath, like pride must come before a fall.

With a dramatic flourish, Matthew comes to a stop before a grand set of double doors, flinging them open to reveal an even grander library. Your jaw drops as you marvel; stacks of shelves that must stretch the entire height of the house press against both walls, light filtering through a pane-glass window and puddling on the floor. He seems to sense your awe, his body warm at your back as he takes hold of your waist. “You seem like the kind of woman to appreciate a good book and some peaceful, private space.” He leans heavily on the word private and mouths at the shell of your ear, a shudder running through your body at his ministrations.

“I do,” you say shakily, though you can’t think of a time you’ve cared less about books than standing here with Matthew’s lips hovering against your neck.

“May I ask you something rather…” he says, slowly spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. “Improper?”

The look in his eyes is familiar, now, but impossible to define, eyes wide and crow-black. “It’s a little late to be seeking my permission for your indecorousness, no?”

Matthew smiles, the expression slow and salacious as it creeps across his face. “Perhaps,” he says, taking your hands and walking you deeper into the library. “But this is a question of a more… intimate… nature.” You’re acutely aware with every step that, should anyone else enter the library, the two of you would stay obscured from view. “I want to know…” he begins, voice low as he pulls you down onto a chaise, tucked neatly away in a shadowed corner. “What do you feel when I kiss you?”

Your heart speeds, stomach swooping as clumsy words stumble to your lips. “I— I don’t… I can’t describe it.” You lower your eyes, looking up at him through your lashes, that same, indecipherable look in his face.

“Would you like to know what I feel?” You nod minutely, breath caught in your chest. The air around you feels charged, like the minutes before a thunderstorm when your hair starts to stand on end. “I feel desire. Have you ever known desire, sweet thing? A quickening in your pulse, heat under your skin, smouldering in your chest.” Matthew inches closer with every word, pressing you back against the cushions until you’re almost prone, rucking up your skirts with one knee.

His every breath against your lips is incendiary, the feeling rushing under your skin finally given a name as you breathe out the word that might be your unmaking. “Yes.” Matthew crashes your lips together, slides a hand into your hair, all pretence at being a gentleman cast aside in favour of a frantic, consuming hunger. His tongue is greedy, his teeth sharp, pulses of pure want skittering down your spine and settling between your legs. The sensation thrills you, illicit and sharp and new, the heat of his body against yours soaking through your clothes.

“I was not entirely honest, before,” he says, and your blood runs cold. Your fear must be evident in his face, because he cups your cheek gently before he speaks. “When I said I had thought of nothing but your kiss. I thought of you constantly, certainly, but in a rather… filthier way.” His low tone washes over you, stomach clenching in some sort of sick anticipation as his lips meet your neck.

“What…” The words catch in your throat, desire clamping your neck like a vice. “What did you think about?”

A gasp slips from your lips as Matthew catches your earlobe between his teeth, kissing softly at your pulse point and pressing a soft hand against your leg. “I thought about you while I pleasured myself,” he murmurs, and you go hot all over, your skin feeling far too small to contain all you’re becoming, your chest tight and pulse racing. “I spilled in my hand with your name on my lips. I thought of how you might look, undressed beneath me, caught in rapture. Have you ever felt pleasure like that, darling?”

His voice is low, raked over gravel. You can sense his restraint, that he longs to teach you. “We cannot. Not now, not here, not before we are married.” You taste regret as you speak, so consumed in desire that you want to discard every carefully-learned edict of society, but the warning bells that chime for this act are too much to ignore.

Matthew huffs a quiet laugh. “So, you haven’t. If you trust me, sweet thing, there are ways I can show you pleasure without fucking you.” He leans heavily on the curse, an answering thrill clenching in your stomach as his fingers find the hem of your chemise. “Would you like that, darling?”

“Please,” you gasp, a breathless invocation from wanton lips. Matthew’s hand creeps up your thigh, higher and higher until… Your eyes fly open, your entire body jolting as a spark of pure sensation catches you alight. “Oh, my God,” you cry, back arching up as he slowly circles with the tip of his finger.

“I also answer to Matty,” he smirks, and though you groan, you’re grateful for the diffused tension. Your hips move of their own accord, chasing the pleasure that spills from his fingertips. “My God, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he groans, his gaze fixed on your face as you slip into bliss. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?” You shake your head, whining quietly when he pulls his hand away and takes hold of your wrist. The tips of his fingers are wet where they meet your skin, and you flush crimson. “I’m going to show you how to pleasure yourself, and, tonight, when you’re laying in bed with your lights turned out, I want you to bring yourself to that peak as many times as you want; get to know your body in the most intimate way. And then,” he leans close, whispering into the shell of your ear, his filthy words coiling under your skin and licking deliciously down your thighs. “I want you to tell me all about it. As your husband, I must know exactly what brings my wife to ruin.” In the same moment, he slides two of your fingers into you, the sudden stretch between your thighs unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Matty’s thumb comes up to circle your bundle of sensitive nerves, puppeteering your fingers in and out of you torturously slow. “Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”

It takes a moment for your hazy mind to register what he’s asking, whining as your hips rock up into his touch. “Only if you go faster,” you gasp, choking on a whimper as he speeds his motions, pleasure washing over you and wiping your mind clean.

“Anything you want,” Matty murmurs, tugging on your wrist so your fingers speed up, pressing deep as your eyes roll back in your head. “Curl your fingers for me, love,” he instructs, and you obey unthinkingly, gasping as a shock of pleasure ripples through your body, drool pooling in your mouth as Matty watches you adoringly. “Does that feel good?”

You moan out an affirmative, writhing under his touch and slowly picking up a rhythm of your own, too caught in a haze of pleasure to find words for what he’s making you feel. Tension coils in your belly, your body limp and loose on your bones. “Oh, God, please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for. He knows, though, somehow able to show you exactly what you need as he slides two of his own fingers alongside yours.

“Oh, love, you’re soaked,” Matty croons, following along with your rhythm and steering you to move faster, every movement sending a ripple of desire pulsing through your veins. “I think you needed this, didn’t you, sweetheart? Needed someone to show you how to feel so fucking good?” His palm is warm against the back of your hand, calluses pressing rough against your skin as your body stretches out around him. Your eyes fall closed, head swimming in slick, gleaming ecstasy. “Come on, love. Watch,” he instructs.

Obediently, your gaze falls to where your hands are joined, your wetness dripping over your fingers and a slick sound embarrassingly audible; sounding in time with the thumps of pleasure rolling over you. You moan helplessly, letting Matty take control as you fall into bliss, his breath coming in hard gasps against your lips. There’s a pulling low in your stomach, a twisting tendril of carnality tugging at every muscle of your body. A final swipe at your bud of nerves sends you pitching over an edge you hadn’t even known you were approaching, biting down hard on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out wantonly. You flutter around your fingers, gasping and rocking your hips, chasing the high as it fades from your grasp.

“That was… incredible,” you murmur, Matty’s expression at once smug and awed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I just… fuck,” you breathe, almost a laugh as the curse slips from your lips, the only word that feels fitting for the feeling rolling through your body.

“I promise you, darling, that was barely the beginning. Just you wait until we share a bed.” He smirks down at you, the eye contact deliberate as he slides his wet fingers between his lips, swirling his tongue purposefully, desire spiking in your core all over again. “And you taste so sweet,” he praises. “Go on, have a taste for yourself, love,” Matty urges. Cautiously, you bring your hand up to your lips, softly licking at the pads of your fingers. The taste of you is unfamiliar, but you strangely don’t hate it, pressing an eager kiss against Matty’s lips and licking carelessly into his mouth.

You trade lazy kisses for a few long, sweet moments, breaking away only to giggle against his mouth and gaze deeply into his warm, honey-brown eyes. Eventually, regretfully, you pull apart and climb to your feet, legs shaking a little until Matty loops an arm around your waist to support you. The dinner is lovely, to be sure, and his parents are perfectly pleasant, but you can think of nothing but Matty’s eyes on you, his tongue in your mouth, his fingers stretching you out and pulling you into oblivion. The barest brush of his lips against your hand, a polite goodbye, is almost enough to set you off again, a shudder running through you as a knowing smirk pulls at his lips.

Matty’s gaze meets yours, sharp and challenging, and he mouths think of me just as you leave. A flush creeps up your cheeks, and you look away, the intensity of his eyes too much to bear. And yet, you obey, moonlight slanting across your bed as you push your nightdress up around your waist. Matty’s voice circles your brain, his name sweet on your lips as you drag yourself to that peak countless times. Your body is exhausted but insatiate, an endless well of greed tapped and free-flowing. You can barely stand to clean yourself when you finally give in to lassitude, legs trembling and a voracious cramp in your wrist.

Your mama gasps in horror at the circles under your eyes the next morning, shameful imprints of your long, desire-soaked night. “Goodness gracious,” she gasps. “What on Earth kept you awake all night? Good Lord, you aren’t a child anymore. You simply cannot spend your nights with a candle and your nose in a book any longer. You have responsibilities.” You nod idly, stifling both a yawn and a smirk. “Go back upstairs. Get some rest — you might at least attempt something resembling respectability for the ball this evening.”

Oh. In your daze, you’d utterly forgotten. Ordinarily, you’d refuse out of spite, and your mama gives a long-suffering sigh, expecting a fight. But something thrills you about showing off your engagement so publicly, staking a claim on the man so many debutantes failed to ensnare. The chance that you might slip away with him into a shadowed alcove or a private garden certainly doesn’t hurt either. So, with nothing more than a slight scoff, you go back to bed, snatching a few hours of much-needed sleep. Visions of Matty dressed in full finery fill your head, a surprising, sudden excitement growing in your chest.

You can’t hold back a gasp when your mama produces your gown; you’d never bothered examining the new season’s dresses, already resigned to misery. Your fingers trail gently over the sparkling fabric, running like water under your touch. “You shall be the most spectacular thing in the room, dear,” says your mama smugly.

The word thing hits you like a splash of ice-cold water. Of course. “Yes,” you say faintly, your voice sounding muffled to your own ears. “I must pen a letter of thanks to the modiste,” you add pointedly, your mama’s face falling. She sweeps out of the room without a word as if to say, see how well you’ll look without me.

It turns out, unsurprisingly, that your ladies are even more proficient at their craft without your mama’s hawkish gaze picking and prodding at whatever she pleases. You gaze at yourself in the looking glass, awestruck. Your cheeks hold a healthy glow, dusted with rouge that matches the stain on your lips, and as you smile softly, you realise that, for the first time, you find your reflection pretty.

Even the now-familiar cold silence of your journey fails to dampen your spirits, the glittering warmth of the ballroom enveloping you as you cross the threshold. You search the room for Matty, a little crestfallen when his wild curls aren’t immediately apparent. Of course, you shake off your parents as quickly as possible, surprised by your sudden enjoyment of the atmosphere without the crippling burden of a dance card looped around your wrist.

Lost in the wealth of colour and light surrounding you, you jolt at a gentle touch to your elbow. Expecting to meet Matty’s warm, adoring gaze, you turn eagerly, only to come face-to-face with a lord who’s practically withering into dust where he stands. “Good evening,” he says, a sinister smile revealing half-rotted, missing teeth. “May I have this dance? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You don’t think so either, but you’d be surprised if the man could remember how to button his own waistcoat. His fingers are like sandpaper against your bare arm, the sensation positively emetic. “I am spoken for, my lord,” you say, without even attempting at politeness. He’ll hardly remember it tomorrow, age-addled as he is. As if on cue, a murmur ripples through the young ladies, eagerness turning to disparagement as it reaches their mamas, and you look up to see three young men burst into the room.

On the left, the most serious-faced one holds up a pocketwatch, evidently admonishing the other two for their more-than-fashionable lateness, while the tallest one laughs him off. In the middle, you watch Matty slyly ribbing the former until he relents, smiling exasperatedly. “Ah!” you say brightly, grateful for the out. “There is my betrothed now. Good evening, sir.” You curtsy politely and blow out a relieved breath as soon as his back is turned, beelining for Matty and his companions.

“Hello, love,” he says warmly, something in your body instinctively relaxing in his presence. He takes your hand, warm in his calloused palm, and brings it to his lips. You smile a little self-consciously, hyperaware of the other two sets of eyes on you. Nodding politely to the other two men, you bite your lip and jerk your head at Matty; it isn’t polite for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman, and you’ve too much company to publicly flout the rules of conversation.

When he doesn’t pick up the hint, the more solemn one shakes his head with an annoyed yet fond laugh, bowing politely. “Mr. Hann,” he says. “Adam, really.”

It seems to spur the other into action. “George,” he says simply, and you raise an eyebrow. “Lord Daniel, if you must be an utter bore about it.”

You curtsy, but flicker your gaze to the ceiling in the universal gesture of Lord, give me strength. “Great heavens, there’s two of them.”

Adam snickers. “Four, actually. I’m certain it shan’t be long until you discover that for yourself,” he adds with an enigmatic grin that makes you like him all the more.

“Fuck’s sake, Hann,” Matty scoffs, and you still jump a little at the vulgarity and how easily it falls from his lips. “I told you how hard I had to work to get her to like me, don’t go turning her against me now. I’m not all that likeable, you know.” He turns to you, and the full effect of his disarming, fathomless-deep gaze settles on you. You run hot all over. “Would you care for a dance, my lady? Before I allow you to be poisoned any further against me,” he chuckles, and you accept with a gentle smile.

Matty sweeps you into a waltz, leading commanding and effortless, and you can’t keep a smile off your face as you lose yourself in him. “You look radiant, love. Truly, a beauty like yours is mythical.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, demure and slightly disbelieving. “You’re quite the dancer, my lord,” you say, in an obvious and unconcealed attempt to divert the subject.

Thankfully, he allows it. “You sound surprised,” he says, mock-affronted. “I’m a musician at heart, darling, I could lead a waltz in my sleep.” You smile, but your attentions are drifting; snatches of conversation pass you by, murmured but not so low you can’t hear them. An odd pair… Surely ruin her… Heavens, look at him… Isn’t nearly pretty enough…

Matty is utterly oblivious to the noise, watching your face fall with obvious confusion. “What are we doing here, Matty?” you murmur, suddenly helpless. “Even if we could be happy together, how can that possibly be enough? Endless whispers, following us anytime we set foot in society; this stain stuck to us forever.” Pain is written clearly across his face — he wants to argue, but he’s at least allowing you the courtesy of coming to the point before he does. “You could still leave me,” you say quietly. “Find safety with the devil you know. Play the rake until the perfect girl comes along, one without all the collateral I carry.”

Fittingly, the song draws to an end, Matty pulling you to the edge of the room with eyes full of frustrated consternation. “I’m not going to fucking leave you,” he hisses, crowding breathlessly close. “You want me to go searching for the perfect girl, yes? I have travelled from nation to nation, spent days upon weeks in the open seas, visited wonders on every continent, and yet… if you were to ask me the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen? That smile, that first real smile you gave me. Without a question or a second thought. Please, darling, let me love you. See yourself the way I see you.”

Your resolve shatters, that greedy, hungry part of you that’s gone starved for love all your life snapping to the forefront in your chest. “How do you see me?” you breathe, low and pleading, hunting for an answer in his eyes.

“I know this house well,” he says, and your brow furrows at the sudden change of subject. “The thought of an audience for the maudlin display I am about to put on is almost too much to bear.” You huff a quiet, disbelieving laugh and let him lead you through a maze of winding, labyrinthine corridors until you come to an empty parlour. The air is still, quiescent, like stepping into a still-life portrait as you sit delicately at the edge of a divan. Matty sinks to his knees in front of you, resting his palms against your skirts over your thighs. “You want to know how I see you? I see a fierce, clever woman, one who has, perhaps, never been truly seen before. I see the woman I want to make a life with, who I want to share my thoughts, fears, dreams with. Who I hope will respond in kind.” Pure, earnest kindness shines in Matty’s gaze, a frail hope you recognise as a twin to the butterfly that perches on your ribs.

You can’t do anything but smile down at him, at a loss for words. “I simply… I just… I cannot…” you stammer, stopping and starting as if you’re hunched over your writing-desk.

“Do you trust me, love?” You nod mutely. “Then trust this, trust what you feel, trust yourself,” Matty urges.

Damn him. Damn him to hell. “Come here and kiss me.”

His wide, adoring smile turns to a slow smirk. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, love.” His hands fall to the hem of your skirt, slowly inching up your legs, familiar heat coiling to life between your thighs. “Now, tell me. Did you do as I asked last night, darling?”

“Yes.” The answer comes rushed, breathy, shameless. Matty gazes up at you, encouraging. “I thought of you, only you. I wished it were your hands bringing me to ruin over and over again, wished I could do the same to you.” His eyes are black with desire and your mouth goes dry. “I know that you have… experiences, and I do not wish to–”

“All that means, darling, is that I have the privilege of being the one to teach you,” Matty insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your knee. Your skirts brush against your heated skin, pushed up until he’s gazing at your exposed, glistening core. Your eyes follow him, questioning, as he leans ever closer. “You’ve felt pleasure by hand, yes, but what I really want is to get my mouth on you. Would you like that, sweet girl?”

You shudder. “Please.” No sooner has the word left your lips than his mouth connects with your core, lapping up your arousal with an ebullient hunger. A moan escapes you, blinding heat flashing across your skin. Your breathing is instantly ragged, pleasure burning in your chest as he buries his tongue deep inside you.

Your hands slide into his hair, anchoring yourself to reality. His answering moan against your skin ripples through you, muscles tensing and loosening in keeping with your hammering heartbeat. “Just like that, darling.” Matty murmurs against your skin. “Good girl.”

The praise draws a long, pleading whine from your lips, a cavalcade of desire marching through your bloodstream. “Matty, oh, fuck,” you gasp. The profanity still feels foreign on your lips, but there truly isn’t another word in your lexicon that can describe the pure ecstasy coursing through you.

Matty presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, smearing your arousal against your skin and licking you clean. A flash of teeth scrape against your tender flesh, pulling a gasp from you as you drag his mouth back to where you need it most. Euphoria winds under your skin, an insistent hum at the base of your skull growing louder with every passing second. His tongue works over you in sure, fast strokes, dragging you higher and higher.

He sucks on your nerves, your legs flailing out helplessly in response. One of his hands creeps up, teasing your nerves as he fills you with his tongue over and over. A filthy sound fills the room, slick and wet and lustful, and you clench your hands into fists in his hair. You clench your thighs around Matty’s head, his tongue driving deep into you as you clench your thighs around his head, whimpered obscenities dripping from your mouth. His pace speeds, slows, never allowing you to get complacent in a rhythm, flames stoked in your core.

You’re half-delirious with it, implorations for something you couldn’t name falling slurred from your lips. Pleasure balls into a fist in your belly, hot and demanding, knocking the wind out of you as it slams into your gut. You gasp out his name in an endless litany, writhing with need as pure bliss rolls over you, loose and free on your bones. “Oh, my God,” you breathe, still pulsing with aftershocks as Matty pulls away, lips and chin soaked when he smiles up at you.

“No God, darling. Just me,” he says smugly, and you scoff. He quirks an eyebrow, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “What? Look around, love. Do you see God in this room? Or do you see a man, bringing you pleasure?” You bite your lip, chest still heaving with the tangible, real evidence of what you felt. “In any case, I am kneeling for you. Not for any God,” he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, your slick obscenely visible against his alabaster skin.

Matty stands, pulling you with him, and tugs you in for a slow, deep kiss, the taste of you blooming in your mouth. “That’s blasphemy,” you say, appalled and intrigued in equal measure. “You could be prosecuted for that.”

He grins against your mouth. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Your heart thuds where your chest is pressed against his, heartbeats aligning in a perfect, rhythmic duet. “Never.”

#this was soo fucking fun to write Omg #lowkey this is like top 5 most Sweet romantic things ive ever written probably #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #dancing is a dangerous game

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