#a very demure and very mindful word count about very demure and very mindful content

[verbenaa]

snippet sunday MONDAY

thank you to @khywren @inkymoonbunny @ladyduellist and @roguishcat (sorry if I've forgotten anyone else) for tagging me the past week(s) to post a little something! I am super behind on my tagged stuff but I'm working to catch up 😅

Chapter 8 is at a very modest 12k words atm. Sorry for the wait on it, but a good 3/4ths of it is smut and/or some casual emotional damage so it's (hopefully) worth it 😈 it shall come out sometime in the (hopefully very) near future.

anyway here ya go~

No pressure tags ✨💖 @elinorbard @preciouslittlebhaalbae @xxnashiraxx @eraserspiral

[tonycries]

Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too. 

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room. 

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this. 

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle. 

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already. 

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked. 

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them. 

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious. 

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

. 

A weighty beat passes. One. Two. 

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this? 

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What? 

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face. 

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity. 

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better. 

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually. 

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth. 

“Out.” 

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now. 

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?” 

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him. 

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but. 

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. 

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar. 

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal. 

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away. 

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan. 

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his. 

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this. 

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth. 

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended. 

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast. 

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers. 

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants. 

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth. 

And Gojo keeps going. 

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily. 

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good. 

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?” 

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs. 

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit. 

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous. 

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together. 

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute. 

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone. 

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife. 

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch. 

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly. 

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance. 

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you. 

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there. 

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least. 

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.” 

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear. 

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side. 

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?” 

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him. 

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find- 

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted. 

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles. 

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are. 

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices. 

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper. 

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you. 

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes. 

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his. 

“Clean that room up.” 

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie. 

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[benedictscanvas]

hey love! im sorry your request box hasnt been what you were looking for but maybe this will work! can i request a ball with benedict bridgerton where feelings are only realized when one of them dances with someone else? i dont really mind if its reader or benedict but i just think it would be cute!! hope you’re doing well <3 <3

hello my lovely. you're the sweetest, thank you so much for such a gorgeous request. I've got a pretty similar fic where Benedict realises his feelings, so I was super excited to do the other way around, I hope you enjoy <3 <3 | 1.5k words, fem!reader

There is a woman in Benedict’s arms and it isn’t you and you think you might throw your lemonade at her. Accidentally, of course.

You don’t know her, and if the reasonable side of your brain was in charge, you’d probably think she looks quite lovely. Her hair is adorned in elaborate braids and her smile is demure but still a little goofy - she isn’t shrouded in the fake humility that she finds so many ladies of the ton carry around with them. 

But still you find yourself fantasising about a large lemonade stain painting the front of her dress, the poor girl hurrying away in her shock and distress.

Away from Benedict. Who’s now laughing. At something the girl has said, no less. Why, you’d never seen him laugh at any lady of the ton who wasn’t either his sister or, once, Lady Danbury.

And yourself, of course, but you didn’t count.

At least, you didn’t think you counted. You didn’t think you wanted to count, content to while away the balls and the promenades by Benedict’s side, sometimes Eloise’s, whispering about so-and-so’s hat or whats-his-name’s hair. He’d never asked you to dance, although you’d never wanted him to before. Now that he was dancing with someone for the first time you could recall, however, you could feel that changing very swiftly.

”You know, looking vexed in the corner isn’t likely to win you many adoring suitors, Miss Y/L/N.”

Eloise always knows just when to get on your nerves and she’s grinning at you slyly when you turn to face her, finally breaking the spell that Benedict and his new dance partner had placed on you.

”Since when have you believed that was my endeavour, dear Eloise?”

”Since you’ve spent the entire night glaring at pretty young Miss Pennyforth. It’s making you look rather jealous, to the untrained eye.”

You turn away from her, fixing your eyes on her brother yet again. They’re not talking anymore, just staring at each other as he twirls her again and again. Maybe it was better when they spoke after all, because now your stomach is twisting into something that does indeed feel a lot like jealousy.

”Yes, well, you know better than to think I’m jealous. Though I do seem to be in a foul mood.”

Eloise nods exaggeratedly, a pretend-sympathetic pout on her lips.

”Yes, you poor thing. And it obviously has nothing to do with the brother of mine that you can’t take your eyes off.”

You pointedly look at her again but she just dissolves into giggles at the look on your face.

”If you have a point, Eloise, I suggest you make it.”

”Oh, no point at all. Only that the one ball where Benedict decides not to stand with you and ruin his prospects all night, you seem to be very dour indeed. With no correlation, of course.”

You glower at her as best you can. You have the irritable feeling crawling out of your stomach through your throat that you might be about to cry, and you refuse to do so here, or to allow Eloise to think it’s her fault if you do.

”You run along and find Penelope or I shall tell your mother there’s a gentleman asking after you.”

She gaped at you, quite genuinely.

”You wouldn’t,” she murmured, but then promptly hurried away when you fixed her with a look that told her you most certainly would. It was a lie, because you could never bring yourself to do that to your friend, but it was a ruse that allowed to slip away from the ballroom.

You cast one last glance over your shoulder at Benedict to see him kissing the back of Miss Penny-something’s hand and your eyes began to sting.

- - -

There was a little bench hidden away to the left of the grand entrance, just dark enough to not be spotted by those near the carriages. You managed to shed a few tears in private, silent silly things, and you wiped them away angrily.

It was only Benedict. Quiet, mischievous, generous Benedict. He was creative and caring and could come up with the most brilliant insults you’d ever heard. Obviously, he also had a beautiful face, but you’d never given it much thought. All the Bridgertons were beautiful, it felt like a requirement.

”Did Lord Tennesby try to talk to you again?”

You sighed deeply, closing your eyes with your head bowed. Of course he’d find you. If anyone was likely to be looking for a quiet spot for a moment’s reprieve, it was him.

You wiped at your face in vain before looking up at him with what you hoped was a convincing smile. 

“I’d be halfway back home if that was the case. What are you doing out here?”

Why aren’t you with Pennyfuzzy? was the unspoken second question that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to ask, knowing how spiteful it would come out. You wished you had realised you might want more from Benedict in the comfort of your own home, where you could take a week to process those feelings and prepare for how to deal with them.

Instead, you’d just have to see what happened in this conversation and go from there. Sounded promising.

”I was going to ask you the same thing. Have you…been crying?”

”I think it’s the flowers,” you point over at the hyacinths in the nearby flowerbed, “They often get the best of me this time of year.”

”Daphne’s ball last year was filled with hyacinths and you didn’t so much as sniffle.”

You frowned at him.

“I probably sniffled.”

“You didn’t. I would have noticed. I would have offered you a handkerchief like the dashing young gentleman I am.”

It was enough to pull up your frown at the corners, which in turn propelled him to take a seat beside you on the bench. You busied yourself with a crease in your dress when you talked to him.

“Maybe you’re not as dashing as you think.”

“I’m incredibly dashing,” he argued, pointing his chin upwards in that silly, mighty way you always giggled at, “I swept Miss Pennyforth off her feet just moments ago.”

Like an ice cold bucket of water poured right over you. You almost shivered.

“Ah, Miss Pennyforth. Has someone finally captured your wayward attention, Mister Bridgerton?”

You looked up at him and tried not to sniffle or snuffle or anything else that might give you away. He was just looking puzzled.

“What? No, I meant I quite literally swept her off her feet. I got the steps wrong, according to Eloise, who helped me up once she had a hold of her laughter.”

You blinked at him.

“You fell?”

“Into quite the heap. Miss Pennyforth was a good sport about it all but she did end up with a rather unfortunate lemonade stain all down the front of her dress. I think she was a little embarrassed.”

He had the decency to look a little embarrassed himself. There you had been, ready to hurl the contents of your cup at the girl and Benedict had solved your predicament for you. A twinge of guilt tugged at you.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” you said honestly, face overtaken by a wry smirk since Benedict had not sat down singing her praises. Still you had to be sure, “She was looking a very good dancer before I left, I was afraid she might steal away my conversation partner.”

It ended up sounding far more transparent in your intentions than you’d hoped. But you held his eye contact defiantly when he grinned.

“I knew you missed me,” he said, smug, “I took one look at your face and I could see it plain as day. Really, you should have hidden it better.”

“I don’t enjoy these events and you know it, Benedict.”

Back to his first name and by the light in his eyes, he’d noticed the switch. He stood up and held out his arm for you.

“I know. I’m very grateful for it. Now come along, I’ve done my duty to my mother dancing with that girl and now I would like to do my duty to myself.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, not moving a muscle.

“I would like to make fun of the Featheringtons with my most cherished friend. Would you do me the honour?”

Something skipped inside your chest. Light and airy again, no longer weighed down and chained to something churning your stomach. His most cherished friend. Despite the evening’s revelations, that sounded heavenly.

“Is Eloise inside waiting for you then?” you can’t help but tease and he promptly puts his arm back by his side with a huff.

“You are intolerable. I’m going without you.”

“No - wait!” you laughed, following after him gleefully as he turned away from you and started walking. You managed to catch him on the stairs, threading your hand into the crook of his elbow with ease as you did.

The smile he sent you would take at least the next week to contemplate but you had time. You could be a very brilliant 'most cherished friend' for now.

(and you were far more cherished than you knew, of course, but he wasn't quite ready to tell you yet)

---

if you'd like to request something of your own, please see this post for characters I write for and two super brief guidelines. thank you for reading, sunflower <3

[fullsunrise]

Smoothie - Part 1 (M)

Word count: 2.8k

Pairing: Jeno x Original female character x Jaemin

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Porn with some plot, Dom!Jeno, Dom!Jaemin, OC is an inexperienced sub, BSDM elements, oral (m receiving), both Jaemin and Jeno are mean, barely proof read (sorry!)

Summary: After signing up on a BDSM community website on a whim, Jinhae has her first BDSM experience with Jeno and Jaemin.

Looking around the quiet Seoul neighborhood, Jinhae wanted to make sure she had the right address. There was nothing strange about the gated house that stood in front of her, and that's precisely why she could feel her stomach flip. How could two seemingly normal men own a home and also find the time to indulge? Was this just a pastime of theirs and during the day they were unassuming business men? Seoul felt like such a small place and the thought of running into them unknowingly sent shivers down her spine. 

Jinhae was way in over her head. She was about to turn around on her heels if it weren't for the click of the gate unlocking. All and any nerves she had quickly vanished when perhaps the prettiest man she's ever seen smiled gently at her. 

“Hi, you must be Jinhae, correct?”

“Yes, and you are…?”

“I'm Jaemin. Jeno is inside waiting. Would you like to come inside?”

Even though she was clearly here, standing in front of him on her very own free will, he still gave her the opportunity to leave. Maybe it was his hospitable demur or the way his cardigan fell ever so slightly off his shoulder revealing a toned bicep, but Jinhae could’ve sworn she was put under a trance.

“Sure,” she said with an equally kind smile that reflected the beaming grin from Jaemin.

The interior of the house was surprisingly modern yet it still lived in. Clean, but warm and homey. The smell of fresh linen hit her nose and Jinhae couldn't  help but let out a sigh of content. 

Jaemin was quick to pick up on her relaxed state as he hummed in reply. “I'll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled as he plopped himself on the couch. 

Jinhae couldn't help but soak in his figure as his arm draped around the back cushion and he crossed one leg over the other. For a second, she almost forgot where she was and why she was here. As if reading her mind, Jaemin motioned for her to sit down on the armchair across from him. 

“Is this your first time?”

“Is it that easy to tell?” She laughed nervously. 

“Not really, but you do seem a bit more relaxed than some of my previous relationships.”

“Have others bolted?”

He let out a hearty laugh, “Not many, but I’ve had some that were super jumpy and skittish.”

“Did they not understand what they were in for?” It seemed like an innocent enough question and Jinhae didn't intend for it to sound like she knew what to expect either. So when his warm smile dropped from his face, Jinhae knew maybe it was the wrong question to ask. 

“I’ll let you be the judge of that, sweetheart,” he said in a deep tone. His eyebrows were raised in a way that she could only describe as predatory. Her heart dropped in her stomach at how quickly his attitude changed. 

Before she could reply, footsteps echoed from beyond her chair until they stopped right behind her. The looming presence of the unknown figure was almost too much to ignore. The smell of warm cinnamon barely reached her nose when the man suddenly cleared his throat. 

“Are you going to introduce me to our lovely guest?”

“I’m sure she can introduce herself,” Jaemin said as his head cocked slightly to the right as if to say don't be shy, he doesn't bite.

The man then made his way around her, almost circling her like she was nothing but a mere sitting duck. When he sat down next to Jaemin, Jinhae could feel her mouth slowly part in awe. His facial features were a bit more rough than Jaemin. In part due to his short, blonde hair that made his stare feel a bit more intense. This must be Jeno, Jinhae thought. 

“You could stare all day if you want, but we're not going anywhere,” he teased. 

“I’m Jinhae. Nice you meet both of you,” she whispered as she sucked in a breath. With every passing minute, her nerves only grew. 

“That's a beautiful name,” Jaemin chimed in as he looked at Jeno in confirmation. Jeno endearingly smiled in response before he let his attention fall on Jinhae. 

The silence engulfed the three of them and Jinhae couldn’t help but feel like she was on display. Absent-mindedly, she uncrossed and crossed her ankles. It was nothing but a nervous habit of hers, but with the circumstances of her visit, she quickly noticed how Jeno licked his lower lip. 

“No need to be nervous, darling,” Jaemin said with a sweet smile, but it wasn't the same as the one he greeted her with. No, this one had a sinister tinge that did nothing but settle her nerves. 

“We're just going to ask you a few questions before we start the session. It’s only our first meeting so we're not going to do anything intense yet,” Jeno calmly said, his voice more soothing than she expected it to be.  

“Is that okay?” Jaemin asked as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. 

“Yes, I’m okay with that.” How could she not be? There were multiple times in the entire process where she could have easily opted out. From creating a profile, to filling out a very extensive questionnaire, and finally being matched with the very two men in front of her. It was a crazy scenario she only fantasized about in the comfort of her own sheets. Now that she was here, reality began to sink in. It was really happening. Right here. Right now. 

“Good,” Jaemin nodded in approval, leaning back into the couch.

“Is there anything you don't want us to do? Anything you're uncomfortable with?” Jeno asked curiously. 

“I don't think there's anything in particular,” she started, “I’m pretty new to all of this so I guess I’m willing to try anything until I know I don't like it.” 

It was a silly question, Jinhae thought. They must've read her answers before agreeing to meet her, right? Was this just a formality?

“Great,” Jaemin said, “Do you want to choose your word? It can be anything, really,” he added. 

Ah, that. She tried to come up with one earlier, but everything sounded so ridiculous. Maybe she was simply overthinking. Perhaps there was something around their house that would inspire her. Nothing crazy, maybe even ordinary. But to her dismay, the house was virtually spotless. Or at least that's what she thought if it wasn't for the half-empty cup on the kitchen counter. 

“Smoothie.”

This earned a deep and genuine chuckle from Jeno. Jinhae was unsure why he laughed, after all she wasn't trying to be funny. Jaemin followed her line of vision and when he found the same cup she spotted on the counter, she could almost see his patience leave his eyes. It was obvious it wasn't because of her, but instead his bubbling anger was aimed directly at the blonde haired man beside him.

“Sounds great,” Jaemin said through gritted teeth, forcing a wavering smile. He flashed a glare towards Jeno, wiping the shit-eating grin off the latter. It was only a small glimpse of their dynamic yet Jinhae wondered how close they actually were. 

“Now Jaemin, you know that's not the way we act around our guests,” Jeno teased.

“You're right, I’ll deal with you later,” Jaemin calmly agreed before looking back over at Jinhae. “Sorry about that, believe it or not we do actually live together.”

“How long have you two known each other?” It was a futile attempt at easing the tension in the room, but Jinhae couldn't help it. She was just curious.

“”I don't believe I said you can ask any questions,” Jaemin quickly replied. And in one swift motion all the attention was back on her. There was nowhere to hide now. Jinhae attempted to apologize for overstepping, but Jeno cut her off.

“He's right. You know you're lucky you're cute,” he said coldly, “Hides the fact you’re secretly a brat who can't follow basic instructions.”

Fuck. 

Jaemin sighed, “It's a shame, we thought you were smarter than that.” Jinhae tried to defend herself, but her words failed her. No sounds came out except a sigh of defeat. 

“Use your words, now,” Jeno instructed. 

“Don't get flustered on us, we’re just making sure you follow the rules.” Jaemin assured her, but Jinhae couldn't help but feel embarrassed by her impulses. 

“You're right. I’m sorry,” Jinhae said. No need to fight against it. If it were a normal conversation she would've cursed them out by now. But she had to remind herself that this was part of it. 

“It's okay, better to get it out of your system now while we're being nice,” Jaemin said, his face returning to that sickeningly sweet smirk that made uneasiness pool in her stomach. 

This was being nice? It was crazy how effective their words were. Jinhae couldn't believe how smoothly they were able to gain control of the conversation and put her in her place. To remind her of who she was in this relationship. No, not as an equal. Her role was to be subservient. Questioning their commands would be seen as rude and would lead to punishment. It was supposed to deter her, but the thought alone of them punishing her only left wetness in its wake.  

“Don't get any ideas, sweetheart.” Jeno stated, an eyebrow quirked. “Trust me, it won't be fun for you.”

Jinhae wanted so badly to challenge him. But there was no need, because they all knew that she would in fact enjoy it. All of it.

“But you want to find out, don't you?” Jaemin perked up. 

“Of course she does, look at the way she's practically squirming in her seat.” Jeno chuckled mockingly.

“No need to deny it, babe.” Jaemin grinned deviously. “You can tell us, we promise we won't get mad at you.”

“Play nice, Jaemin.” Jeno warned. But Jaemin’s face only grew more sinister as he leaned in closer. 

“I bet you're soaked right now, darling.”

And there it was. The dampness in her underwear was borderline uncomfortable now, his words only making it worse. It would be so easy to lie to them that she didn't want to find out. But this? She was stepping into a landmine. One wrong move could have her sprawled across their laps, her skirt at her ankles. It sounded so delicious, both of them touching her at the same time. It was electrifying and she could feel the warmth dance across her cheeks.

On one hand, the idea of being rewarded for being good sounded heavenly. But the idea of being bent over and having her ass slapped sounded intoxicating. Jaemin and Jeno might be the ones calling the shots, but she was also in control. They weren't the only ones playing games. 

“I can't help it,” she whispered as the red heat brightened on her cheeks. To really sell it, she rubbed her thighs together. Partly for herself and mostly because she knew they would eat it up. It was like they were smacked across their faces, leaving behind no trace of amusement.

“Aw babe, you look really flushed. Do you need help?” Jaemin said. Jinhae might’ve mistaken his concern to be real if it weren't for the fact that his dick was straining against his pants. 

“Y-yeah, I don’t feel so good,” Jinhae said, pressing the back of her hand against her temple. Might as well give them a performance. 

“You must be so hot in that sweater, too,” Jeno added, but his stare was entranced at her chest. Ah, so that's how it was going to be? Jinhae didn't think her innocent act would get them this riled up, but it gave her an extra boost of confidence to keep going.

“So warm,” she huffed as she pulled the sweater over her head to reveal her satin camisole underneath. It draped just perfectly over her bust and thin enough to show her nipples. Jaemin gave Jeno a glance and he nodded in approval without breaking his stare on her newly revealed skin. 

“We’ll help you, but first you need to show us how much of a good girl you are. Can you do that for us, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” Jinhae replied, rubbing her thighs together again. This time in anticipation. As she rose from her position on the chair, Jeno quickly shot up and placed his hands on her shoulders to lower her back down. 

“Ah-ah, did we say you could get up?”

“No, sorry.”

Jeno chuckled as he rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Let's try that one more time. Did we say you can get up?”

“N-no, sir,” she whispered. Shit, with a voice like that how could anyone not comply?

“That's more like it, darling. Now, let's hope you don't forget next time.” Jeno said softly, but his tone was contrasted by the abrupt clinking sound of his belt. 

“Now you're gonna show Jeno how much you deserve it. Isn’t that right, angel?” Jaemin said lazily from his seat on the couch. 

“Yes, sir,” Jinhae said with confidence, but it quickly faltered when Jeno snickered. 

“Looks like this one is messing with you,” Jeno laughed, pulling his tank over his head. Fuck, of course he was ripped. Jinhae would have ogled a bit longer if they let her. 

“She’ll learn quickly not to do that,” Jaemin replied, his voice increasing in volume, his tone borderline threatening. 

Clueless. Jinhae felt utterly clueless as to what she did wrong now. Did he not like to be addressed as Sir? If not that, then what? It wasn't exactly fair that they never mentioned it to her before they started. It had to be on purpose. 

“Don't act like you didn't do anything wrong, now,” Jeno said, pulling his jeans down to his ankles, just now in his briefs. “You can make it up to him, but first I need you to open your mouth nice and wide.”

Without hesitating, she did exactly as instructed. Jeno let out a deep grunt in approval before he roughly grabbed her jaw and forced her to look up at him. 

“Such a pretty mouth,” he mused to himself. 

“Do you think she's gonna suck you well?” Jaemin chimed in. He only watched from his position on the couch, still clothed. Like he was waiting patiently for his turn. 

“I know she will, cause she loves sucking dick. Hmm?”

“Yes, sir.”

He let out a guttural groan of satisfaction at her reply. Then, he finally took off his briefs. Jinhae was practically drooling at the sight of his erection, but didn't have much time before he forced his way into her. Nothing could prepare for the fullness she felt in her mouth. When he began to thrust without hesitation, it burned. 

It was obvious he didn't care that each time he hit the back of her throat she let out a cry. In fact, it made him speed up his pace as he roughly fucked her throat. The burning sensation only grew and tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. She was such a mess. And she loved it. 

“Such a good fucking slut,” Jeno cried in pleasure as his moans and lewd sounds coming from her mouth filled the living room. 

“She’s such a whore for dick,” Jaemin said as Jeno neared his release. “Isn't that right, baby girl?” Jinhae could barely let out a sound. The only noise she could muster was a barely inaudible “hmm”. But that only sent Jeno over the edge. It all happened so quickly, one second she was trying to reply to Jaemin, the next Jeno released inside her mouth. 

“Show us how good girls swallow,” Jaemin ordered, his eyes locked with hers. She did as told, feeling  the hot liquid move down her throat. Jeno slowly took his dick out, his movements less harsh than before.

“Now I believe good girls who do what they're told get to come,” Jeno mused as he flashed her a devilish grin. 

“I don't think we should let her, Jeno,” Jaemin quipped as he finally stood up from the couch. “After all, she made a lot of rookie mistakes today.”

“Ah, you want to play with her?” Jeno asked, his eyes never leaving hers. She was so entranced in his stare that she didn't notice Jaemin move around so that he was now behind her. 

“I think it would be nice to see if our kitten is willing to beg for it,” Jaemin mused as his hands began to massage her neck. 

“Hmm, I like the sound of that,” Jeno replied. He cradled her jaw in the palm of his hand gently before it slowly snaked towards the strap of her camisole. 

[gyunglitter]

love in the afterglow ♥︎ choi beomgyu

-you adored me before, oh my good looking boy

or

you and your boyfriend being so in love after having car sex

word count: 485

warnings: mentions of sex, but no smut, otherwise none!

tags: beomgyu x reader, fluff, mature-ish, drabble

notes: just a lil something to tide yall over while i’m stuck trying to write chapter 5 of stupid cupid lol. i don’t write smut, so this probably the most “mature” content yall will be getting from me for now haha. this could be a lowkey preview for another fic? maybe? idk? we’ll see🤭 happy thanksgiving!!

heavy breaths fogged up the windows around you. the car was hot, and the air smelled of sex, but you were beyond content.

your boyfriend’s panting was slowly dying down, each exhale falling on to your ear as you cradled him close to you, a hand running through his tousled hair while the other lightly rubbed random shapes on his bare back, which was a bit clammy from all the energy he just exerted.

you love this man. you love him and his kisses. his caresses. his laughs. his hands. his hair. everything about him. even the fact that despite this car not being his and having to beg yeonjun to borrow it, he still chose to risk getting his ass beat, just so he could make love to you in it.

was the place ideal? not very, but he told you he couldn’t help it. with the way you were star struck with everything he took you to see, and then the way you rubbed your stomach after heartily eating all the food he bought you. beomgyu told you through deep, heated kisses that he felt so much love for you in his heart, he gave his mind a break to let his heart take control.

you love this man.

you were brought back down to reality when you felt a kiss pressed to the beauty mark in between your boobs, followed by more going further up.

judging by his kisses and his steady breathing, you knew he’d recovered.

grinning, you gently pulled on his hair to bring his eyes and focus back to yours.

you were met with the sight of your lovable boyfriend, with a toothy grin on his face, eyes alight with such sincerity, it made you want to smooch his little forehead.

“hey baby,” he whispered.

there was an innocent type of mischief in his voice, like he was proud. whether it was because of what he did, or what he had, you weren’t sure. but his tone and his endearment toward you brought you to follow through on your desire. the smile on your face only widened when you heard him hum in content.

“i love you,” he whispered, reverently.

his hand that had been stroking your hip moved to gently cup the left side of your face. his touch was so featherlight, it made you feel as if you could fly away away. like you could be exalted with how loved and at peace you felt from his caress.

“beoms…” you breathed.

taking his hand you tenderly brought them to your lips, watching demurely through your eyelashes how his chest expanded as he sighed in awe. your lips spoke truly of utmost love for him and his love for you. not with words, but with the soft kisses you left him.

you love this man. and he knew it. because he loves you too. and you knew it.

[mariacallous]

From the second the message popped up on X, it had a familiar ring. Jools Lebron, the TikTok creator who went viral just a few weeks ago for a post discussing “very demure, very mindful” work looks, was upset that, seemingly, someone had attempted to trademark her viral phrase.

In a since-deleted video, Lebron lamented through tears that her future ability to sell demure-branded merchandise seemed in jeopardy. “I wanted this to do so much for my family, provide for my transition, and I just feel like I dropped the ball,” Lebron said, adding that “someone else has it now, and I don’t even know what I could have done better, because I didn’t have the resources.”

Lebron’s situation is echoed in the story of fellow Chicagoan Peaches Monroee. Back in the summer of 2014, the then-teenager posted a video on TikTok precursor Vine describing her eyebrows as “on fleek.” Her catchphrase caught on everywhere, from Nicki Minaj lyrics to Kim Kardashian posts. #Brands like Taco Bell hopped on the trend; Forever 21 made crop tops. Monroee, aka Kayla Lewis, reaped no rewards. Three years after the trend went viral, she launched a GoFundMe and raised just shy of $17,000, according to the campaign’s page.

Like “on fleek,” “demure” has attracted scores of admirers. Jennifer Lopez. The White House. Kim Kardashian (again). Earthquake survivors. The original video has nearly 50 million views, and Lebron’s follower count is now above 2 million. She appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live! while RuPaul was serving as guest host. But her ability to seize her moment of internet fame may not meet exactly the same fate as Lewis’. Despite the fact that a Washington resident named Jefferson A. Bates and the company Do or Drink both filed “demure” applications with the US Patent and Trademark office, Lebron posted a TikTok on Tuesday saying that it’s been “handled.” “Mama got a team now!” she exclaimed, smiling.

Exactly how it got handled is unclear—Bates didn’t respond to an email seeking comment, and representatives for Lebron and Do or Drink didn’t reply, either. Still, the tug-of-war marks something of a shift in how the internet understands the value of trends. Almost as soon as word of the “demure” trademarks surfaced, social media sprung into action decrying the fact that anyone other than Lebron would try to claim the phrase.

One lawyer on TikTok, who uses the handle @bellewoods, did a breakdown explaining that “Jools is going to be just fine” because of the intricacies of how the trademark system in the US works. Another TikTokker claimed to have filed her own trademark application with the intention of transferring ownership to Lebron. (Though, as a Washington Post story this week pointed out, transferring a trademark may not be so easy.) In the comments section of the “handled” TikTok, brands ranging from Ritz Crackers to Zillow weighed in with emoji-strewn affirmations.

All of this underscores that, unlike 10 or 15 years ago, there is now a greater understanding that “content creation is labor,” says Kate Miltner, a lecturer in data, AI, and society at the University of Sheffield’s Information School. “It is time-consuming and often poorly remunerated labor for the most part,” but far more people make entire careers out of being content creators than a decade ago, Miltner adds, “and it feels like an ethics of plagiarism, in addition to trademark/copyright, have come into play.”

Simply put, people get this shit now. A decade after “on fleek,” creators are much smarter when it comes to ownership of their creations. “A series of conversations and discourses about cultural appropriation and where a lot of contemporary (online) language comes from (Black communities, queer communities) have happened since Peaches Monroee,” Miltner says. Lebron may have felt like she dropped the ball because of a lack of resources, but the resources she did have were other creators who knew how to call out what had happened. She also had companies like Netflix, which—perhaps anticipating blowback for just hopping on a viral trend—just asked that Lebron curate a “Very Demure, Very Mindful” list.

Will this happen every time? No. Memes built from everyday language will always be hard to trademark—Miltner cites Fox Media’s unsuccessful attempt to trademark “OK Boomer” as an example. But now that even Hawk Tuah Girl has merch, the possibilities of getting credit for your meme, or even cash, don’t seem as unlikely as they did before. Might your meme get ingested and reinterpreted by an artificial intelligence bot? Yes. Will that bot be able to make a T-shirt? Er, well, that might happen, too. Creators, especially minority creators, will always have to fight to keep control of their works once they’ve been unleashed onto the world. Now, though, they have a few more coaches in their corner.

[meownotgood]

♡ size difference / gojo satoru ♡

♡ kinktober 2022 ♡

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k

content: soft dom gojo, praise, stomach bulge, blowjob, gojo loves how small his favorite fan is compared to him

this work contains explicit content intended for 18+ individuals. please read the tags and do not interact if you are a minor.

There's a lot of things Gojo adores about you. You're sweet as hell, enough to satisfy his sweet-tooth. You're a fan of his too, and your flattery is something he's never been able to resist. 

When you met him for the first time, running up to him and eagerly asking for an autograph — You're the world's strongest sorcerer! I'm a huge fan! — Gojo knew he was bound to become obsessed. Honestly, you're just so damn adorable, and one thing he noticed immediately, one thing that drew him to you from the very start was how small you are compared to him. 

He had to lean down in order to take the pen and paper from you. When he did, he took note of how his hands were at least twice the size of yours, how you had to tilt your head all the way up just to look at him. 

Of course, sweetheart. Glad to know you're a fan of mine, He replied with a smirk, scribbling his name onto the page and adding a heart at the end. He placed the pen and paper back into your hands carefully, hunching over again to speak into your ear, Y'know, for special fans like you, I'm willing to give a lot more than autographs.

Gojo was hooked on you from the moment he got a taste. His frame completely dwarfs yours when he wraps his large arms around you. His jacket is enormous on your body; it practically goes down to your knees and the sleeves fully cover your hands. 

You're addicting, to say the least. Even back then, he was sure he was going to make you his, in one way or another. And even now that he has, he's still so damn obsessed with you it almost scares him. 

He grabs your hand, and the way his thick fingers fold over your much smaller ones never fails to make his cock twitch in his pants. It's easy for him to effortlessly lift you and pin you under him. He's at least a hundred times stronger than you, so he could really do whatever he wants to you. The best part is that he knows you'd let him. 

Anything he asks for, you'll do. Whatever he desires from you, you'll give. Fuck, just the sight of you, so pretty and demure — It makes him need you so desperately he can hardly stand it. 

You look even better when he's got you pushed to your knees in front of him, your fingers wrapped around the hem of his boxers as you hesitantly pull them down. He can tell the way nervousness lingers in your gaze, so he threads his long fingers through your hair and holds the back of your head securely. He mumbles, "You can do it baby, c'mon. You're gonna make me feel sooooo good, I already know it." 

He tenderly pushes you forwards, pressing his cockhead to your mouth. It's flushed and wet, and you can feel it promptly pulse on your lips. You open wide, and with a sigh, Gojo rolls his hips forwards, encouraging you to take more of his cock down your throat. 

"Shit," Gojo's voice breaks a little as he tries to maintain his composure, "That's it, you're doing so well. Can't believe I've got a girl as pretty as you, I'm lucky. You can take all of it, can't you?" 

Of course, for him, you can do it. With how thick and fucking huge he is, it's near impossible, but the praises and downright sinful moans you draw out of his mouth make it worth it. Gojo doesn't seem to pay any mind to your struggle. Truthfully, the tears streaming down your cheeks and the sound of you gagging on his dick just turn him on even more. 

God, he has to fuck you, he just has to. 

On the first night he had with you, you weren't sure if he was even going to fit, but Gojo always seems to make it work. He's gentle with you, holding your thighs with a tender grip while he fucks into you slowly. It's a stark contrast to how strong you know he is, to how much he could overpower you and fuck you as hard as he pleased, if he really wanted to. It makes you understand just how precious you really are to him. 

Gojo meets your eyes and asks, "You alright?" When you hastily nod, he continues, "Tell me if you need a break, kay? You feel really damn good, doin' so well for me babydoll…" 

His pace quickens a little, and he folds your knees to your chest to bury himself in deeper. It's too much to take, but it feels so fucking good, hitting your sweet spot every time he thrusts in. All you can do is whine for him to give you more. 

"Hahh, baby," Gojo reaches into his hair, brushing loose strands away from his face, before his eyes catch on something. He's grinning then, unable to hold back a sly chuckle. You're a bit confused, but he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to your stomach. He shoves himself all the way in. You can feel the shape of his cock there, feel how deep he is inside with your palm. 

Gojo snickers. "You can feel that, yeah?" 

"Y-Yeah, Satoru please," You beg, and the neediness in your voice sounds like music to his ears. You're so desperate for him, even when you're overwhelmed. Even when you can hardly take what he's already giving you, you're asking him for more. You're so perfect. 

So, when he starts moving again, he's fucking you harder, more feverishly. It's difficult for him to hold back now. He holds your waist with a white-knuckled grip and presses his forehead to yours. 

You whine, "'Toru, kiss me," And Gojo quickly obliges, pressing his lips to yours in a heated kiss. It's sloppy and clumsy, his tongue pressed far into your mouth, his lips impossibly soft and plush on yours. 

"Gonna cum, really close," You babble against his lips, and Gojo pulls back to cup your cheek. He caresses your skin with his thumb, rubbing in rhythmic circles. He admires how small your face is, how perfectly it fits into his hand, and your fucked-out expression, pupils blown and eyelashes fluttering. 

"You're gorgeous," He coos, "Want you to cum for me, cum on my cock, angel." 

His sweet tone and the way he fucks into you is enough to make your pleasure boil over. Gojo feels you pulse around his dick, and he fucks you messily through your high, his own peak growing closer. And when you wrap your legs around his back and plead for him to fill you up, he's quickly finding himself letting go. 

His thrusts become unsteady, and with a groan, he reaches his peak. "Love you so much baby, I love you, love you," He cries as he cums, cock twitching inside you, pressing himself in deeper to plug you with all of it. 

"Pretty baby, did so good… I really love you." His voice is a little hoarse and tired-sounding. Gojo collapses on top of you with a dramatic sigh. 

"Ah, 'Toru…" You wheeze, his weight pinning you down, "Too heavy…" 

Gojo laughs. Yeah, he knows. He admits he flopped on you on purpose, just to see your reaction. 

He pulls himself off of you, slots himself next to your body and holds you close. When the two of you fall asleep together, the last thing he's thinking of is how fortunate he is to have you, and how in every aspect, he really does adore you. 

[joz-yyh]

Rust - Ch. 6

SUMMARY: A “how they got together” and “where they are now” fic in which I detail how Damian and Tardif meet and consequently fall in love. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: EXPLICIT (for violence / sexual themes)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant / (Crusader x Highwayman -> established relationship) / (Grave Robber x Plague Doctor -> established relationship)

WORD COUNT: 7,493

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Very important note, but this chapter contains another FLASHBACK.

I’ve been meaning to explore other ships/characters while Damian and Tardif are off doing their own thing so that means I’ll be adding in the Reymas sidestory I previously posted as well as some cute Grave Robber x Plague Doctor content.

There will also be a FLASHFORWARD towards end where I tease upcoming events. I’ll be sure to mark this segment appropriately.

Reynauld drags Dismas out for some quality time and smutty hijinks ensure. Audrey tries to dig up dirt on Tardif and Damian’s relationship by inviting the flagellant out to the cove for some one-on-one girl talk. The bounty hunter returns, but it’s not the same way when he left.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

“Hmm,” Reynauld mutters, gauntlet-clad fingers curled under his helmet in reserved contemplation.

His blue eyes survey the capricious wares of the nomad wagon, gold and silver chains strung up in a row, display boxes of brooches and other acquired oddities arranged beneath.

Presented with such antiquities, Reynauld by no means claims to be as knowledgeable as Josephine, but over time, he’s picked up a few tricks of the trade, appraising each of the pieces laid out before him, weighing their rarity and purpose.

“Just pick something already,” comes Dismas’ insurgent groan, his words swiftly accompanied by an impatient upheaval of his arms into the otherwise peaceful air. 

You’d think the knight was downright torturing him, but then again, the highwayman was especially weak to boredom.

“Perhaps, I’ll check back another time,” the knight says, addressing the demure fortune teller running the shop. 

“Seriously,” Dismas asks, his arms an inverse of the gesture he made before, incensed fingers spread open in a hollow fist by his knees. 

The swordsman unfurls from the wagon window, having been bent into an investigative hunch whilst he perused the counter.

He raises a speculative eyebrow at his companion, the look of Dismas’ dark eyes telling him that he was being an insufferable pain.

“You drag me all the way out here just to spend all that time window shopping and now you’re not even goin’ to buy anything,” Dismas surges, the vein in his forehead giving a poignant twitch of anger.

The Romani woman smirks, resting her chin on the splay of her ringed fingers as she watches the lovers bicker like an old married couple. This is by far the most entertaining thing she’s seen all day. 

The knight nods to himself, having made up his mind, “Yes, I really do think it’s best that I wait.”

In an expression of his inner turmoil, Dismas tilts his head back and heaves out a long, throaty groan.

Reynauld ignores him, bidding adieu to the raven-haired shopkeeper, their business concluded.

She winks at him in return, blowing a kiss and wagging her long nails, “Don’t keep me waiting too long, handsome.”

Dismas shoves his hands into his pockets as they set off towards the barracks, shoulders tense with aggravation, the fur on his jacket coming up to cover his wind-blown ears.

“Still can’t believe you made me wait all that time just so you could–” Dismas cuts himself off, recognizing the glimmer of treasure.

“Oh, you sly dog,” the highwayman whistles, regarding his partner with astonished pride, pulling down his neckerchief to showcase the shit-eating grin plastered across his scarred face, “You didn’t! 

"I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about,” Reynauld says, the fluctuation of his tone much too fake and effervescent to be considered innocent. 

“C'mon,” Dismas chuckles, nudging his elbow into the knight’s arm and wagging his eyebrows suggestively,“Confess.”

“The item had already been discarded when I discovered it,” Reynauld says, explaining the appearance of the inconspicuous trinket.

Dismas can spot bullshit from a mile away. Takes a thief to know a thief.

“Uh-huh, whatever you say sticky fingers,” Dismas jives, giving the crusader a smug look, the pronounced scars on his face seeming to extend his smirk even more. 

Reynauld risks a glance, taking in the gold fillings that alight the man’s smile, making it more dazzling than it already is, just one of many endearing traits hidden behind the mask of his red scarf.

“It’s value would be better served to fund the church,” is the knight’s assertion, the gravelly baritone indicating that he was becoming annoyed with his partner’s games.

Dismas expects as much. Reynauld was running on a short fuse whenever his credibility was called into question.

“Oh, speaking of church, you went on a mission with that new guy, right? The one that flogs himself half to death. How was he? You two hit it off,” the thief asks.

The knight turns to the highwayman, burning with jealousy, the emotion tangible behind the slots in his helmet “Why the sudden interest in him?" 

Dismas snickers to himself, facing forward now to avoid the fire in his partner’s eyes, "Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he’s the new thing in town and the folks here don’t have enough to gossip about. Figured you might have the inside scoop on him.”

Rey deadpans, growing more frustrated with each passing minute, “Day by day, we stake our lives against corruption and yet you say there’s nothing more pressing to talk about other than a stark raving lunatic?”

“Yes,” Dismas replies with a shaky uncertainty, posing the word as a question.

Reynauld makes a caustic sound of disgust,“I thought it was surely a joke when I heard the Order accepted the aid of such extremists. It’s disgraceful. Unorthodox.”

Dismas’ eyes widen, caught off guard by his friend’s uncanny ferocity, especially when it came to a fellow believer of the Light. 

“So… you’re not a fan then,” the highwayman concludes.

Reynauld barks out a laugh.

“Hardly,” he jests, voice aimed skyward, the exemplative sounding much louder when he realizes that his motley companion is not laughing along with him.

“Is it not the same for you,” the knight asks, fixing his partner with a perplexed look of surprise, his criticism hanging heavy in the space between them.

“Well,” the squirrely man drawls, shrugging his shoulders, “I haven’t really met the guy  and I am not one to judge. Wouldn’t want to make assumptions. Haha, that holy book you keep trying to drill in my brain must finally be rubbing off on me.”

Reynauld stops dead in his tracks, but Dismas doesn’t catch on until a few paces later, reciprocating the action once he learns that he’s left the other behind.

A possessive kind of stare is brewing behind the darkness of the swordsman’s helmet, one that worries the highwayman into thinking that this light-hearted teasing of his has gone a bit too far, crossing some invisible line in the sand.

Dismas returns to the balking crusader’s side, ducking around him playfully to show he meant no harm.

“Don’t worry, big guy, you’re the only churchboy I am after,” the thief reassures him, putting on a lopsided smile, giving the knight a light jab against his pauldrons.

Rey doesn’t budge, not even a twitch of good humor, a prosecution of sins unrectified. With an aura of predatory malaise, the knight advances on him, gripping a fistful of his jacket, enough that the gunman can hear the threads squeak from the strain.

The red-nosed bandit is lifted, boots nearly gliding off the ground as he’s dragged along by the collar. 

“H-hey! Rey,” Dismas tries nervously, breaking out into a cold sweat, “barracks are t-that way.”

“I know where the barracks are,” the knight declares, leading the smaller man towards the stone bridge with determined, self-righteous steps, “We’re taking a detour." 

Dismas feels a knot twist his stomach, not daring to resist as he’s led past the gray cinderblocks of the abutment and down through the small ditch of grass.

There might have been a thriving river here at one point, but like most things in this backwater town, it’s long since dried up.

Safely hidden beneath the arch of the voussoir overpass, the swordsman finally releases him, shoving him towards a collection of old supply crates growing musty from the elements.

The highwayman reaches out to stop himself from collapsing into the mud, gloved hands hugging onto either side of the wooden box. 

Despite Reynauld taking him by the scruff and distributing him here, Dismas finds that he’s the one panting from exertion, pinpricks of warmth crawling up his neck, his cheeks burning red.

Pinching his eyes shut, he collects himself with a few deep breaths, flipping himself around to confront the overzealous crusader.

The knight is already standing so close, knee to knee with their bodies almost touching and Dismas shrinks more firmly against the sharp angle of wood at his back.

"What exactly is going on inside that big head of yours,” the highwayman teases, a heavy blush upon his face, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re looking a bit jealous crusader.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say the moment that the words leave his mouth, but he wasn’t thinking with his mind anymore.

“The Light demands recompense. I’ll be taking it from you,” Reynauld decrees, hands tugging at the belt that secures his surcoat into place. 

Dismas’ telltale heat intensifies, his body well-versed in the heady string of events, his cock swelling inside the confines of his trousers.

The knight pushes his partner down, the smaller man’s back completely molded to the square block of wood, the boards giving a disruptive creak from the added pressure.

Dismas doesn’t protest when a gloved fist pries at the belts on his vest, spreads it open none too kindly, his shirt following the same fate, the fabric pulled from his trousers and pushed under his chin. 

The outlaw shivers as the cool night air penetrates his feverish skin, his intentions fraying and exposed, groaning with anticipation. 

The visor on Reynauld’s helmet is raised, dark brown locks of hair hanging above crystalline eyes, the man’s beard grazing over wiry muscle as he leans down to suckle an overt nipple.

Dismas gives a hearty tremble then a hiss, Rey’s teeth and tongue working the nub into an unbearable hardness while the other is fondled mercilessly with his thumb.

“Mmrmph, Rey,” gunman begs breathlessly, head tilted back, eyes closed as he concentrates on the sensation.

“Careful Dismas, you’re beginning to echo,” the taller man teases, his words both a warning and a command as he reaches for the highwayman’s belt and all of it goes straight to the ex-con’s groin.

There’s a clatter of something or someone coming from the pier above, jostling them both out of their blissful ministrations.

Rey puts a gloved hand over his lover’s mouth, not trusting him to stay quiet even under these circumstances.

Their uninvited guest is none other than the town crier, sloshing about with a bottle of booze, singing off key as he stumbles along the railway. Strange how they hadn’t heard his approach before, but they listen tentatively now, the trickle of something being spilled off the side of the bridge.

Reynauld meets Dismas yearning gaze, pressing a finger to his own lips in a bid to remain silent and the damned gunman decides it’s a good idea to lick his palm.

Dismas both loathes and loves his decision because his partner grunts, thrusting their clothed bodies together in reparation, the hand against his face squeezing tighter to seal his tongue away.

The drunkard above relieves a startled, “huh,” as he spins around, looking for the source of the noise, but finds the path clear. The hefty weight of footsteps and the clank of glass resumes, continuing onward, the sound of jumbled lyrics gradually fading away.

“You conniving little street rat,” the knight reprimands, taking his hand away so the other can speak his amends.

Dismas just grins at him, mischievous, wanting to continue where they left off.

“Should’ve left you at home,” Rey says more sweetly, “This is what I get for bringing you along.” 

The religious sod holds out his hand, letting the trinket unravel from his fingers to dangle above Dismas’ bare chest. Before him spins a silver band fashioned to a convergence of twin guns, pinned by a pair of hawk wings.

It’s almost too much for Dismas’ lust-buzzed mind to comprehend. 

"Huh? But didn’t you say–”

“I know what I said,” declares the knight in that deep reverberating voice of his, so solid and firm, just like the rest of him,“It would be better spent on the church. Don’t make me regret giving it to you." 

The swordsman is breathing heavily, sweat collecting on his brow, a morbid glare in his bright eyes, though there’s another more tender emotion swirling behind it.

Dismas’ ink-set pupils twinkle in that special way that the crusader lives to see, a characteristic only meant for intimate exchanges like these.

"Well, shucks crusader. I didn’t know you cared,” he taunts, angling his head down in that sultry smolder he knows the other man can’t get enough of, arching one of his dark brows in a clear challenge for more.

“Don’t play with me Dismas,” Reynauld warns, spitting into his free hand, “you should know by now what happens when you do.”

He spreads the meager globs of saliva with a few languid pumps of his hand, erection slick enough to fulfill its purpose, positioning himself against his partner’s core, adding another drop onto where the two of them meet.

“Mmm, yeah … yeah I do,” Dismas moans, biting his lip, eyebrows flicking up to his hairline as he feels that hot length press between his legs ,“why do you think that I ahhhh– by the Light Rey–”

It’s painful and he’s under-stretched, but Dismas doesn’t care, he wasn’t willing to wait. He latches onto his lover’s hips as that holy lance drives into him, moaning out just how much he wants this.

“Yes, I love it when you fuck me just like that,” the ravenette sings, the discomfort a hazy afterthought.

Right now, this glorious knight in shining armor was his and the rugged ex-con wanted to wear that fact like a brand, to feel the touch of their bodies long after the spell of desire has cooled.

“Dismas, what have I told you,” the knight whispers, an azure gaze beholding him with incorrigible fondness.

“That you love me,” the highwayman says, grinning ear to ear.

Reynauld shakes his head with a soft chuckle.

“Yes, and what else,” the knight insists, running his hand through the greasy strands of unruly black hair.

“Rey, please,” Dismas begs, needing him to move, wrapping encouraging legs around his waist.

In nostalgic reverence, the knight trails his fingers down to the scars on his lover’s mouth, those harsh lips parting to grip the digit between his teeth, biting at it lightly.

“You’re too reckless,” the swordsman reminds him, pulling his hand away to retrieve the spoils of tonight’s excursion. “Will you wear it,” the knight asks, trinket captured in his fist as he trails the blunt edges of it over the sharpshooter’s agile front down to his lithe stomach.

“Hmm,” the gunman hums, dizzy with pleasure, the chill of metal raising the hairs on his skin. “Yeah, ‘cours I will. But only if you promise to fuck me again, just like this,” Dismas breathes, grateful to feel the man inside him, the savage friction of their flesh better than any vice he knew.

“It would be my pleasure,” Reynauld says, a kingly smile on his lips as he leans in for a kiss.

Dismas melts under those holier-than-thou lips, forgets about being chaste as his muscles relax around the generous length that splits him open with each hallow thrust. He pulls the man in closer, hands grasping at the back of his helmet, needing more of that abstained tongue and voice, wanting everything this man would give him.

Later, when both of them are sated and dressed, Dismas looks down at the necklace Reynauld had given him, marveling at the pendant in his hand and the charming resemblance it held to his own set of pistols.

The highwayman walks a little closer, their shoulders brushing as he leans his head onto the metallic chrome of a battle-worn spaulder, their hands clasped between them, silver and red embracing each other tightly.

He promises never to take it off.

——–  

Knee-high boots step stealthily around the abbey, pilfering hands guiding the cunning grave robber along as she skirts the concrete at her back, eyes peering around the corner of the penance hall.

Strangely the flagellant is outside his pious chamber, knelt down next to a series of graves bearing the names of clergymen, tending to the onset of spring weeds.

Nothing beautiful lasts in Hamlet. The colorful blossoms of flowers are a luxury rarely seen and aside from the few modest patches of turf marked by trimmed hedges and somber statues of saints passed, the Abbey doesn't have much of a garden.

The silent sleuth stands to her full height, this scene calling for a more personable approach.

"Hey, Damian," Audrey calls, gentle and grounded, waving at him sweetly as she steps through the teasings of grass.

The holy man jolts at her presence, a decade of people watching telling her that his mind is miles away, deep in thought.

"Audrey, good to see you," Damian replies, twisting around to meet her casual demeanor. He discards the overgrowth of roots in his hand, brushing the soil from his robe as he rises to his feet.

Her sharp eyes notice the vibrant yellow of plucked dandelions and the delicate white of queen anne’s lace placed upon the crowns of these simple headstones and she feels a distant pang of sympathy.

"What brings you here? Have you come seeking the path of Light," he says, smiling.

Audrey shoots him a saucy grin in return.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but that's not why I am here. You get points for persistence, though,” she giggles softly, the sound warming her throat. 

The holy man deflates when he hears this, his altruism giving her too much credit if he truly believed she would ever devote herself to a lifestyle of prayer and prudence.

"Then, how is it that I can help you,” he asks, his countenance suffering, looking more ragged at the disappointing news. 

Damian really shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, but there’s something else eating at him, Audrey can tell by the grimace hiding just below the surface, the slack of his seemingly gracious front.

"Would you be so kind as to accompany me out to the cove? That is, if you're not too busy," she asks, her upturned fingers pointing at what remains of his apparent yard work. 

“As humbled as I am to hear your request, wouldn't it be wiser to have a group of us go," the priest suggests, leaning further towards suspicion.

So, the flagellant is not as dim-witted as she heard, but then again, the shrewd thief didn’t make it very hard for him to figure out her motivations were far from noble.

"This isn't exactly an official mission," the lady explains, "You know all those slimy fishmen we made into sashimi last week? I got it on good authority that the tide is about to wash up a hoard of treasure from their vault." 

Having no interest in wealth and riches, Damian doesn't look any more convinced by her proposal.

This called for a change of strategy.

Her direct approach might have been a bust, but maybe some open-ended honesty blended with a bit of flattery could steer the conversation in her favor. 

"OK, you got me,” she says, holding her hands up in arrest, “I know you'd just use your share for charity anyhow, but if it's just split between the two of us, we won't have to divvy up the profits let's say … any more than 60/40."

Damian sighs in disappointment. This request of hers reeked of greed and selfish intentions at best.

"C'mon pleeeease," she begs, the brim of her hat casting a shadow over her sniveling face, "There's no one else to ask and you're so good at making all the bad guys bleed."

The flagellant had allowed the ex-matriarch to plead her case and while he disagrees with her ideology, he doesn't want the woman traversing the arduous dens of merfolk alone. Should anything untoward happen to her, whether it was in the name of profit or not, he would feel wholly responsible.

"Very well," he sighs, acquiescing, already regretting his decision, though he knew this burden was one he had to shoulder til the end.

"Excellent," She cheers, clasping her hands in delight, crocodile tears suddenly extinguished in light of her success, "Shall we be off, then?"

"I will meet you at the crossroads," Damian says, his gaze now turned towards the church, pensive as the sun shines its beacon over the campanile, "I must let the abbot know of my absence." 

—--

Reposed against the sturdy trunk of a tree, Audrey waits in the dark stretch of woods just off the beaten path, safely hidden from view.

Though the streets had been reasonably quiet (as it normally was after a gentle tide), she wasn't about to stand out in the open with a target on her back, trail bereft of carriages and foot traffic be damned.

The grave robber kills time by giving herself a manicure, wheedling the sharp edge of her dagger under her fingernails, somehow never getting them completely free of sediment, the black rings of soil forever embedded into her skin.  

With a flicker of movement from up the way, the hood of Damian's holy saunter comes into view. His approach is not the most soft-footed, nor is the rattle of his flail, but Audrey's keen ears picked it up all the same.

She pockets the knife, glad that this boorish interlude was over, striding up the hillbank to meet him. 

The flagellant stops, the cloak of illusion fading before his eyes, the rogue's impressive skills of subterfuge making her appear out of nowhere, the environment bending to her candlestein whims.

"About time you showed up, holy man," Audrey jeers, prickly, "Don't you know it's bad manners to keep a lady waiting?"

"Apologies," the flagellant huffs, not willing to dive deeper into the matter.

She clicks her tongue at his reluctance, scoffing at his frowning face. 

"One of these days, I am going to get you to lighten up around me," the grave robber asserts, arms crossed in a sassy, cockeyed pose.

He gives her an injured look in return, unable to commit to such a possibility in the foreseeable future. 

"OK, let's just put a pin in it for now," she resigns, bleakly tagging it on a metaphysical bulletin board.

"Anyways, you ready to go,” the woman asks, dropping a hand onto her hip, the other raised to usher in their departure.

The flagellant solemnly nods his accord and Audrey grins, leading the way. 

The grave robber lets the silence hang between them for a few more paces, her lure not working as perfectly as predicted, but Damian was here, an unwitting informant, and that's all she really needed.

The holy man is not quite walking evenly beside her, but trails slightly behind and it's probably a smart move on his part, though pure vigilance wouldn't stop her from springing a trap if she truly desired, indeed one was already set.

According to her sources, the gruesome newbie never shuts up, an endless stream of religious chatter and unwelcome blessings, but so far the flagellant was not at all the intrusive nuisance she'd been led to believe.

Could it be subjective? Or perhaps this was a phase, an after effect of whatever has been weighing on his mind.

Audrey must debunk such discrepancies, her investigation far from over.

The grave robber clears her throat, parsing the air for a segway of idle chit-chat.

“Given that we have a bit of a walk ahead of us, mind if I ask you something," she broaches, an impish smirk playing out on her ruby red lips.

“If you must,” he replies with a wince, playing along, but bracing himself for the worst of what she could ask him.

Best to cut right to the chase then.

"So … you and the bounty hunter, huh," she ventures, casually dropping the sensitive topic as easily as striking a fuse. 

Dread builds like lard in his stomach, the holy man's cadence becoming jittery, head downcast as he processes her incriminating words. 

The flagellant had had an inkling about this "off the record," outing, and now the full scope of her conniving plot was clear. This trip was merely a pretense to delve into his personal affairs and satisfy her own curiosity.

"The bounty hunter and I what," he inquires innocently, head tilted towards the clouds.

"Exactly what I meant,” she insists, “What is it about him that's got you chasing the man out into the night like a lovesick puppy?"

Damian withdraws, sinking further into himself, reliving the sequence of events. 

Audrey has all the necessary tact for subtly, but being blunt was so much more fun. She blames such proclivities on Dismas. The highwayman was just as prone to mischief and drinking as she was, their late night benders fueling their shenanigans to new heights, egging each other on with evermore daring stunts.

It might have worked against her in this instance, the holy man becoming more reserved.

“Just making conversation,” Audrey adds, shrugging, lowering the stakes. 

“He has great potential," Damian muses, finding his answer, "I hope to illuminate his path."

It sounds too safe, too rehearsed and Audrey isn't buying it.

"Uh-huh, suure," the grave robber drawls, her voice dripping with apparent sarcasm, "Care to try again? Except this time, give me the uncensored version."

The hooded man fixates himself with the ground beneath his feet, fingers rubbing along his lip in contemplation.

"He ... ," the flagellant begins, assessing and reassessing his words with a scowl, "he may also be ... a bit … c-cute."

The mere mental image alone shaves years off of Audrey's life. That man had no business being associated with the term, "cute," or any synonym remotely resembling it. 

"Wa–wa--wa–wait, wait, wait – are we talking about the same guy here," she asks, completely mortified, "Mister short, broody and mysterious? You think that that's … cute?"

"It's his helmet …," the flagellant goes on to explain, the woman's bombardment of questions making him flustered over his own point of view, " it ... reminds me of an owl. Birds are ... cute, are they not?"

"You can't be serious," she breathes more to herself, mouth agape, utterly dumbfounded, "I've met cadavers more personable than him."

"Perhaps," Damian concedes, forcing a smile that's gone as quickly as it comes, running a hand between the spikes of his collar, gripping the tension in his neck, holding onto it like a tether.

Conveniently, they've arrived at the beach, Damian having no trouble transitioning to the amorphous terrain, walking barefoot as he is. Audrey, on the other hand, struggles to navigate through the shifting sand dunes, fit for more rugged landscapes.

Such petty trifles are soon forgotten, the blonde bandit spotting a bountiful chest washed up near the sea shore.

The woman stops, turning to her companion with a smirk.

"Race ya," she wagers, before taking off like a bullet, the force of her sprint kicking up peels of sand.

Damian is left at the start, barely registering there's been a bet before he finally makes a move, the grave robber more than a good lead ahead and he doesn't have the heart to try besting her.

Approaching the finish line, Audrey gives a celebratory little twirl, looking behind her to see where the competition stood. There was no contest, her agile strides assuring her first place, slamming her hand down on the soggy trunk in a sweep of victory.

"C'mon, what was that," she teases, a little out of breath, but not too disappointed with the results, "you let me win."

"The treasure is rightfully yours," he says, catching up to her. 

"How about I give you an extra 15% as a consolation prize," she offers, laughing at his expense, "Since you were such a good sport."

"Why, Audrey," he jokes, sounding coy, "how uncharacteristically generous of you."

The stab of his comeback makes her flush, though she can't be too mad. She did invite him to loosen up earlier.

"Yeah, save it church boy," the woman snips, walking around towards the latch of the chest, "You telling me you've never wanted to buy anything just for yourself?"

Damian's cast shadow spills over her as she lifts the lids, the sparkle of gold inside just as brilliant as the sun dancing on the waves.

"I only take what is necessary to survive," the flagellant tells her, looking away from the crate of spoils and towards the ominous cliff rocks that mark the cove beyond, crossing his arms.

"Your self-sacrificing nonsense is killing me," she pouts, her body wilting dramatically against the doubloons inside, piling them closer to her breast in comfort. 

"A life of piety can be incredibly fulfilling, if you let it," he counters, getting defensive, thinking his companion could afford to be more frugal. 

"I’ll take your word for it," Audrey scoffs, preferring her life just as it was, finding a beautiful silver hand mirror amidst the loot.

Getting an idea, Audrey rakes her gloved hands through the heaps of gemstones and gold, seeking necklaces, bracelets and earrings.

She dresses herself in a glamor of jewelry, strings of pearls poised around her neck, a few larger carat rings to hug her lonely fingers. Fit for a ball, the grave robber admires her new look in the mirror, an ugly reflection of her past staring back at her.

Audrey frowns, lowering the looking glass back into the chest, along with the jewels, locking the contents away.

"Anyway, real talk," Audrey says, quick to change the subject, "Are you going to tell him?"

"Hmm," the morbid priest exclaims, not following her train of thought, concentrating on their surroundings and the gentle rise and fall of the tide.

"The bounty hunter. Did you tell him how you feel," the bandit asks, sitting herself upon the sealed trunk, hands spread leisurely at her sides, legs crossed in the sand, "Did he say he's got a thing for you too?"

Damian goes quiet, fidgeting with his collar to quell his nervousness, but such actions only give him away.

"I already have made my intentions known as best I can," he admits, tone despondent, "though it matters not,” he says more quietly, frustrated in his attempts, but still refusing to give up.

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," the grave robber says, trying to raise the man’s confidence, "Tardif is a tough nut to crack. Give it time. l think you have a shot at winning him over."

Eyeing the flagellant from top to bottom, Audrey grins wickedly at how perfectly suited these two single bachelors were. One man so in love with pain while the other is in love with causing it. A match made in heaven.

"You certainly have the right kind of body for a guy like that," she concludes, clicking her tongue, firing off a finger gun and a wink.

Damian seems to be bursting into flames as he considers this, his whole body going a shade redder than usual (which was saying a lot).

"May we please drop the subject," the man pleads, averting his gaze and rubbing at his neck again, his collar feeling too tight.

"What's the worst that could happen," she continues, her lips ignorant of his request, carrying on with a lackluster shrug of her shoulders, "He strangles the life out of you for daring to ask him out on a date?"

Damian chuckles modestly, remembering how almost every encounter with the bounty hunter had usually ended with him being tied up or pinned down. He swallows thickly at the prospect, growing hotter at the thought of that man’s hands around his throat.

"I’d bet you'd let him, wouldn't you," suggests her incriminating alto, watching him stew below the brim of her hat, pressing for more tawdry responses, entertaining as it was.

"Hmm," comes the bemused hum and Audrey's not sure if it's an affirmation or not, but she's already got all the evidence she could possibly need, even without his outright confession.

"Then, how about this? You helped me out today so I'll put in a good word for you," the gentlewoman offers, mischievousness abound as she rises to her feet.

"Audrey," he warns, a resounding petition, "You will do no such thing."

"Not that you could stop me," she reminds him, more than capable of playing cupid on her own, "but if that's what you want …"

"Yes, it is. Thank you," he says in relief, more grateful for this act than the 15% commission she had offered him earlier.

Audrey's arms hang out at her sides, marking his loss, her match-making expertise denied. "Well, if you really want to thank me," she taunts, always the betting type, "then show me how much treasure you can carry, hot stuff."

"More than you," he grins cheekily, happy to exchange this feat of physical labor for her discretion.

"That's the spirit," the lady thief cheers, patting him on the shoulder as he bends to lift the heavy coffer now bound for Hamlet.

Audrey gives the holy man a head start as they make their way back, strolling behind him as she reviews her findings, coming to the conclusion that the flagellant wasn't such a bad guy to be around.

Odd, certainly, but no less so than the bounty hunter and while they were all guilty of at least one undesirable quirk or another, Damian was simply more transparent about his shortcomings. 

Spying an "enemy" about to disrupt their path, (more like a harmless crab minding it's own business) the thief springs into action. She snatches up the scuttling crustacean (a carapace of relatively normal size), hurling it back into the ocean before Damian's toes fall victim to it’s pincers.

---

Para sighs, a self-dejected tragedy spoken from behind the changing wall.

"Can't believe I left my lab for this," the intellectual whines, groaning as they brace themselves against the trifold panel, Audrey cinching the corset around their waist a notch tighter.

“Hey, I let you play mad scientist all morning," the ex-aristocrat tuts, pulling on the well-worn strings mercilessly, "Now it's time for you to play fancy dress up with me."

With great effort, the shape-wear flattens against the plague doctor's ribcage, their waist line so tightly constricted that they've broken a sweat. “Are you trying to kill me,” the brunette snarls, gritting their teeth, “What part of this is supposed to be fun?"

"None of it," Audrey affirms with a grin, having the same inane tradition practiced on her more times during her debutante life than she can count, "Not for you, dear. This is all for me.”

The grave robber ties the final knot, securing the shape wear into place (not that her girlfriend's petite figure needed slimming), but this was less about cosmetic enhancement and more about formalities.

“OK, time for the dress,” Audrey declares, brimming with excitement. She strips the mannequin of the velvet gown, a beautiful bliaut of emerald and gold filigree, a perfect compliment to Para's exceptionally dark hair and pale skin.

“Turn and hold onto my shoulders. Then, I’ll have you step into it,” the grave robber instructs, ruffling the neckline as she lays the frock open on the floor, pooled around their feet.

Para does as they're told, watching on as their thin legs are swathed in yards of elaborate fabric, the blonde handmaiden admiring the white undergarments and the matching bustier as she rises up to adjust the fit on the arms, smoothing out the sleeves to accommodate her girlfriend’s much daintier shoulders.

The erotic shiver climbing through boxy-shaped hips doesn't escape Audrey’s notice, the presence of her warm breaths making goosebumps appear on a porcelain neck as she rounds out the gown, buttoning it up at the back.

"There,” the thief exclaims, running her hand over the bodice, “let's see how the front looks on you."

"Why am I doing this again," Para whines, their soul threatening to leave their body, crammed inside a gilded prison as it was.

"Cuz I told you Damian had a thing for Tardif and I was right,” Audrey eagerly reminds the brunette, “Now you gotta pay up.”

Stiffly, the tomboy turns to face their girlfriend, arms held comically out to their side, compensating for a hoop skirt that wasn’t even there. The plague doctor still tries to hunch, though the fabric is fighting to keep them upright, their posture slightly improved. Despite this, the dress runs a little long, (understandably, since it once belonged to Audrey), but the seamstress could easily tailor it to match a hem of shorter height. 

"You look stunning in dark green," the blonde remarks, her breath stolen by such untapped beauty. Para is a vision, a romantic tableau if only they would allow themselves to be styled with these splendid accessories more often, Audrey soaking in the portrait of regality for all it’s worth.

"Thanks, I hate it,” the scholar grumbles, shattering the charming fantasy, “Can I take it off now?”

"Not til you have a drink with me," Audrey declares, removing the wide bifocals from Para’s nose, basking in the rare sight of their frank, unfiltered face. The appearance of fine lines and bruising under their tired eyes spoke of an taxing work regimen and some much needed recreation.

“Aaaudreeeeyyyy,” Para wails, extending her name like a berating curse, “How many times do I have to tell you I can’t see without my glasses.”

The scholar blinks, squinting helplessly, their whole equilibrium off balance, wriggling hands out in front of them for depth of field.

“Shhh, darling you’re just near-sighted,” Audrey reminds them, depositing the spectacles in her jacket pocket for safe keeping. “Here, rely on me,” the blonde says, grasping a small hand inside her own, heralding the plague doctor towards the opposite side of the study.

Para sighs, trudging along at a snail's pace, “Alcohol is going to set back my workflow. I've been experimenting with a contagion and I am so close to devising a–"

The plague doctor cuts themselves off as they’re released, stranded in the carpet of the foyer. Audrey's disappearance is followed by the clink of crystal, the grave robber’s fuzzy shadow no doubt retrieving a set of drinking glasses and a long-necked bottle from the cabinet, fixing the mopey scientist with a look when she returns.

"Fine," Para agrees, rolling their head back with the power of their scoff, knowing Audrey would not budge, "one drink.”

"Marvelous,” Audrey chirps, setting the glasses down on the lace doilies of a mahogany coffee table, “I'll pour!"

Somehow, one drink has turned into two and then three.

Para is now wedged into the corner of an antique couch, their face flush and propped up on the pedestal of their hand while Audrey, conversely, is laying supine in their lap, being fed sweets like a queen.

The grave robber’s hat had been thrown lucratively sometime during the second drink, her ascot as well hangs loosely around her collar, boots stripped so that her long legs could spread themselves out on the cushions. A numbness creeps into the scholar’s legs, the bandit's head nestled comfortably on them as it was, and Para shuffles to instigate blood flow, dropping another chocolate into the waiting mouth below.

"We should invite Josie over,” the blonde thief muses, savoring the rich taste on her tongue, “And Missy… and Margie.”

Para sighs, their introverted tendencies put off by the thought, "You know how I am about large gatherings."

"But I like them," Audrey whines, pouting up at her unmasked girlfriend through long wisps of hair.

"Yes, you do," the scholar agrees, their head drooping further into their hand, adverse to the memory.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," Audrey assures with a drunken giggle.

Suddenly, the blonde bandit is up, wrapping arms around her girlfriend’s neck in excitement, eager to share her stupendous ideas, "There will be tea and gossip and lots of fancy cakes!"

"Oh, joy…," the plague doctor drones, none of these bribes sounding quite as appealing to them.

"Pleeeease? If you do this for me, I'll get you that thing you want,” the thief offers, her green eyes teasing in the lamplight, “You know, that thing you've had your eye on now for a while now."

Para’s ragdoll expression perks up, suddenly interested in what this favor could mean for their research, "Can you really pull it off?"

"Mmm-hmmm," purrs Audrey, nodding with a goofy smile, "If I can win the flagellant over, I can win anyone over, darling."

"OK," Para agrees, much more enthusiastic about the idea of a get-together now, "We’ll throw a party, but only if you can convince Bigby to come.”

"Deal," Audrey squeals in delight, throwing her hands legs out in celebration, sealing their wager with a kiss.

--- FLASHFORWARD*

Damian keeps himself busy, fulfilling whatever minuscule task is asked of him, always listening for news, clinging to hope that the bounty hunter will one day return.

Too many moments pass, the flagellant entertaining the idea of abandoning everything, renouncing his solemn duty in a quest to retrieve the stubborn ox, going so far as to ask Paracelsus what they knew, but even they can only offer conjectures towards a wayward soul’s absence.

Toiling with emotions of longing and grief, Damian decides to visit the cabin once more in solace. He breaks inside, climbing through the boarded windows, the axe he finds stuck in a tree an accomplice to this forced entry.

The flagellant can’t remember why he's come back to this place, not when he’s consumed by memories, his fits of turmoil climbing higher, becoming more manic, berserk. He means to find some clue, a direction, believing it must be there if only he scours for it hard enough.

The blonde spends half the day looking, noting that Tardif had not parted with all of his belongings, some things forgotten that perhaps would not have been if he had truly left for good.

Such emptiness, such wishful fallacy causes him to seek the absolution of his flail. So engrossed in his punitive discipline, he doesn’t notice the clatter of something at the door, not until an explosive bang brings lucidity to his senses.

Instantly, Damian is on his feet, reaching for the latch, knowing in his heart who it must be on the other side.

The wood slams open like a crack of thunder, the winds strong and howling in the night sky, the shadow of the man standing before him nothing short of a ghost.

Tardif.

The bounty hunter is stripped to tatters, armor shredded in more places than the flagellant can count.

Half his helmet is missing, though his skull is still intact, crimson streaking down his face like war paint.

Damian doesn’t have to ask what happened, the unspoken question is reflected in every feature of his face, fear for his partner's life contorting it even further.

“Let … my guard … down,” says the gruff voice, refusing to reveal more whether it would be to his benefit or not.

The stubborn mercenary shuffles closer, a weak hobble that goes completely limp, his legs giving out as he collapses forward, losing what strength he had left to stand.

The flagellant scrambles to catch him before he hits the floor, holding onto his mangled shoulders, taking the brunt of his weight into his possession.

Tardif leans into him, having nowhere else to go, letting the blonde gingerly guide him down.

"I-it's OK now," Damian stutters, trying to convince himself of his own reassurances, "I-i've got you."

Laid out on his back, head cradled safely in his partner's hand, the mercenary's eyes close, grateful to finally rest, though his labored breaths say otherwise.

Damian knows the damage done to his fallen comrade is great, but he must find the worst of it, the scourge of his condition. He cannot waste his energy on effigies, clutters of imitations that mimic a grim fate if there was any chance of saving him.

Pale fingers start with the head wound, a ghastly blossom, deep and circular like a leeche's bite. It's serious, but not what ebbs at the bounty hunter's life.

Following the trail of blood, treading down his neck and jaw with feather light inspections, the flagellant is marveled by the miracle that Tardif still clings to consciousness despite the depth of pain.

"Stay with me," the priest urges, his voice weak with worry, yet tempered with resolution.

Instead of a grunt, Tardif manages a feeble huff, growing weary, head lolling in Damian’s grip.

The flagellant wants to redouble his efforts, move swiftly, but he needs the focus of a stable hand, passing over the integrity of Tardif’s overworked heart and the streams of lacerations with forced moderation. He reaches the girdle of the brute’s utility belt, blood caked so heavily against the gambeson one would think it was carved from red stone, perceiving the mortal wound beneath.

“I-I need to remove this,” Damian tells him, shaking terribly, his voice like broken glass as he looks over his partner's convulsing body, torn apart by injury.

“No,” demands the bounty hunter, his voice wet and garbled, hacking through another spasm of blood.

Even through the harsh battery of torn speech, Damian understands, but that doesn't mean he will listen.

[emeren]

Mmm maybe eren walking in on the reader using a vibrator and offering to help her and over stimulating her..

you got it! here it comes :)

red handed - eren jaeger 

pairing: eren jaeger x fem!reader 

word count: 2.5k

content warnings: smut, 18+, masturbation, overstimulation, crying

notes: this one was fun to write, it was my first time writing about a vibrator so idk if it’s that good but i hope you all enjoy nevertheless! <3

you sighed to yourself, anxiously glancing at the clock. your roommate had informed you he wouldn’t be back until around nine; the numbers 7:30 blinking back at you expectantly. there was no way he’d be home early; eren was late to nearly everything he did. 

deciding to move into a small, crappy apartment with your childhood best friend had seemed like a good idea at the time. you and eren knew each other forwards and backwards; right side up and upside down. 

what you didn’t know was just how needy eren could be. he hated being bored more than anything in the world. he was always lingering, always pestering you to go do something. he would sometimes just walk into your room and stand there, asking you what you were doing and if you wanted to hangout. 

most of the time you didn’t mind. most of the time. but there were instances where the lack of a lock on both your bedroom and bathroom doors became an issue.

instances where the pent up hormones became too much to bear and you had to relieve yourself, quickly and quietly. 

you thanked your lucky stars that eren had decided to go out with some friends tonight. you’d finally be able to enjoy a moment of bliss for the first time in well over two weeks. 

after double checking that the front door was locked and peaking your head into eren’s room to make extra sure he was gone, you skipped to your own space with an air of giddiness. finally some alone time!

you softly closed the door behind you, turning to look at your beside table. pulling the small drawer open and rifling through various pieces of junk, your eyes landed on the small, inconspicuous piece of plastic. 

you’d come to realize that your hand wasn’t quick enough to combat eren’s nosey nature, and after a few near misses, you invested in your very first vibrator. 

it was a light pink color; just nearly longer than your middle finger. you picked it up carefully before plunking down on your hard mattress. you shifted so your back was pressed against the head board, knees slightly bent. 

you could feel yourself aching in anticipation, cold hand slipping past the hem of your pajama pants to press the plastic device against your clit. your thumb moved to click the on button, halting as you heard a floorboard creak from out in the hall. 

“ugh,” you muttered to yourself, trying to quell your paranoia. “eren’s not gonna be home for at least an hour.” 

you paused for a minute longer, ears straining. when you were met with just the distant sound of sirens, you allowed yourself to continue, clicking the button. the soft vibration buzzed against your nerves, breath hitching involuntarily at the sudden pleasure. 

it was a wonderful feeling; your chest heaving as your lower half embraced the foreign object. you leaned your head back against the wall, shifting to a more comfortable position as you bent your knees for better leverage. 

your mind began to wander, an image of eren popping into your brain. a few years ago, you would’ve cringed and banished the thought away, but you’d come to acknowledge there was no denying just how attractive your best friend was, no matter how guilty it made you feel. 

you pictured his muscular back, leaned over the sink as he washed dishes with a pair of black sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. you could feel your face heat, closing your eyes as the pressure within the pit of your stomach began to build. 

it was easy to reach your breaking point with the vibrator; breath growing shallow as the image of eren’s muscular arms and defined v-line started to fog your mind. you exhaled out through your nose, the gentle buzzing making your clit twitch with desired release. 

you were so wrapped up, so distracted. it was the single moment of bliss right before your orgasm, face hot and hands clammy. 

you’d never let your mind wander so far before, but you were beginning to imagine eren touching you; letting his hands wander down your skin and caressing your curves, squeezing and- 

“what’re you doing?” a voice startled you from the moment of peace, replaced by an overwhelming embarrassment as your eyes snapped open, focusing on the tall figure leaning against the open doorframe. 

eren’s arms were crossed, face shadowed as he observed you. you quickly sat up, pulling your vibrator from your pants and clicking it off. the pace of your heartbeat was through the roof, eyes wide and chest tight. how fucking embarrassing! 

“i’m- i was-,” you were at a loss for words, standing from your bed. your heart pinged with annoyance, the embarrassment quickly dissipating into anger. “can’t you learn to fucking knock?”

eren didn’t say anything, quirking a brow at your snippy tone. it just aggravated you more, your brain trying to combat the dopamine that never truly reached its full potential. he stood in your doorway, staring you down as you seethed in your place.

“don’t be embarrassed,” he spoke softly. his face had some unknown expression on it, one you’d never seen before. his pupils were dilated, brows furrowed and gaze serious. “it’s a normal thing to do.” 

you huffed, shifting your legs in an attempt to quell the burning between your thighs. “i know that. what’s not normal is you barging into my room without knocking when you weren’t even supposed to be home for another hour.”

“i got bored, so i decided to come home and hangout with you,” he explained. his lip was curved upwards, as if he were trying to suppress a smirk. “s’more fun here anyway.” 

you frowned at his words, your mind flashing that image of his rough hands trailing down your body, squeezing. you swallowed at the thought, the anger quickly being overpowered by your unfinished arousal. “how long were you standing there?”

“long enough to know you didn’t finish,” he commented, holding eye contact as your eyebrows raised in surprise. you opened your mouth to respond, but eren beat you to it. “c’mon, i think i know you pretty well.” 

“not like that,” you muttered demurely, the dull ache nearly too much to bear. you felt like you’d be antsy till you got off, shifting uncomfortably as your eyes fell to the floor. “could you- could you give me some privacy?” 

eren didn’t respond for a moment, the sound of your bedroom door shutting sending a feeling of relief to your brain. you looked up, frown deepening. 

eren was leaning against the closed door, eyes dark and serious. “let me help you.”

his words sent a confused throb to your cunt, face going slack. was this really happening? 

“eren, you don’t mean…” you breathed out, the ache in your center multiplying tenfold at the sight of his tall and muscular figure staring down at you. shit, shit, shit!

“i do,” he responded seriously, taking a step towards you. he was normally tall and formidable, but in the darkness of your bedroom, he seemed infinite. you paused for a moment, your resolve already thin due to the incessant throbbing of your clit. eren seemed to take notice, eyeing you carefully. “who better than your best friend?” 

you held your breath before responding. you’d been thinking of this, dreaming of this. now here he was, standing before you and looking at you as though you were his for the taking. and it excited you. it excited you to no end. “i- okay.” 

eren was quick to smile, stepping up to you. you craned your neck to look at him, heartbeat erratic as his calloused hands ran down your bare arms. he slowly lowered himself to his knees before you, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pajamas. 

his teal eyes glanced up to you, asking for permission. you were afraid your voice wouldn’t work, instead feverishly nodding your head in acceptance. he pulled your pants down tantalizingly slow; like he was unwrapping some sacred gift. 

you bit your lip as your thighs became exposed, the feeling of eren’s hot breath fanning across the newly exposed skin. he leaned forward, eyes still locked with yours as he placed a kiss to the soft flesh, lips slicked with chapstick. it was sinful and he knew it. 

your cotton pants dropped to the floor, standing in nothing but your underwear and a t-shirt. eren’s gaze grew heavy on your panties - the inevitable wet spot showing just how desperate you were for attention. 

“trying to finish before i got home?” he cooed, curling his lip. you felt your face heat, glancing away. 

“yeah,” you responded bashfully, eren motioning his head towards the bed. 

he breathed out a laugh at your answer, giving your thigh that deeply desired squeeze. “that’s so cute. bet you’re so needy for me now, hm?” 

you could feel yourself growing wetter at his words, choosing to sit on the end of the bed in front of him rather than respond. he kissed your leg again, eyes catching on something beside you. 

“what’s this?” he smirked, reaching to grab your vibrator. you were too slow to react, reaching for it in vain as eren inspected it. “tsk, tsk. sit back down.” 

you hadn’t even realized you’d lifted from the mattress, eren’s dark tone making you abide as though you had no free will. 

he gave you a sadistic look, lunging forward to press his tongue flat against your clothed clit. you hissed at the feeling, hands fisting your bed sheets. eren chuckled against you, the vibration making your stomach burn. 

“just that already has you squirming?” he mumbled, lips pressing a kiss. as if this couldn’t get anymore embarrassing. “’s’hot.” 

you breathed out, the sight of eren between your legs in the lowly lit room entirely too attractive. you weren’t surprised he was so bossy and vocal, hand tapping your leg impatiently. 

“off.” he deadpanned, leaning back to watch you as you stood, yanking your underwear down your legs. you tried to quell your excitement; eren’s pupils growing impossibly larger at the sight of your exposed cunt. you sat back down, breath shaky as eren situated himself in front of you. “so wet already.”

eren, just as he always had been, was impatient. you’d just sat down and he was prying your knees apart, tongue hungrily pressing itself against your center. he was sloppy; eating you out with an animalistic hunger that had you nearing your climax much faster than usual. 

“eren,” you whimpered, the feeling of his tongue circling your entrance causing a moan to ripple from your mouth. the sound of his name only made him suck harder. he wasn’t letting up; absolutely determined to bring you to your high as fast as possible. “m’gonna cum, eren.” 

he groaned at your words, arms hooking around your thighs to hold you in place as he focused intently on your clit. the warm, wet feeling was becoming too much; edges of your vision growing dark as you let your release come crashing down, legs twitching as eren released his suction on you. 

he looked at you just long enough for you to notice the sheen on his chin, the sparkle in his eyes, and the grin on his lips. “been waiting so long for this, i’m gonna make the best of it.” 

your chest was heaving, brows pulled down in confusion as eren brought his first two fingers to your entrance, circling it twice before stuffing you with his long digits. 

you were burning, just having come down from your embarrassingly quick release only to have eren fucking you with his fingers. they easily slid in and out, wet with your sheen as he began to gently suck on your inner thigh. your vision was hazy, eren pushing his digits in to the last knuckle and curling slightly. 

the feeling of another release was building in your core; churning and readying you to succumb to eren’s will once more. and you were ready; a breathy moan leaving your lips as he angled his fingers particularly deep. you laid down, hands subconsciously lifting to grope your own chest - searching for an anchor. 

“shit,” eren swore at the sight of you palming your breasts, squirming in his hold as his fingers pumped in and out of you, quickening his pace. you whimpered in response, screwing your eyes shut. 

you felt the cold object press against your clit before he turned it on; eyes widening in surprise as you shot up. eren was grinning at you, thumb clicking it on as an involuntary cry ripped from your chest. 

the vibration was too much as his digits abused your cunt, stuffing into you as far as possible. your clit twitched aggressively, face and neck hot. your brain was growing fuzzy, thoughts clouded as you stared down at eren, mouth hanging open and eyes glossy. he was watching you seriously, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit in order to make you jolt. 

you were burning, abdomen flexing as your eyes began to water. the sensations were too much, legs trying to close but you were blocked by eren’s broad shoulders. 

you’d never been one to scream, but you couldn’t help the strangled sound that escaped your mouth as eren included his tongue in the overstimulating mix. hot, sticky tears slid down your cheeks, eren’s tongue lapping at the spot where his fingers disappeared inside of you. 

his eye contact. oh, his eye contact. it was pervasive and inspective, analyzing every sound and movement you made. 

he pulled his tongue back for just a moment, the vibrator buzzing intensely against you. “cum for me.” 

and you did. it was too much; your legs jerking and stomach cramping, mind turned to mush at the overflow of dopamine. you collapsed back on the bed, eren leaving the vibrator pressed against your clit for a moment longer, the feeling now more uncomfortable than anything. you waved your hand, too exhausted to beg him to take it off. eren only chuckled, pulling his fingers from you but pressing the object against you harder. 

“let me see those tears,” he said sweetly, tapping your thigh. it was a sinister sweetness, the tears pooling down your face as you began to grown numb below your waist. you forced yourself to sit up, eren smiling as he saw your wet face. “good girl.”

he removed the vibrator, tossing it on the bed as he stood. you laid back down, breathing heavy and legs weak. eren hovered above you, leaning down to wipe your cheeks. 

“next time, just ask for my help,” he sneered, your eyes rolling weakly. he had a boyish grin on his face, something teasing about his nature. “i’m way better than some stupid vibrator, anyway.” 

<3 <3 <3 

[bibbykins]

Penumbric Commitments (M)

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!! I wrote this up real quick yesterday, so please forgive any lacking in quality, but I had the idea and absolutely sprinted with it! I hope you all enjoy and look forward to the next full length fic I post, which I gave a not so little hint in here to!

Warnings: 18+, unhealthy relationship, manipulation, yelling, rough sex, light bondage, the usage of a belt as wrist restraints (consensual), brief fingering, male cumming inside, talking about not wanting a child, daddy kink, threatening to leave, offering to kill someone, semi-graphic talks of killing someone

Word count: 3.8k

Genre: Soft Yandere, Mafia! Au

Summary: Hindsight says Namjoon so easily complying with not having children was too easy considering his position in the business and the nightmare his parents had readily become. What you didn't realize was how far Namjoon was willing to prove to you he meant what he said that day: all you both ever need is each other.

Note: this is a canon drabble apart of the Silhouetted Bonds fic linked here

It's times like these that you regret getting a traditional clock. The ticking was incessant and daunting. It felt like it was getting closer and closer to your ear with the deafening silence it was slicing through. Analogs had to be the way to go, or better yet, none at all. The last thing you needed right now was a reminder of how much time has been spent at this table. Namjoon had sprinted home the moment his mother called him after your meeting with her. 

----

"Mrs. Kim, always a pleasure." You shook the older woman's hand with a tight smile. 

She returned yours with an equally fake smile, "Please, you know you can call me mother." She chided, but nevertheless you stayed silent as you sat back down at the table in your home. It used to be mom.

It was 8 a.m. your mother in law wanted to meet, so to be petty, you stated 9 a.m. would be great. It's a shame that your relationship with her came to this, but truthfully, it was far from your fault.

While in the beginning she had been like a mother to you, things quickly took a steep downturn the moment Namjoon reintroduced you into his life. The woman who had once been lively, rebellious, and took charge became a demure, stoic, and merely content wife. She had given you talks about your duty as the wife of the boss and the expectations she expected you to fulfill nowadays as opposed to telling stories of her youth and teaching you how to bake eccentric treats. She had even admonished you for leaving Namjoon, an idea she gave you really. Since then, she had always stated your allegiance to the business and your own husband had yet to be proven in her eyes. The notion struck you to only provide her with business professional talks.

You had always known her and Namjoon's father had been a marriage of convenience, but there seemed to be intense love between them, at least at one point. You're not sure when that collapsed in your absence, and sure you felt bad,but you did not care for her patronizing tones. If Namjoon wouldn't retaliate, she almost definitely would've had you killed the moment you decided to leave her precious son. 

"Now, I understand you're a busy woman, so I'll be chaste." She spoke as she took her seat, giving you a pointed look, "Do you feel as though you've made up for your betrayal?" This was obviously a trick question in her eyes, the simple answer being no.

However, you couldn't care less, "I have never betrayed anyone close to me, including Namjoon, if that's what you mean." You met her eyes with valor, "I don't see why you feel the need to ask such a silly question each time I see you." 

She laughed humorlessly, "Maybe I'm hoping for the right answer to cross your stubborn mind." Truly, if Namjoon didn't love and cherish his parents so much you would've told her to fuck off and mind her business, maybe focus on her own shitty marriage, by now. Alas, Namjoon was a people pleaser and fiercely intent on being a filial son.

"You mean your answer to the question about how I feel?" You raised a brow, "Even when apart from Namjoon, I took no other man. I've never even lied to Namjoon, I've been nothing but an honest and hardworking wife after forgiving his own shortcoming in honesty." You watch her fist clench in her lap at the suggestion of her precious boy having a shortcoming of any sort, "A shortcoming well remedied, seeing as I'm still here." You chided lightly in spite of the heavy tension. You pitied your staff in this moment for having to watch this battle of wills.

"Sometimes husbands lie to… protect, their wives." She struggled to find the right words as she regurgitated what Namjoon's father undoubtedly told her one too many times. Misery loves company, and goodness, did she want you to be as miserable as her.

You returned her fake smile two fold before speaking, "That's lovely, but I don't need protecting from my husband, I need trust, honesty, respect." The final word made her back straighten, "I'd like to live in reality with him, not be shielded from it, but I respect what you wish for your own marriage, but this is what I like for mine." 

She hummed in faux thought, "Very well, I can leave you to reflect on what marriage should be, you're still so young." You fought the urge to roll your eyes, "However, you're not that young…" This was a new addition, "When will I be receiving a grandchild?" 

Your brows furrowed. Namjoon told you she took the news of no grandchildren quite well. He told you that she was informed of your no children rule mere days after you spoke the words. The radio silence on the topic of children each time you met with either of his parents confirmed much for you, and you had even found yourself quite proud of him for standing his ground with you. Surely, his parents are not nearly old enough to be so forgetful.

This was the first question in a while that made you falter, and you could see the satisfaction she gained from it, "Grandchildren? I'm unsure what you-"

"Namjoon told me the last time I visited him in prison, you wanted to wait for your fifth wedding anniversary before trying for children, isn't that coming up quite soon?" She raised a brow and you felt your heart shatter. 

He lied to you. Again. He lied to you mere moments after you were ready to forgive him for lying to you the first time.

You let out a bitter laugh, "He did now?" She nodded and you shut your eyes for a moment, "It seems I've been made a fool of again." You sighed before looking as confusion crossed your mother-in-law's features, "I told Namjoon the very last time I visited him in prison that I did not want kids, ever."

"You know that's not possible for him, he's a successor." She laughed at your boldness.

"You know that he is an adult man with 6 brothers, biological or not, who will all marry one day, surely one of them will adopt or have a child." She scoffed at this, "I got my tubes tied years ago." This wiped the smile off her face.

"Does Namjoon know about this?" She snapped and you nodded with a bitter smile.

"He accompanied me to the appointment for moral support." You shot back.

"Well, your tubes can be untied and-"

"No." You deadpanned.

"No?" She mimicked in disbelief.

 "If Namjoon requires a child, he will also require a new wife." Your voice was cold and you watched shock settle into the woman across from you, "With his habit of lying coming to light, he may have to find a new wife regardless."

She stood, "Don't be-"

"Please, do not waste your breath on orders I will not be following." You held your hand up to silence her.

"I'll call Namjoon, he can talk this out with you, so you can see things our way." She tried to sound reassuring as one of your staff rushed to see her out respectfully when you did not budge from your seat.

You stayed seated at the mahogany table, staring at your wedding ring. You didn't want to get a divorce. You loved Namjoon, more than anything, and yet, did he love you more than anything?

----

You're not sure how long you stayed there, questioning everything, but it was enough time for Namjoon to come home. He ripped the door open, eyes searching frantically, ready to make sure you had not already left him before his eyes landed on your figure. From there, he took his seat across from you at the table and waited until he could no longer take the silence.

"Are you going to say anything?" Your husband's voice was calm, although fear was evident in his timbre.

You sucked your teeth and shrugged, continuing to look at your freshly manicured nails, "What's there to say?" Your voice was short, as if you were already tired of the conversation before it could even start, "You lied to me."

Your husband dropped his head into his hands and sighed, "Junebug, I'm sorry, I-"

"You embarrassed me, again." You look at him for the first time all night with a sharp glare, "Are you trying to find an excuse to divorce or do you just not care about me?" 

"Neither!" His head shot up and he met your eyes with deep regret when he realized you were looking at him with the anger and hurt he found you with all this years ago, "I love you, more than anything-"

"Obviously not!" You snapped, "Do you have any idea how it feels to explain to your shitty and judgy mother in law that, in spite of what her precious son said, you had no plans to have children, that you got your fucking tubes tied?!" Namjoon sighed, either in shame or pain, "Were you just hoping that would come around? That I'm such a fickle woman that I don't mean what I say?" 

His brows furrowed, "No, if I thought that, why did I let you get your tubes tied?!"

"Let me?" Your voice was mockingly soft, "You let me, huh?" You cocked your head slightly and he closed his eyes in frustration, "How fucking charitable of you, my sweet husband, master of the fucking house, to let your dumb little wife make a choice for her body!" You stood, "How considerate of you to play supportive husband only to fold the moment your mother asks you a question-"

"You know what my duty as the only son is!" It was his turn to raise his voice, but he immediately regretted it as he saw your eye twitch.

"And you knew my stance on kids before you got out of prison." You seethed, "You know why I don't want a fucking kid, nor do I plan to fold on my stance, because I'm all I've got left there." Namjoon's mouth parted slightly before he pressed his lips together.

"It's not my fault you don't want a kid because you'd be a bad mother just like your own." The words left his mouth before he could even begin to consider the repercussions. He was about to open his mouth again to back track wildly, but it was far too late as you took a step back, the weight of his words being too much to take from across the table.

He watched hurt consume your irises for only the second time in his life, the first time being mere hours before you left him for years, before you made him promise to never betray you like that again as a condition for you to come back to him. A condition that he evident did not adhere to in your eyes. "Do you want to know what made my mother such a bad mother?" He watched as the embers of rage within your eyes were only stoked by his reflection in your pupils, although he could see a thin layer of moisture begin to build up, pain, "You know, like I would be?" Your words were almost mocking as he stayed eerily still, "An unsupportive, isolating, and shitty sorry excuse for a fucking husband." Your word hit him like a truck.

Unsupportive. Isolating. Sorry excuse for a husband.

You weren't wrong right now. He felt shitty. He knew he should've just stood his ground. His parents didn't matter if it meant losing you, "I didn't mean that, what I said about-"

"You're right." A tear fell and he felt his heart shatter, "So if you want a kid, it'll have to be with someone else."

"I don't want anyone else, I never have!" He made his way to you as you weakly stepped back, "You're all I need." His voice was soft as he went to grab your hand, but you pulled away.

"You said that last time." Your tears were beyond your control as you wiped at them in vain, "You said that mere days before you told your mom that we were going to have kids and you told me your mom took the news well." You sniffled, "You lied to me, I can't believe that you lied to me and let me just walk around like a fool believing you, again!" 

He was stunned silent again. You were right. He had lost his back bone under the strict gaze of his parents and folded under pressure. He betrayed you, and all he could do was hope for your forgiveness.

You shook your head as he remained mute, "I need some time." You went to walk past him and to the door but he engulfed you in a hug, "Namjoon!" You struggled weakly to pull him from you but froze when you heard a sniffle.

"Please, don't go." He begged as he held you close, "I can't lose you again, I'm so sorry, please."

You fought sobs from escaping your mouth, "You lied to me, and your mom-"

"I'll kill her if you want me to." He spoke and your blood ran cold at his tone. He was serious, "My mom and my dad, I'll tell them we're not having children and if they can't handle that, they can leave us alone or die."

Your eyes were wide, tears frozen in time. Namjoon loved his parents. He was always a kid intent on surpassing their expectations, and he had made that clear to you when you started dating in highschool. You were his only sign of rebellion. He was intended to marry a woman from an affluent family, but he met you. You had figured that would be where his rebellion ended, but here he was, handing his parent's hearts in your hands and awaiting orders.

"Joonie, y-you can't mean-" You sputtered to reason but he only held you tighter.

"Or even if you just want me to kill them, I will, with my own hands of course, nobody else can know." His remained headstrong in his resolve, stroking your hair, "I don't care what I have to do to keep you with me." He kissed the top of your head, "You are the only person, the only thing on this Earth that matters to me I cannot live without you." 

A sick, and extremely twisted part of you wanted to call your mother-in-law and say, "Hah!" You wanted to rub it in her face that her son, in spite of everything, chose you. Her precious boy has been yours for years now. However, your sanity slipped through the cracks as you shook your head again.

"You love your parents." You shook your head as you cried into his chest, "And if you felt that way, why would you lie to me?"

He sniffled, "I was weakened, not 100% sure you would truly accept me with open arms and I panicked when they asked." He sighed, "I know it's pathetic and I know I seemed like I knew we would make it, but I didn't know that. They never brought it up after that so I naively thought they would forget and when they asked me again, I would tell them the truth and-"

"You're so stupid." You cried harder into his chest and felt him nod, "If you're scared to face your parents, tell me, and we'll do it together." You were surely ruining his dress shirt, but he stroked your hair soothingly, "Your mom has been calling me a shitty wife for years and after today, she must truly believe it, and I-I should take some time-" Namjoon held you, arms sliding down your body as he got down to his needs and you felt your heart drop, and you gasped, "Stop, don't-" 

You tried to help him up but he grabbed your wrists as he looked up at you with tear stained cheeks and eyes as wet as yours, shaking his head at your frantic protests as he kissed your hands and your wedding ring tenderly, "I can't lose you again." His voice was weighty with sorrow at the thought of you being away from him, "You matter more to me than my duty as a successor does, than my parents do, even more than this whole fucking business." He rubbed his cheek against your hand in desperation as you stood frozen from the shock of Namjoon begging on his knees with the utmost humility. The most powerful man in the city, undoubtedly the country as well, was on his knees crying and begging you to stay, "If killing my parents is what I have to do to prove it, I will. Name how you want it done, when you want it done, and I'll do it." He was dead serious and he could tell you knew it as tears spilled onto your cheeks even more, "You're a better wife than I deserve, and all I can ever hope is to be even a fraction of the husband you deserve, and I'm sorry I've been missing the mark." This made your face twist in pain, regret. Namjoon, up until today, had been nothing short of perfect, and even now he was making up for it, "Almost losing you nearly killed me, and-and I get that sometimes people need time to calm down but I would just prefer you beat the shit out of me instead-"

"I didn't mean that either!" You cried out as you sunk down to your knees to hug the sobbing man before you, "You aren't a sorry excuse for a husband, you're just a goddamn idiot, and I didn't want time I just didn'twant to see your stupid face because I was so angry." You laughed as he did for a moment, "Above all else, you're an amazing husband. I love you, always have, I just hate when you lie-" Your voice in his ear was like heaven as he felt a weight lift of his shoulders.

He grabbed your legs to wrap around his waist before you could properly settle onto your knees. He held you close and he soothed your cries, "I haven't lied to you since, I can promise you that." He sighed and you scoffed, "You don't have to believe me. I'm just asking you to stay with me so I can prove it over time." 

"I'm...I'm not leaving you." You sighed into his neck before he pulled you back to trap your lips between his as he kissed your with a vigorous passion. When you returned his kiss with an equal amount of desperation, he began to stand with you in his arms before promptly laying you on the couch, never detaching his mouth from yours the whole time.

You settled into the velvet cushions as he ground himself into your sex, making you gasp, "I love you, my darling." He murmured into your mouth while one of his hands slid your dress up and your panties to the side before brushing his fingers across your pussy and groaning at your wetness, "Oh fuck, you're so wet, baby." His mouth went to your ear as you moaned, threading your fingers into his hair, "Was it me promising to kill for you or me getting onto my knees that did it, hm?" He rubbed slow circles over your clit and you gasped, "You get off on me spilling blood for you? You get wet by me demeaning myself to keep you right here, where you belong?" 

"Yes, daddy, I do- fuck!" You clutched his hair harder as his finger slipped in and your hips wiggled impatienly, "Just fuck me, I don't care about being stretched, fuck me." 

Too desperate to even hesitate, Namjoon undid his belt, ripping it from his trousers as he secured your wrists within the leather garment, as he had done many times before. He undid your belt as he pushed your arms up and his pants down with his boxers. He slid into you with a deep groan that you matched with a wanton moan. He fucked himself into you feverishly, wasting no time in chasing your high as his nimble finger went down to stimulate your clit, "I love you so fucking much, y/n." He groaned as he felt you tighten, "I don't care who I have to kill to prove it, I'll even let you watch the light drain from their fucking eyes if it means you'll stay with me." 

You moaned out as he whispered gruesome threats to the outside world intermingling with sweet nothings as he held the belt around your wrists,using it as leverage to fuck you harder. If you were sane, you would not be getting closer and closer to orgasm as he cursed the rest of the world into painful deaths just to have you as his wife, but here you were, clenching around him and opening your legs further so he can go deeper, "Shit, I'm gonna cum!" You cried out, arms going over Namjoon's head so you could pull him down to you by the neck and kiss his lips messily.

His hand went from your clit as he wrapped his arm around you to hoist you up and slam himself into you further, "That's right baby, cum for daddy and I'll give you my cum." He cooed in spite of the strain to keep himself from busting you before you get your release. His words only threw you over the edge as you climaxed, hurdling him into his own. He fucked his cum into you like always and you moaned lightly until he was done.

He held himself inside of you as you both gained your breath again, exchanging occasional kisses, "You don't have to kill them, you know." You spoke finally "Although, I won't be so cordial with their bullshit anymore."

He nodded, "I'm by your side, Junebug, forever and always." You smiled before kissing him.

"And I, you." You hummed blissfully.

"We have everything we need between just the two of us, I promise." He smiled against your kiss while you nodded, "You'll be the only one calling me daddy for the rest of out lives- hey!" You smack his chest lightly as you both laughed blissfully, letting the seriously twisted shit that just transpired be a simple part of the past.

"Your mom is a bitch." You giggled tiredly as he chuckled.

"Don't worry about being nice to her if you don't want to, I have my priorities straight." He gave you another kiss that you returned with glee.

As he was cleaning you up, your hazy mind allowed you to feel smug at the fact that you just saved your shitty in-laws from certain death. You were their ticket to life. You were their precious successor's priority. You were his only true love.

Namjoon watched with nothing but love as he tucked your sleeping form into bed. Thinking on it now, he doesn't know if he could even stand the idea of you loving a child as much as you loved him. He enjoyed his monopoly over your affection, and a child would only throw a wrench in that for him. Taehyung liked kids, Jungkook seemed like a family man, maybe even Hoseok if that new girl he's saying is as serious for him as he says. All it took was one kid to carry on the business, so you didn't need to worry your pretty little head about it.

All you had to worry about was staying by his side and all he had to worry about was being a good enough husband to keep you there. He kissed your forehead as he held you closer to him, texting his mom the next time she disrespects you or his marriage, there would be consequences. 

You were the only person he needed. He would do anything to make you understand that. 

The ticking of the clock was nowhere to be heard as you laid in Namjoon's arms. You snuggled into him as you caught sight of the thinly veiled threat he sent to his own mother on account of your feelings. He was yours just as much yours were his and the victory of it all had never tasted so sweet. His heartbeat was all you could hear, steady, loving, and to the beat of the drum you commanded. 

You both wouldn't have it any other way.

Masterlist

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[ladywhistleclown]

Anthony Bridgerton x F!Reader: Stairs Solve Problems

Summary: You try to teach Anthony to loosen up at a party, your way.

A/N: imagine the stair sliding scene in Ella Enchanted except with Anthony. Thank you for your time. Yes this is self indulgent. Enjoy.

Word Count: 2467

Warnings: Fluff, Anthony and Reader are childish, they also constantly banter at each other but it’s Bridgerton so-

—

“If Anthony keeps making that absolutely dour face through the rest of the party, it'll stick that way.” You grumbled, Benedict laughing loudly in response as you tossed another glance at the sour viscount.

While you had made your best attempts at mingling and partying, even gracing a few with dances (a regret, to be sure), He hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall in the last hour, deflecting mamas and maidens alike, content to stand and scowl at the masses.

“Ah, well. He must be in a mood.” Benedict said in a way of explanation, taking another sip from his liquor. You rolled your eyes, turning to face away from Anthony and his harsh glare.

“If he can’t even smile, how will he ever get a wife?” You tsk, shaking your head with mock disappointment, causing Benedict to snort and nearly splutter up his drink.

“How will he ever get a wife at all?” He countered, dabbing a bit of his spilled alcohol off of his jacket. “With an attitude like that, not even the mamas will approach him before long.”

“Perhaps I should go cheer him up?” You suggested, turning back to look at him. He was still glaring, although it looked like it was now directed in your particular direction. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, and you looked away quickly.

“If you dare.” Is all Benedict graced you with, his mischievous grin growing wider as he slipped past you and into the gallery.

Artists! You thought, shaking your head. Anthony was a close friend, but you had meant to approach him with Benedict. You were close enough to know his ‘moods’, and how to steer clear of them.

It appeared though, that as he continued to stare sullenly, that you were the only option.

Sighing, you leveled your chin and swept up to him, trying to appear both as regal and ridiculous you could, a smile bubbling through your composure as you dipped into the clumsiest, lowest curtsy of your life in front of him.

Hopefully, Whistledown, whoever she was, wasn’t looking in your direction tonight.

“A dance, My Lord?”

“I believe it is customary for the man to ask the woman, no?” In spite of himself, he smiled, both at your request and theatrics, and you knew you had won already.

“Very well. I shall wait for my invitation.” You replied promptly, demurely folding your hands and continuing to stand in front of him. He chuckled, realizing you wouldn’t leave until he gave you what you wanted.

“I don’t dance.”

“This is not a waltz, My Lord.”

“I do not dance at all.”

“Not even my way? Away from...prying eyes?” He swallowed, shaking himself from the cesspool his thoughts had gone into the moment you had stepped closer, dipped your voice low to speak to him.

Of course, he knew you would never proposition him like that. You were devoted to your social standing, even as you hated it, and would never do something as silly as tempt a rake upstairs, unchaperoned, and away from a party.

So clearly, you were up to something else.

“Your way?”

You grinned.

—

Somehow, you had tempted a rake upstairs, unchaperoned, and away from the party. With pure intentions, of course, but the ton would view it the same either way.

If they find out, you reminded yourself, leading Anthony up the grand staircase in the deserted main hall. which they won’t.

Once you reached the top of the stairs, you stopped, turning back to face the floor below. Anthony stopped too, puzzled.

“Here we are, My Lord!” Your giddy voice only confused him more, as did your bright, excited smile when you glanced up at his face.

“The landing?”

“Hah! No, the staircase! Well, the rail.” You explained, patting the polished metal rail on the left of the staircase, gleaming from a fresh polish.

“I’m not quite sure I follow you, Lady.” He admitted.

“I always do this when I’m in a sour mood, and it appears as though you could use it just as well.” Before he could open his mouth to protest, you continued, “It’s quite fun. Just try?”

He sighed. He could never resist you, even less when you pleaded with him, and so he nodded quickly. He doubted whatever you had planned with the stairs would bring him much respite from his plaguing thoughts of Siena, but it was worth a try.

If for no other reason, to make a childhood friend happy.

“Alright. What is it you’ll have me doing?” You squealed at his assent, gripping his hand and pulling him closer to the rail.

“Sliding down the rail.”

“What?”

“The rail. It’s very long, and the curve makes it even more fun to slide down. Have you never done this in your own home?” You cocked your head to the side, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Of course I had, when I was a boy. This is for children.”

“Anthony.”

“My Lady-“

“You promised you’d try.” You reminded, crossing your arms. You wondered if stomping your foot would be too reminiscent of a petulant child, and decided against it. Acting like a little girl wouldn’t help your argument now.

He stared, before finally shaking his head and moving to sit on the rail. He glanced up at you obediently once he had settled on it, and you smiled in encouragement.

“I must admit, this isn’t what I had in mind when you said ‘private dance’.” He laughed lowly.

“Rake.” You shot, but there was no venom behind the word, no malice. An almost practiced response.

“This won’t break, will it?” He changed the subject, glancing down at the rail beneath him. It seemed sturdy, but just because it could hold a maiden didn’t mean it would hold him.

“No, of course not. Now, slide down, and I’ll come down after.”

“I suppose you expect me to catch you?”

“It’s half the fun, Anthony.” Exasperated, you gently shove his shoulder. “Now, slide.”

“You’re very pushy.”

“I like to think of it as determination. Slide.”

Finally relenting, Anthony used his hands to push himself off, sliding easily down the waxed metal, following the curve of the grand staircase and landing neatly on his feet at the bottom.

Anthony tried to be a serious man, at least in society. Brothels and opera houses aside, when it came down to it, he thought he did a pretty good job of carrying himself through society as a Viscount and head of his family.

Yet, as his boots made contact with the marble floor with a loud click, indicating that he had landed, he was laughing. It was fun, although he was loathe to tell you that you were ever right (you’d never let him forget it), something about the nostalgia, laughs shared between brothers as they took turns bothering the help by ruining the perfectly polished stair rails.

It already had him forgetting, smiling, laughing.

You smiled, hearing his laughter from the landing of the stairs. I told you, you thought smugly, kicking off your flats and gathering your skirt as you sat on the rail, shoving yourself off. You giggled the entire way down, waiting eagerly to see Anthony around the curve, hopefully ready to catch you.

It would be very unbecoming to leave a lady to topple off of a stair rail. Though, perhaps it was more unbecoming to sneak away with a man to ride on stair rails and then demand he catch you.

Luckily for you, Anthony had no intention of letting you fall, catching you just as you rounded the curve of the stairs and hit the end of the rail, spinning you around in his arms and laughing along with you.

“I told you it was fun!” You said indignantly, clutching at his waistcoat before standing and righting yourself.

“You were right, of course. Again?” He was already rushing upstairs, leaving you smiling brightly below. His bright face and demeanor reminded you of the boy you knew before, not a Viscount or leader, or even a rake, but Anthony, mischievous and fun loving and sometimes a bit foolish.

You followed him up the stairs, hiking your skirts to run faster. He was already situated on the rail, and the moment he saw you had reached the landing, he pushed himself off, laughing and whooping. You followed shortly, and he caught you again, spinning you around before setting you down and quickly jogging up the stairs.

You must have gone down dozens of times, completely having forgotten the ball in favor of your childish game. Anthony didn’t mind, and neither did you.

At least until you came down, and after righting you, he grinned and said, “I don’t think I can go again, My Lady.”

“Why not? Must you leave?”

“We are ruining our clothes.”

“What?” You raised your eyebrows, and in response, Anthony turned around, revealing his issue.

In a thick, horizontal line, exactly the size of the rail, Anthony’s breeches were fraying and tearing away. It would only take one more slide to rip them entirely away, not that they could really be worn acceptably at all now.

You laughed loudly, and he turned around again, laughing with you. You had expected him to grow embarrassed or angry at your giggles, but it appeared as though the rails truly had loosened him up, willing to laugh at his misfortunes.

You were glad.

“Oh dear, that certainly is a problem! A funny one!” You snorted, patting his shoulder.

“Indeed. Although, I don’t regret the actions that led me to it.”

“Of course not! It was recommended by me, after all.” You turned, inspecting your own skirts. The metal had left dark stains on your gown, and the edges were ragged from your repeated trips up and down the stairs, often tripping over them in your haste.

“Mother will be furious.” You sighed, “Well, at least it is not a hole.” You glanced up at him again, barbing him with a sweet smile.

“Funny.” He rolled his eyes, although when he looked back down to you, they were...soft.

“Thank you. For trying to help me with my troubles.”

“Oh please. You’re my friend. Was I supposed to let you suffer in silence at the party?”

“Most would.”

“I am not most, My Lord.” He started, lips parted slightly in retort, and then froze. You had always been one of few to help him, to listen to his troubles with Siena and his mother and Simon, a shoulder to cry on for comfort and a beacon of advice for help.

In the cold, calculated world of the London Elite, you were one of few who were genuinely kind, accepting, helpful.

How had he not seen it before?

“No, you are not.” He said simply, quietly. Before you could question his meaning, the doors to the main hall opened.

“Lord Bridgerton?” You gaped as your mother stepped in, Anthony quickly turning to the door and folding his hands behind his back to hide his wardrobe malfunction. “...Daughter?” in a much more shocked tone. You shrunk away from Anthony to face her.

“Mother. Anthony was upset, so I was...helping him. We slid on the stair rail.” You admitted. It would be a flimsy excuse if it weren’t true, and you were terrified she wouldn’t believe you.

Honor was everything in the ton, and being caught alone with a gentleman would destroy yours.

“It’s true. We were...reliving childhood.” Anthony chimed. You shot him a grateful look, surprised that he had chimed in for your benefit.

Strangely, your mother simply smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “Of course. I remember how many gowns you ruined doing just that. And I can see the smudges from here.” She commented, pointing at your gown, where a large, darkened patch of your petticoat had smeared onto your sleeve.

“My apologies.” You mumbled.

“No need, dear. I suppose we must leave early, no need to raise suspicions, and your gown is in tatters anyway. I cannot let you enter a ballroom in it. I’ll call for the carriage. Wait here.”

And with that, you and Anthony were left alone together. You slowly turned to him, and judging by the expression on his face, he was thinking the same as you

“That went remarkably well.” He said, holding back a laugh “I thought she would kill me.”

“Oh, if anything, I’d be the dead man.” You scoffed. “I’m shocked she left us again, as well. She must be scheming something.”

“Our marriage?”

“Hah! You cannot be serious. She’d never let me marry a man who would slide down stair rails with me!”

You both laughed again, and your mother peeked in.

“Carriage is ready my dear. Make haste.” You nodded, turning to Anthony.

“I’ll take my leave, then. I had fun, Anthony. Thank you for indulging my foolish whims.” You curtsied, properly this time, and he smirked.

“Of course. Call on me the next time you have a whim. I’d be happy to join you.” He gave a short bow of his head, and you joined your mother at the door, disappearing behind it.

Once you were in the carriage, your mother sighed sweetly. You prepared yourself.

“Ah, young love! How fun!”

“We are friends, mama.”

“Oh please. Men don’t ruin their breeches for just anyone.” That made you laugh. And maybe, just maybe, you hoped she was right.

—

Anthony had no choice but to retire early, calling a carriage and going alone. He could explain to his family later, he was sure they were used to his disappearing act. A smile on his face, he floated about the house, going about his nightly duties, his mind only on you, your kindness, and your constant chase for fun.

It wasn’t until he had finished changing his breeches and settled into his office chair that he realized that for the entire night, he had completely forgotten Siena, entirely focused on you and your antics.

The next morning, Anthony requested that the stair rails in the Bridgerton home be well polished every morning. For no particular reason, of course.

[jaskiers-sweetkiss]

The Mercer Legacy - Part 1

Pairings: Reggie x Luke x Reader, Willex

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: none? 

a/n: welcome to the first part of my social media JATP au!! Im really excited about this series and I hope you like it!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

Masterlist  TML Masterlist

___

“Beep beep! Coming through!” You heard somebody call from down the sidewalk.

You stepped to the side, lifting your dress so that the white fabric didn’t touch the grass but Alex wasn’t as lucky. Your best friend apparently hadn’t heard the warning and before any of you knew what had happened, Alex and the skateboarder were both sprawled on the ground.

“Oh, you dinged my board!” The skateboarder whined as he stood and you saw Alex scowl.

“I dinged your board? Dude, you ran me over! You’re lucky I didn’t-“ Alex stopped abruptly and you smirked, recognizing the expression on your best friend’s face as he actually looked at the boy who had run into him.

You knew that look, that was Alex’s gay panic look. However, before Alex could regain control of his brain long enough to say something his mom interrupted, calling out from the car.

“Alexander, Y/N, let’s get a move on! We don’t want to be late!”

The skateboarder nodded apologetically to Alex before riding off, leaving Alex to stare longingly after him. When he finally turned back he was met with a teasing grin from you.

“Don’t say a word,” he grit out, glaring at you and you laughed.

“Whatever you say, lover boy.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

___

The event was about as stuffy as you’d imagined it would be. After they’d lined you all up and announced you to the attendees, the master of ceremonies turned it over to the orchestra to play for the rest of the evening.

“How much longer do we have to be here?” You huffed, plopping down very un-ladylike into the chair next to your best friend.

“At least two more hours, probably longer,” Alex responded dejectedly and you sighed, taking a sip of your fruit punch as you surveyed the room.

Most of the attendees, both debutantes and parents, were slow-dancing to whatever piece the orchestra played. You would be perfectly content if you never made it onto the dance floor though you knew it was unlikely considering Mrs. Mercer’s overbearing and controlling nature. She’d be damned if her son didn’t dance to at least one song which meant you’d be dancing with him.

“Y’know, whoever chose fruit punch as a beverage for this event is an idiot,” you declared, holding your cup up to eye level as you stared into the red liquid. “It would be so easy to spill this all over my pristine white dress. Maybe I should. We’d probably get to leave and…” You trailed off.

Though distorted and colorized due to the liquid in your cup, you thought you recognized one of the young servers. Lowering your glass slowly as to not spill your drink (sure you’d threatened to but really this was a nice dress and you didn’t want to ruin it) you peered more clearly across the room at the boy.

“Hey isn’t that your boyfriend?” You asked Alex, grinning teasingly at him.

It was hard to be certain when the guy had traded his helmet for a neat bun at the base of his neck and his street clothes for a tuxedo shirt and black slacks but you were pretty sure that was the same boy who had run Alex over with his skateboard.

“What?” Alex hissed, looking around frantically and you weren’t sure if he was checking to make sure no one had overheard (no one had, you’d checked before you’d said anything) or looking for the boy in question.

“Your skater boy,” you explained. “Isn’t that him over there with the tray of hor d’œuvres?”

“Oh my god.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go introduce yourself, get his number!”

“I can’t just go over there,” Alex exclaimed, parroting your words back at you. “He’s working!”

You huffed and rolled your eyes at his reluctance.

“Fine. Then I’m hungry let’s go get a snack,” you stood, dragging him out of his chair with you.

You looped your arm through his, not allowing him to get away as you pulled him across the room. You stopped in front of the skater boy, pretending to be occupied with selecting an hor d’oeurve from his tray. You felt Alex freeze up next to you and you nudged him with your elbow.

“Alright well, Alex, I’m going to go sit over there,” you gestured over to a table nearby, “and let you guys talk.”

You slipped your arm from Alex’s, winking no-so-discretely at him as you moved away.

“I hate you,” you heard him hiss in your direction but you just smiled cheekily in response.

“So, Alex huh?” You heard the skater boy ask before you were out of earshot and you smirked.

You sat down at a nearby table alone, keeping an eye on Alex in case you needed to rescue him. However, once you saw him relax you let your gaze wander. Your new seat afforded you a view of the orchestra and you found your gaze drifting off towards the musicians. You hadn’t realized you’d been staring at one particular musician until the dark-haired cellist winked at you.

You felt heat immediately rise to your cheeks and you quickly averted your gaze, embarrassed at being caught by the cute musician. Of course, your gaze then fell to a violinist across the orchestra setup. To your surprise he was already staring at you, a cocky smirk on his face as he continued to play, completely disregarding the sheet music and conductor in front of him.

He was undeniably attractive, though in a different way than the other musician who had caught your eye. Still, you had the undeniable urge to wipe the smirk off his face and make him as flustered as you were so you did what the cellist had just done to you moments before. You winked. However, it didn’t seem to phase him very much, the flash of surprise crossing his face quickly replaced with a smug grin and you groaned internally. Not wanting to drop your facade and surrender, you did your best to smile back demurely before you looked away, eyes going back to where Alex and his skater boy had been standing.

You couldn’t help your surprise when you discovered that they were no longer standing where you’d left them. Your eyes began to flit frantically around the ballroom, searching for the familiar frame of your best friend but you couldn’t find him. That’s when you noticed that the skater boy was nowhere to be found either and you smirked to yourself, realizing that they must have snuck off somewhere.

Yeah, Alex definitely owed you.

You had just pulled your phone out to text him as much when the orchestra stopped playing. The sudden absence of sound shocked you and you looked up to see the MC stepping up to the microphone as the musicians began filing out. The MC explained that the orchestra was taking a brief break and you tuned out the rest of his announcement, your eyes being once again drawn to the brunet violinist. He tilted his head towards the stage door, silently inviting you to join him backstage and you quirked a brow in surprise. He winked in response, smiling cheekily before he turned to follow the rest of the orchestra off the stage.

You sent a quick text to Alex in case he came back before you snuck out the back, doing your best to blend in with the musicians. You were certain you were unsuccessful given your white gown and their concert blacks but nobody stopped you so you didn’t give it much thought.

It took you a moment to locate the violinist and you were surprised to find him with the dark-hair cellist who had winked at you. The violinist was sitting backward in his chair, elbows resting on the back while the cellist sat crisscrossed on another. They both looked up at you as you made your way towards them, each smiling at you, though the violinist’s was more of a smirk.

“Pull up a chair, mystery girl,” the violinist invited gesturing to a nearby black plastic chair when you approached.

“Mystery girl?” You quirked a brow quizzically as you slung the chair around to face them. You sat down gingerly, careful of your gown before pulling off your white gloves, gratefully to get rid of the fabric now that you were away from the rest of the attendees.

“Well we don’t know your name,” the violinist explained, studying you intently as if he was trying to figure out how you fit into this whole event.

“Well I don’t know yours either,” you tossed back with a smirk of your own as you crossed your legs and leaned back in your seat.

“Oh, well, I’m Luke,” the violinist introduced before gesturing to the cellist, “and this is...”

“Reggie!” The cellist chimed in, “Can we know your name now?”

“Y/N,” you answered simply with a smile. However, that smile turned into narrowed eyes and a look of suspicion as you watched the two boys exchange looks.

“You’re Alex’s y/n,” Reggie spoke aloud and you did a double-take.

“I’m who’s y/n?” You spluttered in disbelief.

“You are Alex’s best friend right? Alex Mercer?” Luke asked, leaning forward and causing his chair to tilt onto two legs.

“I- yeah, but how do you know that?”

“We’re in a band together! I play the bass and Lu…” Reggie trailed off, his voice going from excited to confused as he watched your expressions shift. “You don’t know about the band.”

“No, I do not,” you grit out, mind starting to wonder what else Alex had left out. Your best friend seemed to be living a secret life. “I’m gonna fight him.”

You pushed out of your seat, ready to hunt your best friend down and force him to tell you everything.

“No, wait!” Luke reached out a hand to grab your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Why do that when we could mess with him?”

You turned, giving him a thoughtful look. “Go on.”

“Well, obviously he kept us apart for a reason, imagine how freaked out he’ll be if he finds out we already know each other!”

“I like the way you think,” you smirked, sitting back down in your chair and pulling out your phone. “Okay now smile.”

You took a couple pictures of the two boys, wanting some options to post on Instagram later.

“Oh wait! We need some of you!” Reggie exclaimed, having caught on to your plan without you having to verbalize it.

You nodded in agreement as he pulled out his phone. You did a couple quick poses before dissolving into laughter, unable to take yourself seriously. The three of you sat that way for a few more minutes, getting to know each other and plotting your revenge on Alex.

Before you knew it the orchestra’s break time was up and the musicians began to file back onto the stage, leaving you to sneak back into the ballroom. Alex was waiting by the side door with a quizzical face.

“What were you doing back there?” He asked and you had to fight to keep the smirk off your face.

“Just visiting some friends.”

Part 2

___

TML Taglist: @bright-molina​ @bright-patterson​

JATP Taglist: @meangirlsx​ @morganayennefertyrell​ @n0wornever​

[snackhobi]

pairing: min yoonji x reader / word count: 9.7k / genre: f x f smut, assassin!au

summary: a fic inspired by this post and that’s pretty much it-

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), talk about death/assassination (nothing graphic dw! but they are assassins, so), mild violence, unnecessarily sexually charged lipstick application, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral (f giving/receiving), use of restraints, overstimulation, squirting, kind of dom!yoonji?

a/n: this is an entirely self-indulgent fic I wrote as a gift to myself for my bday, it’s a lil rushed bc I wanted it done for today! women are so very beautiful and I am so very weak, thank you ladies for all being so amazing ily. this was meant to be a short pwp and now it’s almost 10k but I have no regrets bye

--

la petite mort French literal meaning: ‘the little death’; also an expression used to refer to the brief loss or weakening of consciousness, specifically the sensation of orgasm as likened to death; an orgasm.

--

“It’s just unacceptable.”

The woman in front of you is clearly wealthy. Her dark hair is perfectly styled and her pale nails are perfectly shaped and her subtle makeup is perfectly flattering; she’s starting to get older but rather than shy away from it, she’s leaning into it, and she looks almost imperious in her beauty, eyes sharp and set of her lips severe. Park Dahye was born into wealth and has clearly thrived in the life that she’s been afforded.

“Mmhm.” You try not to yawn. 

“He’s flitting around with some young, silly thing on his arm, with no consideration for the family’s reputation— my reputation,” she continues. Her posture is perfect, from the set of her spine to her crossed legs to her folded hands that rest on her knee, somehow demure and yet highlighting all of her beauty and riches; the jewellery on her wrists and fingers, the expensive heels on her feet, the slit of her haute-couture dress, no doubt tailored for her and her alone. “I’ve already spoken to him about his behaviour, but he’s just ignored my warnings. We may have agreed on the divorce but we’re currently still husband and wife— has he no shame?”

“Awful.” You don’t even try to hide how bored you are, but Dahye is so quietly incensed that she doesn’t even notice as she launches into the next part of her queenly diatribe, and you muffle a sigh.

That’s the problem with rich clients. Sure, they’re willing to fork over stupid amounts of money to you, but they also think that their issues are of paramount significance— like they’re the centre of the universe and their problems are the only important ones in the world. Like you’re interested in what they have to say. Like this is the only job you’ll ever do that holds real weight or meaning.

For them, it’s a life-changing (life-ending) decision. 

For you? It’s another Tuesday.

“Yes, yes, that’s just so terrible, gosh, I don’t know how you manage it,” you say once she pauses to take a breath, using the opportunity to cut her off before she launches into another part of her articulate rant. “Anyway. Would you prefer if his death was embarrassing or quiet?”

For the first time since you’ve met, she seems unsettled. “Pardon?”

Namjoon is much better with people than you, smooth and charming with his boyish dimples. Normally any discussions would go through your handler, but this woman had demanded to meet you personally and had been willing to pay for the privilege: so here you are, with your relative bluntness instead of Joon’s winsome smile.

“You know,” you say, gesturing with your hands. “When they find the body. Do you want him to be caught with his trousers around his ankles—literally or figuratively, that’s up to you— or would you rather it seemed like something natural and unpredictable? Like a sudden heart attack in his sleep, for example.”

When it comes to rich clients, a lot of it is about reputation. When someone’s shuffled off this mortal coil, it’s not just that they’re removed from the equation, it’s also about the ripples that their death leaves in the high society that they’ve lived in. Does she want her (soon-to-be) ex-husband made a mockery of, or does she just want him out of the picture?

She can’t see your face, behind your mask as it is, but you can see hers in perfect clarity. For all that Dahye seems put together and almost impassive, you see the tiny flicker in her eyes. Ah. She’s not just mad because he’s ruining their reputation. She’s hurt.

Man, that sucks. Honestly you bet it’s easier being an assassin than a rich housewife. At least when it comes to backstabbing you can literally involve a knife to sort your problems out. (Well, knives are messy, but you get the picture.)

“I’d prefer something quiet,” she decides. “I’d worry that it could lead back to me, otherwise.”

You’d be offended at the idea that you’d leave any trace that could implicate anyone or that this man’s sudden death was in any way suspicious, but she’s paying you enough that you find that you don’t care. You take pride in your work, but for the amount of zeroes involved in the fee you’re being paid, you think you can take an unintentional insult or two. Or three. Or ten.

You like money, what can you say.

“Sure thing,” you say, giving her a lazy, two fingered salute. You’ve been reclining against the desk of the hotel suite, flicking the complimentary, heavy metal pen between your fingers, twirling it like the world’s most underwhelming baton. You straighten up and let the pen drop back into the pen pot—wait, no, of course it’s a handmade porcelain jar, an alarmingly well-made Joseon porcelain replica. Everything in here stinks of money. “RM will confirm where the money is to be deposited. Half of it now as collateral, and half upon completion of the job,” you say. “If you change your mind between now and then, we’ll be keeping the original 50%, but if for some reason something goes awry, you’ll receive that money back. Sound good?”

She seems surprised at your directness. “I—”

“Fabulous!” You clap your hands together, although the sound is muffled by your gloves. You’re not about to leave your fingerprints everywhere, geez. “Alright, time for me to skidaddle I suppose! I’ve got work to be doing, people to be watching, men to be killing!”

Dahye flinches imperceptibly, but by this point you’ve already slipped out onto the balcony and into the night.

--

Being an assassin is hard work.

Technically, everyone has the capacity to kill another human being. But killing as a job involves a lot more than just caving someone’s head in with a rock—that’s why Cain isn’t referred to as an assassin, what with how he’d just bashed his brother Abel with a convenient stone that happened to be lying nearby. He was just a straight up dick.

No, when you kill professionally you need to be familiar with an array of different techniques, each one far more sophisticated than the last. You need to know how to be stealthy, how to blend in as you watch your target, how to set up the scenes of their death in a way that doesn't arouse suspicion. Or, instead, how to set the scene up in a way that lets any onlookers know that this person had been offed by someone who knew what they were doing, and knew it well. There's a difference between being a killer and being an assassin and you are firmly in the latter category.

So, if your client wants her husband to be shuffled off quietly, then that’s what she’ll get.

They really have pulled out all the stops for this charity gala. Everything is shining, glittering and bright: the surroundings, the food, the people. Especially the people. The rich elite have come together for an extravagant and exquisite night of ostentation and luxury, all in the name of raising money for some needy cause. (You try not to think of the irony and/or hypocrisy behind that.)

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to blend in here. Namjoon had secured (forged) invitations for you both, and so you hang off his arm as you make a slow sweep of the room, trailing unnoticed after your target. You’re not planning to make a move right now but you want to feel out exactly what he’s like: the more information you have about the person you’ve been contracted to assassinate, the better. 

Plus it’s an excuse to dress up nice and eat free food— though that last part is mainly Namjoon.

“God, these canapés are so good,” Namjoon moans quietly to you, hoovering up the flaky pastry crumbs from his fingers with single-minded intent. You dig your fingers subtly into his arm.

“I thought we agreed on not eating tonight, Joon,” you mutter to him, although you say it with a beatific smile in case anyone is watching; the place is heaving with people but you’re always on guard. (Even if Namjoon is right. The hors d’oeuvres that are on offer do look incredibly tempting.)

“You have a glass of champagne,” he points out.

“And you may have noticed that I haven’t drunk any of it.” You titter, as if he’s just told a funny joke, and lightly slap his arm. Again, you’re fairly certain no one is watching, but you can never be too careful. “It’s all about creating a facade, Joonie. It’s what we in the business call a ruse.”

Even throughout your back and forth, you’ve kept your eyes on your man of the night: Park Minjae, a middle-aged businessman who’s been greeting people and getting swept up in conversation, all while a slip of a blonde clings to his arm, stuck to his side like a pretty limpet. She’s cute, sure, but she lacks the poise that Dahye has, so you frankly don’t get it. Then again, not everyone finds strong women as attractive as you do. Weirdos.

You’ve been focused on Minjae but your eyes have also been flitting around the room, drinking in your surroundings, drawing up a detailed map of your environment (of course you’d scoped out the building before tonight, but with all the banquet tables and chairs around the layout is a little different). The people, too, have been subject to your scrutiny, although so far they all seem summarily unimportant and uninteresting, just as you’d suspected. You lift your glass to your lips and pretend to take a tiny, demure sip, glancing up through your eyelashes to scan the room again, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

You take back what you just said about everyone being unimportant and uninteresting. 

The woman who’s just walked in is fucking stunning. Her sleek dark bob is unstyled, but perfectly frames her beautiful face: sharp eyes, soft nose, flushed lips. Her cocktail dress lets you see almost every inch of those perfect legs, the line of her thighs to her calves and— oh, you swear you could shed a tear of joy. She’s already tall and she’s made even taller by the heels she wears, towering above most of the men here, a fucking Amazonian goddess who looks powerful and undeniably elegant at the same time. 

(Thank you for your service, tall women.)

You don’t know who she is, but goddamn, do you want to. She’s scanning the room, and for a brief moment, your eyes touch. A tiny thrill shudders up your spine at the darkness of her keen eyes, that quick and astute gaze. 

It’s only the tiniest of moments that’s over as soon as it’s started. The dark-haired beauty looks away and is already disappearing into the crowd before you realise, and it’s only then you notice that you’re staring, utterly drawn in by her cool poise and presence. You’ve been frozen in place with the rim of your champagne  glass resting against your mouth, and your eyelashes flutter as you blink and glance down.

The imprint of your lower lip has been left on the glass, stark red visible against its edge, and you squeeze Namjoon’s bicep.

“How does my lipstick look?”

He takes one look at you as he swallows down another tiny vol-au-vent. “Like half of it is missing,” he says, and you frown.

“Ugh. I’ll go touch it up in the bathroom. Keep an eye on our guy, I’ll be right back.”

It’s not until you’ve made it to the toilets that you realise that you do not, in fact, have any lipstick in your ridiculously small clutch bag. When it comes to your actual work, you’re meticulous and thorough and well-planned, but for some bizarre reason, a tube of lipstick is never the top of the list when it comes to equipment. Unbelievable. (You knew you should have worn the 24/7 stuff, but it was always such a nightmare to get off.)

You’ve been so busy rummaging through your bag that you’re completely caught off-guard at the sound of a quiet voice from behind you.

“Lost something?”

Oh, fuck. It’s her, your dark haired and dark eyed beauty, meeting your gaze through the mirror when you glance up from where you’re resting your bag against the marble counter  (marble, marble, marble, it’s all marble: the floors, the counters, the sinks; why do rich people always love marble?). She looks altogether too amused at your plight and at how your eyes have widened perceptibly upon seeing her again. But can she blame you? Her presence is so graceful and commanding and she’s so dizzyingly attractive it’s insane. Surely she must get this all the time.

You stare for a little longer than is probably polite, and even behind her fringe you can see how one of her eyebrows rises.

“Sorry for staring,” you say once you notice. “You’re just so beautiful.”

She pauses as she takes in the compliment. You see how her eyes flicker over your face and settle on your mouth; your upper lip, tinted burgundy red, while the lower is faint and smudged.

“Lipstick problems?” She cocks her head at you, still staring at your lips in the mirror. God, she’s so hot.

“Can you tell?” You sound rueful as you glance down at the reflection of your mouth, touching your bottom lip lightly with a fingertip. “I forgot to bring any with me so now I’m stuck.”

She finally looks away from you. You hear a small, metallic click as she unclasps her evening bag— marginally larger than your own— and lifts out a small tube of liquid lipstick. “Would you like to use mine?”

Fuck yes you would. 

“Oh, would that be alright?” You finally turn around, and you have to tilt your head back to look at her, taller than you in her heels. Jesus Christ. She’s going to be the death of you. Why are women so gorgeous? Who gave them the right? “I’m not sure the shade will match, though?”

You watch her beautiful mouth curve up into a small smirk as she pulls out a tiny pack of makeup remover wipes from her bag, and you swear could propose to her there and then. Beautiful and tall and organised? Holy shit. What a woman.

She’s got her bag in one hand, while the lipstick and wipes are clasped in the other; her hand is held up in such a way that you think she means for you to take them from her, but when you reach out she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it for you,” she says. The quiet note of authority in her tone makes you go weak at the knees.

Thank god the toilets you chose aren’t the main ones, because it means there’s no one around to see how she tilts her head at the marble counter in the universal gesture of get on there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you, of course, immediately comply. You brace your hands against the cold stone before hitching yourself up, careful with the draping folds of your dress; the cold touch of the stone is noticeable through the material of your dress, but it’s instantly forgotten when your enchantress steps closer. 

You spread your knees so she can stand between them. Holy shit, she’s even better up close. Her lashes are wispy but they’re the perfect frame for her gorgeous eyes, which are dark and intent. You suppress a shiver. You hold yourself still as she leans forward and around you so she can put her clutch and lipstick down, trying to ignore how close she is, but there’s no way she can’t realise what she’s doing. Your heart is pounding. You wish you didn’t have a job to do tonight because you would so much rather be getting, ah, acquainted with this woman rather than following some old businessman around.

The only noise in the bathroom is the sound of peeling plastic as she opens the tiny packet of wet wipes before she curls one around her finger, glancing at you through her lashes.

“Open,” she instructs.

Your mouth drops open immediately. She sweeps the wipe over your lips, bottom, then top, touch firm but careful, drawing away the red from your skin; you stare at her as she works, how her eyes are cast down as she stares at your mouth. She’s using her free hand to grip your chin and you feel deliciously powerless in her grasp. 

You purse your lips a little to try and help her, watching the way her eyes flicker as she pulls the wipe back over them— somewhat firmer, this time, with more intent. Lingering. The only barrier between her finger and your mouth is soft and flimsy, the texture of the wipe against your lips like cotton as it drags across them, and it would be so easy to pull it out of her hands.

She flicks the dirtied wipe aside, heedless of how it lands on the unsullied marble, before reaching for her lipstick. She twists the tube in her fingers, motions of her hands precise and deft, and you’ve never been so attracted to how someone’s uncapped something before. 

You watch her hands. (She watches you.)

Your eyes trail over the wand as she pulls it out, dragging the doe foot against the rim to catch the excess before turning it towards you, putting the tube by your thigh, near where your hand is bracing against the marble. She takes hold of your chin once again. You stay quiet as she starts to sweep the lipstick over your lips, painting them the same flushed pink as her own. Once again she’s staring at her work so you’re free to drink her in, almost drunk from her beauty, eyes catching on the tiny moles on her pale skin, the smallest freckles that are only noticeable because you’re this close.

The squelch of the applicator sliding into the tube is almost lewd in the silence of the bathroom, and this time you can’t suppress a shiver when she pulls your chin down to open your mouth so she can go back in again on your lips, drawing a sharp, crisp line. Tracing the edges of your lips, the flushed swell of them, the peak of your cupid’s bow.

She glances up. For a moment you’re both still, staring at each other, tension in the air palpable, but then she smacks her lips and you copy the motion, evening the application of the makeup on your mouth. 

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “One more step.”

A small, confused frown flits over your face. She’s put the lipstick aside but then she lifts a finger and points towards your still parted lips. You take in a small, shuddering breath when she speaks again and you realise what she means.

“You don’t want to get lipstick on your teeth, do you?”

Both of her eyebrows have risen and she’s looking at you like you’re being silly if you disagree with her.

“No,” you say. You’re not about to deny her. “No, I don’t.”

Your eyes remain locked. You lean forwards, taking that perfect, long finger into your mouth, dragging your lips upwards so that any excess lipstick is caught against her pale skin, a ring of deep rose circling her bottom knuckle; you curl your tongue around her, hot and wet, feeling the crease of her knuckles and pad of her fingertip against your taste buds as you slowly, slowly pull away. 

It’s undoubtedly indecent and risqué and you can feel the flush of arousal settling in your lower belly, an almost embarrassing flush of wetness leaking out of you at the taste of her skin. She, however, remains unmoved, although she lets her finger linger just for a moment on your bottom lip, almost rough against their softness— but before you can swallow those fingers back down and ruin her meticulous work, she pulls away, lifting the discarded wipe to sweep it around her finger, catching the lipstick you’d left on her skin.

“Done.”

She steps back and you feel like you can finally breathe, a breath so deep you can feel how your lungs fill, oxygen rushing to your brain so fast you feel lightheaded. You watch as she sweeps everything back into her bag, clicking it shut with a note of finality; the sullied wipe is cast carelessly into a tiny, chrome bin with a flick of a wrist, her every motion regal.

You slide off the counter. You still can’t take your eyes off her and you don’t want to. It feels like whatever heaviness was in the air has dissipated, gone in an instant with a turn of her head— normally you’d let it slide, even if you feel disappointed, but she’s just so magnetic. 

“Thank you,” you say. You can see yourself in the mirror now and to your complete lack of surprise, your lipstick is perfect. The shade is lighter than one you’d have chosen for yourself but it’s beautiful on her, of course.

“You’re welcome.” She’s in the middle of washing her hands, but she glances over her shoulder at you, and the firm set to her face lightens a little as she smiles. It’s a small, sly thing, and you realise with a start that she knows exactly what effect she has on you.

I’m coming back for you, you think to yourself. You have work to do tonight, but—

“What’s your name?”

She pauses. She shuts off the tap with a quick motion, reaching forward for a rolled hand-towel, a neat stack on a metal tray nearby. You wonder if she’s not going to answer but then she speaks, looking at you instead of the soft cotton she’s rubbing over her skin. “Yoonji,” she says. “I’m Min Yoonji.”

Min Yoonji is the most gorgeous fucking woman you’ve ever seen.

“I love your dress, Yoonji,” you say, and it’s true, you really do— but you’d prefer it if it was off. Not that you’re about to say that, of course.

She lets out a breath of laughter. “I know.” Oh, god, you love confident women. “What’s your name, darling?”

You have that same split second of hesitation, similar to Yoonji’s only moments prior. You use a codename when you work, of course, and you have a plethora of fake identities that you use and are intimately familiar with— but the idea of your real name falling off Yoonji’s flushed, petal lips? Woof.

“Y/n L/n,” you say. 

Oh, Joon would be so unimpressed right now, giving some mysterious woman your full, real name just because you think she’s the sexiest thing since sex, but whatever. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“Well, Y/n,” Yoonji says. You were right, your name sounds so good falling from her mouth, the mouth that’s turned into a small, almost smug smile. “I certainly hope to see you at the charity ball in a few weeks?”

“Of course.” Your schedule has been magically cleared and you’ll definitely be in attendance for whatever ball Yoonji is referring to, even if you have no idea what it is. You only come to these things if you have to for work but for Yoonji you’ll make an exception. You’ll make a hundred thousand exceptions. A hundred thousand quinquagintaquadringentillion exceptions. “I’ll make sure to remember my lipstick next time.”

And there it is, the thing that seals the deal, the final nail in the coffin: Yoonji glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes, a sharp, dark touch that shoots through you as her smile edges into hunger.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t stay on your lips long enough to matter.”

--

The thing you’ve discovered about Minjae is that, with his divorce due to be finalised soon, he’s apparently lost any sense of routine and is revelling in his new found freedom, which is kind of irritating when you’re trying to tail the guy. Sure, you’re still going to take him out, but you prefer it when targets have some sort of schedule that they adhere to— makes it easier to set up a kill.

“You’re certain that he’s going to be here tonight?” You’d been sceptical considering how the guy’s apparently thrown his schedule out of the window, but Namjoon had been certain.

“Positive.” He’d said. “He’s there every Tuesday night. You’ll have plenty of time.”

The house appears to be deserted. The driveway is empty and all the windows and doors are locked tight. It’s just one of the properties that the Parks own in the city, and for all its size and lushness it appears as though this one is rarely frequented; you imagine that the cleaners and gardeners spend more time here than the owners themselves.

It doesn’t take you long to evade the watchful eyes of security cameras to pick a lock and slip inside. You're grateful for the dying evening light that helps cover your tracks from any onlookers from the street, although you imagine the high walls do good work at preventing people from seeing into the grounds anyway.

There’s still enough light to navigate through the house, the golden tinged sunset casting warm shadows across the spotless furniture and fixtures; you take a moment to let your eyes slide across a huge canvas hanging on a wall that spans two storeys, some impressionist piece that’s surprisingly ugly for all the talent that’s obvious in its brushstrokes. Maybe that’s why the Parks are never here? You’d certainly try to avoid seeing this thing if you could. Eurgh.

Even though the building is empty, you’re careful as you start to make your way forwards. You always place your toes down first whenever you take a step, soundless as you start to map the house out in your mind; there are so many rooms you can hide in, but you’d prefer to be close to wherever Minjae ends up. Saves faffing around later. 

You’ll overpower him, inject the toxin into his blood and wait for him to die before setting him up on the toilet— it’s surprisingly common for people to die while on the shitter, the strain leading to an untimely heart attack, especially in older people. The poison you’re using tonight will mimic the symptoms of a heart attack in the case the coroner decides a post-mortem needs to be undertaken.

(Being found on the bog might not be a particularly graceful way to die but when you’re dead it’s kind of hard to be embarrassed.)

You’ve eased the door open into a large bedroom, and you’re just inspecting if it looks like this room sees more use than the others when you pause. It’s deathly silent in this building, the air still minus where you glide through it as you move, but there’s a feeling in your gut, some instinct that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You freeze, ears straining to catch any noise to let you know if there’s someone else here, when—

There. In the reflection of a burnished pot, the tiniest shifting movement.

You react almost faster than the eye can see. You spin to parry a hit that was aimed for your head, and the strength behind it shudders through your arms. You only have a second to take in the details of your assailant— dressed in dark clothing, masquerade style mask in place, a professional just like you— before you’re deflecting another flurry of blows, flipping backwards out of reach before spinning into a kick, hooking that burnished pot with your foot and sending it flying towards the other assassin.

They dodge it. You both ignore the sound of clattering metal as you lunge forwards, trying to catch them off guard after their sidestep— your fist makes contact with their palm instead of their face, your hand engulfed in theirs, and you startle at their speed. You might not be the strongest but you’re damn fast. 

There’s a pause, and you can only see a slither of their eyes through the sockets of their mask, but you can tell that they’re impressed. And honestly? So are you. 

The moment shatters when they use the hand they're holding to twist you, locking an arm around your neck and putting you into a chokehold; they’re strong, stronger than you, cutting off your airflow. You need to get out of this before you fall unconscious, but if they’re trained as well as you then they’ll know how to combat the usual ways you’d use to get out of this.

So, in a demonstration of your flexibility you kick a leg up, using the strength of your thighs and calves to slam it into the arm that’s around your neck. Your assailant lets out a noise of surprise and pain as you slip out of their hold and cartwheel across the room before spinning to face them.

There’s a beat. The air is tense. You get another chance to take in the details of whoever’s just tried to choke you out; you stare at her as she stares at you, the two of you poised and ready to strike, watching and waiting. 

Knives might be messy but of course you’re not unarmed. You have multiple sheathed weapons in your clothes, though you don’t make a move to draw any of them. Yet. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me who your employer is, would you?”

Your opponent tilts her head. “You don’t know?” She sounds amused, even through her mask. “Minjae took out a contract on the assassin who has a contract on him.”

Your lip curls back from your teeth. The only way Minjae would have heard about your contract is if Dahye had told him. Presumably to try and shock him out of his behaviour, or something, who knows. “This is the last time I’m accepting a job from these rich old farts,” you mutter. 

“That’s for certain,” she says. 

She starts to move and you catch her arm just as she goes to unsheathe a wicked looking blade, knocking it aside before she overpowers you and you start to wrestle. It’s messy and graceless but sometimes you just have to fight dirty. 

Whoever this woman is, she still has the upper hand because she was expecting you and you weren’t expecting her; she knocks you onto the bed and pins you down, swooping the knife up from where it had been thrown onto the mattress. You go utterly still as she holds it against your throat, towering over your from where she’s straddling your waist and kneeling on your arms. Any sudden movement from you now could lead to your untimely demise— and, unsurprisingly, you absolutely want to avoid that at all costs.

Namjoon would never let you live it down if you were killed on the job.

You hum. “It seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

She doesn’t respond. The knife doesn’t dip any lower, though; you’re undoubtedly at her mercy but you notice she’s careful to keep the knife still, hovering above the skin of your neck, but not making contact.

“Well,” you continue. “At least I’m going out the way I’d always hoped to.”

Even in the dying light and with how her face is covered, you notice her face shifting behind her mask— a silent, questioning raise of an eyebrow. You give her a cheeky smile that crinkles your eyes.

“In bed with a beautiful woman, of course.”

At this she huffs out a laugh. “Do you flirt with every person who tries to kill you?”

You’re trying to look as non-threatening as possible to keep that knife away from your jugular. The longer you talk, the longer you live, even if you can’t see a way to get out of this situation right now. “Only the pretty ones.”

The small laugh she lets out this time seems more like a scoff. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Any woman who can fight like you and knows how to handle a knife? Automatically hot. I don’t need to see your face to know that.”

The knife still hasn’t moved. She continues to stare you down and you go tense when her free hand moves. She tugs the cloth of your mask down to reveal your face, the air of the room almost cold against the suddenly bared skin, your breaths free to curl out unhindered.

“Usually I like to be taken out to dinner at least once before we get this intimate, but for you I suppose I’ll make an exception.” You’re still grinning cheekily at her, but your mind continues to race as you try to think of a way to get out of this, especially now that she’s seen what you look like—but you suddenly notice that she’s gone very, very still.

“Y/n?”

The grin freezes on your face. Oh, you’re so boned. You’re so very boned. Like, yeah, you’ve been seconds away from death for the past, hmm, five minutes, but this is somehow worse. How the fuck does she know your name?

You’re given the answer almost immediately. She withdraws the hand from your chin and reaches for her own mask. Your eyes widen and your breath stutters in your throat once you see who it is.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Yoonji is staring down at you. She’s every inch as imperious and stunning as the last time you’d seen her— hell, even moreso now that you’ve seen what she’s capable of. No wonder you hadn’t been able to find out anything about her after you’d met at that garish charity gala. Because she’s untraceable, just like you.

“Well.” You stare back at her, not even attempting to keep the surprise off your face. “If anyone has to kill me at least I can die satisfied in the knowledge that it was you. Can I make a request? I’d be eternally grateful if you smothered me to death with your thighs. Just a suggestion, feel free to ignore it if you want.”

Yoonji cocks her head. Her bob is tied back, but there’s a loose lock of hair curled by the side of her face that shifts at the motion. Your fingers twitch. If she wasn’t kneeling on your arms you know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from tucking it behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. “Do you always talk so much?”

“Hey, if it means I get to feel your legs around my face before I die, I’ll give a full fledged TED talk,” you say. “I have to admit, though. When I pictured us in bed together I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The knife still hasn’t moved from your throat. She continues to stare, as if considering what to do next, though her face remains impassive. “What did you think it would be like?”

“Well, you know. Less knives and clothes involved and a lot more making out,” you answer. “You, telling me what to do. Me, entirely at your command. Anything the lady wants, she gets.”

The human body is a fickle and strange beast. Ever since you discovered who’s straddling you, you’ve been growing wetter and wetter, even if you’re trying not to let on that you’re steadily growing more aroused— you’re still distinctly aware of the knife that’s only centimetres away from your skin, but somehow your body is more focused of the fact that the woman you’ve been daydreaming about is finally in front of you again. 

(Well, less in front of you and more on top of you, which is an admittedly preferable option, sans the knife involvement.)

You see how Yoonji’s eyes are darting over your face. No doubt taking in how your pupils are dilated, how your breaths are a little shallower, quicker— signs of fear and signs of arousal are surprisingly similar. You wonder if she can identify which it is. Probably. You’re not exactly very subtle in your attraction to her.

“I forgot my lipstick again,” you add, and Yoonji’s passive mask finally breaks when she rolls her eyes.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t need it?”

Even the way she throws the knife aside is gorgeous. The sharp undulation of her wrist as she sends the blade skittering across the polished wood floor is careless and fluid. Her hands cup your face as she bends down, and you send up a mental thanks to any god or higher being who might be listening before Yoonji presses her lips to your and your brain goes blank.

Apparently Yoonji likes it messy. One of her hands is grasping your chin in a mockery of the last time you’d met and she’d painted your lips— your mouth is open and she licks past your lips as you shudder beneath her. She’s still got her knees pressed into your arms, pinning you down, but you desperately crane your head towards her, chasing that kiss; you tilt your head to deepen it, and the whine that leaves you when she pulls away is almost embarrassing.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon and the room is dark, painted in shades of grey and deep blue. You wish you could see Yoonji properly and you can’t help but wriggle a little underneath her, but then you watch her raise her hands and clap three times in rapid succession before the room floods with dim light. Sound activated lights? Damn.

Yoonji’s mouth shines, covered in a sheen of your mixed saliva, her pretty lips flushed rose pink; even without makeup they’re beautiful and their colour is deep, the blooming petals of a flower. Your eyes trail over her face, down her neck, over the fall of her chest and stomach— you’re both far too covered up in these stupid ensembles of yours and you want to strip the clothes off her. You want to see every inch of her beautiful, majestic body, bared for your lips and hands.

Fuck, she’s so gorgeous.

“Not to, um, ruin the moment, but my hands are going numb.” The weight of Yoonji’s body being pressed into your arms has pretty much cut off the blood flow to your fingers and you can feel the telltale sensation of pins and needles spreading through your skin. “Can I have those back, please?”

Yoonji lifts her knees just enough for you to slide your arms out from underneath them. You immediately shed your gloves and go to grab her ass but she gives you a sharp look and you freeze, slowly settling them on her thighs instead, which she allows with only the slightest raise of her eyebrows.

“Watch,” she commands, and who are you to disobey?

She reaches for the tie in her hair, tugging it out and letting her dark locks fall to frame her lovely, beautiful face. You hungrily swallow down each sight that she feeds to you, the skin that’s revealed as she shrugs off her layers of clothing. She unbuckles the weapons hidden underneath her clothes as she sheds them; she’s a veritable arsenal of firearms and knives, all cast carelessly aside until her upper body is finally, blessedly naked. You’ve been staring at her the whole time, the graceful column of her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones, and your gaze falls to her breasts, small and perfect, nipples dusty pink and hard. You want to put your mouth on them.

“Holy shit, you’re perfect,” you say.

She smirks. You watch as she rolls her body, lifting up from her knees and standing up, towering above you on the bed—your hands fall to the mattress as she pulls her trousers down, tight material dragging against her skin as she slides it over the curve of her hips and down her long legs. There’s a dagger strapped to her thigh, which she unbuckles and lets fall to one side, but god, if she used it to kill you right now, you would die a happy woman. The image of Min Yoonji towering above you in nothing more than some flimsy underwear is one you want to take to the grave.

You can see how the material around her entrance is darkened with her arousal, and you feel your own body react to the sight, pussy throbbing, your own lower lips slick underneath all your layers of clothing. Yoonji hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down, and you’re enraptured as you watch how the wetness clings to them, before that last bit of clothing is cast aside too. 

You moan, unable to stop the sound bubbling up in your throat. From how she’s standing above you, legs spread from how her feet are either side of your hips, you can see everything—how her cunt is flushed, how wet she is, her folds shining. You bet she tastes so fucking good.

You let your mouth fall open, tongue lolling out in a way that’s obscene. You see Yoonji’s eyes flicker as she traces the motion, the way she takes in your expression: wide, hungry eyes, parted lips, wet tongue. Your hands skim up the back of her calves as she shifts forwards and returns to her knees, her naked core so, so close to your mouth, and you dig your fingers into her skin.

“Bon appé-fucking-tit,” you murmur, and then you pull her onto your face.

Yoonji gasps. 

(You were right. She tastes so, so fucking good.)

You’re utterly shameless as you slurp up her juices, the wetness that continues to leak out of her as you bury your face into her cunt, tongue lapping over her entrance as your nose brushes her clit. Your hands have moved to the flesh of her ass and you encourage her to grind against you, rolling her hips towards your greedy mouth; you’re staring up at her, drinking down her reactions, the way her face twists with pleasure and the shuddering breaths she takes in, perfect little breasts jumping at the motion. There’s a flush spreading down her neck and chest, pale skin blushing pink, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You purse your lips against her clit, circling it with your tongue before dipping back down between her folds. Each time you breathe in all you can smell is her scent, heavy and dark, all your senses filled with Yoonji, Yoonji, Yoonji. When you hum against her, Yoonji arches her spine and throws her head back, so when you press your tongue into her you hum again, letting the vibrations shiver through her.

“Yes,” she gasps, rutting against your face. “Yes, yes—”

Her thighs tighten around your head. You redouble your efforts, watching her face as you continue to swipe your tongue up her slit and through her folds; you wish you could swallow each of the noises that are falling from her lips as she reaches the crest of her pleasure, the little gasps and moans each time you move your tongue in a particularly wicked way.

“There,” she says. “There, there, just like that—”

Your jaw aches but you don’t even register it, too intent on keeping your mouth open and hot and wet against her. It only takes a few more swipes and flicks of your tongue before she shudders violently, canting her hips towards your mouth as her legs go tense and she cums. She continues to straddle your face as she rides out the waves of pleasure, and you swallow down the wetness that flushes out of her rippling cunt, ignoring the throbbing between your own legs.

You can’t talk, muffled by her as you are, but your mind is singing. Look at you, you think. Look at how gorgeous you are. God, I could eat you out all day. (What a blessed life that would be.)

You can tell when Yoonji’s edged into oversensitivity, jolting when your tongue sweeps over her swollen clit; she settles back, knees spread as she rests against your heaving chest, legs tensing each time an aftershock shivers through her. Your mouth is open as you pant in air, but she watches as you swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the lingering taste of her on you, your chin opalescent with her arousal.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “I’ve done everything that’s worth doing. I’ve peaked. Everything is downhill from here. You can kill me now.”

You’re only half joking, but your thighs instinctively go tight to rub against each other when you see how Yoonji’s eyes darken.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she purrs.

Yoonji might be naked while you’re still clothed, and so still armed, but she’s undoubtedly the one who’s in control right now. You are so, so okay with that. You watch with wide eyes as she shifts back, her hands grabbing the material of your jacket to tug you upwards, but before she can strip off your clothes you capture her lips with your own.

The taste of her is still heady and deep in your mouth and you nip at her bottom lip before pressing your tongue forwards. The kiss is already slick from Yoonji’s wetness and when you pull away, there’s a thin string of saliva that connects you for a moment before it breaks, which Yoonji wipes away from your chin with the pad of her thumb.

“Dirty girl,” she says, and you bite back a moan at the unabashed lust in her voice. Her grip on your chin is firm. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

“No,” you answer. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She tuts, as if disappointed, and every one of your nerve endings feels electrified, ready and anticipating whatever Yoonji is going to do next. “Such a shame,” she says. “You just can’t keep your hands or mouth to yourself, can you?”

“Can you blame me?”

Yoonji huffs out a laugh through her nose. She strips your jacket off in one sharp motion and then your shirt is similarly pulled off with single-minded intent, along with every other piece of equipment cinched to your arms and body. When you reach for her, though, she captures your wrists, her face stern.

“If you keep moving without permission, I’m going to take that privilege away from you.”

You don’t have to see your own eyes to know how your pupils will have dilated from that statement, blood thrumming through your veins, and you can tell Yoonji has noticed when her expression shifts.

“Oh.” A small, triumphant smirk appears on her face. “I see.”

You lift your arms up so she can pull your sports bra off (of course if you had known you’d been running into Yoonji again you would have worn something nicer). Rather than touch your heaving chest, however, she pushes you down onto the mattress, a hand around your wrists so they’re held above your head.

“Keep still,” she says.

She reaches for the holster that you’d had around your upper arm, lazily casting the knife aside before looping it around your wrists and pulling it secure.

Yoonji’s fingers ease under the nylon as she checks the fit. It’s tight, but not so much so that it’s painful or dangerous, and there’s a hushed moment when the realisation hits you— Yoonji and yourself are both skilled enough to know that you could easily free yourself if you wanted to. It would only take a little motion of your wrists and hands and you could slip them out of the makeshift cuffs in an instant.

You melt into the mattress. Yoonji’s eyes shift away from your wrists as she takes in the way you’ve gone utterly relaxed and limp below her, staring back at her. You see an expression flit across her face faster than you can see, before she slides down your body so she can push your legs apart.

You lift your hips to help her strip your trousers off. Her hand lingers on the concealed holster around your thigh, eyeing the small pistol nestled inside it, before that too is stripped off and cast aside. Her hands trail over the soft skin of your hips and stomach, eyes skimming over the bared length of your body before settling between your legs, the slickness of your inner thighs.

“You got this wet just from eating me out?” Her pretty mouth is curled into an expression that’s almost mocking, and your legs jolt as she runs her fingers lightly over your lower lips before rubbing her fingertips together to feel the wetness she’s gathered. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your nails dig into your palms as your hands twist against each other and you shift your legs further apart. “Please, Yoonji,” you plead, shameless from desperation and arousal.

She laughs at your obvious hunger. “I suppose I should return the favour, shouldn’t I?”

You watch breathlessly as she lifts her fingers to her lips, swallowing them into her mouth to get them slick and wet. The motions of her tongue are languid as she licks across her fingers. You’re like a livewire, thrumming with electricity, and the sensation of her finally sinking one of those fingers into you sends sparks throughout your body.

Yoonji’s maddeningly slow. Your body takes her readily, her long finger gliding easily in and out of you, but she makes no move to speed up; you let out a small noise and she moves upwards to kiss you, as if indulging you, and you’ve just relaxed against her mouth when she plunges a second finger in.

She swallows your gasp as her fingers speed up, before she starts to kiss across your jaw, your neck, between the valley of your breasts and then closing her mouth over one of your nipples— she times the flick of her tongue with the thrust of her fingers, and then you feel how she takes her thumb to press your clit at the same time and you’re gone, falling over the edge faster than you’d expected. Your orgasm is fast but deep, your walls clenching tight around the fingers that continue to curl in and out of you, but she doesn’t stop.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “It’s too— oh—”

Those two fingers continue to rub your sweet spot as you edge into oversensitivity but Yoonji doesn’t let up. She continues to lick and bite at the skin of your chest, putting her mouth to your other breast and circling the hardened bud of your nipple with her tongue before kissing down your stomach, your pubic bone, and then pressing her lips to your swollen clit.

You whimper. Her pace of her fingers has quickened, and she curls them each time she almost pulls them out, the squelch of their motions obscene as they slide through the cum of your first orgasm. She stares up at you, lapping at your clit with her tongue, and you can feel the saliva that’s dripping from her mouth and over your flushed core, every inch of you oversensitive but screaming with pleasure.

It’s almost painful, but you can feel an orgasm creeping through that ache; you wring your hands together and sob as Yoonji continues to finger fuck you without mercy, her pace almost bruising, the thrust of her knuckles against you each time she bottoms out just one more layer on top of that overwhelming pleasure.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “I’m g-gonna cum again.”

She hums against you, and you make an incoherent noise at the feeling of that sound against your clit, almost too much— and then she presses one more finger into you, and that’s it, that slight burn and stretch sending you hurtling over that edge again. When you cum, your hips buck and you gasp, air rushing into your lungs before it escapes you in a moan of ecstasy; the only sensations registering in your mind right now are the ripples of pleasure spreading through your cunt as Yoonji pulls her fingers out of you, pressing down on your clit in a way that’s almost cruel, and you sob as your legs instinctively try to tighten but are prevented from doing so by Yoonji’s unyielding presence.

She’s staring down at you as you start to go lax, and you think she’s finished with you, but you watch with widening eyes as she takes her ring and middle finger to run them through your sodden folds. You sob again when those fingers plunge back into you, palm pressing against your clit each time she curls her fingers, and you squirm underneath her.

“Yoonji, it’s too much,” you cry.

“One more.” Yoonji’s leaning back and staring at you, taking in the sweat that’s beading across your skin, the tears that are gathering in your eyes and threatening to spill down your face and into your hair. “You’re doing so well, darling, you can give me one more, can’t you?”

Your reply is incoherent, a small noise that shudders out of the back of your throat. You’ve never been thrown so thoroughly into pleasure like this, overstimulated and aching, but there’s that flicker of pleasure still between your legs, growing each time Yoonji beckons with her fingers, curling over your abused sweet spot again and again and again.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop,” Yoonji says, the wet plunge of her fingers into your abused pussy so messy and loud but not enough to drown her out. “One word and I’ll stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just let your eyes roll back into your head as you cant your hips towards her, trying to latch onto that thread of pleasure that’s thrumming through you below all your screaming nerves, and the noise Yoonji makes is pleased.

“There we go,” she praises. “Look at you, so good for me. Pretty darling.”

You can feel how your pussy clenches around Yoonji’s fingers, how the coil in you is squeezing tighter and tighter, how another orgasm is somehow creeping up on you— you tilt your hips towards that feeling, towards Yoonji’s hand, and then she’s pulling her fingers out of you in an almost rough motion and you’re cumming harder than you ever have before.

“Oh, fuck!” You sob. 

It’s indescribable. The sensation rips through you as your back arches off the bed and you’re cumming and squirting and gasping and you can feel the wetness that slicks out of you, your toes curling as your brain goes blank from the staggering pleasure and static consumes every one of your senses. Your entire body feels like nothing more than a vessel for the ecstasy that’s shooting through your veins, spreading out from your core and to every corner of your insides and limbs.

It takes you a while to come back around, aftershocks wracking through your body. You feel sluggish and slow as your mind slowly clears, focusing on the sensation of warm hands stroking over the skin of your stomach and hips and thighs; your eyes flutter open and when you glance down you can see the shine to Yoonji’s skin, evidence of your pleasure painting her in a thin sheen of liquid.

“Oh my god,” you moan. “Holy shit.”

She smiles. “You were so, so good for me,” she says. She leans down to press a light kiss to collarbones and you shiver. “So beautiful. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and gone to heaven before coming back again,” you reply. “Oh, that was so good, Yoonji. I’ve never squirted before. I didn’t realise I could. God.”

Yoonji laughs lightly. You can’t help but watch the way it transforms her face, the way her chest jumps at the motion, every inch of her gorgeous and majestic and cute and pretty. “You did so, so well,” she praises, before she kisses you, her mouth so soft; you barely notice the sudden easing of pressure around your wrists as she releases you, more intent on the sensation of her soft petal lips against your own.

You stare up at her as she pulls away. Powerful, amazing Min Yoonji, kneeling between your legs, naked but not helpless. Definitely less vulnerable than you right now. And yet she’s still making no moves to grab one of the many weapons littered around the bed so she can finally finish her contract by completing the kill. It would be so easy for her.

The silence of the room is suddenly broken by a tiny buzzing noise. You both glance over at the sound, one that Yoonji doesn’t recognise but you do— the communicator in one of your wristbands, the one you use to keep in contact with Namjoon.

You watch the twisting of Yoonji’s body as she leans over the bed to hook the band with a finger before proffering it to you. You pause, but then grasp her wrist and lightly pull so she ends up pressed against you, softness of her breasts against your own, and you hold the communicator between your faces as you accept the call.

“Thank god you answered.” Namjoon’s voice is obviously frantic even through the tinniness of the small speaker. “Dahye cancelled the contract because Minjae wants to reconcile with her, but apparently he’s already put a hit out on you— tonight was a ruse, Minjae isn’t going to be there, you have to get out of there—”

“Bit too late for that,” you interrupt. Yoonji’s hair is tickling your cheek. “Don’t worry. I have it in hand. Send some flowers to Minjae for me, will you?”

“Flowers?” Namjoon sounds understandably confused. “Why?”

“As a thank you for taking out a contract on me,” you say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little busy.”

“With what?”

“With me,” Yoonji says, and you hear Namjoon’s surprised intake of breath before you cut the line.

You end up laughing to yourself. “Oh, he’s going to hate me for that,” you giggle. Yoonji’s hand trails up your stomach and you continue to giggle at the ticklish sensation. Her skin is still slick against yours, and you suddenly realise how cold it is in the room, the air touching the cooling liquid that’s rubbed off against your skin, and you shiver. “Mm. I think it’s time to clean up. Want me to scrub your back in the shower? I give very good massages.”

Yoonji’s eyes are dark and warm before she presses her nose to your neck, lips soft as they touch the delicate skin of your throat. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

[photiniainsummer]

Something Worth Celebrating

Rating: General Audiences (basically GenFic)

Summary: Dark admits he sort of, kind of has a birthday. And then he sort of, kind of asks you to throw him a party.

I know. Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

(Basically a purely indulgent fic where Dark gets to be happy for 0.2 seconds. Yes, it's late, please forgive me, Mr. Darkiplier sir.)

(second person POV, gender neutral reader)

Word Count: 4906

Author’s Note: No warnings. Honestly just tooth-rotting tenderness. This is a super-late birthday 'present' for our favorite spooky ego that I just couldn't get out of my head. Also posted to AO3!

The thought strikes you in the midst of your weekly scan of Mark’s content. While Dark makes sure to check his uploads and social media presence moment-to-moment, you often join his weekly wrap-up review sessions as a second, fresh set of eyes. It’s usually a silent and uneventful affair, with Dark sitting at his desk and you to one side of it, both focused on the week’s batch of content as it projects on the opposite wall. Hooking up the projector was easier than hunching over Dark’s laptop, the two of you bunched together around the screen, and it usually meant you could catch and examine any irregularities with greater accuracy. Not that there had been any for months. Mark’s content has become suspiciously unsuspicious, with no odd shot changes in the middle of playthroughs, no sideways comments in food reviews… and so your mind has started wandering during your viewings.

It’s not that his content is boring. But it’s hard to enjoy Mark’s lighthearted commentary, really, knowing the man for what he is: a manipulative, body-snatching, undead creature bent on conquering the hearts and minds of the world. That kind of imposing terror makes it hard to kick back and enjoy him goofing through a new horror game.

And, yet, despite that same terror, it’s difficult to stay fully focused on the task at hand. Maybe it’s the lack of weirdness lulling you into being unobservant - maybe that’s Mark’s goal. Regardless, he makes a jokey comment, surprised by a new onslaught of enemies so soon after receiving a new weapon - “What, is it my birthday?” - and though he proceeds to casually mow down a fresh flood of zombies, your mind is nowhere near his running monologue. No, you’re off on a tangent of wonderings - When exactly is his birthday, anyway? Is it soon? Do the egos share his, or do they have their own, if they know it? When would they celebrate it, anyway? Did Mark build in birthdays for them when he summoned them up, or was it whatever day they were formed from some strange, shadowy process you still don’t know the specifics of? It’s a strange and vaguely sad thing to ponder, your mouth turning down at the corners as you roll it around in your mind. To your side, Dark sighs softly, reaching out to pause the current video. Mark’s face freezes in an unflattering expression, and you turn to look at the entity.

“What, think of something?”

“No,” he demurs, scrubbing the video back. “But you are distracted. What do you last remember?” He doesn’t sound annoyed, which is a little surprising. Where a few months ago he would have bitten off a sharp comment about your wandering attention, he just gives you a mild look when you don’t immediately respond, hands hovering at his computer. It speaks to how routine this has become for you both, how each of you has grown accustomed to the other - the ringing of his aura barely registers for you now, although you were certain when you arrived that investing in a lifetime supply of ibuprofen was a basic requirement for working in close proximity to Dark for any extended period of time.

That’s when the thought strikes you - you meandering thoughts crystallizing around his presence, centering on him. You have to wonder how much of your thought process Dark actually heard, if your idle thoughts are loud enough for him to pick up. But seeing as he’s not making any attempt to immediately answer, nor chide you for thinking about such unimportant things, the thought, as a question, easily tumbles out between you.

“Do you have a birthday?”

He immediately furrows his brow, blinking in surprise. “What?”

“I said, do you have a birthday?” you repeat, committing to this line of questioning. You go so far as to turn slightly in your chair to look at him better, attention fully directed at him. Dark sighs and turns back to the computer, picking a spot in the video a couple of minutes ago, certainly farther back than necessary.

“I heard what you said,” he clarifies. “I am attempting to understand what could have possibly brought that up.”

“He said something about his birthday. It just got me thinking, that’s all.” Dark pauses, squinting his eyes ever so slightly at the screen. His cursor hovers over the playback bar, obviously considering his next move. You pause with him, then a smile tugs at your mouth. “You missed that, didn’t you.”

“I did not. It was merely an inane comment, so I did not take note of it.” He’s a little too indignant, too quick with that response, and it makes you laugh. He shoots you a patented glare, although it carries very little true malice. “When did he say that.”

“A couple minutes forward, it’s right after he gets that new gun.” Dark hums in response, clearly still miffed at having been successfully teased, but in a good-natured sort of way. You watch him scrub for the right spot, lulling back into a comfortable silence for a few moments before you remember what brought all this up and press on. “So, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Don’t be obtuse, come on. Do you have a birthday?”

“They had birthdays,” he remarks. You recall them, or, at least, a picture of them, the only one you’ve seen that isn’t a staged portrait. You like it better than the stiff, properly posed photographs Dark hesitantly showed you once, when he had finally explained his origins to you. In the one you preferred to remember, a well-dressed woman and man hug each other close as they smile warmly into the camera. It’s some holiday, or just an excuse to get together - there are garlands blurred in the background - and the woman is holding a fancy-looking drink in the hand that isn’t wrapped around behind her brother, tugging him into frame. He looks a bit put-upon, smiling almost embarrassedly as if the woman has cajoled him in front of the cameraperson into taking a picture with her. But his expression, for all it implies, is still warm. His body curls close to his sister, his hold on her obviously affectionate. The woman is beaming like she’s won, squeezing her brother close as her cheeks apple, her painted lips curled in such pride. Her eyes dance, catching the light of the camera’s flash. They look comfortable, happy, beautiful. Full of life. The woman’s smile had pulled one out of you, when you saw it.

Dark’s explanation of how he had come to be makes the memory all the sadder, the melancholia curling around your throat even as you remember it now.

“I, on the other hand, was not born,” he explains, and for a moment you begin to regret bringing it up. But the shadow-bathed man doesn’t seem bothered, his tone matter-of-fact, simple. You know it pains him still, you saw the look on his face as he described how he had come to be, how his aura had raged around him like he was going to pull apart. How their faces had appeared in agonized red and blue flashes behind him - now that you knew what you were looking for, you could see them as themselves, not just as Dark.

Which makes the fact he can say something that directly referential without threatening to rip through existence sort of comforting. Is he just comfortable with you, now, knowing that you know? Whatever it is, you decide it’s a good thing, and settle back in your chair. “Well, sure, not as such, but… do you celebrate theirs?” you ask, as gently as you can.

“I do not.” Dark finds the proper place in the video, advancing to it.

“So you don’t celebrate you… coming into being, on any particular day?”

“I do not.” You squint slightly.

“You don’t,” you repeat. Dark sighs once more, bringing a hand to his brow in the way he does when Wilford is being particularly taxing.

“No. I do not. But the… fans. Do.” It’s an answer given through gritted teeth - the man finds the celebration of him and his many appearances in Mark’s work frustrating, to put it simply. Of course, he’s completely committed to his role as the villain the actor dreamed of, and won’t lie and say he doesn’t find it utterly amusing how Mark’s own fans seem to like him more than the actor himself. But all that is tinged with the truth of his conscription into this role, the indignity of being painted as the wicked mirror image of the man who took everything from him. It is particularly insulting, particularly painful. So to have some false version of him celebrated and adored, is…

Well, to use his words: Disgusting.

You would go for complicated, instead. It does feels strange to have them celebrate a fictionalized version of the entity next to you, given the reality of the situation, but it’s not like you can fault them for what they don’t know. They’re caught up in Mark’s game - it isn’t their fault. Still, you aren’t really surprised they found a whole day to put aside for the man.

“What day did they pick?”

“Hm?” Dark seems caught up in some internal brooding, set off by the memories of the fanart he’s seen. You prod again.

“What day is it? That they made your ‘birthday’?”

He pauses a moment, considering. You can tell he knows, he’s just debating whether or not to tell you. Whether or not this will have unintended consequences. “June 19th. It was the first time Mark posted something… strange enough to be counted as my first ‘appearance.’ So it is my birthday, by their reckoning.” He pauses again. “I suppose it is as good a day as any. Although I do not understand it - why would someone want to celebrate my existence?”

His tone takes this bitter, harsh edge, and you instinctively want to cringe against it. But you also know how Dark hates you trying to be delicate with him. It’s better to be honest, to know his reactions are not for you, but for his situation. For Mark. So you suppress the desire to turn away from it, instead reaching across the bit of desk between you to touch his arm. He doesn’t react, apart from flicking his eyes to rest on your hand. Touching him like this, yours fades to take on the same black-and-white cast as his own.

“For what it’s worth, I’d want to celebrate it. I’m glad you’re here.” You squeeze him very gently, as if trying to impress that more fully into his mind. “And… they don’t really know you, but, I mean. I think they’d like you even more, want to celebrate you more, if they did.”

Dark is silent, gaze falling to a whorl of wood in his polished desk as he considers your words. He doesn’t immediately reply and you take your hand away, not wanting to be overly touchy-feely about the whole thing. Or, at least, you don’t want to be if that’s not what Dark wants. You’d be the first to console him, if you could, but it’s hard to get a read on what might help the man most. He lives in his head, unaccustomed to sharing much with the other egos, let alone someone who hasn’t directly been through what they have. Your position on the outside imposes a distance that even having worked so closely with him for so long hasn’t yet bridged. Still, you leave that door open for him whenever you gracefully can, whenever it doesn’t feel like you’re opening it to force him through.

You try show him he can walk through whenever he likes. If he likes.

The man shifts slightly, reaching out to adjust a small pile of papers. He puts them to rights, even though they’re already perfectly in line with each other. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost covered by its own deep echo.

“If I am honest, I meant more… why would they celebrate the man they see, the ‘Darkiplier’ in his works? He is not a good man, by any means. He tells the truth, Mark’s confidence in himself sees to that. But they do not know it. He seems to seek to trap the audience through lies, manipulation… I simply do not understand the appeal.” You feel a little caught out, wondering if you jumped a bit too eagerly on his statement as a chance to comfort him. “However…”

He stops, realizing he’s run out of papers to arrange, things to fidget with. Folding his colorless hands in front of him, he finally and intentionally turns to look your way. It’s a slow, steady motion, heavy with purpose. When you meet his intensely contrasted eyes, they fall gently on you. His expression is open, almost bare. Devoid of any bitterness, frustration - his usual armor.

“...it is incredibly kind of you to say that. About me. I. I sincerely appreciate it.”

The hesitancy in his voice, yet how honestly he continues on, intent on telling you this… It’s enough to break your heart. You give him a tender smile.

“You’re not exactly that man in those videos, Dark. Not the way he has you play it, know you well enough to tell that… But even if you were, you have reason enough for it, I’d wager.”

That gets you a wry smile from the man. “Enough reason to pull ourselves back from the dead?”

You laugh, softly. “Yeah, something like that.” At your mirth, the lines of his body begin to relax, and he eases back into his seat somewhat. It’s a rare sight, Dark letting himself relax, be still for a moment. Even his aura, ever-roiling, merely seems to ebb and flow around him in gentle pulses. His mouth stays gently turned up as he looks at nothing in particular, gaze easy on some middle distance. You can tell he’s thinking, even at minor peace like this, but has no real intention to speak again. Sensing the Big Heart-To-Heart Moment™ has passed, you sigh and look back over your sparse notes. “Should we get back to it, though? I totally derailed us.”

Dark pauses a bit longer in the moment before he idly waves a hand and reaches out to close the lid of his computer. “There is nothing interesting this week, really. I think we can call it there, unless you are especially invested in head-exploding physics.” You pull a face.

“Not particularly. I can finish going over it later, anyway. Just in case.” You stretch and twist in your chair with a sigh. “Think I’ll make some coffee - can I get you a cup?”

“Are you going to use the cafetiere?”

“No, I thought the Mr. Coffee would be better. Really gets it nice and watery, just like you like.” Dark scrunches up his nose in the most totally undignified way, and god that makes you belly-laugh, bending slightly over the desk to support yourself. It breaks him, getting a real smile to curl over his face. He can be such a goofball, when he wants to be. “Of course I was gonna use the cafetiere. Who do you take me for?”

“I have to check, I have had many a disappointing cup after agreeing too eagerly. But yes, I will take one, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“None at all,” you hum, coming down from your laughing fit. You make your way out of his office but before you can turn the corner, Dark calls your name, stopping you in the doorway. You look back to him, and he seems… at ease. His hands are folded across his middle, he’s resting back in his desk chair. The ghost of a smile is still on his face. You try to bottle that moment, preserve it mentally. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. Again. And…” He hesitates for a beat, making some decision. “If you or the others would like to do something. On the day. My… sort-of birthday… I would not be opposed.”

You force your jaw to stay in place and not hit the floor. Wilford will go ballistic. You don’t know if the mustachioed ego will be able to handle the thought of throwing Dark a real birthday party - he might just explode in a haze of confetti and glitter stars. Blinking, you right yourself, finding your head nodding before you even know what it’s doing.

“I. Y-Yeah! Sure, we. We could definitely do that. Do… something.” Dark just smiles a little more fully, exhaling a laugh. “I’ll. I’ll talk to them about it.”

Holy shit.

“Wonderful. It will be nice to have a reason to have a proper party. Something to celebrate. Don’t you think?” You’re nodding again, agreeing wholeheartedly, but dazedly, too. You don’t realize you’re just standing there sort of staring until Dark tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. “Is… coffee still happening?”

“Huh?” You remember. “Oh. Oh! Shi- I mean, shoot. I mean. Yes. Yeah. I. Coffee, yes. I’m… gonna do that.”

As you beat a hasty and red-faced retreat to the kitchen, bursting with ideas, you can just make out the man giving the faintest, echoing chuckle.

---

You don’t think you’ve ever felt such pure excitement in the Manor before. The air is practically buzzing with pure, unbridled energy as you approach Dark’s office door. Downstairs, you can hear the egos making final preparations underneath Wilford’s speaking in an overly dramatic tone, giving some kind of grand speech. Likely a rallying of the troops into being on their best behavior for their de facto leader. You can’t help a smile and a shake of your head - maybe he’d take his own advice tonight.

Either way, everything is ready, so you rap on the birthday boy’s outer office door. He’d graciously locked himself away after retrieving his morning coffee so you would all have the space to prepare. Of course, he hadn’t escaped early-morning birthday wishes from you and the Host, nor a fresh-cut bouquet of flowers you two had collected for him. You’d even carried them up to his office for him, just so he wouldn’t have to touch them himself and risk draining their color. The memory of how sort of bashful he’d looked, the you really shouldn’t have energy that had rolled off him as he directed you to set them on his desk - it makes you grin in anticipation for this evening as he calls for you to enter, now.

He’s sitting by the fireplace, apparently killing time with a book which he looks up from as you enter. An inquiring look pulls his brow. “All prepared?”

“Oh yes. Your party awaits you, sir.” Dark huffs a laugh and rises, setting his book aside. He’s dressed a bit differently, still in slacks and a tie but with the addition of a waistcoat closely fit over his dress shirt, which is slightly rolled up over his forearms. Then he begins to fix them, going for his jacket, and you have to interject. “Are you really going to wear a full suit to your party?”

Dark stops, looking confused. And a little concerned. “I. Was intending to, yes.”

Oops. “I mean, you always wear a suit,” you chide as gently as you can. “They look nice, but the whole point is celebrating, relaxing a little? Besides, you look nice just like that.” Dark pauses, casting a look over himself. He absently adjusts his waistcoat, and you notice a thin chain connected to one of the buttons loops into one pocket. Has he always had a pocket watch?

“You are certain it is not too… casual.” He almost sounds worried, the poor thing. You give him a reassuring smile as you approach, picking up his jacket and folding it with care before hanging it over your arm.

“I’ll bring it down, but I think you’ll be more comfortable like that. Though you aren’t totally dressed, yet.” The man gives you an utterly baffled look, and you grin in response, bringing out a brightly colored party hat. His look sours immediately.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No. I am already being made to go down undressed, I will not go with bells on.”

Sometimes you forget he’s just a grumpy grandpa. You pull out the big guns. “Well… we’re all wearing them,” you hum, your own firmly in place. “Besides, Wilford insisted. And he’s the Decoration Czar. Self-proclaimed, but he rules with an iron fist.” Dark makes a valiant effort to hold onto his resolve, but it weakens in the face of you invoking the mustachioed man. With a soft, amorphous grumble, he pulls the elastic band of the hat under his chin.

Now that you understand a little more about how Dark and Wilford had come to be, their bond makes a lot more sense, even for all Dark’s frustrated looks shot the more light-hearted man’s way in the midst of meetings. Even before you knew the depth of their bond, Dark had always seemed surprisingly willing to go along with Wilford’s more doable requests, less inclined to irritatedly snip at him for his foolishness. As Dark adjusts his party hat in a nearby mirror (making sure his well-coiffed hair isn’t too disturbed by his headwear), you’re glad that, although Wilford may not fully be aware of it, the two of them have each other.

He drops his hands with a sigh. “I look ridiculous.” He’s positioned the cone-shaped hat directly pointing up in the middle of his head, and. Well. It looks way too proper, but very Dark all at once. You chuckle, coming close to help.

“You should see the den. It’s a wreck,” you tease, reaching for his hat, giving the man enough time to wave you off. But he doesn’t, just watching you in the mirror as you adjust it (careful of his curls) to a more jaunty angle. His aura has already absorbed the color from it, but it looks party-appropriate. More importantly, Dark seems a bit more at ease as he gets used to how it looks. You wonder if he’s ever worn a party hat in his life. “There, much better.”

“Hm. Then I suppose I am ready.”

“As you’ll ever be. C’mon, they’re all waiting.” When he turns from the mirror, you playfully offer him your arm. You think you’ll get an eyeroll, a dismissive but amused huff at best. You aren’t anticipating him looping his arm in yours and giving you this little smile that warms his eyes and has you pulling up short. He chuckles somewhat at your reaction, your lack of movement.

“I thought I was being escorted.”

“Uh. You. You are, oh, you definitely are, hold on to your socks, you’re about to experience the best escorting of your life.” Dark’s free hand comes up to help suppress the grin that threatens to split his face as you lead him from the office and down to the almost overwhelmingly decorated den. While the room is comfortably illuminated by a variety of the Manor’s most colorful lamps, the light is somewhat low and catches on the sparkling garlands heavily draped on the walls. Matching balloons bob at varying intervals and a rousing cheer goes up as you and Dark enter, a flood of grins turning your way. Music cuts on - something upbeat and jazzy - and the flock of egos quickly descends on the object of celebration, Wilford leading the charge and pressing a drink into the man’s hand after a massive bear hug. You release Dark’s arm to let the crowd of other egos at him, covering him in birthday wishes and affectionate pats on the back (their boldness inspired by Wilford, no doubt), before eagerly showing off all their preparations.

While Yancy explains the variety of possible games he’s worked up, getting a horribly wry grin out of the shadowy man at his creation of ‘pin the cravat on the Actor,’ you step back a bit to make sure Dark’s suit jacket is safely out of the way of the night’s oncoming revelry. Clearly, he’s already forgotten it, much to your pleasure. The bar is lined up with a few drink options, pre-made cocktails and bottles of wine opened to breathe, a number of elegantly arranged finger foods courtesy of resident chef Google Alpha. Carefully, you tuck Dark’s jacket under the bar in an empty shelf and before scooping up a drink of your own and tossing yourself back into the fray.

It goes a lot more smoothly than you had anticipated - everyone quickly falls into comfortable conversation, dipping into the snacks and games when it lulls. Wilford manages to keep his pants on despite threatening to provide a different kind of ‘entertainment’ at one point (and in spite of encouraging whistles from Bing and the Jims, who are quick to shove a camera in Wil’s direction). Further, Dark survives having ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to him, even blowing out the single candle in the middle of the complicated-looking tiramisu Alpha crafted.

It’s a rousing success, by all measures.

By the time you finally get a chance to sidle back up to Dark, the easy hum of the party has kicked up to a bit more of an excitable buzz as the jazz records have turned more and more swinging. Yandere and Illinois clearly know what they’re doing, beating a quick step around the open dance floor and grinning like bandits as Yancy does his best to help poor Eric get over the hurdle of not staring at your feet when you dance. The Manor feels more full than it usually does, with all of you crowded in the one room together, and you can see the warm, pure energy of it all is having a similar effect on Dark as it is on you - you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile so much, small as they are.

Another thought hits you, even better than the one that prompted this whole affair. Grinning, you quickly gesture over the nearest Google. With the music like it is, it’s hard to speak over the ruckus, but you mime taking a picture and Green gets the idea, his glasses getting a particular sheen to them so you know he’s flipping through his interface. Once he gives you a thumbs up, you gently tug Dark down by the arm and gesture in Green’s direction. “Say ‘cheese,’” you prompt, and the shadowy man pulls a face.

“I don’t think-”

“Oh, just one, Dark, c’mon,” you poke. “He’s set up and everything.” With a sort of resigned huff, the man twists and gets his free arm around you, hand resting carefully on your back as you get yours around him, bringing him in closer.

Then, almost in your ear, you hear his very dour voice say, “Cheese...” and it breaks you. You’re busting out laughing, forcing yourself not to double over or spill your drink, and over the music and your own laughter, you can hear Dark chuckling, the subsequent snap of Green’s camera feature. The latter catches the most attention, the gathered egos coming running as soon as they realize pictures are happening.

Suddenly, everyone wants in, smushing in as close as they can get to you and Dark, bickering when elbows ‘accidentally’ find soft sides and someone worms in front of someone else, Green taking pictures all the while of the ensuing chaos. Dark’s aura is starting to rouse from its relatively peaceful state when you decide it’s gone on long enough. You quickly clap and break up the worst of the infighting, getting folks arranged as best you can. By the time you finish and most everyone is settled, Dark is wearing a very betrayed look and Wilford’s heavy arm, which is hugging him quite close to his side. With a playful shrug, you pick your way back to your spot.

“I thought you said one,” he grumps softly even as you both get your arms situated comfortably around the other.

“You believed me?” His eyes get a bit wide - you trick Dark? You trick him into photograph like the child? - but you turn away with a triumphant smile. “Green, set your glasses on the bar, get in!”

The android quickly obliges, setting the timer and sliding in among his copies as he counts you down. “Okay,” you call, “everyone say ‘Darkling!’”

The cacophony of laughter and broken-up attempts at the word is something you’ll never forget.

---

Google sends you the photos the next morning, as the Manor collectively attempts to nurse minor to severe hangovers. Flipping through and marking the best ones to print and frame, you get to see the first one of the two of you.

In it, you’re hugging each other close, smiling warmly into the camera. There are garlands blurred in the background and you’re holding a fancy drink, tugging Dark into frame. That slightly embarrassed tinge is gone from his smile, but he still looks cajoled, still smiles as affectionately as he ever has. There’s no doubt he’s changed - the photo warps to try to capture his existence, red and blue fragments breaking up the image - but his expression is still warm. And you look so pleased with yourself, so amused, eyes dancing with success and joy.

Full of life.

It pulls a smile out of you.

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Magnolio, part One

Rating: SFW Length: 1583 Pairing: Cursed Male Werewolf x GN Reader

A commission for my dearest friend, Ana.

xxx

You don’t know what it is about the old mirror in the antique shop that calls to you. It’s squat and ugly, and its silver frame is so tarnished that the designs are all but unrecognisable. Still, you watch anxiously as the cashier wraps it in recycled newspaper, and you buckle its seat belt in the car beside you on the ride home. Once there, you break out the supplies you usually use to help your grandmother polish her silver cutlery, and with a bit of patience and a lot of elbow grease late into the evening, you manage to buff off the patina and reveal the intricate designs that had been lost to age.

Wolves and flowers. What a strange and beautiful combination.

You make yourself a sandwich for dinner and pick away at it as you admire the new polish of the mirror, but something shifting in the reflection makes you frown and turn around to inspect your surroundings. What had just moved? Finding nothing, you look back into the mirror, only to find the face of a man staring back at you. You scream and flinch hard enough to throw your sandwich into the ceiling fan above you, its contents flying around the room as it hits the blades.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” you hear a trembling voice say, and you scream again when you realise that it’s coming from the mirror. “Stop screaming! It’s only me!”

“Who the hell is ‘me’?” you squeak, voice shrill from hysteria. You’re probably knocked out somewhere. Maybe you’ve fallen down the stairs and got a hard whack to your head. It is the only reasonable explanation for why there is suddenly a man testing the barrier of glass between you and the mirror.

The mirror.

The mirror itself is now reflecting a room that is completely unrecognisable to you, panelled with rich mahogany and decorated in a very austere style. The man in the mirror is possibly in his 30’s, with long, black hair and deep brown eyes. His light brown skin is exposed at the throat and collar by a white shirt that froths lace at the cuffs of the sleeves and cinches in at the waist with the high waistline of his dark breeches, but that is as far as you can see in the view of the mirror. The man in the mirror peers curiously around your living area, frowning his bemusement.

“Am I in your home?” he asks, and he doesn’t wait for you to reply before going on. “Thank God. I was so sick of looking at the back of a cloth. I’m Magnolio. You are?”

“Dreaming,” you murmur, watching Magnolio as though he were a sideshow attraction. “I’m dreaming. I must be.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it,” Magnolio demurs. “I’m sure your dreams are more exciting than an old man in a mirror. What a charming carpet. Is it new?”

“Uh, thrifted,” you say, startling as a slice of tomato unsticks from the ceiling and plops down by your shoe. Now that you took in the scene, you had some cleaning up to do. There was mayo on the ceiling fan, and bread stuck to the window. Swearing, you begin to gather the remains of your poor sandwich. Even if this is a dream, you aren’t going to leave a future dream-you with a mess to clean up.

“You missed a bit of green,” says Magnolio, pointing out a piece of lettuce stuck to the leg of a chair.

“Thanks,” you mutter, eyeing the man as you add the leafy green to your sad little pile in your hands. Closer up, you can see a pale scar beneath one of his eyes, ragged and poorly healed at the time of injury. You have never been one for dreams, and this one is taking the cake. “Magnolio, you said?”

“Yes,” he sighs, sounding dejected. “Surname Alinari, if that means anything at all these days.”

It doesn’t. Not to you, anyway. Still, you sigh and sit down in front of the mirror after disposing of the sandwich and washing your hands, staring up into Magnolio’s face. “So, what are you?”

“How rude. I’m Italian!”

“No, you idiot. Why are you in the mirror?”

“Oh,” says Magnolio, the wind that had momentarily entered his sails disappearing. “Would you believe I was cursed?”

“I think I can make allowances for strange stories if they’re told to me by a ghost in a mirror.”

“I’m no ghost!” Magnolio scowls. “I’m very much alive. I’m just stuck in this… other world.”

“So this isn’t just a two way mirror? Like a walkie-talkie?”

“A walkie-whatie?”

“Never mind,” you say, shaking your head. “What I’m seeing behind you isn’t on earth?”

“I think it might be,” Magnolio replies, caught off guard by the question. “It certainly behaves the way the regular world does, except that something like a barrier won’t let me past the gardens.”

“Huh. That sucks.”

Magnolio nods uncertainly at your slang, frowning down at you. “I’m surprised that you’re taking this so well. Most people try to break the mirror by now.”

“How many people have you met?”

“A few. I’ve been trapped in here for over a hundred years. I lost track.”

“You don’t look like you’re over a hundred.”

“Well, it appears that I remain the age at which I was trapped, so far as I can tell. I can’t die while I’m here. I’ve tried.”

Silence falls between you. Both of you shift uncomfortably at Magnolio’s admission, until you finally sigh and decide enough is enough. “Do you want a tour? Even if this is a dream, it’s only polite.”

Magnolio laughs softly, nodding in a way that made his long hair fall into his eyes. “I’d like that, I think.”

After assuring you that the mirror can’t be broken, you heave Magnolio and his mirror all through your house, and what you plan on being a basic tour turns into an in-depth explanation of your indoor plumbing and electricity. You learn that he was from a small village in Sicily in the early 1800’s, so you figure you have your work cut out for you when it comes to catching him up on the times, but Magnolio stops you before you can get mired in the details.

“I’m caught up on history,” he tells you, and he shifts his own mirror to show you a wall of books in the panelled room. “He made sure to give me things to do, in case he didn’t get back in time to undo the spell.”

“Who?” you ask, and Magnolio’s face falls.

“My late husband,” he says, absently fiddling with a pendant at his chest. “He sealed me in this mirror when the villagers came for me. He was meant to free me before the night was out, but the villagers killed him. They couldn’t break the mirror or get to me, so they buried it with him instead. Then his grave was robbed and I was taken to France, and then to Austria, and finally I ended up here.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, ruffling your own hair. “That’s heavy. How do I get you out of this mirror, then?”

Magnolio perks up, hand stilling at his breast. “You would free me?”

You shrug. “I mean, I guess. It would be pretty shitty of me to buy your mirror, learn about you, and decide you’re someone else’s problem.”

“Oh,” Magnolio sighs, smiling brilliantly in a way that makes his eyes crinkle. “I would be forever indebted to you. You must kiss me under the light of the moon. Then I will be free.”

You heave a beleaguered breath. “I hope my neighbours don’t see this,” you grumble as you haul his mirror outside, looking around for strangers as though you were smuggling black tar over the border. When you confirm that you are, in fact, alone, you sigh and twitch towards Magnolio’s mirror. “Well. Pucker up, Mags.”

Magnolio frowns. “‘Mags’?”

“Just kiss me, man,” you plead, pressing your lips against the mirror’s surface.

Startled into movement, Magnolio closes the distance between you, planting his lips over yours through the mirror. For a moment, your lips feel warm, and your heart beats wildly in your chest at the thought of watching a man emerge from his centuries-long entrapment.

But nothing happens.

“Uh.”

“Oh,” says Magnolio, deflating like a sad-looking balloon after a child’s birthday party. “That was supposed to work.”

“Is it because it’s not ‘true love’s kiss’ or whatever?” you ask, using your sleeve to wipe away the smudge left behind by your lips.

“I don’t know,” Magnolio replies, and to your horror, his voice sounds thick with tears. As you watch, he sniffles and a tear slips free from his thick lashes, running down his face and onto his shirt. It is quickly followed by many more, and you realise that the mirror doesn’t have to be broken for this poor man to shatter.

“Hey, hey,” you say, breathless as you carry the mirror back inside. “Maybe it’s just because it’s not the full moon. We’ll try again in a week or two—whenever it is. Alright?”

“Alright,” Magnolio burbles, using his sleeves to wipe at his face even as more tears slide down his flushed cheeks. “We’ll try again. I have your word?”

“You have my word,” you say, and thank your lucky stars that you’ll be waking from this dream sooner rather than later.

[consumedkings-archive]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part i.

word count: 6k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.

notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.

special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!

and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”

There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.

“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.

“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.

“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”

“It's just a—”

“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”

The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”

“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”

“I won’t say it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”

Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”

Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.

The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.

So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.

“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”

“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”

Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”

The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.

Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.

Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.

“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”

“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”

“Instead of stopping her?”

“She was—”

The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.

Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.

And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.

“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”

“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”

Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”

“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”

He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t be modest, Romy.”

“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”

She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.

“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”

And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”

“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”

A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.

A funeral.

Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?

Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”

“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”

“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.

“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”

He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”

The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”

He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.

“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”

Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.

“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”

He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”

A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.

“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.

Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.

“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”

“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.

Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”

Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”

“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.

“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”

She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.

Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.

Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.

“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”

Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”

“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”

Roman flashed her a grin.

“Or else.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They held the table.

“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.

“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.

He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”

“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”

“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”

The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”

Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”

“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”

The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.

There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—

And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.

The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.

Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”

“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”

“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”

She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”

He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.

“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.

“Hm. A dangerous past time.”

His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”

Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.

Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”

There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”

“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”

He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.

“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”

Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”

Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”

“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”

She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.

“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.

“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.

“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”

She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”

“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”

“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”

“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”

“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”

A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.

“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”

Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”

“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.

Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.

“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”

Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.

He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”

“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”

The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.

Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”

He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.

“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.

It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.

“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”

A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”

“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.

Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.

By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.

“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.

“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”

“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.

“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”

“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”

She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.

And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”

“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”

“Varya?”

A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.

Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”

“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”

“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”

His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.

“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”

Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.

Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.

And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.

“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”

“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”

“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”

“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”

No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.

“—Varya’s birthday—”

“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”

“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”

Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.

“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”

Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.

“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.

She said, “We grew up together.”

Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”

“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”

“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”

“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”

“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?

He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”

“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”

The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.

“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”

“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”

Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.

“Romy?”

“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”

Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?

What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?

Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.

Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.

Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.

And he was going to keep it that way.