#already failed my word count challenge though rip

[ronsenburg]

speaking of sylvain, it’s WIP Wednesday. have two very separate moments (neither of which are kissing) from my self-prompted valentines day kissing fic.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Unlikely

summary: a look into how marc and reader met.

pairing: gn!reader x marc spector

contents: boxing, flirting, kissing, discussions of DID, fluff

an: this is the companion piece to this fic, and serves as a prequel to it. there won’t be any interaction between marc and steven, though marc will be thinking about steven. gif credits are @moonknightyws. you could say marc is ooc for being this open or maybe he’s so into reader he doesn’t have a choice <3

word count: 1.4k

mcu masterlist

One question is what starts it all: “Are you always this pissed off?”

You’ve been warming up a few punching bags down from the man with tan skin, a set jaw, and furrowed brows who could probably rip his own punching bag in half if he wanted to. You’ve seen him before, too many times if you’re being honest and your curiosity finally gets the best of you. You ask him this question, deadpanned but he catches the slightest bit of humor in your eyes before turning away. He’s not sure why he answers.

“Yes,” He huffs, landing another crushing blow to the punching bag he’s pummeling.

“Violence isn’t as cathartic as it once was. In fact, it can make things worse.”

He gets it and he doesn’t. Marc knows that he’s attractive, that he can attract attention, good and bad. You’re flirting with him, or maybe just trying to make a friend but only he knows that you’ve chosen the wrong person. The wrong persons. There’s too much of everything pent up in his body, some of it not even his own.

He should let you go. He should be incredibly rude to you and let you go. Typical he could, he would, but there’s something different about you already. But, there’s too much in the way. Khonshu’s requirements. Steven’s eventual return.

He can’t help but think about how good Steven would be to you if he could get his shit together. Maybe you could help Steven get his shit together. Maybe you could help both of them get their shit together. Maybe the pain wouldn’t suffocate him if he had someone like you, soft and helpful by his side. But, he really should scare you away.

He tries and fails to keep the edge in his voice, though he’s still got his face set in that glare, “What would you suggest then?”

You lean against the punching bag that’s now just slightly swaying, “Do you like fried chicken?”

If he wasn’t so tense he’d laugh at your question, “Yes.”

You treat him to a smile, it’s bright, sweet, and a little mischievous, “Music?”

“Sure,” He answers slowly with narrowed eyes.

“Water?”

The answer to that is complicated, but he doesn’t want to get into that right now. Or ever. He feels inclined to answer honestly, “Depends.”

“There’s this food truck festival on the weekends, down by the water.”

“That’s what you’re suggesting as a defuser?” He sounds skeptical, insulted even but you’re persistent.

“You might actually enjoy yourself instead whatever this is. I mean you come here at least twice a week to beat the shit out of this bag. The same one every time, you don’t even give the poor thing a break.”

“I don’t think you have any room to talk, that means you’re here just as often as me.”

“I’m here for my fitness, and you’re here to…”

“Beat the shit out of this bag,” He provides and you laugh, making his chest fill with an unfamiliar warmth.

“Like I said, you might enjoy yourself doing something other than that.”

He shakes his head, and his eyes almost grow somber, “It’s unlikely.”

“We could wager something,” You suggest, hoping that maybe a bet will get him to open up. With the way you’ve seen him train, you assume he likes to win, even at the little things.

“I’m not sure there’s anything I want from you.”

“Aren’t things we’re not sure of worth exploring?” You challenge, your tongue flicking out over your bottom lip.

Your words earn the smallest of smirks from him and he gives you a tight nod, “I’ll go with you.”

“Fantastic. I’m (Y/N),” You offer him your hand and he takes it, shaking firmly.

“Marc.”

___

The bet that turned into a date was 4 months ago, and now Marc wakes up in your bed at least twice a week. It was impossible to stay away from you, your laugh is infectious, your eyes saccharine.

For the first time in a long time, regardless of the circumstances, Marc feels safe. Safe enough to be honest with you about Steven. It’s hard to describe but he can recognize the signs. As the pressure from Khonshu grows, the more he thinks about his past. It means that Steven can pop out of the woodwork at any time to grant him some reprieve.

The two of you are laying in his bed for a change on a Saturday morning. As always you’re in his clothes, they’re worn and smell like him, it’s what you prefer.

He sits up in bed, his face set into that signature deep glare, “You trust me right?”

“Of course, I trust you,” You answer quickly with no doubts, but Marc hesitates, breaking eye contact for just a moment. It’s not something he does often, and the extra edge in his voice lets you know something is up. You sit up next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“There are some things you need to know for this to work. It’s complicated, that's why I don’t do this but I…” He looks away, running his hand up and down your bare thigh. “I trust you and I want this to work so I have to tell you this.”

“Marc, the last thing I want is for you to do something you’re not ready for. If this is too much, if I’m too much, then just be honest with me.”

His expression softens into this tender look you never thought he’d be capable of, “You being too much is the last thing on my mind. It’s the opposite.”

“You’re not too much. A little intense, but I like that about you.”

There’s a long pause as Marc thinks about the way to do this. He decides that ripping off the bandaid is the best option. Whether it goes well or not, being direct will bring this conversation to resolution quicker.

He blows out a deep breath before speaking, “There’s more than just me.”

You lean back to get a good look at him, “What do you mean?”

“In my head, there’s more than just me,” He repeats.

“Like a different voice? A different personality?”

He shakes his head, “A completely different person. His name is Steven.”

You get that look on your face that indicates you’re processing and he lets you sit in peace, his anxiety heightening as each second passes. You know he’s being serious, Marc’s not one to bullshit so you think it through slowly, accepting the information. There’s not much else you can do, not when you feel so deeply for him. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re falling in love with him. You know he’s not ready to hear that, but it’s true.

A question pops into your mind, “Has he always been there?”

“No.”

Marc doesn’t offer any more information about Steven’s origin and he doesn’t look like he wants to, so you propose a different question, “What’s he like?”

A soft, almost fond smile spreads across his face, “He’s gentle. And a nerd.”

“One could argue that you’re a nerd with all your…gadgets,” You gesture to his piles of electronic equipment and he rolls his eyes.

“I am not a nerd.”

“If you say so,” You put your hands up in defeat when he gives you a look. “So, tell me more about him.”

“He’s British.”

“He’s British?” You repeat, with a raised eyebrow.

“And he’s the reason I have that stupid fucking fish,” Marc nods his head over to the tank, rolling his eyes.

”Hey, I love that stupid fucking fish,” You attempt to push him back into bed with your hands but he’s quicker and stronger, gripping your hand and pulling you into his lap where you gladly get comfortable. “When will I get to meet him?”

“It’s hard to say. He has a mind of his own,” He pinches your thigh playfully when you giggle at his accidentally play-on-words, “That is not a pun, don’t laugh.”

His grumpiness makes you laugh harder, and he falls back into the bed wrapping both of his arms around you until you’re finished.

“Marc?” You peer up at him, resting your chin on his chest.

“Hmm?” He hums, bending down to kiss the tip of your nose.

“Thank you for feeling like you could tell me.”

“Don’t get sappy,” His eyes betray what he says, full of a soft, hazy affection.

You take his words as permission to do something else with your lips and wiggle up his body until you can kiss him. His lips are firm and urgent, his arms tightening around you as he thrusts his tongue into your mouth to claim it. Ready and willing you submit to him, letting him kiss you as hungrily as he wants to, trapped in his arms. There’s no place you’d rather be.

if you’d like to be on my moonknight taglist let me know!

mcu taglist: @laurensprentiss, @angelfxllcm, @in-between-the-cafes, @honeybrowne, @ninebluehearts, @jitterbugs927, @later-gators12

[subspencer]

the to-do list

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is worried that she’s not adventurous enough in bed. So, she makes a secret checklist of things to try with Spencer. Based on this request.

Category: Smut, 18+ ONLY, minors dni

Warnings/Includes: switch!Spencer, (sort of?) corruption kink, exhibitionism, mile high club, brief description of oral, unprotected sex, creampie, brief mentions of other stuff but no descriptions

Word Count: 3k

Spencer’s girlfriend has a secret checklist. It could be called a bucket list, of some sort, but really all of the items on it pertain to sexual acts to perform with Spencer, on Spencer, or in front of Spencer. So checklist is a more appropriate term.

The list came into existence after a girl’s night game of Never Have I Ever, in which she discovered there was an embarrassing number of things she’d never done. Some of them seemed nearly impossible to have gone twenty-something years without doing, especially when in a committed relationship. That was made abundantly clear to her when the girls pointed it out, teasing her — and by association, Spencer — for being more than vanilla.

There was no real reason she hadn’t tried those certain things — she wasn’t adverse to the idea of most of them at all. Really, it was just that she never bothered to dip her toes beyond what was familiar.

When Emily, Penelope, and Tara had nearly all ten of their fingers down after a couple rounds, she finally realized she might’ve been coming up short in the sex department. She figured it was about time to find out what she’s missing, so she made a list of everything she needed to try. And one by one, she and Spencer checked the items off.

One of the more simple things on the list, and perhaps her favorite, was giving her first blowjob. It wasn’t something she felt compelled to try with any of the guys she’s been with before, and Spencer, though he was very curious about it, was too much of a gentleman to ask for one.

So when she asked him to sit on the edge of his bed and dropped to her knees in front of him, he didn’t stop to ask questions. His mind went blank the second her fingers undid his zipper. It was Spencer’s first, too, and his fingers knotted in her hair as she took him in as deep as she could, hollowing her cheeks around his cock and swirling her tongue as her head bobbed up and down. Spencer always made pretty sounds in bed, but in this instance she envied his memory because she wished she could replay his moans and gasps from that first blowjob all over again in her mind.

Another favorite was allowing the favor to be reciprocated until completion. She figured she might just be someone who couldn’t get off from oral, because though she always welcomed Spencer to go down, she got impatient every time and pulled his head up by his hair, demanding him to fuck her already. Spencer was one to oblige every request, but he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t overjoyed when one time she never stopped him short.

There were no interruptions, no hands shoving his face away from its rightful place against her, just increasing moans and shaking legs as Spencer was encouraged to give more. She can still remember the half-moon shapes his nails left on her thighs from where he had to grip them so tightly as she rode out her high. And she definitely remembers the almost feral look in his eyes after, because since that first time he insists on doing it again nearly every day.

There were more or less a dozen other items that slowly but surely got ticked off the list.

Handcuffs in the bedroom — fun, but perhaps better saved for special occasions. Or if Spencer was being extra good and deserved a treat.

Various new positions — a reminder to stretch more. And that sixty-nine is not as easy as it sounds on paper.

She let Spencer put a blindfold on her — it was decided they both prefer it more when the blindfold is on him. It keeps him guessing.

Spanking — both of them like this one, either giving or receiving. Surprisingly, she thinks she might like receiving it a little more, and Spencer is always excited to give.

Shower sex — a bit of a logistical nightmare, yet still a weekly staple. It’s slippery, yes, but it’s also relaxing and intimate. And Spencer just enjoys putting his hands on her wet, soapy body.

Sending dirty texts — great, but Spencer prefers taking nude polaroids of her instead. He keeps a few in his wallet for easy access. And because he knows Garcia can’t hack his wallet and find them.

And there were more items that went in the same tune until there was just one left. The one she was most nervous to attempt.

She wondered if joining the mile high club was better or worse if it was on the BAU jet. They’d have ample opportunities to do it, but they’d also be surrounded by their colleagues, and there is no coming back from getting caught.

But the main challenge was convincing Spencer to do it in the first place.

The initial plan of attack was to drop some “subtle” hints. She brought it up for the first time one night in their shared hotel room, right after Spencer fucked her against the bathroom counter, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“We could totally do that in the jet bathroom.”

“Yeah, I guess the basics are the same. Cramped space and a ledge to lean on.” Spencer was completely aloof as he picked up the scattered articles of clothing from the floor, rattling off about the size and dimensions of the airplane bathroom and missing the entire point of the comment.

She mentioned it again a little later, hoping the repetition may help him catch the drift.

“What’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?” she asked, completely catching him off guard as he ate a breakfast of frosted flakes in his kitchen.

“Um.. I don’t know? You tell me,” he shrugged, knowing that whatever the craziest place was, it was definitely with her.

“What about doing it on the jet?” It couldn’t get more obvious.

“We haven’t done that, silly. OH! I’m gonna say it was in my car,” he nodded with a wide grin, confident in his answer that unfortunately brushed past the proposition far too quickly.

It was time to change methods.

The new plan was to see if she could get him turned on enough on the jet to motivate him to do something about it right then and there. It seemed easy enough.

She sat next to him on the small couch, as she always did, and cuddled up to his side as he read his book.

Once everyone was distracted, she snaked a hand onto his thigh, allowing it to rest there long enough for Spencer to get over his initial shock and relax into her touch. As soon as he let his guard down, she moved her hand up another inch or two, watching him squirm again as he fought his mind from wandering. She repeated that cycle every five minutes until it drove him insane, his willpower diminishing in tandem with the proximity of her hand.

When everyone finally fell asleep, she craned her head to press small kisses on his neck, alternating between quick pecks and lingering ones, sucking warm and wet little flecks onto his skin that drew soft sighs without fail.

“What are you doing?” his breath was raspy and low as he muttered into her ear.

“Nothing.” She kept her tone innocent and sweet as she continued to sprinkle the teasing kisses across the column of his throat.

Her hand finally found its way directly on top of the bulge straining against his slacks and gave it a gentle squeeze. Spencer grinded himself into her palm, desperate to feel some friction, his jaw slacked and pupils wide. She dragged a thumb across his length, stopping to rub slow circles over the sensitive tip, drawing out a wet spot at the front of his trousers.

But even with his skin flushed red and his cock leaking and half-near orgasm, Spencer still found the restraint to stop her from jerking him off right on the jet and ripped her hand away, placing it in her lap as if the action could permanently force her to keep her hands to herself.

“I can’t go to the crime scene with cum in my pants,” he hissed, squeezing her wrist tighter.

She smirked at the opportunity, wrapping her warm lips around his ear lobe and tugging with her teeth before whispering with hot breath. “Then put it in me.”

For a second she saw him consider it. His eyes had a dark cast, gaze flickering between her eyes and lips as he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. But then Emily woke up and it was yet another failed attempt.

She resigned to the fact that it just wouldn’t happen, and that the item might remain unchecked on the secret list. So she cleared the idea from her mind, not wanting to keep pushing Spencer toward something he clearly didn’t have an interest in, or to keep embarrassing herself by trying.

And then a couple weeks later, as the team wrapped another case up, she came back to their hotel room to find Spencer sitting on the bed, facing away from the door.

“Hey, baby,” she greeted. When Spencer didn’t respond, she crawled onto the bed behind him, placing both hands on his shoulders and attacking the side of his face with kisses, giggling into his messy curls. “I said hey.”

Still nothing. Her eyes followed his line of sight down to his hands and went wide with realization.

“Spencer, where did you get that!?” She tried to snatch the crumpled piece of paper from him, but he was too quick to pull it away.

“I was looking for gum in your purse,” he explained, reading the sheet over again in complete amusement, “but I found something better.”

Spencer was much too excited about it, bordering on smug, and she rolled off the bed away from him in annoyance.

“Is this what I think it is?” She remained silent, suddenly feeling very insecure about the note. “Did you... did you make a list of things to do in bed?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that, it’s so stupid.”

“Hey, who said it’s stupid?” He tugged on her fingers, pulling her back onto the bed next to him. “I just wanna know where it came from.”

“Well... when I went out with the girls, we started talking about all the things we’ve done…” she paused to see if Spencer could guess where this was going, and of course he didn’t, “... in bed. And I hadn’t even done half of what they have, so I wrote some of them down. I — I wanted to try them with you.”

“So you… you’ve never done these with anyone else?” Spencer’s eyes widened as he pieced the puzzle together. He looked down again at the discarded sheet laying on pillows, his pride swelling at how long the list was. “I’m the first?”

She nodded in assent and no sooner was Spencer pushing her back flat against the mattress, settling his body on top of hers.

“God, that’s so hot,” he spoke into her neck as he sucked purple bruises into it, allowing his hands to roam freely under her shirt. His nimble fingers made quick work of her bra clasp, pulling the hem of the top up to attach his lips to her exposed nipple. He rolled the other in his fingers, tugging gently as she arched into his touch, rolling her hips up to grind against his. He groaned and pushed back, nestling himself perfectly between her legs.

Suddenly his motions halted and he popped his head up, looking at her with wide eyes and freshly ruffled hair. “We haven’t finished the list yet!”

“I — I didn’t think you were interested in the last one.”

“If my girlfriend makes a list of ways she wants to fuck me, I’m interested.”

A devilish grin took over her face. “Well, we fly home tomorrow.”

And true to the plan, they arrived on the jet the next day with at least a vague sense of strategy: wait until everyone is asleep then go at it in the bathroom. It wasn’t the most elaborate of plans, but there wasn’t much else to think of.

Except for the possibility that the others might not go to sleep.

The flight was already halfway through its journey and everyone was still wide awake, and Spencer was growing incredibly impatient. Perhaps even more than his girlfriend, now that he knew this would be part of a long list of things he got to be her first for.

That fact seemed to encourage him, the thrill of forever being her first at something. Never mind that she’d be his firsts, too.

Spencer’s not stupid, he knows that bending her over the bathroom counter while everyone is awake to hear it is a horrible idea. But his willpower doesn’t extend far enough to stop him from dropping his hand to her exposed knee, rubbing it softly just to be able to touch her. It seemed innocent enough in case anyone might see.

He kept his eyes on the open book he was pretending to read as his fingers traced the inside of her thigh, pushing up the hem of her skirt ever so slightly.

He inched his hand up and slowly spread his long fingers apart until they covered the length of her inner thigh. The tips stopping just below her cunt, delicately tracing lines back and forth parallel to the seam of her underwear.

And she quickly discovers there’s no taste worse than your own medicine. There was gentle brushes and concealed touches, all the things that she did to him. But where Spencer would’ve stopped her teasing before it got too far, she wouldn’t have done the same.

She covered up his hands by bringing her own down to her lap, silently encouraging him to continue unseen.

Spencer looked down at her through his thick lashes, bottom lip stuck between his teeth. Looking for more confirmation that she wanted this. The answer came in the form of her shifting subtly down the seat, pressing her clothed pussy firmly against his hand.

His cock twitched against the confines of his slacks when he felt the damp patch on the fabric. His knuckles brushed against her clit and her knees clamped shut, holding him in place as she brought her lips close to his ear to let him hear her soft whines.

He has to put his book over his lap to cover how hard he is, and it almost makes him regret starting this game. Almost.

Because just as she starts desperately grinding against his hand, squirming for more friction, he notices that everyone’s asleep. And then it’s a race to the bathroom, Spencer positioning her directly in front of him to cover his bulge as they stand up.

Their mouths are on each other before the door even closes, her hands wasting little time in going for his zipper. Both desperate to have each other after all the anticipation. She immediately perched herself on the countertop, spreading her legs wide so Spencer could fit in between them, just like in that hotel room. A confused whine fell from her mouth when he lifted her off from the ledge, interrupting her plan.

“No. Like this,” he growled, turning her around and pushing her hips against the edge of the counter, bending her over it. She muttered a “Fuck,” under her breath as he pressed his cock against her backside, knowing he preferred this angle because he could get deeper.

His lips trailed down her neck as he tugged the skirt up to her hips and pulled her panties to the side, running his cock along her folds to gather the wetness that had been pooling there.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet.”

He quickly inserted his thumb into her mouth to stop any sounds from escaping before lining himself up. Her moans vibrated against the digit as he slowly pushed in, stretching her out and letting her adjust before starting to move. Slowly and deliberately, at first, then quickly gaining speed.

She pushed her hips back to meet his thrusts until he pinned them against the ledge with his own, holding them still so he could set his pace faster.

The hand that was resting on her waist came up to her chest, groping at the flesh over her blouse. Her spine arched into his palm, bending forward to give him more leverage to get deeper to that spot inside her repeatedly.

He alternated between a few quick thrusts followed by a deep one, holding himself there for a moment before repeating.

Her cunt tightened around him as he held still against her, applying firm pressure to her spot with the head of his cock.

“Fuck, do that again, please,” he grunted against her neck, pushing his hips into her ass with bruising force to get impossibly closer. A loud whine nearly escaped her lips as he did so, the motion sending her over the edge.

She sucked harder around his thumb, using it to keep her cries at bay as she reached her climax. Her walls fluttered around him as she did, giving him exactly what he needed.

“Remember what you said before, baby?” he hummed in her ear, “Do you still want me to cum inside you?”

“Please.”

Immediately his thrusts became erratic, hips snapping forward a handful of times before he spilled into her in hot spurts, biting down on her shoulder to stifle his moan as he came.

Still heaving from the comedown, he pulled her panties back on, using the fabric to keep his cum from spilling out.

She turned to feverishly attach her lips to his, panting into the open mouthed kiss. When they finally broke apart, both looked completely wrecked with swollen lips, flushed skin, bruised necks. Still, they tried their best to fix themselves, straightening out their rustled clothes and smoothing knotted hair.

Before Spencer turned the door handle, he pulled her side into him, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. “We should make another list.”

.

.

.

taglist: @suburban--gothic @ssa-sarahsunshine @mercy-burning @reidspurple @mediocre-writer @honeyboysteezy @ssa-m-187 @calm-and-doctor @drayshadow @s1utformgg @you-sunshine @altsvu @reidtheprettyboy @goose-eats-god @sonnydoesrandomshit @rigatonireid @muffin-cup @amoeebaa @reidingmelodies

[football-writing]

Jack Grealish - real smooth

Note: I haven't seen the david and liza vid that this request was based on, and I have the attention span of fresh gravy so I didn't watch it either lmao. But I had a bit of an idea in mind for this more like Mason's fifa forfeit vid with Chunkz (let's be honest that vid was hilarious I still watch it sometimes for laughs lmao) anyway I hope that's okay. Also this features other players too bc why not

Warnings: contains some curse words probably, slight mentions of sexy times at the end, also I have no idea how waxing actually works as my only knowledge comes from that Mason vid so,, this is probably not accurate sorry xoxo

Hope you enjoy babes x

It wasn't unusual for Jack to invite some of his friends over whenever he had a day off. In fact, his days off were usually spend either with you or with his friends, most often opting for eating out with you before getting back and playing fifa with the boys for well past midnight. Today was no different. You had occupied yourself with a book and and cup of tea in your shared bedroom, while Jack was downstairs with his friends playing fifa. Their yelling and laughter could be heard even from behind the closed bedroom door. Not that it bothered you too much: as long as they were having fun and cleaning up after themselves once they left, it was fine by you.

However, it surprised you to hear footsteps coming up to the stairs, then down the hallway to your room. They had everything they needed downstairs, and never before had they bothered you upstairs, so why would they now?

A knock sounded on your bedroom door and you yelled out a quick 'yeah' as you closed your book and sat up on the bed, curious as to what it was they needed.

"Hey angel." Jack said as his head popped through the door before making his way into your bedroom, sitting down defeatedly onto the edge of your bed. He had a slight pout on his face, and bit his bottom lip nervously as he looked at you.

"What's wrong, baby? Please tell me you didn't break anything down there." You said, a stern look plastered on your face.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just- uhm." He hesitated as he looked down, playing with the hem of his shirt instead of maintaining eye contact with you. Worry took over your features. What was he up to now?

"We were playing fifa forfeit, right. And Ben said I had to wax my legs if I lost-"

"Oh my god, Jack!" A releaved sigh left her lips. It was never gonna be anything serious with these boys anyway. She should've known better. "Did you lose, though? Please tell me you did."

He only nodded in response, and she let out a squeel as she fell back on the bed.

"That's hilarious, I was worried there for a second, but this is great."

"Don't get too excited. The boys asked if I'd ask you if you had any wax. But I just came up here to chat for a bit and then I'll go back down saying you didn't."

"Now, why would you do that?" She said as she looked at him with raised brows, challenging him.

"You know, I actually do have some strips left, I'd be more than happy to wax your legs. Besides, a bet is a bet, Jack. You can't just back down now." She smiled thriumphantly and he groaned in response.

"Why won't you just have my back with this?"

"Oh, I can wax your back too, no problem."

"Not what I meant sweetheart."

"I know." She smiled cheekily as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek, before telling him she'd be downstairs in a bit with all the necessities to wax his legs.

"Hey boys!" She hollered as she rushed down the stairs with her wax kit, the boys looking up at her. Jack was already sitting on the chaise longue with his legs up. His shorts ridden up a bit more than usual to expose his muscular thighs. The others sitting next to him on the couch, ready for the action that was about to unfold.

"Ready, babe?" She wiggled her eyebrows at him as she sat down her kit.

"Oh I sure am!" Ben replied with a big boyish smile on his face.

"I'm sure you are, Ben." She chuckled as she ruffled his hair. He'd usually have it gelled back whenever he had a game, but kept it natural and curly when he came around theirs. It was her favourite look of his, perhaps partly because she could mess with his hair more easily.

"I remember when I had this done, hurts like hell. Good luck bro!" Mason interjected, patting Jack's shoulder in mock-sympathy.

"Yeah, I cannot wait to see you cry like a baby. I love you for coming up with this, Ben."

"Babe!" He whined. "You're supposed to support me here."

"Well I am supporting you, I'm the one waxing you. Trust me, you do not want to have this done by someone who has no idea what they're doing." You said as you warmed up a few strips of wax between your hands.

"Seconded." Declan replied with a serious face. Everyone looked at him in confusion; he had never told them about getting waxed before, but it sounded like an intriguing story.

"I'm not even gonna ask, mate." Jack said. Horror stories would not make this experience any more bearable for him. It left Dec pretending to be upset, eager to tell the - no doubt ridiculous - story.

"Alright, I'm gonna get these on." You interrupted their banter, tearing the strip to reveal the sticky substance underneath.

She put the strips on his leg as the boys chatted away. Just as she was putting the fourth strip on, Jack swatted her hand away.

"You have to put all those on?" He questioned her.

"Well the forfeit did say 'legs'. As in, both legs. Completely." Declan argued.

"I did say that. But that's a bit too harsh innit?"

"Yeah, there's already three strips on now, let's see how he gets through those first." Mason offered.

"Will hurt like hell with that much hair." Declan hit Jack's leg for emphasis.

"No doubt." You laughed as you smoothed out the strips once more.

"Ready, Jack?" You asked as you hold the edge of one of the strips, ready to pull it off.

"Wait, wait I gotta film this!" Declan was quick to exclaim as he took out his phone, much to Jack's dismay, who had his hands in front of his face as he waits for the inevitable pain of ripping off the strips.

"Alright, 3. 2. 1!" The boys count down in unison as you rip off the first strip.

"Jesus, Y/N!" An array of curses leave Jack's mouth as he yelps, gripping his leg in pain, his eyes wide with shock. Clearly he had underestimated how much this was really going to hurt, which has all of you rolling over with laughter. Mason is gripping his stomach as he's sitting on the floor, barely able to breathe between his giggles. You're trying to ease Jack's mind and soothingly rub the sensitive skin on his leg, but you're shaking too much from the laughter leaving your lips.

"Oh my lord, and look at the hair that's come off!" Declan hollers as he takes a step closer to properly film the strip that was, indeed, covered in Jack's leg hair. You held it up for the camera as you shrieked at the sheer amount of hair. It's like a lion's mane got glued on the strip.

"Jeez, Jack, you hairy lad." Declan laughs, which earns a grumble from dissatisfied boy. You're pretty sure if Dec wasn't responsible for filming the whole ordeal, he'd be on the ground just as Mason was.

"Oi, what are you crying for, mate? I'm the one in pain here." Jack points a finger accusingly at Ben, and when you turn around you see he has tears in his eyes, breathing coming out in desperate gasps as he shakes his head no, signalling he can't take any more of this banter. It seemed like everyone had at least slightly calmed down, but looking at Ben made everyone burst out in laughter yet again. Mason had tears streaming down his face now too, and you're sure he might piss his pants if he laughs any louder. It even makes Jack chuckle.

"Just get it over with, alright. I don't wanna be in pain any longer." Jack asks you nonetheless, guiding your hand to one of the other strips.

"It can't be that bad." Ben's voice is higher than usual from his earlier laughing fit, but he's wiping the tears from his eyes as he seems to have calmed down considerably. Mason can only nod in confirmation, still unable to form words without giggling.

"I have no problem waxing you lot too, babes." You smile up cheekily at them, which results in loud protests from the boys.

"Now that I would love to see." Jack replies, before looking down at his leg and rubbing the spot that was now rid of any hairs. "Perhaps this would be funnier if there weren't two other strips on me leg." He sighed in despair, staring at his leg with sad eyes. It made you chuckle, but seeing Jack's stern look dericted at you, you quickly focused on the task at hand.

"Alright, next one Jack."

"Lord have mercy."

The next strips don't have any other effect than the first one. It sends all of you rolling on the floor laughing, and Jack with tears in his eyes and red skin on his leg. Dec leaves the room at one point because he genuinely can't breathe, and Mason has to sprint to the bathroom, like you predicted. Meanwhile your hands get shakier and shakier from laughing, and you can barely see what you're doing due to the tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. Jack's decided to rip the last strip off himself, and you're shrieking with laughter as he pulls at it but chickens out from the pain, resulting in it only coming off halfway. When it is finally off, and all the hairy strips are disposed of, everyone slowly but certainly calms down. You're getting some lotion from upstairs to soothe the stinging, and when Ben orders pizza, it all seems long gone.

Yet when you're watching tv, and Mason steals a sneaky glance at Dec, the both can't help but try - and fail - to surpress their giggles.

It's how the rest of the night continued until the three other boys finally left in the late hours of the night.

"I'll clean, love. Get in bed and I'll see you in a bit, yeah?" Jack's offering once they're gone, and you're accepting gratefully as you kiss his cheek. The night was fun, but the laughing fits had you beyond tired.

So when Jack slips into bed next to you, you're already in bed with your eyes closed, dozing off.

"Hey, babe."

"Hm?" You mumble as you open your eyes at Jack's whisper.

"Wanna feel my leg?" He asks, but he's already draping his freshly waxed leg over your legs, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

You've known the guy long enough to know that he won't stop bothering you if you decline, and the request makes you think of the many times you've asked him to feel your legs after - finally - shaving them again.

So you decide to humour him and softly carress his smooth leg.

"Feels pretty good, huh?" His voice cocky as he questions you.

"Sure, real smooth Jack."

"Wanna have sex with a sexy smooth beast like that?"

You snort loudly at his inappropriate request, shoving his leg off of you in a joking manner.

"Oh come on, don't tell me I went through all that for nothing!" He exclaims in agony.

"No, you went through all that because you suck at Fifa." You deadpan as you grin at him.

His eyes are darker as he watches you intently, and the knowing smirk on your face makes you apprehensive of what he's up to now. He's moving closer, hovering over you and effectively trapping you as his muscular arms hold himself up on either side of you. And next thing you know, he's placing a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, before trailing down to your jaw. A gasp involuntarily leaves your lips as he nibbles at your earlobe.

"You know with how soft my leg is and all." He starts to whisper in your ear. His voice is husky and smooth - and normally you know what it means. But you have no clue where he's going with this sentence. "Would you mind if I-" And he's pausing again for dramatic effect as his lips graze over your hot skin. "Slitherin." He finally whispers in your ear, accentuating the 's'.

And just like that, you're back rolling over with laughter just like you had been that very afternoon.

[blahkugo]

Rouge

Satori Tendō x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

Word Count: 2.5k

TW: Mafia AU, Dark themes, Blood play (an excessive amount of blood mentions in general), Knife play, Asphyxiation, Angst (?), mentions of death (no main characters), Just two psychopaths going at it tbh.

A/N: I’m so excited to be writing for @the-smut-pile’s newest collab, hosted by @present-mel, @pleasantanathema, and @linestrider. Please make sure to check out the rest of the masterlist here!

Every night, the smell of bleach stings your nostrils and prayers left unsaid weigh heavy on your tongue. ‘It comes with the job,’ they had warned you, had urged a ‘pretty little thing like you,’ not to take a position you couldn’t stomach. You didn't listen, of course.

Because death isn’t a stranger in your life, nor an old acquaintance you catch up with once every few years. It’s a friend that phones daily, a lover you scurry into bed with—the chill down your spine when you walk home alone in eerie silence.

As a doctor you saw it everyday, with every patient that prayed for pity when the pain became all too much. Cries of the sick plagued your every waking moment; who were you to deny them release? Their suffering ended the moment you injected the drugs.

But you’ve never seen death like this before.

“Daydreaming again, angel?” Tendō swipes a disinfectant across the cold metal counter, rubbing until pools of pomegranate red match his long, messy hair. Despite the dreariness of the task, an impish smile remains plastered across his face, the glint in his eyes unscathed by the scene you’d both just witnessed.

“It’s still Doctor to you.” Try as you might, your voice comes out shaky, your heart pounding so hard you’re worried it may actually jump out. That feeling never quite leaves you.

He straightens his gloves and out comes his signature laugh—that high, maniacal, chuckle that stops just short of a song. You’d rip out your car radio if it meant getting rid of it.

“You haven’t been one for a long time.”

The truth makes you shudder, but he’s right, of course. Once your license had been stripped away and you were on the run, your career had officially ended. An ‘Angel of Mercy,’ all the news stations had called you, yapping on for days when you were that week’s most wanted woman.

You don’t have the right to be called a medical professional and yet, you stand your ground. If it means getting him to quit with the dreadful pet name, you’ll say just about anything.

“Your boss calls me Doctor.”

“Because my boss can’t remember your name.” He meets your eyes, lips quirking upward at the little huff that escapes you, your furrowed brows spilling bits of frustration you so desperately attempt to keep bottled. The air hangs heavy with the shrieks of anger you wish you could unleash, all the words you don’t dare say aloud in fear of looking weaker than he already believes you are.

Instead of challenging you further, Tendō simply turns away, chucking the wipes in a bin and humming a tune far too cheery for a man who just ended a life.

When night comes, you dream of the older man who begged to see his children one last time and the laugh that sounds like a song.

—

The next day isn’t any better, because it never is. Ushijima’s moles bring in three more bodies for questioning; bodies, because you’ve been instructed to refer to them as nothing but. And they’re young this time, heavily tattooed kids that can’t be much older than nineteen—children that look so much like the thralls of young men you’ve learned to call friends, you have to avert your eyes when they send panicked glances your way.

You wonder if Tendō ever makes these comparisons.

“I’ll only ask once,” the gruff, even voice echoes within the small space. “Who’s your supplier?” Your boss is cold and calculated. He never wavers, never says more than he needs to. He’s everything you’d thought the leader of a crime organization would be and more.

Tendō hovers next to him, gnarled fingers twitching eagerly at the knife splayed between them. It’s his weapon of choice, because—as he mentioned your first day on the job—he can ‘take his time with them’.

The captives crack immediately, pleading helplessly for their lives as they vow they know nothing. They probably don’t, appearing to be nothing more than lowly thugs in a long hierarchy of vile men. It doesn’t stop what comes next.

As expected, Ushijima remains silent except for the soft sigh that leaves him. Tendō sighs as well, though it seems more pleased—euphoric, even—than bored. He presses a slender finger into the tip of his knife, watches as a bit of blood runs down his lean arm, paints a strip of his tattoos red, and drips onto the metal table.

“Are they ours now?” Ours. The word brings bile to your throat. Ushijima makes his way to the door, bluntly calling over his shoulder,

“Do what you must.”

You push up your glasses, Tendō grins, and the screaming begins.

—

Blood-stained lab coats are a staple of your wardrobe. No matter how hard you scrub, fingers raw and aching, the faded pinks never seem to give. You quit months ago, resorted to throwing the worst ones away instead of putting yourself through that hell.

This coat’s going straight to the bin.

Through every horrid interrogation, you’ve forced yourself to watch. You’ve never looked away, never dared allow him to smell the fear off of you. You hand him the tools, write the information on the clipboard, assist with cleanup and disposal, and answer any questions he may have—like the good little medical doctor turned mafia member you should be.

And Tendō smiles the whole way through. Even as dagger meets flesh, as pained cries shatter your eardrums, as your vision is clouded with red, red, red—Tendō smiles, humming a tune that you hear long into the next evening.

But today, when the third young man had looked you dead in the eyes and sobbed, begging you to tell his mother he loves her, you couldn’t help yourself.

Of course, the towering redhead didn’t fail to detect the misstep.

“Bad day?” He questions innocently, resting his elbows on the now spotless titanium table. His muscles ripple as he leans, boasting the thousands of dollars worth of art across his arms. It bothers you that you notice it, even more that he probably catches you gawking. He sees everything, after all. Everything but the blood still splattered across his body.

“Won’t be the last, for us at least.” Brows raise, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. If at all possible, the wicked grin on his face widens.

“You’re exactly right.” And like clockwork, he laughs. Your hands grow cold, ice corroding your veins. He swipes his tongue over his lip, leaving a slick shine on his lips. When he rises and steps toward you, you stand your ground, though you so desperately long to run. “Why so serious?”

“They didn’t know anything,” you mumble under your breath, “and you tortured them anyways.” In all your months of working with him, this is the first you’ve complained—and you immediately wish you hadn’t.

Tendō moves even closer, as though entertained by your tiny outburst. Perhaps he’s been waiting for this moment, for you to finally break your silence. When he speaks, his tone is gentler than usual, but still holds every hint of mockery and nonchalance the bastard is known for,

“It’s our job, angel face.” Another step, another tiny breath you’re holding in, worried that the slightest of sighs might shatter your perfected image of faux indifference. He tilts his head to the side, peering down at you, like you’re- a child.

And the glass breaks.

“Enough.” You splay your hands in front of you, halting him in his tracks, just as he invades your space. “Enough of the patronizing looks, and the humming, and the stupid pet name that you know bothers me!” An accusatory finger is jabbed into his chest. “Don’t you feel guilt? Fear? Empathy? You murder people.”

Your chest burns, heaving with rage. Tendō’s half-smile still sits on his face, words of ridicule ready to roll off his tongue any second. But when you look into his eyes, there seems to be something more—an emotion you can’t quite place. Anger? Understanding?

His next sentence is whispered with such sobriety, you’re unsure who it is you’re speaking to anymore,

“People like us don’t deserve those feelings.”

“There is no us!” The claim may come out crazy, hysterical even— a woman covered in warm blood shrieking within a cold, sterile room. For once, you don’t care. “I’m not like you.”

Those words may be what set him off, hand wrapping around your chin and tilting it up so that you’re unable to look away. Fingers that incite panic and enact violence, fingers you’ve feared since your first day here, clutching you ever-so casually. “Exactly. You’re not like me.”

He doesn’t wait for your rebuttal, gripping harder at your face. “I’ve made my peace with who I am, but you,” his breath fans your cheeks, “you only pretend you don’t enjoy it.”

Then, Tendō’s kissing you. And to your utter surprise, you’re kissing him back. Heat rises within you, the hairs at your neck curling as your lips meet with a ferocity. His palms graze your lab coat—no doubt staining his skin with the blood it’s drenched in—before he’s peeling it off.

When you tug at his messy locks, the butcher smiles and sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. He pulls you closer, hurriedly stripping you of your remaining clothing, until you’re left in just your panties. Hands roam at your supple skin, kneading at your hips, meshing into you wherever he can. All the while, your lips do the same, bleeding into each other until you’re unsure of where you start and he ends.

“No.” The command is stern, perhaps the most you’ve ever been with him. His eyes narrow in disappointment, limbs rapidly untangling from your body. You shove him backwards until his knees hit the edge of the table, nudge him again so that he falls against it, and grab a clean scalpel off the side counter. “No, we do deserve to feel those things.” His grin returns in full force—and he laughs.

This time, you don’t hate it.

“Deep down,” he grunts as you hitch a leg over his thighs and climb onto him, “you know that I’m right.” The scalpel’s pointed tip grazes his black tee, cutting through the material meticulously. You run a palm up his broad chest before pressing a finger to his mouth, smearing nearly dried blood across his jaw in the process.

“You talk too much,” the hushed murmur tumbling from your lips doesn’t sound like you, is foreign and twisted, and too much like him to bode well for either of you. The muscles in his thighs tense beneath you, his hard chest rumbling in a silent glee.

Your fingers brush against his cheekbones and you gasp, losing all perception of who you are. It’s absurd, but the individual you knew before, the persona you so adamantly believed you could uphold, crumbles with a single, soft touch of his skin.

And it’s unfair, really, that someone so beautiful—covered in art, blessed with hair the color of sweet wine and a laugh that sounds like music—could be so utterly fucked up.

When you nick his cheek, observing the drip of blood that trickles down, you wonder if Tendō ever makes these comparisons. And when you lick at it, preening at the groan that leaves him, you wonder if you’re just as fucked up as he is.

All at once, you’re flipped beneath him, back crashing against the cool metal table. He climbs down and drags his pants off, yanks you towards him with one pull of your thighs, and presses against your core. A shiver runs down your spine at the heat, crazes you for something you didn’t think you needed.

“By the way,” Tendō speaks through kisses and nips at your neck, “you are just as fucked up.” Though you hadn’t realized you’d said that aloud, you’re unable to retaliate, only wrap your legs around his middle and moan at a particularly harsh bite. He soothes every spot of broken skin with his tongue, drifting downwards until his lips meet your cotton panties. “How cute.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting thi– Ah,” your complaint is cut short when he moves them to the side and licks a long stripe up your slit. And he doesn’t stop, lapping and sucking at your soaked cunt, holding you down with one lean arm when you writhe in response to the pressure. “God, fuck.”

“Satori, but I’ll take God too,” he smirks against your mound. It’s then that he inserts a lithe finger, then two, stretching you out until you’re tugging at his long locks, goosebumps raised as the warmth of his mouth intertwines with the cold beneath your back.

You’re panting, unconcerned with time or it’s passing, only his fingers, his tongue circling your puffy bud, and your steady ascension to the edge. Just as your legs tense, breath caught mid-mewl of his name, he stops. You lean up on your elbows, rut against him, searching for more—friction, movement, anything—but he doesn’t let up.

“Fuck- why?” Your cry is loud, whiny even, but you don’t particularly care when euphoria’s been ripped away from you so suddenly.

“Tell me I’m right,” he teases, eyes peering straight through yours. You whine again, a mix between a pained groan and ‘are you fucking serious?’ before he flicks at your bud once more. “Say it.”

And you do. Because, as strongly as you've denied it, you’re every bit as perverse as he is, every bit as infatuated by the idea of power, of playing God—of holding a life between your fingertips and choosing death.

The second the words are out of your mouth, he thrusts deep into you. Your fingers scramble for purchase, nails dragging against the table, then his back, as skin slaps against skin.

There’s nothing gentle about Satori, all lean, hard muscle and jagged edges, but the pain is just as blissful as the pleasure. His fingertips rub at your clit, other hand moving to wrap around your throat and squeeze tightly.

“Satori, I- I need more,” you choke out, lightheaded. And he complies, shifting you to your side and throwing one of your legs over his shoulder. Your cries melt into his, sweat soaking your skin, your hair, the table, as he pounds into you over and over again.

“That’s it baby– fuck, let go for me.” He presses the long-forgotten scalpel against your throat—and your vision goes white. Electricity sparks through your spine, your tongue lolls out, and you swear you feel tears run down your cheeks.

He doesn’t stop, working you through the orgasm as your legs bind his waist. A few more thrusts and he’s following you, holding your hips against him so tightly, he’ll probably leave deep purple bruises.

He finally stills, chest falling against yours and heaving, allowing you both to catch your breath. Flashing a set of pearly canines, his wild grin and the glint in his eyes reappear. For the first time since you’ve known him, Tendō is completely silent.

And then he laughs, lawless and untamed, the howl of a hyena that sounds like a song—and you laugh too.

[gucciwins]

Frosty the Snowman

Harry and Y/N love the holiday season but Harry takes the teasing a bit to far and well Y/N decides to give it right back. 

Word Count: 5126

A/N: hello! thank you so much to @goldenbluesuit for organizing this wonderful christmas fic challenge. thank you for allowing me to participate, kate. i’m so happy i got to be a part of it. merry christmas and happy holidays to you all. sending you all a big hug and lots of love. 

_____

Christmas has never been much of importance in your life.

That was until you began dating Harry.

 Harry and his family loved celebrating in particular because Harry was gone for so many months of the year. They loved giving gifts, and Harry loved spoiling his family. He was a true family man who loved to be doted on by his mother and teased relentlessly by his older sister. His smile never leaves his face when he's with them.  

Ever since Harry found out how you spent the holidays alone drinking wine and hot chocolate on and off and binging all the best holiday movies. He declared that was not acceptable and that furthermore and until the end of time you would be spending it with him and his family. 

The first year was something out of a storybook, a house full of kids and adults, Christmas music all day, and a big festive dinner. Gifts passed around, photos being taken to be added to the end of year scrapbooks. Lots of stories being told; honestly, it overwhelmed you. 

Anne found you outside wrapped up in Harry's coat that you swiped before slipping out unseen. She stood next to you, overlooking her garden with you. "My son loves you; he's brought you here not to overwhelm you but to let you know that you have a family here, and you always will." You let your tears run free, feeling comforted, and loved. "I've never seen him shine as bright as he does when he's with you and when he's speaking of you. We all want you here as much as he does." Anne then pulled you into a long hug, the motherly hug you never got growing up.  Reminded you not to stay out too long. 

Three Christmases later, you now take part in family traditions, helping Anne cook dinner and staying in sweats and playing family games all of Boxing Day. 

It's what makes your move to London with your boyfriend of four years easy. Knowing they want you there, knowing that the love Harry has for you won't fade, you've gone through many hurdles together, and it only strengthened your bond to one another. 

Four years together, and you're still learning new things about each other, like Harry having to have coffee first thing in the morning, bread was a must-have always in the house, and that he owned more mugs than he needed. He picked up that you adored your shoes, meaning you wouldn't throw them out until they were ripped and beat up enough for a new pair. Also learned that you rather eat lots of fruit during the day than making food in the kitchen because it meant more dishes that would be needed to wash. You loved doing the laundry, Harry knew it was to steal his shirts, but he didn't mind. He always knew where to find them. 

The one thing that really surprised him was your love for Christmas music; you knew every song, maybe couldn't remember the name, but you would be able to sing it. It never failed to make him smile; you even knew ‘Feliz Navidad’ and didn't butcher it as he did. 

Your love for Christmas music was signified because you never celebrated the holiday, and music was easy to access. It was what you immersed yourself in. 

This is why Harry is confused when he hears you begin to sing ‘Frosty the Snowman’ under your breath, then switching to a soft hum in the tune of the song as you start to place your freshly washed sweats in their drawers. 

Harry was not sure why you did that; you loved singing out loud. You had a decent voice, as you liked to say, but why switch. 

You're clueless to Harry watching you, deep in thought, trying his best to analyze you. 

Then Harry gasps; it all clicks, making sense. 

You raise your head to look at him, shutting the drawer with your hip. "What?"

"You don't know the lyrics." Harry accuses. 

"To what?" You step towards the bed, wanting to finish the rest of this to finally go down and each lunch. 

"Frosty the Snowman."

"I do." You defend.

Harry smirks, crossing his arms. "Prove it."

"No." 

"Why not?"

You frown before taking a deep breath and begin to hum the song correctly to Harry. 

"Okay, you know the tune, now the lyrics." He gestures for you to go on.

"Frosty the snowman..." Your voice dies down, you rake your brain for the correct lyrics, sending a smaller prayer you're right. "had a shiny nose?" 

"Oh, this is golden, love." He's laughing now. It's filling up the room. 

"Harry," You whine. 

"You call yourself the Christmas Queen." Harry is holding his stomach, his laughter getting to be too much. "Next, you're going to tell me you don't know the lyrics to 'All I Want For Christmas Is You.'"

"How dare you, that came out in our birth year." You're over making fun of you. 

"Okay fine, but really so many years, and you never learned. You said you love all Christmas music, and well, that's a classic, dove."  

You run a hand through your hair, your fingers getting caught on the tips for not brushing it out. "I never actually got to make a snowman, so I never listened to the lyrics."

"Are you secretly a Grinch as well?" Harry teases.

You throw a balled-up shirt of his and hit him square in the face; it quiets him down. "Conversation over." 

You walk out of the room, leaving him alone, to his chuckling. 

_____

In your home, something was always baking. 

It was either Harry trying to better his last bread or you baking a new vegan cake that Gemma sent you. 

It's something you both loved to do.

For you, though, it was your own form of meditation. No matter the time of day, if you felt your head spinning, you'd just head to the kitchen and begin to take out ingredients letting that be your only focus. The Great British Baking Show also brings a lot of comfort to you, Harry happily laying his head on your lap, your hand running through his hair as you just let the show play on and on. 

Now, you're in the kitchen for a whole other reason; you're baking gingerbread cookies, from snowflakes to snowman and even little reindeer. Harry has invited friends over for a fun holiday decorating party. It sounded like a good idea until he left you to do it all yourself as he ran errands that he pushed off for a week. 

Thankfully, there were no distractions during the time it took you to make one hundred cookies because there would be casualties during the decorating. Just as you were putting the last dozen on the cooling rack, does your phone ring causing it to cut off Paul McCartney's singing of 'Wonderful Christmastime.'

As you pick it up to answer, you check the caller id and see that it's Gemma calling. 

Gemma forgoes a greeting and goes straight to the reason for her call. 

"You don't know 'Frosty the Snowman!'" She exclaims more than asks. 

"I'm going to kill him." You groan into the phone. 

Gemma laughs, "No, no, please don't. Mum likes you too much to see you behind bars."

"Gem, he's been relentless." Thinking back to the past few days and how he'd randomly come up to you and just begin to sing the lyrics to you, not shutting up until you tickled him too much to continue. "Please don't let it come up later." 

"I've got you," Gemma assures you. 

"Thank you."

"As long," Gemma begins, but you groan jokingly into the phone. 

"Go on," You sigh, knowing this is how the eldest Styles sibling acts.  

"As long as you tell me what Harry bought mum for Christmas."

"Alright, fair." Very well, Harry would most likely spoil this himself the closer the holiday arrives. 

Just as you were about to spoil Harry's gift, he walks through the kitchen, saved by the devil himself. "I'll tell you later when you get here." You tell Gemma, smiling at Harry as you bid his sister goodbye.  

"Who was it, love?" Harry asks, kissing you lightly on your lips, being able to taste the gingerbread on your lips that makes him beeline to the cooled cookies. 

"Gems, a huge birdie told her I don't know the lyrics to a popular song." You lean against the counter, smiling as he has a cookie in hand already; he is also a big reason you made so many. 

"Hey," He says, offended, a cookie half shoved in his mouth. "I'm not huge." 

"Never said it was you, hun." You smirk. "Thanks for fessing up."

He pouts, not liking that you outsmarted him. 

"Might want to watch the cookies." You pinch his love handles, snatching what was left of the cookie from his hand and heading upstairs. 

Harry watches you walk away, upset that you stole his cookie; also, he knows you love his winter gains. 

_____

You and Harry are up fairly early, he likes to go on a run around the neighborhood, but you like going to the park. This morning you skipped your run because Harry was meeting up with a friend for breakfast. 

Sure, you got up at your usual time at 7am and began to prepare yourself breakfast. You usually drank coffee with Harry and seeing as he wasn't here, you decided to skip it, instead going straight to the fridge to get the fruits and orange juice to make a smoothie. Something simple, not wanting to clean much after. 

As you finally settled on the couch, getting ready to read Educated by Tara Westover, a book Gemma recommended to her then gifted to her. Tara's memoir is her story of how she comes from a Mormon background and recounts how she educated herself to go to college and learn about the world. It's a Friday, and what better way to spend it lost in a book. 

You had just flipped it open when your phone rang, alerting you to a message. As much as you didn't want to check because you were finally in a comfortable position, you knew it could easily be Harry checking in who gets worried about not getting a reply even five minutes after. He's a worrier at heart. 

As you retrieve it and settle yourself back down, not at all comfortable anymore, you see it's a message from Iz. She was the first friend you made on your own that Harry didn't introduce you to. Iz saw you at a coffee shop you began to frequent and complimented your tote bag that had wildflowers embroidered on it. You thanked her and shared you made it. Iz was shocked, just throwing compliment after compliment. You offered to make her one, but she said you had better teach her instead. Thus, a friendship began. 

Her message read: 

Radio 1 Breakfast Show. Listen in! 

It was definitely a strange message coming from Iz, but you did as told. 

Greg James was saying goodbye to his special guest, no idea who it was. "Before he signs off, he's going to play you one of his favorite Christmas songs," Greg says, then silences, allowing his guest a moment before speaking. 

"This week's Christmas song is in honor of my girlfriend who loves singing Frosty the Snowman... without knowing the lyrics. Happy Holidays."  

Your jaw drops. 

That your boyfriend's voice. You are the girlfriend. 

He went on record. 

Harry really went on live radio to tell thousands that you don't know the lyrics to a Christmas classic. 

You want to laugh because you never expected this from him and are annoyed that something personal now the whole world will know by the end of the day. 

You can't wait until he arrives home.

"Harry Edward Styles!" You yell as you hear Harry open the front door. 

He looks sheepish. "Yes, my darling angel."

"You told me you were having breakfast with Greg James, not that you were going to be on the Breakfast show."

"I took muffins, and they provided coffee, therefore, breakfast." Harry defends

"You exposed me to all of the UK to not knowing 'Frosty the Snowman.'"

"No one knows you're my girlfriend." Harry tries to brush it off.

"We've been dating four years; I'm not that much of a secret. Anne posts me on her story from time to time, and your friends follow my Instagram, fuck; you've introduced me to Greg." You're not angry, more annoyed than anything because he won't let this go.

"It's just to give everyone a good laugh; no one is going to hold it against you." 

"No, just my boyfriend and everyone who listens to the Breakfast Show." You cross your arms before storming up the stairs away from Harry. 

"Love? You're not actually mad, right?" Harry asks, pushing the bedroom door open. 

"You even got Iz on it!" Your turn around with a pout on your face. 

Harry laughs. "I honestly thought she wouldn't go through with it."

"Well, I see where her loyalty lies." 

Harry steps close and pulls you into his chest. You sigh, wrapping your arms around him. He knows how much you love his hugs.

"I promise this is the last I mention of it." 

You frown into his chest, not at all believing him. Harry pats your bum, and you take that as the queue to look up at him. He's smiling down at you, leaning in to give you a quick peck. "I promise." 

"Okay, then." You lean in and kiss him, firmer this time and much longer. Harry sneaks his tongue in, instantly getting a moan out of you. 

"I know how you can make it up to me." You gasp, pulling away, 

Harry raises an eyebrow at you. "Do tell." 

A smirk on both your faces as you guide him to the bed, very much hungry for something that wasn't breakfast. 

_____

Harry has the Christmas playlist running; it's a Sunday, meaning they spend it at home doing absolutely nothing. To be truthful, they rolled out of bed past ten and still have their pj's on. Not at all bothering to change, why waste more clothes if no one will see them like this in the comfort of their own home.

You cooked grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and now are playing a game of scrabble.

Harry puts down the word 'light,' then reaching his hand into the black pouch to pick five letters to have seven once again. You are looking back and forth between the board and your letters, thinking of the best place to place your word. 

"I've got a question," Harry says, looking at you, wanting all your attention as well. 

"What is it?" You're focused on your letters. Rearranging them, not putting down the 'q' in your hand. It's currently useless but will eventually give you a word to win the game. Not that you both ever keep points, oh no, that stopped after you beat harry 120 to 66, and he flipped the board, causing letters to fly everyone. You still claim that there are missing letters. 

"Frosty is a cute name."

"Reminds me of that Wendy's dessert. I'm still not sure what made it so good." You say, maybe you should get up and eat some. Harry did just pick up new flavors that he had been wanting to try something about them being richer in flavor. 

"You're getting off track." 

"Sorry, Frosty is cute for what?" You don't let him answer before you're speaking again. "A dog, did you get a dog?" You pause, looking up at him, "a cat, did Anne find a stray and wants to give them to us?" You wait, but Harry is about to crush all your excitement. 

"None of that." He shakes his head at you, and disappointment fills you immediately. 

"Well, can this conversation end then? I'm disappointed." 

"Darling," Harry chastises you for not letting him go on.

"Go on then, mate." You gesture him to continue. Shifting your attention away from the game in front of you.

Harry frowns, his eyebrows pinching together in the sweet way that makes you want to rub them out until he's relaxed. "Why'd you call me, mate?"

"Oh, I've called you this before." You brush off Harry's reactions; he's always dramatic. 

"I'm not your friend." He states.

You furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head and really look at Harry. "Well, of course, you are boyfriend," You emphasize, dragging out the word. "You're my best friend." 

"You can't say boyfriend anymore. I'm your fiancé now." Harry states proudly, but you feel a little dumbfounded, not knowing why he is saying that.

Your eyes widen when you look down at your left hand, and no ring rests on your left ring finger.

"Fuck, I missed your proposal, and the ring got lost." You pout, trying your best to stop the smirk from coming out.  

"Darling, I'm sorry." Harry quickly apologizes. "I'm still your boyfriend, but I will be proposing soon." He promises. "Shit, you were supposed to not even know. I really am bad at hiding things."

"Fuck, you really are." You laugh, "but boyfriend sounds cute. Can't I still say boyfriend when you do?" 

"Doesn't fiancé sound nicer?" Harry tries. 

You shrug. "Not as fun, husband is nice."

"You're rejecting my future proposal, then." Harry is teasing, and you can tell by the sparkle in his forest eyes. 

"Of course not, you dummy. You can be my fiancé and my boyfriend." You tell him like it was the most obvious answer.

"Seems like a lot of work."

"Rude." You stick your tongue at him. 

"Right, love, well try to remember I'm your husband once we're married, no more boyfriend."

"I will, hubby. You're going to be my hubby."

You both go silent.

You burst out laughing, "That's awful, I hate it."

Harry chuckles, nodding his head. "Yeah, I do as well."

"This is why I'm the brains in the relationship." 

"Right," Harry rolls his eyes at you, not at all agreeing.

"Uh, darling, I went to uni and got two degrees while you only finished school at sixteen before going off to steal millions of hearts around the world." 

"Including yours." He teases.

"I was always more a Zayn girl." You correct him.

Harry throws his arms up, "Can never let me win, can you?" 

"Nope"

"We're off-topic." Harry realizing how far they strayed from their starting point. 

"Where did we start?"

"Frosty." 

You sit back, resting against the couch; you take him in and smile at how cuddly he looks in the purple robe that he stopped letting you use. "Well, go on."

"Seeing as-" He pauses, hearing the familiar opening notes to the song he was thinking of. 'Frosty, the Snowman' is now his favorite song. "Perfectly timed, as you don't know the lyrics to Frosty the snowman."

"Gosh, you're never going to let this go," You grumble. 

"Nope. I figured we will have a little fun with this."

"More fun than the breakfast show." 

He gives you a pointed look.

You let out a long sigh, "Let's hear it." 

"You learn all the lyrics and sing it for me, and I'll let you get us a dog or cat." Harry's grinning at his idea, knowing you'll agree without a fight. 

"Can we go to the shelter?" You look like a kid on Christmas morning who had just received their presents from Santa, and in a way, you have.

"Yes, we can. Only if you can learn the entire song." Harry tells you again, wanting to emphasize the singing.

"Done deal." 

"Great, I'm giving you a week." 

You smile wide, nodding, looking, finally focusing back down at your words and the ones Harry has placed. You put down the word 'queen,' and this wins you the non-official game. Harry looks down at his poorly hidden score sheet and curses under his breath. 

"I win." 

Safe to say you lost more letters that day.

_____

It's been a week, and Harry is patiently waiting on their bed as you get ready in your shared closet. Your shared closet is large and mainly holds all of Harry's clothing. You definitely have a nice share of clothes filled with gifts from friends as well as Harry's friends and your treasured thrifted pieces. You smile at yourself in the full-length mirror. 

Harry really can't begin to imagine what you have in store for him. 

The speaker is set out and ready, and all that is needed is for you to make your entrance.

You shake out your hands in hopes of ridding yourself of the nerves. You look yourself over one last time before taking a deep breath and pushing the door open. 

"Close your eyes." You call out. 

Harry rolls his eyes but does as he is told.

You walk over to the speaker and press play, letting the music fill the room, making your way to stand in front of Harry, who slowly opens his eyes.

He gasps; he feels himself start to get hard. His eyes can't seem to take everything in fast enough. You smirk, loving the reaction you got out of him. It gives you the extra boost of confidence you were needing. 

You stand there, hand on your hip in a sexy snowman outfit to go with the performance you are about to give.

The dress, if you can consider it with how short it is, has three black buttons in the center. The material hugs your chest nicely, giving Harry a nice view of your breasts that are close to popping out. The dress hugs your waist and begins to flow out right past your butt. You wore your favorite black heels that Harry sometimes begs you not to take off. You had on a plaid scarf and a black hat that matched it perfectly. 

You were the human version of the snowman except for a more rated r version.

Harry is sitting his mouth wide open at a loss for words. You blow him a kiss before letting the song lyrics flow out of you.

Frosty the snowman

Was a jolly happy soul

With a corncob pipe and a button nose

And two eyes made out of coal

You sway your hips side to side, singing, enjoying the ravenous stare he was giving you. You throw the hat, letting it fall at his feet, but not even that breaks the gaze he has on you, not wanting to miss a single movement of yours. 

Frosty the snowman is a fairy tale they say

He was made of snow

But the children know

How he came to life one day

You take a few steps forward, but never enough to allow him to touch you, and he's craving it; you know he is. His hands are gripping his thighs, his knuckles turning whiter by the seconds. 

He still hasn't said a word. You have him mesmerized. 

You sing the lyrics proudly, knowing you practiced all week for this moment. The moment Harry will never forget all the teasing he had been doing, always forgetting you win these battles. 

There must have been some magic in that

Old silk hat they found

For when they placed it on his head

He began to dance around

"Baby," Harry breathes out, putting a hand out to touch you, but you take a step back before he can do so. 

You smirk, shaking your head no at him. You were having a lot more fun than you expected. 

You bend over, slipping off your heels, never breaking eye contact with Harry; he could very easily see up the dress that you had nothing underneath. His green eyes turned dark, and you swore your heart stopped, and you were sure he was about to attack. You were the prey, taunting him until he had enough, but surprisingly enough, he took a deep breath, and his composure was back well, just a bit of it.  

O Frosty the snowman

Was alive as he could be

And the children say he could laugh and play

Just the same as you and me

You stopped right in front of him. Harry's eyes trained on your red lips, hanging out to every word you were singing. You reached a hand back and began to unzip the dress. The grin on your face excited for the next reaction you were about to receive. 

Once you reached the bottom of your back, the dress fell to the floor. Harry let out a loud gasp. Your breasts on display, the small owl tattoo on your hip staring at him, he could see how wet you were, and all he wanted was his head between your thighs as you screamed his name. 

You were a dream. You missed Harry's touch. It was the reason you stepped close enough for him to finally pull you in. 

He led them down the streets of town

Right to the traffic cop

And he only paused a moment when

He heard them holler "Stop!"

Harry has no expression on his face as he sits you on his lap. He lets his head fall into your next, feeling how wet you are through his thin sweats. You move to stand up, but he grips your hips tightly, thrusting his hips against yours, searching for some kind of relief or a reaction from you because you still haven't stopped singing. 

"Baby, stop singing." His hand is cradling your cheek as his lust-filled eyes stare at you. 

You shake your head, not letting him distract you. The only piece of clothing left was the scarf, and Harry lets out a growl before ripping your scarf off your neck, throwing it off to the side.

Now you truly sit there naked in his lap, and you feel all the control you have over him. The song is coming to an end, meaning you've got to remove yourself from your favorite place to sit but knowing you'll be back there soon enough. 

Frosty the snowman

Had to hurry on his way

But he waved goodbye, saying

"Don't you cry I'll be back again someday"

You sing the final lyrics in his ear before walking away to turn off the speaker, an extra sway to your hips, knowing Harry is very well still watching your every move. You stand a delighted look on your face as you wait for his praise. 

"Those were the longest two minutes of my life," Harry says; he puts a hand over his heart, feeling like it might just burst out. "I'm never going to be able to listen to this song in public or around anyone that isn't you." 

You smirk, thrilled to hear that.

"What did I do to end up with someone as beautiful and perfect as you in my life." He confesses. 

"Probably stopped a war in a past life." You throw out jokingly. 

Harry puckers his lips and makes grabby hands at you. "Kissy, please?"

And who are you to say no? He spreads his legs, letting you step in between. You slip your fingers into his hair, pulling back with enough force to have him let out a moan. You lean down and connect your lips in a hot kiss, one that has Harry gripping you tightly wherever he can get his hands on. You moan as he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you happily give up the control to him. 

You pull back and rest a hand on his chest, preventing him from pulling you back for you. You wipe your thumb over his bottom lip that now has some of your red lipstick. "Seems like I won, sweets."

"I feel like the real winner here," Harry tells you cheekily, sneaking a kiss to both your boobs. You giggle, not at all surprised by his action. 

"Well," You fiddle with the collar of his shirt. "Why don't you show me how winners celebrate?" 

"With pleasure." Harry groans standing up quickly and pushing you back against the best. He strips as fast as he can, not without a small stumble; you're sure to keep your giggle quiet, knowing very well how easily he gets embarrassed. 

He is quick to get on top and kisses you hard. His kisses are always soft, but it seems the teasing seemed to flip a switch, one that you will happily remember to look to turn on again on a later date. Tonight, you are ready for an endless night of pleasure and love. 

Harry connects their lips, ready for an endless night of pleasure and love. 

_____

Christmas cards were a lovely tradition. Harry insisted they started because he wanted to show off his beautiful girlfriend to his friends and family. He also liked them handwritten because it added a nice personal touch. Who were you to argue about it?

This year you were the one excited to send them out. 

It read: Merry Christmas from our beautiful family to yours

You and Harry sat in front of the fireplace, four stockings hanging behind you. Harry made you sit in his lap, wanting to show off your matching two-piece buffalo plaid pajamas. You both had the biggest grins on your face, eyes shining bright. Next to you, laying on top of a box that was wrapped with blue sloth wrapping paper, was a one-year-old Australian shepherd that had spent the better of six months in the shelter because the small pup was quiet who didn't do well with people, but that changed instantly the minute he met you. You decided on the name Frosty for him. Not only did Harry get you the dog of your dreams but a small kitten as well. You brought home Snow, a six-month white Birman kitten who was the rut of his siblings, and how could you just not bring him home with you with his big blue eyes staring at you begging to add to your family because he had lots of love to give. At least that's what you told Harry what the look he was giving you meant. The two siblings laid next to each other, both surprisingly staring right at the camera, making it their best Christmas photo yet. 

A photo can honestly speak a thousand words because one glance at this photo tells you how much love there is in that home and their relationship. 

Christmas was all about spreading joy and love, and well, Harry accomplished just that for you.

_____

thank you so much for reading! i honestly hoped you loved it and would love to hear what you thought so send me a message if you like. 

i love you!

[pigeonp0st]

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

#7 Part 2

Words: 2,365

Click here for Part 1

Warnings: love, angst, trauma

Notes:

A part 2 was requested so a part 2 is here. Thank you for requesting, and sorry for spelling mistakes. I’m not sure if anyone notices but here, and in the first part, i’m really experimenting with my writing. If anyone reads these notes let me know if you like it...(also sorry for the sorta abrupt ending. The Word count was getting far too high.)

—————

Natasha looks at you and sometimes she wonders how exactly they had broken you. She wonders how they put out your flames.

Sometimes she thinks that maybe it was simple, like they poured water over you and watched as the flames died into embers.

Other times, more commonly, she thinks it was more difficult than that, she thinks that maybe putting them out—your flames— was challenging, and that people got burned in their efforts. She thinks that maybe it had taken an entire crew of people who specialize in putting out peoples flames. Firefighters.

Then, one day, watching you sleep with peace that you now only have when you’re unconscious; she thinks she knows.

They poured water over an oil fire—you’re oil fire—over and over again, and left it to burn, burn, burn, until everything around you was ash. Until you finally stopped and looked around at the nothingness and wondered what you were burning for in the first place.

The thought makes Natasha furious. She wants to wake you up just so she can tell you, so that she can shout that; your strength isn’t a distinguishable flame, and that you are not as small as a forest, that you are an ocean, and your strength is the waves, your strength is a whirlpool, your strength is a typhoon, and you are simply infinite.

To Natasha—to Natasha you are infinite.

She doesn’t tell you that though, she can’t while you’re still so reluctant to talk about what happened, she can’t when her love and her reassurances are like water to the oil fire you limit yourself to, and you’re still so scared of burning everything away.

——

You’re so scared of what it will mean to be strong again, but you want it so badly anyways.

You muse with no small amount of humor if that makes you brave, then you laugh because what a funny concept.

You were brave, you remember, when Hydra began their abuse and their nightmare pills and their cruelty. You were brave, and you were strong, and it was so much harder than just giving in but it didn’t make you hate yourself as much.

You were brave and strong, and Natasha loved you, and then you weren’t and she still loved you anyways.

——-

Natasha’s been tasked to call you downstairs for the weekly ‘Avenger family dinner’. She checks her room (you’re there more often than not again), and when she doesn’t find you there she checked yours.

You’re not there either, and she can’t hear the shower to your bathroom but she pushes it open anyways—just in case.

She’s gotten used to not knocking...she doesn’t even consider it anymore. She doesn’t even stop to realize that she hasn’t seen you without clothes since you were rescued, and that maybe there’s a reason for that, she just opens the bathroom door and stops so completely when she sees you her legs hurt from the abruptness.

You’re there staring so blankly in the mirror Natasha knows you’re not really looking at it—you’re looking through it at things she can’t ever see.

You don’t realize she’s there, but she’s there. She’s there, and you’re naked with scars she’s never seen before littered across your skin like shells on a beach.

Scattered and many. Too many to count. Too many.

Natasha stops, and the world stops, and infinity stops. Everything stops—at least to her it seems that way, because how can anything possibly exist outside this moment.

How can there be other lives and how can there be more pain in the world than this when this moment feels like it is already too much more than Natasha can handle—too much for the world to handle even.

Natasha has known logically that they had tortured you, you are the evidence—you obviously told her too—but none of your evidence is...touchable. Physically.

It’s been visual—yeah—but not like this.

This is...this is violence, and cruelty, when since you’ve been back you have only been the exact opposite. This is red lines and scars not quite healed yet forming constellations and shooting stars and hope.

Hope because you have survived so much violence, and yet here you are, still so good. Natasha wants to reach out and touch them—touch your scars and make wishes against them because she thinks that maybe your strength has the power to do anything.

Tears fill her eyes and fall over her cheeks and suddenly all she can think of is how you shouldn’t have to be that strong. No one should have to be.

She wanted to protect you. All she has ever wanted to do is protect you, and yet here you are.

Here you are, staring into a mirror unseeing and conscious but not there, with a look in your eyes Natasha has only seen in nightmares where she’s failed you—and you’re trying. You’re trying even now and Natasha wants to be there for you but this isn’t something she can hold your hand through.

This isn’t something she can kiss and make better. There’s nothing she can do. There’s nothing she can do and the simple fact rips away at her heart and leaves it bleeding out with it’s helplessness.

And then, and then you turn around.

The world starts moving again.

It starts moving and her heart stops bleeding—stiched up with her love for you—and you have never looked so sad but you have always looked so beautiful.

“I think,” Natasha whispers, voice throaty and full of shooting stars, “I think I love you more than I ever have. I think—” she pauses then, thinking of infinities, “I think my love for you is infinite.”

Your mouth parts open just slightly, and your eyes widen just that bit more. “Nat…” you stutter out wobbly, eyes filling with tears.

Natasha blinks, shocked and guilty for making you cry, but then you release a smile so bright and simply glowing Natasha can only think of stars again.

You’re laughing in the next instant, laughing and crossing your arms over your torso, digging your fingers into your arms, and then sobbing. Sobbing but somehow still laughing, and Natasha is crossing the bathroom and wrapping her arms around you like seaweed being pulled in by ocean waves.

“I think,” you gasp out between breaths, pulling away slightly to meet Natasha’s eyes, “I think that you’re going to beat me to it.”

“To what?”

“To putting my pieces back together,” you answer like it’s obvious. “You seem to do it so easily, yet when I try the pieces don’t quite fit right.”

Natasha cups your cheek and simply smiles. “Oh baby, look at how many pieces you’ve already put back.”

You don’t know what she’s talking about for a moment, Natasha can tell, but when it hits you it’s obvious. “I...I don’t flinch anymore.”

“Not around your friends. Not in the compound,” Natasha confirms, feeling a part of your joy when you screech like a child on Christmas and tightly wrap your arms around her neck.

Natasha thinks that maybe she—you—will get by just by just fine without a wish upon a star.

��—-

There’s a silent argument going on, an argument that only shows itself on the floors of the training room and seeps out of the both of you like it was never there the moment you leave.

Natasha’s begun training with you again but she clearly doesn’t want to be there.

You don’t want to be there with her either if the whole time you’re training with her she’s going to be so...loud. Loud but silent. You can hear her shouting at you—accusations, pleads, and why’s. Why, why, why, you can hear Natasha ask.

Why are you doing this?

You don’t have the answers she’s seeking, not any that would appeal to her anyways, and it’s exhausting—exhausting because this is you trying to glue some pieces back where they belong and all Natasha see’s is you forcing them together when they don’t fit.

It’s infuriating, and heartwarming, and tiring, and when you’ve finally had enough of it you decide to try and train with someone else—Steve—but you’re trembling the whole fight and your insides don’t burn, they quake, and your nauseous; nauseous because he moves too quickly, because he’s reaching for you but it’s not him, it’s not him, and you’re dying, you’re dying, you can’t breathe— Natasha is there.

Natasha is there, arms wrapped around your torso and angry, but this time it’s not at you, it’s at Steve, and it’s Steve again, not some Hydra agent. It’s your friend.

Steve is looking guilty and sad, like a kicked puppy, and Natasha is yelling, and then Steve says something, something and suddenly she’s looking guilty too, guilty and sad.

Not like a kicked puppy though, like a betrayed one.

“Why are you doing this, Y/N?” Natasha asks quietly. Steve is gone. Where did he go? When did he leave? “Are you...are you there?”

Oh. Had Natasha said that out loud?

“Doing what?” You rasp, despising the way that you hate it when your jaw shakes. It’s okay, you remind yourself. It’s Natasha, it’s okay to be broken around her. Even when she’s angry.

Natasha has broken pieces, and she has missing pieces, and you do too, so it’s okay.

“Why are you training, why are you doing any of this when you aren’t,” Natasha searches your eyes, desperate, “you aren’t going out there on the field again.”

And now, now you are burning.

——

You croak out a raspy; “What?” That has Natasha wincing like she’s already been burned. “Natasha, I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but i’m- i’m going out there again.”

“You can’t even fight anyone that isn’t me,” Natasha says, freezing the moment the words are past her lips.

She tries to cup your cheek but your wincing and stepping away, away, away, too far for Natasha to reach and she hadn’t meant it like that, it wasn’t supposed to be an attack, she hadn’t—

“I’m trying now,” you say, and your voice is shaky but it’s there, and it’s strong, and you aren’t backing away any more you’re moving closer— like this time Natasha is the ocean and you’re being drawn in.

You’re wrapping your arms around Natasha and she’s confused but she’s relieved because you’re still there. You’re still with her.

“I’m trying and I know things have changed,” you whisper, “I know you’re scared, I am too, but we...were heroes because we keep trying, because even when missions go wrong and we don’t want to—we go out there and we fight so that other people don’t have to as hard.”

And Natasha knows this. She knows but…

“I know this has been hard for you,” you say, and you’re the ocean, you’re the fire, you’re all of the stupid metaphors the two of you have made up to signify strength. You’re strength, and you’re bravery because she knows how scared you are of being strong and for it to mean nothing in the end, and yet here you are.

“I know it’s been hard for you to see me like this, I know it’s been hard for you to deal with what’s happened to me,” you pull away to clamp a hand over Natasha’s mouth so she doesn’t dispute anything, and Natasha couldn’t if she wanted to because you’re crying, there are tears running down your cheeks, and she’s been speechless since the moment you hugged her.

“I know that you’ve been handing me the little pieces of yourself that you have left, and that you’ve been ignoring the pile at your own feet, and I could never thank you enough,” you smile at her then, brushing away tears that Natasha hadn’t even known she let fall “you wouldn’t want me to anyways, but now—right now I need you to let me be strong again. Even though it’s scary, because Natasha…”

You pause, closing your eyes and letting your hand fall from her mouth. “Hydra took me on a chance. It could have been you. It could have been any of the Avengers. That’s the position you put yourself in, that’s the position all of us put ourselves in, but we take that chance. I let you take that chance. Let me.”

And Natasha kisses you. She kisses you, and you gasp against her lips because you hadn’t expected it, but she keeps kissing you, and kissing you, because you're her shooting star and she wants to wish for infinity to slow down.

“I’m so scared,” Natasha says when she pulls away for air, and a sentence has never resonated with her so much, but you’re strong, you’re strong even though you’re scared, and Natasha won’t let it mean nothing, because it means everything that you’re being strong for her. “But okay. Okay.”

The breath of relief you release against Natasha’s neck, and the way you sag into her like your strength has been sapped out of you makes her tense and swallow down a sob. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry.”

But you pull away from her grinning and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Does this mean you’ll stop going easy on me?”

Natasha gets whiplash.

“I uh...I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she denies, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks only to have you start wiping away at her own. Natasha laughs because what else is she supposed to do.

“Hypothetically though, if I were to have been going easy on you, I'll try to be more fair.”

Your smile widens just that bit more and Natasha is put at ease.

The two of you will be just fine, Natasha knows. No matter what the two of you face, what the two of you go through, you’ll be okay.

“I won’t go easy on you either then.”

“...What…?”

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Nothing But A Scratch

Ivar x Princess reader

Word Count: 3155

Warnings: Tiny mention of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, Ivar may be out of character (Shrugs).

Summary: Ivar is wounded during battle.

My entry for @maggiescarborough’s 400 Followers Writing Challenge! Congratulations Sophie! 😊❤️For some reason, I always write more than 2k for your challenges 😂

I’m not exactly sure what to say about this. I struggled quite a bit writing it. I’m really hard on myself 😅Hope ya’ll enjoy!

Prompt: The character gets seriously hurt.

According to google translate (An unreliable source, I know), moron in Russian is Debil.

Thanks to @shannygoatgruff​ for beta reading

...

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself.

The enemy sword was swift, the blade slicing through his armor and deep into the flesh of his belly.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when blood began to pour from his wound and past his lips, the adrenaline pushing him forward.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when he swayed on his feet, his crutch no longer of use to him.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when his legs twisted, and his body collided with the muddy ground, completely vulnerable and surrounded by his enemies.

…

Ivar dreamed.

He dreamed of Kattegat in the days of his youth, back when he trailed behind his older brothers through the dirt with his hands, only to come to the painful realization that he would never be like them. He dreamed of his mother and her tears, his pride separating them despite how much she pleaded for him not to go.

He dreamed of the salty waters of the Northern Sea and the unforgiving winds that destroyed their ship, splintering it to pieces. He dreamed of Ràn dragging him into the depths of her dark abyss, collecting another prize for her realm of the drowned.

He dreamed of England’s sandy shores, of land ready for the taking, and of the weak-minded men who ruled over it. He dreamed of little Prince Alfred, now a King, holding out his hand to offer him friendship in the form of a chess piece.

He dreamed of Ragnar in the way he remembered best, tired, and decrepit in his final days, a hermit, and yet, in his eyes, he was still the greatest man who ever lived.

It is not your time yet, Ragnar told him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

He dreamed of Kiev and its massive wooden gates, golden palace walls, and luxurious Byzantine silks. He dreamed of the ambitious Prince Oleg, and of sweet, sweet, Igor. He dreamed of emotionless puppets made to stand with perfect posture while he still struggled to keep up with his own.

He dreamed of the Rus princess with the mysterious umber eyes, always seeking him out in a room. He dreamed of her dark hair hidden under white and gold silks, and of the jewels that adorned her neck and wrists, as befitting a princess.

He dreamed of her smile, never fully reaching her eyes, and of the way her fingers stroked his cheek at night when the fires burned bright against the darkness when her maids kept close watch outside her door.

He dreamed of the smooth expanse of her skin, of her gasps of delight, and her moans of pleasure. He dreamed of her mouth on his, the urgency they both felt as she left crescent moon shapes over his shoulders, clinging on to the precious time that seemed to slip away.

He dreamed of the day he stole her away from her brother, away from the shelter of the Kievan court, and into the safety of his arms. She watched her brother die that day, by the hands of her own nephew, her dark eyes glossing over, but never daring to let the tears fall.

He dreamed of making her his wife, of her in a crown of wildflowers and the sun illuminating the different shades of her hair.

He dreamed of her smile, finally reaching her eyes.

He could hear her calling out to him, begging for him to come to her.

Ivar, please, she cried, Wake up.

He tried searching for her, arm outstretched and fingers reaching in futile attempts. It was impossible, his body fighting through what felt like tar. He sunk deeper into the darkness, away from her soothing voice, and into Ràn’s abyss where Ivar the Boneless was forgotten.

…

It had been a week before he had shown any signs of consciousness.

7 days of fever, chills, and silence that had him teetering between Midgard and Valhalla.

For 7 days his army laid low after their truce with the Saxon king. For all the attacks Wessex had endured from the Northmen, he valued peace over war, forgiveness over vengeance. A true Christian king.

Alfred was not ruthless.

For 7 days the heathen army waited impatiently, wondering whether the youngest son of Ragnar was to survive, or whether a funeral was to be organized. Some believed he would die. Of course, the wound he received at the hands of a Saxon warrior was a deadly one. A deep gash across his stomach had been opened to infection, causing the fever to take hold of him the first few nights. His legs, more shattered than ever, would make surviving seemingly impossible.

But still, they waited.

The former princess of Kiev waited by his side, as still as a statue of a saint. She kept watch over him at night when the rest of the army was asleep, feeling more lost than she ever did in her brother’s court. She prayed for his soul rigorously, cross clutched tightly in her hand, hard enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

7 days of uncertainty, of prayer and fasting, of fear and loneliness. 7 days of hope and hopelessness, surrounded by untrustworthy men.

But still, she waited.

…

It was the dead of night when Ivar broke from his delirium.

He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. He couldn’t hear the screams of his fellow warriors, the clashing of sword against sword, nor could he smell the scent of iron spewing from the blood of both enemy and ally. It was just...darkness.

Perhaps he was in Valhalla, he thought, though if that were true, then the stories were wrong. It was rather underwhelming.

But no, he was not in Valhalla either, not by the scent at least. It smelled of dried herbs, and of that revolting root the Rus princess often drank as a tea. What was it again? Ginseng?—

And then he forced his eyes to open, lashes ripping apart after spending days glued together.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he felt as if he were suffocating under the pile of furs thrown over him. His heart was beating erratically, nearly bursting from the confines of his chest as his body fought to stabilize itself.

He wheezed, his throat feeling dryer than the deserts of the Silk Road. His tongue darted out in an attempt to wet his cracked lips with little success.

Moving was an issue. He couldn’t. It hurt.

His attempt to sit up failed as a yelp ripped free from his lips, croaky and in pure agony. He fell back against the makeshift cot with a grunt.

The pain was excruciating, hot, and vicious in his lower abdomen, like a raven fighting to claw its way in. His legs, though always in a fragile state, felt worse than they had in the years since adopting the use of his braces and crutch.

He struggled to crane his neck, quick to map out his surroundings as best he could. He was in his own tent, that much was evident, as he always had it specifically set to his liking. His weapons were laid out in a corner, along with his ruined armor, crutch, and leg braces. The useless things landed him in a cot, fighting for survival.

“My love?” Her voice was enough to calm his wild heart, his neck snapping in the direction of her voice.

The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from what he could only assume had been days of weeping. Beside her was a steaming cup of tea, producing that horrible smell of Ginseng that made him want to gag. When had she the time to steal the root before they left Novgorod?

Wrapped around her wrist was her gold beaded rosary, bright and shining in the candlelight. She held the cross tightly in her small fist, knuckles white from the pressure. He wondered how long she had sat by his side, praying, waiting for him to recover.

Her fingers dropped the cross, her soft hands reaching for him. Ivar could feel her hot tears drip over his bare chest as she leaned over him.

“Ivar—” She choked his name, sobs already taking hold of her body as she cupped his warm face, “You’re awake! Thank God!” More tears poured from her eyes as her mouth quivered. She lowered herself to her knees, grabbing his hand and placing kisses on the surface.

Ivar wanted to wrap her in his arms, to tell her he was fine, that the gods have not taken him yet, but his arms felt as fragile as his legs, weak from days of disuse. Instead, he brings his fingertips to her flushed cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.

“Hey,” He croaked out, using his thumb to catch another falling tear before running his fingers through her hair, “Stop crying, please, love.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. He sounded more like an old toad than a human, but it was enough to bring her weeping down to mere whimpering.

“It has been days, I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, sniffling before continuing, “I feared the worst.”

The princess was far more worried for his well-being than he ever was.

Ivar was quite content with the idea of falling in battle and ascending to Valhalla. She had not agreed with such sentiments.

It is not your time yet, his father had said to him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

“It is not my time yet,” He repeated Ragnar’s words, his hand continuing gentle motions through her soft hair, “Valhalla will have to wait a little longer, hmm?”

“Valhalla,” She hiccups, shaking her head, not fully understanding the Viking fascination with death, “Not with the way you throw yourself in battle.” She mutters, wiping her eyes.

She stood, going to the far side of the tent to fetch a bucket with a wooden ladle. She brings a hefty scoop of water to his lips, holding his head up carefully to aid him.

He drank like a mad man, the water running past his chin and down his neck.

“Debil,” She chastised him lovingly in her native tongue, eyes still moist, “Idiot. Where were your warriors?”

“Fighting for themselves,” He gasps, the cold water soothing the dryness of his throat, “Or have you forgotten the ways of war?” He croaks, his lips curling into a smile.

“What would I know of war, my love?” She offers, setting the bucket and the ladle aside once he had his fill, “Or have you forgotten I was but a sheltered princess.” She tried to make a joke of it, but she only sounded miserable saying such words. She brings a hand to smooth down his wild hair, braids unraveling into a long-twisted mess.

“In war,” Ivar begins, eyes fluttering as her nails scratched at his scalp, “You either survive or die.”

“And I suppose you wanted to die then?” A bitter tone was followed by a bitter smile. He cleared his throat, his tired eyes watching how her expression shifted through so many emotions.

His reply was honest. “If that is what the gods intended for me, then so be it. It would have been an honor.”

“What honor is there in taking me from my home, and leaving me to live out my life away from my own family and amongst men I do not know?” She snapped, though the anger was short-lived, and she lowered her eyes.

She was intrigued by Ivar from the moment she had set eyes on him, like a moth to a flame. She was happy to have left with him, happy to have relinquished her title and to have left such a sour life behind. Ivar offered her freedom, adventure, and love, things she never understood the meaning of in Kiev, but she was a fool to believe he was invincible. She had seen him rally crowds to chant his name, had seen his strengths despite his weaknesses, and yet, he bleeds red as every other man does. War takes the lives of men, and Ivar was not immune to such a fate. He welcomed it.

“You are all I have in this world, Ivar.” She spoke gently, as she did when he dreamed of her. Her fingers shifted to trace over the dark lines inked upon his heated skin. The fever had barely broken, but at least he was conscious now. “Please, my love, all I ask is that you stay alive.” Her lips quivered, “I do not think my heart could bear to see you like this again.”

Ivar felt his heart sink.

He knew she wasn’t made to live in a war camp amongst warriors. She was born into a life of gold and silver, into luxury that so many others could only dream of, and yet, she chose to go with him, a fallen king with worthless legs and a heart as dark as coal. He once had the world at his feet. He would do it all again, for her. He had to.

“Do you regret it?” He finally asked though something within him feared her answer.

“Regret what?”

“Regret leaving Kiev with me?” He reiterated, observing her features for any hint of disappointment.

“No,” The response was immediate and without hesitation, “I have been happier with you than I have been all my years in that palace.” She sighs, her hair creating a barrier between them when she lowered her head, “Oleg was not a good man.” Her words were laced in sorrow. Her brother's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

“You deserve more than this,” He said, eyes closing for a moment before bringing them back to her. Her dark brows curved up in a worrisome expression he’d seen on her many times before. “You have given up so much for me, a lonely cripple,” He chuckles when she made noises of protest, “Only the gods know why.” She considers him in silence, noting how unreal the blue of his irises were.

“Ivar?” She questioned, setting her palm on his warm chest and over his heart, silently thankful it was finally beating at a normal pace.

“You’re a princess, my love. The battlefield is no place for you.” He places his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“All I ask of you is to stay alive.” She spoke softly, her lips curving into a smile, though it wasn’t enough to reach her eyes. “I will not ask you for anything else.” She feared being alone, and rightfully so. She’d been alone all her life in the Kievan court, as expressionless and empty as those Byzantine puppets Oleg was so fond of, donning smiles that never reached her eyes.

“My sweet girl,” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Come, I wish to embrace you.” Planting both hands firmly on the sides of the cot, he forces himself into a seated position, groaning all the while, feeling the fire burn in the pit of his belly. He grunts, eyes screwed tight as he forced himself upright.

“Ivar!” She scolds, more worried than anything else, “Stop moving! You’ll fester your wound.” She peels off the furs to reveal the gauze wrapped tightly around his mind section, the once white cloth now stained red. “Christ. I must call the healer.”

“Don’t,” Ivar pants, tugging her wrist and quickly bringing her to his side, “Please. I wish for a few minutes to ourselves before I must face the world in this weak state. Grant me this one thing, hm?”

“But your wound—”

“What, this?” He jerks his chin down toward his abdomen with a tired smile, “It is nothing but a scratch.”

“Ivar.” She warned him.

“Princess.” The amusement was clear in his tone, artfully masking his pain. He gripped her waist, tugging her forward and into his arms with a grunt. She smelled of the English forest and of summer blossoms. “I will never leave you.” He mutters the promise into her waist, still ignoring the pain, “I will give you everything you deserve, my love.”

“What of your army?” She questions quietly, fingers dancing over his bicep, “And the Saxon king? Your brother tells me he seeks peace.” Ivar scoffs.

“And he shall get it...for now.” He concludes with an angry twitch of his brow.

“What do you intend to do?” She laid her cheek over the messy strands of his chestnut brown hair.

“Recover, and take you away from this miserable land I should have never brought you to in the first place.”

“Oh, Ivar,” He felt her plant a kiss upon his hair, “I belong wherever you are.” He grunts, gripping her tightly as if she would slip right through his fingers like sand.

“Marry me.” He mutters into her soft linen dress, suddenly feeling as shy as he did when he was a boy.

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.” He said, louder this time, needier, a plea falling from his lips as he tightened his hold on her. He shifts his head to look at her, imagining her with a crown of wildflowers nestled in her soft tresses. Her eyes grew round at his statement, lips parted as if to speak.

“Truly?” She asks, “Or has the fever gone to your head?” Ivar rolled his eyes fondly.

“Why would I bother asking you if I did not mean it, hmm?” His chin lightly grazed her abdomen as he peeked up at her through his lashes. “I will make you a queen, lay the world at your feet if you allow me.”

How many tears could this woman produce? He thought though he was more than satisfied knowing they were tears of joy when she erupted in giggles.

“I accept,” She wiped her eyes before arching down to place a kiss on his lips, “But, under one condition.”

“Oh?” Ivar pulls away from her, brows raised, “Go on, what is it?”

“You must drink the ginseng tea,” She offers, taking the lukewarm tea and offering it to him, “The healers would prescribe it to Oleg whenever he came back wounded from battle. It will revive your strength and clear your body of infection.” Ivar eyes the cup wearily, nose flaring at the abhorrent smell. He didn’t like it.

“It smells horrid.” He complained.

“You fight battles against fearsome enemies, and yet, are too afraid to drink an herbal tonic?” She scoffs. Ivar narrows his eyes, considers her words before muttering under his breath.

“...Very well.” He takes the cup from her, face pinched after taking a sip, “Are you satisfied now? Will you marry me?” She nods fervently, her hands laced together in her joy. A blinding smile settled on her lips like never before.

It finally reached her eyes.

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @leilabeaux​ @shannygoatgruff​ @inforapound​ @walkxthexmoon​ @hecohansen31​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @peachyboneless​ @fuchsiagrasshopper​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[ot7always]

My Fair Lady

Word Count: 8.1k

Pairing: Crown Prince!Taehyung x Captain of the Guard!Reader

Genre: Historical/Fantasy AU, fluff, smut, angst

Warnings: Sparring (swordfight/fistfight), I’ve literally never fenced in my life I’m sorry for any errors, pining, mentions of battle scars, angst angst angst, angsty sex, crying during sex (and not in a sexy way), unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, it’s super angsty but I promise it’ll be okay

Rating: 18+

Summary: His brother unable to spar with him that day, Crown Prince Taehyung comes to you in need of a partner. 

A/N: This fic was such a wild ride of a writing experience, and I literally lost chunks of writing because of my laptop crashing multiple times. But this fic is my baby, please let me know what you think!

Huge thanks to @wwilloww​​ for beta reading for me, and also @peekaboongi​​ for crying with me as I wrote.

Tagging @moonmintrails​​ @ppersonna​​ @irissilujm​​ @dee-ehn​​

Masterlist

--

You gaze swept across the palace training grounds, hands clasped firmly behind your back. You watched as your soldiers trained, whether it be alone or with each other, and kept an eye out for any glaring errors – incorrect form, weak footwork, and the like.

As the youngest Captain of the Guard in history, it was your duty to ensure each of your soldiers, men and women alike, were in prime condition. Though the position was not passed through bloodlines, you had taken over from your father following his retirement from duty. He was a very well-respected man, and you were determined not to disappoint him. You would continue to prove time and time again that you deserved the honour of your place.

You kept your eyes forward even as you sensed a tall presence settle beside you, taking on a similar stance to your own.

“My Lady,” a deep voice greeted. Your nose crinkled at the title. While it was true your family was of noble station, you much preferred to be addressed as “Captain.” You sought to distance yourself from your cousins who enjoyed hosting fancy balls and tittering about the latest messenger visiting from overseas.

You gave the man beside you a brief once-over, eyes quickly returning to your soldiers in the field. The Crown Prince was looking particularly fresh today, white cotton shirt laced neatly and tucked into black pants that moulded to him like water. His dark curls appeared freshly washed, small tendrils swaying in the wind, having escaped the small tie at the nape of his neck. He smelled suspiciously of lavender. Perhaps he had been delving into his sister’s perfumes once again.

“Your Highness,” you nodded curtly, ignoring the pang in your chest at his appearance. While you tried to put up a good front, you were not immune to the Prince’s charms.

“You know I don’t like when you call me that,” he smiled bashfully at his feet before turning the entirety of his attention to you. “I am in need of a favour,” he continued, gaze imploring.

“What can I do for you, Your Highness?” you responded, suppressing a smirk when you heard him sigh at your words. Having grown up around him, even sharing lessons and training together before you surpassed his abilities, you would consider the two of you friends – more, even. However, you had an image to keep up, barriers that needed to be kept in place lest anyone question your ability to prioritize the royal family’s safety without distraction.

“I require a sparring partner.”

“Do you forget yourself, Your Highness?” you grinned at the notion. Not many dared to challenge you to a fight, and the last time Taehyung matched you in skill he was perhaps a foot or two shorter.

“I beg of you, Captain. My brother is feeling out of sorts and I am in need of a distraction. I have been meeting with courtiers all morning and I cannot begin to express how tiring-”

“He’s taken ill?” you cut in, eyes wide and tone laced with concern as you finally turned to give the Prince your undivided attention. His younger brother was only 15, and you had developed a soft spot for the boy over the years. The plague which tended to come and go from your Kingdom was no joke. While many recovered, many more slowly but surely lost their lives.

“Don’t worry yourself too much, My Lady. Our doctors have assured us it is simply a minor ailment.” His heart warmed at your obvious affection for his brother, knowing how much you cherished his younger siblings. He wondered whether he himself held a similar place in your heart. “Let’s not concentrate on that which will resolve itself quickly in time. Rather, I am still in dire need of a partner. Please?” he appeased, giving you his best impression of a pout. You tried not to crack a smile at the resemblance to his sister.

Your hesitation did not last long – you found it difficult to deny Taehyung anything, not that he asked much of you very often. “Very well, then. Though, we are not exactly dressed for the occasion, are we?” you chuckled, meeting his eyes. It was true. Having only recently left a meeting with those who would accompany Their Majesties to town the next day, you were dressed in a white blouse, dark leather bodice laced on top. While your leather boots allowed for sufficient footwork, the suppressed movement of your torso was not exactly ideal for a fight.

“We both know that you are more than capable of fighting in such attire. Come,” he said, giving you no time to refuse before you were led to the central combat ring. The ring was often used to host friendly tournaments and was clearly visible from any spot in the field.

“Are you so keen to showcase your defeat to my entire squadron?” you teased, shooting the Prince a grin as you caught the foil he tossed to you. Light, thin, and dull, it ensured you did not cause any serious injury lest you accidentally hit him. Cotton, after all, was not the most ideal material to prevent bruising. As for you? Well, you didn’t plan on getting hit anyway.

You took up your position opposite him, bent slightly at the knee, sword in hand, opposing hand clenched comfortably behind your back. You watched as Taehyung settled into the same posture. You clicked your tongue in disapproval upon seeing his form. Shoulders tense already, you sighed. Well, you would just have to see if he fixed his error later on.

“Ready when you are, Sweet Prince,” you smirked, exhaling a laugh as his face flushed. It was a nickname given to him by the men and women he’d seduced and bedded over the years. Even if he’d invited them into his bed only once and never again, they never stopped singing his praises. A part of you was desperate to know what he did to impress them.

“I don’t have all day, Your Highness,” you called out, smile slowly lighting up your face at his embarrassment. A lie, of course. If he asked you to stand there and wait for hours while you simply stared at each other you would do it. You liked to tell yourself it was because of your royal duty, but in reality you had never been able to say no to him, even in your childhood. There was something so charming yet shy, so mature yet naïve about him, that had you wishing for his happiness at every moment. He was a walking contradiction you wanted nothing more than to solve.

Having collected himself, Taehyung launched himself at you quickly, sword flying its way toward your shoulder – easily parried. You figured the two of you would ease into a proper match. After all, neither of you were properly warmed up, and you refused to listen to the Prince’s complaining of sore muscles if you could avoid it.

You remained light on your feet, focusing solely on defending against his basic lunges rather than attempting to retaliate. That would come in time. It wouldn’t be so enjoyable if you didn’t toy with him just a little, right?

After several minutes of rather simple steps, you figured you were ready to break a sweat. The next time his blade swung at you, you batted it aside and thrust your own at his chest, tip poking into his shirt before he could even blink.

“Come now, Your Highness. Shall we see what my father taught you?” you taunted, backing away to your original position. Your heart warmed when you saw the fire light in his eyes at the challenge, his playful expression temporarily replaced by sheer focus. You couldn’t conclude which was more handsome.

The next time he flew at you, it was with newfound ardour, the clink of metal on metal a familiar symphony to your ears. The Prince was skilled, you would give him that. Not that you were surprised – you recalled a time in his youth when he dedicated himself fully to training in this exact spot.

You gave yourself fully to your reflexes, blade swinging left, right, and circling round as you blocked his attacks. Quickly side-stepping a stab toward your neck, you grinned. Despite your original hesitance, you were enjoying yourself. Seeing the sweat form on Taehyung’s brow from his effort, you were happy to see him dedicate himself to something so completely. His technique focused on agility over power, something well-suited to his long limbs and lean muscle. You were the same – fight smart, not hard, your father used to tell you.

Backing away suddenly, Taehyung pouted slightly as he caught his breath. “I can tell that you are going easy on me, Captain. At least try to hit me, I swear to you that I can handle it.” You chuckled at his words.

“Very well, Your Highness. Though if I may point out, perhaps it would serve you better if you relaxed your muscles more. How can you expect to hit me when your shoulder fails to follow through?” you chided. Taehyung bit his lip at your words.

“My apologies, Captain. I find it difficult when I am near you.” Your brows furrowed, unsure whether you heard correctly. He has trouble relaxing around you? You preferred not to pick apart such a statement.

In answer, you lunged at him, a tide of satisfaction flowing through you when he moved immediately in response. You allowed him to continue on the offensive, though this time you followed up every few parries with a riposte, ensuring you never actually hit him with your blade.

Steel was flying through the air so fast it was a blur, your focus lying solely on the flurry of blades between your bodies. You quickly lost track of time, though based on the slight burn in your calves the activity must have gone on for quite a while.

It became almost like a rhythm – feet dancing, you blocked thrice, circling around for a responding thrust. Little did you know, in your focus you missed Taehyung’s wistful glances as he took in your appearance – gaze sharp, hair around your face flying as it escaped your tight knot at the back.

While you did your best not to make contact, your efforts were not perfect. Because as the Prince stepped left rather than right as you had expected, your blade made full and hard contact with his abdomen, confirmed by the faint oof that accompanied the motion. Broken out of your trance, you stared wide-eyed. “My apologies-”

You let down your guard for only a moment, but it was enough for him to swipe your blade aside, his own resting right between your collarbones. Raising your eyes to meet his own, you found only a grin, no sign of pain. That little-

“KIM TAEHYUNG!!!” you bellowed, ignoring the nearby gasps at your blatant show of disrespect. The eldest soldiers only shook their heads in dismay, having become used to your antics over the years. You whipped the side of his blade with your own, force enough to send it flying out of his grasp. “I was worried about you!” you shouted, stalking your way over to his retreating body, met only by a full-bodied laugh and hands raised to defend himself.

He took hold of your shoulders, keeping you at arms’ length as you glared up at him. The look only sent him into another fit of laughter. “The look on your face was magnificent, Captain,” he snickered, ignoring the betrayal on your face. “I’m perfectly fine, also. You needn’t worry so much-”

“Oh, you will not be fine by the time I’m done with you, Your Highness,” you seethed, picking up his discarded blade only to chuck it at him with just a little more force than necessary. “If you wanted a fight, Kim Taehyung, you’ve found one. I will pray for your recovery.”

Taking up your position for the third time of the afternoon, you scanned his features opposite you. He had no blaring weak spots, though you would be surprised if he did after all his years of training. He was fast, though you would bet that you were faster. Defeating him at his full capabilities would not be extremely easy, but if you gave it perhaps 80% you supposed you could be done within minutes.

“Any last words?” you goaded, grinning at the fleck of worry that crossed his face. “You look afraid, Your Highness.”

“It is perhaps in my best interest to remain a bit afraid, My Lady,” he chuckled lightly, eyes keen as they awaited your first movement. The narrowed your eyes, taking him in, planning your actions. He’s not wrong, you thought. Everyone in this field was just a little bit afraid.

Taehyung jumped when your blade made contact with his own, a high-pitched screech ringing out as he fought you off. You gave him no time to contemplate his own actions before you lunged relentlessly at him, delivering strike after strike without pause. He was forced to remain on the defensive, putting in his full effort to parry and step away in time.

Despite his struggle, you were impressed he was able to keep up with you as well as he was. He’s been training more, you noted. His improvement was clear compared to the last time you fought only several months ago. However, in a game of stamina, you were sure to win.

The top of your bodice dug sharply into your chest as your breaths quickened, but you were no stranger to discomfort. Over time you had learned to put aside such trivial things. Aches and pains were part of your job, and you’d be damned if you didn’t do it well.

Unwilling to let go of your pride, your steps quickened, Taehyung’s blade moving frantically to keep up but inevitably slowing slightly as you did not give him time to breathe. If you hadn’t focused all of your energy into this alone with no distractions, you perhaps would have poked fun at him.

When his sword arm lagged only slightly behind, arms slightly too wide, slightly too open, you struck hard. Batting his blade to the side only centimetres above where he held it in his grasp, you simpered, watching his shocked face as his blade went flying. His eyes darted between you and the blade, metres away, seemingly contemplating whether to give up or to pounce on it.

“What now, Little Prince? If this were a battlefield, would you simply cower in fear?” you coerced, eyes predatory. Perhaps it was sadistic of you, but you relished in the look of dismay in Taehyung’s face. He’d been thoroughly defeated – it was only a matter of how long you would draw it out.

Tossing your own foil to the side, you stretched your limbs before beckoning him over, fists positioned in front of you. It was a petty move and you knew it, for soldiers were much more well-versed in hand-to-hand combat than the Crown Prince, who was known to favour his swords and bows.

Taehyung had no complaints, however. A fight was a fight, after all. As he came after you with one, two, three jabs to your chest, you danced aside as you evaded easily. The difference in speed between his punches and sword thrusts were clear, the former much less practiced than the latter.

You unfortunately had not thought this idea through, because your options for victory without injuring the Prince were limited. While you were aware Taehyung would not mind, it would not be the best image for you to beat the life out of the Kingdom’s Crown Prince in open view of a squadron sworn to protect him.

“Are you so eager for my company that you would draw this out?” he joked, a weak punch toward your face easily shoved out of the way by your forearm. “Or perhaps you find pleasure in cornering me, My Lady?”

“You think so highly of yourself, Your Highness. Is it so disconcerting to find yourself put in your place every so often?”

“Quite the opposite, I think. I’ve never enjoyed myself so much,” he beamed, eyes shining. “I’ve quite missed you, Captain.” You faltered at the admission. While you loved to give him a hard time, you knew he was well aware of your fondness for him. However, you don’t believe you’ve ever said something so forthright to each other, and the statement awakened something in you that you thought you had buried deep.

Noting your slightly frozen state, Taehyung charged at you. However, you would not be fooled twice. The audacity of this man-

Twisting your arm to grab hold of his, you leaped forward. Suddenly taking the force of your full weight, Taehyung had nowhere to go but down, groaning as his back thudded against the canvas floor. Knee digging itself into the Prince’s ribcage below you, you sighted your previously discarded blade nearby. Grabbing hold of it, you held it to his throat.

“Yield,” you whispered, words escaping you much softer than intended. He made no effort to move, only staring up into your face with unspeakable emotion.

“And what if I am happy where I am, My Lady?” he murmured, taking in your appearance. Chest heaving, escaped hair wet with sweat, blouse crinkled – you were perhaps the finest sight he’d ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Though his words might have been taken for humour, you saw the look on his face. He didn’t even attempt to mask the desire, shameless through and through.

Before you could even think to respond, smatterings of applause broke out across the field at your victorious display, though they could not even begin to understand what was happening between the two of you. Moment broken, you quickly hopped up, helping Taehyung to his feet but avoiding his gaze. You were afraid to admit how much your heart fluttered when you heard his words, afraid of how much it would hurt when you would be forced to walk away and never speak of this moment again.

It was for the best.

“Y/N,” he called out softly, hands reaching for your own, but maintaining a respectful distance. Your eyes flew up to meet his, unused to hearing your own name in the palace nowadays. The look he gave you was honest, sincere. “Do you feel this too?”

You paused. Though he didn’t quite say what this meant, you could guess. In fact, his knowing gaze told you he only wanted you to admit what he already knew. The man had always been perceptive, and you had more memories with him than with your own family. You were certain he was familiar with your every expression. After all, you could write novels about his face – the way his eyes shone in his passion, the way the corners of his lips twitched when he was repressing a scowl.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Pleading ignorance was the best defense. Admitting to your desires was foolish, and would not change your circumstances. You knew this was deeper than physical desires, but that just made it all the more impossible. Princes were destined for arranged marriage – nobody could simply form a relationship with a future King, least of all the soldier who has pledged her life to his parents. No, a proper relationship was not within the realm of possibility. But neither could you lay with the Crown Prince in good conscience – how would the public trust you to put the King and Queen’s safety above all else if you were warming their Prince’s bed?

Every option to act on your desires was fated for failure.

Taehyung’s hands moved from your palms to your wrists, his thumbs pressing into your pulse firmly. “Your heart is racing,” he murmured, eyes staring into your own as though he knew your every secret. “Why do you hide it?”

“You know why,” you stated, voice soft. “Of course I feel it, but it matters not.” The admission coming from your own lips shocked you. You had danced around each other for years, orbiting each other like binary stars, but you’d never admitted your attraction to him.

“It matters to me,” he whispered, thumb stroking at the soft skin of your wrists with care. “Come to my chambers after dinner.”

Your brows shot up at the suggestion. This was not a light request. You were no longer children, no longer laughed in his company until the maids shooed you away, chiding you for making so much noise.

This was real. As much as you grew to accept your desires, you had never even fathomed acting on them. Not when you knew it couldn’t last – not when your reputation, perhaps even your position, were at stake. “Your Highness, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Please,” he begged, staring into you with an expression you would liken to a puppy begging for scraps. You attempted to turn away, but he only followed. “Please,” he repeated, noting your conflicted expression. It was hard to deny him anything when he was looking at you like that, but even harder to deny yourself when every part of you wanted nothing more than to say yes.

“Very well,” you breathed, sealing your fate. “I shall come when the clock strikes eight, Your Highness.”

--

You couldn’t do it. As much as your heart craved him more than anything, you couldn’t. He was untouchable. If you were any other person, if you were just a court lady, you would jump at the chance. It wasn’t a secret that the Prince has had many partners, and nobody gave it a second thought. But to be with you?

It was improper. Impossible. How could you be trusted to do your duty fully and objectively if you’d laid with the Crown Prince?

After bathing, you made your way to his bedchambers, clad only in a loose blouse and cotton pants, hair flowing freely around your shoulders, still wet. You could not join him in his bed, but he at least deserved a rejection in person rather than your absence.

Knocking lightly on the door, you were startled when it swung open, your arm still raised. He gave you such a sweet smile it was almost painful, still dressed in his earlier attire but hair loose around his face. You stepped into the room, taking in its appearance, having not seen the room in years. It smelled of him, of vanilla and lavender and musk, a scent you would breathe for the rest of your life if it was possible. The room was exactly as you remembered it, mostly barren if not for the set of throwing knives on display – a gift from your father for the Prince’s coming-of-age.

“I’m so glad you came-”

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off, turning to face him. “I came to put a stop to this before it’s begun, Your Highness. You're trying to start something that will be too painful to cease.” Your words struck him, and it physically pained you to see his face transform from excitement to distress.

“But I am not imagining what we have, am I? I have longed for you for years. Am I wrong to think you have too?” he pleaded.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Your Highness. We can’t possibly do this – think about it. Not only that, I cannot have the palace thinking I earned my position through your bed. There are so many reasons we cannot – I want you but I cannot have you!” You didn’t mean to raise your voice, but you couldn’t help it in your grief. Eyes brimming with unshed tears of frustration, it hurt to look at him standing so close, and yet so out of reach.

At your anguish, Taehyung reached for your face, thumbs wiping away the tears you didn’t even notice had fallen. His tenderness only sent another wave of sorrow through you, chest heavy. “I’m sorry. I know it was selfish to call you here. I know this is easier for me than you. Please forget I ever asked.”

“I know it’s wrong, but...”

“But?” he urged gently.

“Is it so foolish that I want it anyway?” you whispered. You looked at him wide-eyed, gaze pained, searching his face as if it held the answers to the universe. For you, perhaps it did.

“Y/N...” he begun, the sweet sound of your name coming from his lips the final nail in your coffin. Denying that you wanted this more than anything would be the greatest lie you’ve ever told. It was brash, and stupid, and irresponsible, but you wanted to feel this at least once. You wanted to indulge in his touch, his affection. You needed to feel his hands on you, his mouth on your skin, and you didn’t know if you would ever be brave enough to accept him again if you didn’t do it now.

“It can only be once. Nobody can know.” You couldn’t risk the noblewomen catching on to your activities. They were unusually observant, and you didn’t doubt their abilities to discern your relationship with even the faintest of hints. Taehyung knew better than anybody that the palace ladies treated gossip as currency, and word traveled especially quickly on matters involving him. He nodded at your words, but the grave look on his face told you he wished things were different.

“I will cherish our time together, My Lady” he breathed, but his conflicted expression spoke volumes. “We don’t have to do this-”

You shook your head, closing the space between you until your chests were pressed together. Stomach in knots and chest tight, you ran your fingers along his broad chest and down to his abdomen before wrapping them loosely around his waist. You would savour every touch, make note of every expression, save away every delightful noise from his lips, and you would pray for it to be enough to satiate you for a lifetime. Because it had to be.

Tilting your head back to meet his eyes, your heart nearly leapt from your throat at the look on his face. The adoration, the warmness – but most of all, the pain. This was torture for both of you, and you knew it. It was selfish and self-destructive, but the two of you always seemed to bring out both the best and the worst in each other.

Without speaking, you reached up to grab hold of his head, yanking it down to smash your lips together without ceremony. He responded with fervor, moving against you, arms tugging until there was not even a millimetre of space between your bodies. You tried not to think about the desperation in your movements, the saltiness of the tears still present on your face. You dragged your hands over the planes of his chest and down to his biceps, nails digging in slightly when he bit at your bottom lip.

Harshly tugging his shirt from his waistband, you traced your nails up his bare skin, relishing in the uneven breath he let out in response. You would dedicate yourself to memorizing every inch of him. Every dip, every curve would be ingrained in your mind for eternity, your hands tracing patterns into his skin like a brush on canvas.

He did the same to you, his large hands finding their way beneath your blouse and chemise, lifting them both above your head to toss them to the floor. You were bare underneath, having planned to leave for your own bedchambers only minutes after arriving. He sucked in a breath at the sight of you on display entirely for him. His careful fingers traced the scars on your abdomen, accumulated through years of training and fighting on the frontlines. While ugly, you were not ashamed – these were proofs to others and to yourself that you would put your Kingdom above all else.

Bending at the knee, he traced his mouth down your jaw, down your throat, kissing you reverently as he continued his path. Passing over your breasts, he moved lower to mouth gently at the scars littering your belly, his gentle presses causing new tears to spring to your eyes. Was this how it felt to be worshipped? To be loved?

Taehyung took in the sorrow painting your features, but did not comment. There was nothing to be said – he understood perfectly. Perhaps if he pressed his face more firmly into the softness of your skin, he would spare you having to see the twin look of despair he was unable to hide.

Sliding a hand into his hair, you softly brushed it away from his face, gently pulling his chin up to look at you. Your heart wrenched at the sight of him, eyes looking at you as though you were a treasure, as though you weren’t the thing causing him so much pain. As though you wouldn’t leave him alone after this.

Tugging lightly at the collar of his shirt, he quickly got the memo, shucking it off in a direction you didn’t see, too focused on what was just revealed to you. If not for the honeyed gold of his skin, you would have been convinced he was carved of marble. You traced the lines of his body, a tiny smile breaking through at the shudder he gave when your nails scratched over his nipples. Though your actions were slow, he did not rush you. He only watched the awe in your gaze, eyes wide as though if you blinked, he would disappear. The childlike wonder in your face warmed his heart, pleased that you would let your guard down here with him.

You blinked out of your stupor at the sensation of a warm hand on your cheek, the sight of Taehyung’s soft grin at your antics lighting a small fire of embarrassment in you. “Bed?” he asked lightly, nuzzling his face into your neck. The hot breaths near your ear sent a shiver down your spine, tugging him ever-so-closer as you nodded in response.

Pulling away from him, you tugged lightly at the drawstrings to your pants, biting your lip when you saw the Prince follow your every movement. Taking his hands into your own, you brought them to your waistband. “Help me,” you breathed, heart racing at the knowledge that you would soon be laid bare to him.

He took a deep breath before releasing the knot at your waist, tugging your pants ever so slowly down your legs. He knelt at your feet, removing the fabric from your ankles until the only cloth left on your body is your underwear. Eyes falling on your face, he thumbed the waistband, looking up at you in question. At your quiet “please,” he removed that too, your folds revealed to him, shiny with your arousal.

Groaning at the sight, Taehyung latched onto your clit before you could even process the movement, the sudden pleasure making you weak in the knees. He sucked at your bud lightly, taking pleasure in the way you sunk your hands into his hair to ground yourself. When you wobbled slightly in your bliss, his left arm rose to hold you steady at the waist.

When his other hand rose to thumb through your folds while his mouth continued its ministrations, you moaned out. Eyes falling down to observe the Prince, the sight brought a small whimper to your lips, your hips grinding down onto him. He looked absolutely sinful, his eyes heavy-lidded as he delved into your heat with such abandon, focused entirely on your pleasure. When he inserted a finger into you, quickly followed by another upon feeling your wetness, you were sure you would have fallen if not for his arm holding you steady.

“What-” you started, but ended up cutting yourself off with a loud moan at the sensation of his fingers scissoring inside you. “What happened to going to bed?” you managed to get out, utterly breathless.

You let out a gasp when he pulled from you abruptly in response, picking you up at the waist and throwing you onto his mattress. You had no time to reprimand him before he was spreading your legs, mouth and fingers returning to you as he joined you on the bed. Any words were stolen from your throat at the stretch of a third finger, your hips bucking up to get closer to the source of your pleasure.

“You taste so good,” he moaned out, panting. You didn’t miss the way he grinded his clothed crotch into the sheets, heat shooting through you at the sight. When his fingers curled inside you, the heat spread throughout your whole body, abdomen tight and walls clenching tightly around his fingers. You were so close to the edge, it would take only one breath before you fell over.

“Give it to me, please,” he pleaded, tongue flicking over your clit as his fingers continued to nudge that spongy spot inside you. Needing no more encouragement, you fell apart, moans forced from your throat, hips grinding against him as he worked you through your orgasm. When a dull ache begun to replace the pleasure, you pulled away from him, pushing him onto his back.

His arousal was clear, his cock straining in his tight pants enough that it must have hurt. Though, his face held no complaint, only dazed wonderment clear on his features, almost as if he still couldn’t believe what was happening. He let out a sharp hiss as your nails traced the outline of his cock, his teeth biting furiously at his bottom lip.

Deciding not to torture him after the ecstasy he brought you, you tugged his pants and underwear down in one go, Taehyung groaning in relief as his cock sprung free. The tip was angry and red, the slit leaking precum. After freeing him of his clothing, you reached out a hand to pump lightly at his cock, noting the way it twitched in your hold. It looked almost painful, the vein running up the underside big and angry.

You began to lower your mouth to him, eager to return the pleasure he gave you, but were halted by a gentle hand on your cheek. “Please,” he begged, “I can’t. I need you,” he expressed all in one breath, eyes pained and needy.

Taking mercy on him, you rose, shifting until you were seated in his lap, mouth seeking his out. He cried out into your mouth at the sensation of your slick folds rocking against him, grinding down onto his cock. Hand reaching down to position him at your entrance, you pulled your face away to watch his as you sunk yourself slowly onto his length. The moan you let out at the stretch was crude, and it didn’t appear that Taehyung was faring any better, his breaths coming in pants, eyes screwed shut.

He’s beautiful like this, you thought, your own eyes wanting to badly to flutter closed, but your need to take in his every expression won out. Your head tipped back in pleasure as you seated yourself fully, moans escaping as you rocked against him, his pelvis pressing into your clit.

Losing yourself in the sensation, you fell forward to bury your face into Taehyung’s neck, his scent only adding to your pleasure. His hips rocked against your own, thrusts shallow, both of you letting out low moans at the movement. The friction against your clit had your abdomen tightening again, his tender hold on your body the best thing you’d ever felt. But as the pleasure reared in on you again, it was at that moment you remembered the totality of your situation.

You would never get this again.

The thought was like ice-water thrown over your head. How could you have forgotten? His cock deep inside you, his hips rising to meet your own, his hand clutching at the small of your back, his moans – it was all temporary.

You shoved your face tightly into his shoulder, hoping your sob would disguise itself as a moan. But at the shaking of your shoulders, Taehyung paused his actions, hand rising to cradle your head. “Y/N?”

“Tae,” you cried out, heart wrenching. It wasn’t lost on him that this was the first time he’s properly heard his name from your lips since your promotion – no teasing, no games. His heart broke at the sound, your sobs guttural, and he wanted nothing more than to take the pain away. The gravity of the situation brought tears to his own eyes, unable to suppress the emotion any longer.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he whispered, your head lifting to meet his glassy eyes. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your lips quivering. This was an agony that only the two of you could ever understand.

“Taehyung, I-” you faltered, choking on a sob. I love you. You couldn’t say it. What good could it bring you now? But your eyes spoke volumes, the emotion clear on your face. He knew how you felt just as much as you knew how he felt.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he repeated, tears finally escaping his eyes as he tugged you closer. There was no way to be more intimate than this, arms cradling each other as you cried, his cock still nestled inside you.

It would have to be enough.

As your bodies shifted minutes later, the friction against you had you shivering, remembering the position you were in. You pulled your head from his neck to gaze at his face, his eyes meeting your own. It hurt, but there was sad acceptance in your eyes, mirrored in his own. You tried to force a small smile onto your face, but you were unsure whether it appeared as a grimace. You instead elected to press a soft kiss to his lips, eyes falling closed as he returned it.

You rocked your hips together slowly, relishing in the light sighs and quiet moans of the other. Your movements were tender, careful, full of love and affection you would never get the chance to verbalize. When you felt your release creeping up on you again, you arched your back, grinding into his pelvis. Wanting to help you along, Taehyung grabbed hold of your hips, holding you steady as he thrusted up into you, every so often holding himself deep, grinding against you. The emotion of it all had your breath caught in your throat, your orgasm washing over you in gentle waves as you writhed against his body.

You could tell he was coming undone, his thrusts erratic, breaths heavy as he pulled away from you to leave open-mouthed kisses on your collarbone. You moaned at the overwhelming sensation of his movements so soon after your orgasm, but you wouldn’t dare rob him of his pleasure. Not now, not like this.

Groaning loudly, you felt his cock twitch inside you as he continued his thrusts, feeling the warmth of his release coating your walls. He shook in your arms, and you couldn’t bring yourself to confirm whether he was overwhelmed with pleasure or sorrow.

Letting out a whine as you pulled yourself off him, you wiped the mess between your  legs on his sheets. His maids would clean for him come sunrise, and you were anxious to escape the room before you lost yourself fully to despair.

You allowed yourself to bask in his presence momentarily, laying alongside him for several minutes before you rose to get dressed. You kept your back to him, unwilling to show weakness despite your vulnerability only moments ago.

“Stay,” he begged, his voice still husky from the passion you’d shared. Your heart sunk at the suggestion. You wanted nothing more than to stay, but every minute you spent here knowing the outcome only shattered you a bit more.

Fully dressed, you made your way to the door. You could still feel where his hands touched you, where his lips pressed against you, where his cock had been inside you. “I’m sorry,” you breathed, misery colouring your tone. You turned to him, taking in his bare appearance for the last time. You stared, hoping to burn the image into your retinas.

“I know,” was his only response. What more was there to say? Your eyes swept over each other, locking this moment away in your hearts forever. Finally, you turned back to the door, turning the knob and stepping out into the hallway without looking back. The sound of the hinge falling into place behind you felt like waking up from a dream, the period at the end of a sentence.

Your tears fell freely and silently as you made your way back to your chambers. Your heart ached a bit more with the increasing distance, every step leaving a piece of you behind.

It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? You supposed whoever could claim such a thing had never loved like this. Because walking away left your heart in a million pieces, the only glue that could piece you back together still staring at his empty sheets, the dip from where your body once laid still warm to the touch.

--

Months went by without speaking of that night. The tonic you’d taken upon returning to your room had worked well, your body having bled weeks later. You had still talked to Taehyung – you had to; your duty required it. But the pain never ceased, only dulled. You told yourself you would move on, that there was no use in dwelling. But the heated glances you caught him directing at you, desire and heartbreak in his eyes, always took you right back to that night.

He hadn’t been with anyone since – not that you were listening. You couldn’t help but to overhear the palace ladies gossiping, spreading word of the Crown Prince denying their advances. You didn’t know what to do with the information.

Having just returned from mapping out Their Majesties route to a neighbouring city, you returned your horse to the stables. While not necessary, you much preferred to prepare yourself for every possibility of attack, taking note of any weaknesses in visibility along the path. Every second counts when you’re under attack, after all.

“Captain!” a voice called out to you urgently. Having just handed off your horse to the stablehand, you turned to meet the man, his hands on his knees as if he had just run a mile before coming here. “I have been looking for you everywhere, Captain. Their Majesties have requested your presence in the throne room.” Unusual, since you had met together only this morning, but you would not keep them waiting.

“Thank you, sir. I will head there now.”

--

You went directly to the throne room, pausing outside to nod to the royal family’s assistant stationed outside. He smiled to you briefly before pushing the door open.

“Captain Y/N to see you, Your Majesties.”

“Let her in, thank you,” a kind, feminine voice rang out.

You stepped inside quickly, taking a knee until the King gestured for you to stand. “I deeply apologize for my appearance, Your Majesties. I had just returned from planning our route for tomorrow and thought it better not to leave you waiting.”

The King smiled at you, the warm-hearted expression reminding you of Taehyung’s. Your chest ached at the thought, but you kept a blank expression. “Hard at work as always, I see. We had something we would like to discuss with you.” At his words, you noticed that not only were the King and Queen present, but Taehyung was stood off to the side as well. Your heartrate increased slightly at the sight of him.

“Your Highness. Forgive my disrespect, I had not seen you there,” you bowed respectfully, ignoring the heat that rushed through you at his appearance. His hair was loose, his outfit form-fitting. He was beautiful. You tried not to think too much on what he looked like beneath the clothes. “What can I do for you, Your Majesties?”

“Captain, my son came to us earlier today with quite the startling proposition,” he began, and your brows furrowed in confusion. When he failed to elaborate, you spoke up.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Your Majesty.”

“You see, he came to us in a frenzy and asked, ‘Father, what would you say if I wanted to marry the Captain of the Guard?’” You froze, eyes wide. Marry? You? Taehyung? Your heart pounded violently at the notion.

“Sire, I promise you this was not my idea. I apologize-”

“My dear, do not panic. We are not angry. But we wanted to ask your thoughts.”

“Your Majesties, I couldn’t possibly marry your son.” You made effort not to look at the Prince, lest your composure fail. “I have no lands to offer. No gold, nothing. I cannot offer you any alliance, I cannot bring anything to your family,” you turned to Taehyung, his expression unreadable. “You cannot marry a soldier,” you whispered, heart breaking once again as the possibility was dangled in front of you, lingering just beyond reach.

“Captain, do you know that the people adore you? That they sing your praises when we pass through their villages?” the Queen asked, a bright smile painting her features. Your face grew hot at the mention. “Your soldiers respect you. Your hometown throws festivals in honour of your birthday. Dare I say that you’re more popular than us?” she joked, giggle chiming lightly through the room. Taking in her appearance and mannerisms, it was no question why Taehyung was as handsome and as loved as he was.

“Ma’am, of course not,” you responded, hand raising to awkwardly scratch at your head. You were unsure where she was going with the statement.

“You’ve earned the Kingdom’s trust, Captain. You’re perhaps the most loyal person I’ve ever laid eyes on. Might I also add that you are not just some nobody? Your family has served ours for generations. You are of noble birth,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Do you consider yourself so unworthy?”

You paused at the question. It did not seem to be a trap, and the Queen was certainly not one to be malicious. Glancing around the room, you noted the King and Prince were observing your reaction expectantly. It was not an environment good for your nerves. “A soldier is not fit to be the future Queen,” is the statement you settled for, attempting to maintain a mask of indifference.

“My dear, do you remember what you told me only a few years ago? When I asked you if you were afraid of trying to accomplish what nobody else in history has?” the King’s deep voice rang out. Your gaze snapped up, knowing exactly what he was about to say. Oh no...

“‘Damn history. I will write my own history,’ I think it was.” Chuckles broke out across the room, the Queen tittering, Taehyung snickering. You’d never told Taehyung about that encounter, embarrassment flowing through you every time you thought about it. You focused your gaze on your feet, face burning at the reminder of your words.

“I have since learned to control my words, Sire,” you muttered ashamedly, fingers tangling together.

“Y/N,” the King’s voice called, grabbing your attention once again. “You have guts. Daring. You’re smart, well-trained. And there’s nobody I would trust to guard my life more than you.” You bit your lip at the praise, struggling to hide a proud grin. Being praised by the King was a feat not many experienced. “It would be an honour to call you our daughter.”

You stared, slack-jawed, processing his words. You didn’t notice Taehyung approaching you until his fingers laced with your own, his opposing hand moving to raise your chin. The open affection on his face, the love - it was everything you’d ever dreamed of and nothing you’d ever dared hope for. Your breathing quickened as he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Please,” he beseeched, vulnerability clear on his face. “Spend eternity with me, together. Will you marry me?”

Tears filled your eyes, but for once they were tears of joy, not tears of despair. You dropped to your knees to meet him, arms thrown around his neck. He barely had time to catch you as you threw yourself at him, bodies the closest they’ve been since that night in his bed. Raising your head to lock your eyes on his, you knew the same love you had for him was written all over your face.

“Yes,” you cried, hands raising to cup his jaw. “Yes.”

[legendaryoikawa]

eros 1: love is a bitch / oikawa tooru / eros masterlist 

pairing: oikawa x female reader

word count: 2,665k

synopsis: lingerie shopping is the activity you’ve thought to kill time while your boyfriend was away for his games. little did you know while you were trying on the piece from victoria’s secret, came in oikawa tooru, fresh with his dick turned on upon the sight of your fat ass.

genre: boyfriend!oikawa, smut, pwp (mirror sex, penetration, strip tease, dirty banters, profanities, nsfw themes)

minors dni

taglist: @boosyboo9206 @dokisaki (can’t tag) @godjo @flavostella02 @heykoutaro (can’t tag) @aleacarnin @licitix @katsukis-sad-angel @k-sakura @dokisuki (can’t tag) @black-water-78 @throughtheinterstices @iloverarepares @newfriendjen @aizawaslovebot @ratatouille407 @midnightartist​ @ya-kkun​ @daicrie​ @mochipk​ @kanesshiiweeb​ @134340-cm​ @svgafresh​ @annexerca​ @neavil​ @paigypol (can’t tag) @aggressivelyshoutsokay​ thank you for the love and support!

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You let out a sigh. Exactly twenty five days and fourteen hours pass by and you’re still alone in your apartment complex. You receive nothing; no calls or texts from him. No trace of your boyfriend, Oikawa. Today is his supposed arrival from his training camp but there you are, alone.

The vibrant pink paper bag sits on top of the kitchen island. A lacy lingerie that you manage to haul for half its original price. You know Oikawa will definitely love seeing you in those fits. However you couldn’t help but to feel upset, given the fact that the day is close to conclusion yet, he is still nowhere to be found. What good does it even do to try out the recent lingerie you just bought when Oikawa isn’t even home? It’s like dolling up in front of a ghost. The reaction you expect won’t be thrown out against you. And it upsets you to the core.

But the mere fact you have already gone out of the trouble. To the extent of making an impulsive purchase of buying lingerie got you changing your mind on the spot. To hell be damned, you’ll be trying out the garment, without him or not.

Huffing, you approached the island to grab on the bag. Fishing out the black piece-- it is really beautiful engraved with little gems on the straps and lace on the cups. You didn’t bother going to the bathroom to change. Carefully, you removed your top then your pants. Sliding the lingerie up onto your body isn’t much of a trouble though, but your attention is entirely focused on the straps that you barely notice the movement of the door knob.

The soft footsteps padding through the hall alerts you as you finish tucking in the last strap from behind. There is a pause and it hits every single nerve in your body. You let out a slow exhale, fumbling with the ends of your hair as you feel the looming presence slowly approaching you from behind.

You hear his breath slowly fanning the delicate skin of your neck. You try to close your eyes, trying to act composed as if his presence isn’t something that dominates or overwhelms you. But he is what he is. Even the slow, soft breaths from him never fail to elicit a reaction from you. “This is really something I wasn’t expecting, at all,” he begins slowly. Your breath hitches as you try to think of a possible counterattack to throw against him, making you wait for days. But your body seems to have betrayed you the moment Oikawa set foot in your shared complex. Barely making anything, but you were already growing too flustered.

There is a long pause. You are trying to contain yourself, desperately searching for words. Soft breaths filling in the silence on the dim and quiet hall.

“Who said this was for you?” You begin slowly. Enunciating your words with emphasis while you slowly spin your heel to face him completely. The sight of him never fails to leave you breathless. You let out a quiet yelp when he took one daring step towards you. The soft surface of the granite counter sends a cooling sensation to your spine. You close your eyes, feeling the hot fanning of his minty breath against your face as he drags his words out, “And what if I do something to gain you?”

You are pretty sure it is an innuendo and you didn’t grapple to change the mood between the two of you. You raise a challenging brow, tilting your head backwards as if pushing his buttons further, “And what are you going to do?”

A playful smile tugs his lips. His tone changes into something richer, deeper and dangerous shades of velvet. You try to calm yourself, trying to steady your breathing. Oikawa is someone as bubbly, bright as the morning sun packed with his usual pride. But this time, his tone got your belly swirling with a heavy sensation of pleasure. Your heart makes a beeline to your throat as you wait for his next moves. He inquires slowly, “Mind if I make it up to you?” He calmly states while exuding up smug superiority. As he always should.

You let out an exasperated breath. Playing hard to get when Oikawa is looking too hot and offensive is something too hard for you to contain. Too hard to resist. Too hard to hold in much further.

“As long... as it’s worth the days of your absence, then it’s... fine,” you finally say.

He smirks. Lifting his hand to cup your face, he lets out a slow breath followed by a desperate call of your name. Chuckling, he begins, “You’ll never know how I kept on waiting for the training to end…” he tilts his head, examining your half naked figure. “And to see you in this fucking clothes makes me want to fuck you… right here, right now. Did you really dress up like this to impress your king, huh?” Your cheeks immediately burn upon hearing his words. The way he dominates you. You want him now too, so bad.

You decide to play along with him. Swallowing and engulfing— the sexual tension around is insurmountable. You know he’s doing this to tease you. And you don’t want to give him what he wants, that easily. “What if I said I did? Are you happy with this?” You run up a hand starting to your hip upward to your breasts, cupping them gingerly. Oikawa’s eyes follow every moment of your hand, his gaze pinned down onto your breasts. What a fucking tease, he thought especially when you leaned down to give him a full sight of what is beneath the flimsy garment.

He smirks at your boldness, “I do. I love the design, too bad they’ll be ripped out open as soon as I’ll lay my hands on them.” He sucks a sharp intake of breath. He’s growing impatient yet there is no sign of submission from you yet.

“Who says I’m allowing you to lay hands on these? On me?” You laugh breathlessly. Amusement lacing onto your tone. However, Oikawa isn’t having it. Not to mention his growing bulge.

He scoffs, already fed up. Annoyed at the playful banters thrown between you. He couldn’t hold another round of him playing coy, especially not in this current situation where you’re almost wearing nothing at all.

“Cat got your tongu—?”

He snaps. “How are you holding in? Are your little panties already wet over me?” He speaks confidently, looking down at your figure. “Come on now, give in to me like the little good girl you are.”

The last statement of his took you off-guard. You try to stand up straight however it looks like you are just feigning confidence especially that you cannot maintain eye contact with him. You manage to blurt out, despite the failed attempt at concealing your flustered state. Oikawa watches you, with a condescending smirk on his lips, hands resting on his nape. “Do you really think you deserve any of this? I think not,” you manage to spit out.

You see how his expression changed. Nostrils flaring. His expression darkening. You know you’ve pushed his limits now that he is clenching his jaw then suddenly attacking you, catching you by surprise. You feel his hot lips pressed against yours. Deliciously hot, hard, with a notable sky-high passion. Your hands creep up and clinged on his jersey, catching a fistful of his garment for support. He withdraws to breathe and continues to attack you barely even letting you breathe. His kisses were sloppy, all slippery. Oikawa is the drug you cannot afford to remove out of your life, he’s making you intoxicated with only just his mouth. Just his mouth.

You let out a moan when you felt his hands gripping your hips tightly. Then, he turns you suddenly that made your eyes widen. You feel the growing bulge sticking onto your ass as he presses his body onto yours. Burrowing his face onto the crook of your neck. You lean onto him, your head resting onto his shoulders as he attacks your neck from behind. Sucking and nimbling. Low breathes and moans. Hickies are adorning your neck like fresh flowers with hues of violet, blue and red. Fresh. Oikawa breathes through your nape, and slowly smiles onto your neck.

He whispers, “look at the mirror, baby.”

Confused, you lift your head and saw your reflection staring back at you. The same dishevelled, you. Oikawa grins as he slids his hands down your frame. Adoring the way he elicited a reaction from you. With an expert flick of his calloused hands, the lingerie is already removed from you, that fast and easy. The chilly air from the open window sends a tingling sensation against your naked torso.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he grins. “I want to fuck you in front of the mirror so badly but i need you inside me, now.” There’s a hint of urgency in his voice. He pushes you towards the nearby counter and swoops you easily to place you onto the cold granite surface. You instinctively wrap your legs around his hips while he continues to attack you.

You moan into his mouth when you felt his hand running over your thighs. You are growing desperate and needy after his teasing touches. He bits onto your mouth as he shamelessly grinds his crotch onto your clothed pussy. “Love that?” He says between his breathes.

You’re pooling with lust and arousal. With him panting everytime he comes in contact with your heat. And his expression. He leans in further, inhaling your neck, “Damn. You always smell so good.” He breathes loud and grazes his teeth onto your sweet spot. Sucking and marking as he pleases, “I need you off the counter now.”

He pulls you off and turns you around again. He takes a fistful of you hair to whisper directly onto your ear. “I hate begging. But, may I proceed to fuck you with all my fucking might?”

You nod slowly. Pressing yourself onto his crotch, grinding playfully. You can feel his amusement, especially the way you dare to tease him until he was the one to submit to you. You wait for him to move, your hands sweaty against the granite counter. There’s a sound of shuffling— fabric. Oikawa tugs his gym shorts down followed by his black boxers. He takes his cock into his hand, giving it a subtle jerk while his other hand snaking up to pull you undies down your thighs. The sight of you makes him groan, the flesh almost welcoming, he strokes himself again, this time faster.

“I’m on pill,” you begin. Assuring him. You move slowly in your spot, rasping while your wetness drips down your thigs in anticipation. “What’s taking you so long? You’re not serving or anything.”

He sniggers while letting his cock spring free. He pulls the garment down your legs until it tangles into a roll of a lacy garment down down ankles. You kick it away with your right foot and settle on, widening you stance. You feel the rush of excitement coursing through you upon the feeling of his at your entrance. You bit your lip in anticipation.

“My… before you get something you fucking want, what do you need to say first?” He drags out word by word enunciating every syllable slowly down your ear. You close your eyes for a moment, letting out a deep breath. You calmly say, “Please,” while steadying your hands onto the counter’s edge.

He grins in satisfaction. He drawls slowly, praising you, “Very good.” And positions himself by gripping your hips tightly. Judging by the way of his strong hold, it’ll surely leave out marks the next day. Your mind swirls upon the feeling of his sudden entrance in you, breathes being sucked as he draws and takes his time entering your sweet entrance.

After adjusting, he begins by moving his lips in a slow manner. Then taking you by surprise by exerting in sharp, fast thrust. You feel your thighs coming in contact with the cold counter. You let out soft moans and incoherent cusses filling out the silent room. He encircles his finger down your clit making you gasp for air.

He bucks down roughly onto you. His other hand encircling and busy with your clit. While his other hand is cupping your breast. You moan out shamelessly, cussing him out as the waves of pleasure bubbles down your belly. Coursing like a river.

“Fucking hell. You feel so good.”

You cannot hear him properly as the ragged breathing clouded your hearing. He calls out to you while grinding his hips deeply on you. He moves his left hand to caress your stomach while the other one snakes their way to your hips. Slightly moist with your juices. You whimper while your head drops down. Breast juggling after each of his pounces.

His voice is stiff. “I’m going closs.” His breathing is strained every after his words. You shake your head no, panting hard. He clicks his tongue and works his fingers around your clit, again. Rubbing till you jolt at the intensity of his touch. Gooseflesh has risen up the skin along your hot flesh.

He picks up speed. His thrust deep and hard— a loop of never-ending pounce that you wanted to moan out loud in pleasure. You can feel his sharp poke of his hip bone colliding against the flesh of your ass. You bosom moving after his movements. You let out a breathy whine as your orgasm is approaching fast. You grab his left hand that is groping your chest to hold for support. Digging your nails onto his forearms as you felt the tightening knot forming in your belly.

He let out a strain cuss from behind as you cum. The feeling of your walls surrounding him made him feel high in ecstasy. He pulls out instantly when he cums, his hands freeing away from your body to stroke his oozing cock. You exhale, feeling the hot, gooey liquid drip down your legs.

You are panting hard. You feel your lungs swell as you try to recollect your breath. Oikawa moves to grab a clean towel to clean himself up. Amidst his act of cleansing himself over, you feel him tugging your panties back on for you, planting small kisses along the inner flesh of your thighs.

“Are you fine, baby?” You stand up, trying to steady in your shaky legs. Your hands are sweaty, plastered on the counter as you move your head to nod in approval. You work your way to turn and face him. You give him a sweet smile then running your tongue over your lower lip.

He feels his heart tug upon seeing your sight. So serene yet hot at the same time. He gawks at your breasts, your neck full of his marks and he notes how glowing you are even the aftermath of his relentless fucking.

He leans forward to nibble on your lower lip, then proceeds to kiss you fully in the lips. You can feel your legs crumpling at the romantic gesture, you immediately held onto him for support.

He raises a brow, “Does that make up for my absence?”

You let out a shaky laugh. He tilts his head in confusion. Instead of answering him, you bit on your lip while pressing your thighs together. Your gestures alone are more than just answers to his question. He just needs a consent from you may that be verbal or gestures.

You look up at him, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Baby, I’m an athlete. We’re just starting.”

He grins while tugging you upstairs. Fucking you until you pass out of exhaustion. He really did make up for his absence to the point that you couldn’t walk the next day.

note: i apologize for some grammatical error bdhdhd thank you for 300! also sorry for me being so shit at smut, i tried HAHA

[thosewickedlovelies]

An Ode To Marcus Moreno’s Arms

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x GN!Reader

Rating: Mature

Summary: You’re a training specialist in swordsmanship at Heroics Headquarters, so you see a lot of Marcus Moreno.

Tags: Reader has a vivid (sexual) imagination, but there’s only a few brief sections.

Word Count: 2,272

A/N: This started out as an ode to his arms, but his arms are connected to the rest of him, so. Alternative title: In Appreciation of Marcus Moreno

My assumption/headcanon of his powers are telekinesis, plus general exceptional physical prowess and weapons skills? Idk, we weren’t given much, but those feel like solid abilities for someone implied to be the super among super heroes. Idk what this is but I regret nothing.

More content/worldbuilding set in this universe 💗

--

Marcus Moreno’s arms were capable of many things.

You knew this because you saw them on an almost-daily basis. You were one of the training specialists at Heroics Headquarters, one of a large, ever-expanding staff of instructors who were experts in their respective fields of combat or weapons. Your job, essentially, was to be a superhero minus the powers- and use your abilities to keep the Heroics in top form.

Your expertise was swordsmanship, which meant you spent more time with Marcus than any of the other heroes. All of the physical trainers and specialists sparred with the Heroics in mock villain showdowns, but you also helped them hone specific skills. You were here because your skillset and abilities matched Marcus’s.

So you’ve had plenty of opportunity to behold his arms at work.

One would think that they’d be most enticing mid-action, but it was a cosmically ironic fact that there was never really a wrong moment to ogle. How that man could make merely unsheathing his swords so erotic was beyond you.

But by now you’d seen it from every angle. You were as familiar with Marcus’s technique as you were with your own, and knew well the cycle of muscle contractions which rippled up his whole body. It started with his legs: setting his stance, primed and poised on the balls of his feet. Then every muscle in his torso, his clinging t-shirts sliding over taut flesh as they rode up with the lifting of his arms- his arms. Biceps suddenly incredibly present and visibly straining past barely-existent sleeves, tendons flexing rigid and obvious, a tangle of pathways you wanted to map with your tongue.

This show was best when he had started his day with tactical theory sessions, because then his expressive face got involved. Oh yes, it wasn’t enough for him just to be built the way he was, his face had to go and be attractive as well.

Tedious strategy debates with Miracle Guy during these sessions never failed to get under his skin- you could always tell how much steam Marcus had to let off based on the clench of his jaw. Or the way he’d drag his bottom lip over his teeth, nostrils flaring in an almost-snarl. When that happened you knew he gripped the hilts of his swords a little tighter, because you’d see the ridges in his wrist dip and pull like piano strings perpendicular to the line of his gloves. The blades would sing little sharper on those days, his arms freeing them in a jerk rather than their usual smooth, deliberate slide.

It was amazing you ever made it beyond unsheathing your weapons.

But oh, were you glad you did, because watching Marcus Moreno fight was truly a treat. The control he had over his body was remarkable; even when his limbs flung and stretched, they were to ready to contract again at a second’s notice. “Fight” was really too limited of a term for it- Marcus manipulated his body in an incredible harmony of mind and muscle, using his weapons- including his telekinesis- as extensions of himself.

You wondered sometimes how fine his control over his telekinesis was- if he could use it on himself. If he did use it somehow to give his blows that devastating extra speed and strength.

It was easy to understand, after witnessing him, why battle is often described as a dance.

On particularly ruthless training days, his tan skin would gleam with sweat. It would bead and trickle along the pulsing veins in his arms, drawing your attention even more, and salacious scenes would flash behind your eyelids: those same glistening forearms visible in your peripherals as they box you against a wall, that same intent glitter in his dark eyes as they come closer and closer, breathless, his chest heaving into yours-

You never let on to any of this though. You were a master of the blade, and had trained too thoroughly to let the appearance of an opponent get to you. Besides that fact, you would never do anything to risk your place with the Heroics. Although you were an authority figure, they were still superheroes, and thus unlike anyone else you’d worked with- it made for a challenging, stimulating dynamic in which you were constantly both instructor and student.

Even outside of the training arena, Marcus’s arms were a sight.

Holding data pads or writing utensils as he led the Heroics in discussions of group tactics, deftly manipulating characters onscreen or scribbling things on a whiteboard. Sometimes he would go to these sessions straight from physical training, and the cooling sweat on his skin would raise goosebumps all along the smooth flesh.

You observed how gently his arms could move in yet other circumstances.

Training specialists often joined in when the Heroics were given new gadgets to play with. And although these days tended to be slower, they still made you sweat. Watching the caution with which Marcus handled the gear at first, the slow care he reserved for things with which he was still becoming familiar. The precision and that control he always kept- even when his frustration slipped out in the form of snarky remarks, he was always conscious of his movements. As he gained confidence, the surety would return to his motions, his shoulders squaring in quiet triumph- his broad, broad shoulders, which you had imagined far too many times propping up your thighs while his hands and mouth were otherwise engaged between them.

You wondered if Marcus would treat your body like something new he had to master. If his hands would probe and caress with the same thoroughness. If the same wicked delight would steal over his features as he learned how best to coax you toward his desired goals; if his fascinated smirk would change after the thousandth time he had taken you apart.

It didn’t help that these sessions highlighted that he was a kind, competent teacher. His teammates exasperated him sometimes, but Marcus was the first to step in when one of them was struggling. A light touch to rearrange their stance, an encouraging word or smile. If you hadn’t personally felt the power thrumming under his skin, you would have never guessed that such a soft man was capable of his immense abilities.

Occasionally you had to remind yourself not to get all dopey-eyed when he was instructing the kids. If you thought he was patient with the adult Heroics, it was nothing compared to how he interacted with their younger counterparts. Equally firm and joking in turn, he taught them every trick he knew while desperately hoping they would never have to use the knowledge.

Some days were easier for him than others- the times they practiced with weapons could have unexpectedly diverting consequences. Marcus let Guppy hold his katanas, once- she was fully capable with her shark strength, but the vision of the diminutive girl brandishing swords that were taller than she was, her face aglow with a ferocious grin, had all the others in fits.

You swore he was suppressing laughter himself as he carefully took them away from her. His hands, already distracting enough, looked comically vast compared to hers as he delicately maneuvered them to pluck the swords from her grasp. Something about the sight of his thick fingers, resettling themselves around the hilts with reflexive ease, made your mouth dry.

His fingers squeezed other things, too, and it made flames leap low in your belly every time.

Lime wedges, on the rare occasions he indulged in drinks stronger than wine at the Headquarters bar. His friends’s shoulders, in affection and farewell, after relaxing with them at said bar following hard days. You longed to be one of those who Marcus slung an arm around in jest, a laugh shaking his shoulders and sparkling in his eyes. Would his skin be as warm as it was while swinging a weapon? What would his body feel like softened in mirth, instead of vibrating with focus?

You didn’t blame him for his more formal attitude during work hours. His days were busy, and you rarely saw him off the training mats. You had shared a few evenings with him on nights when the bar was quieter, though. He was perfectly friendly, treating you just like anyone else he was getting to know.

Tonight was one of those quieter nights, but you didn’t do more than cast a quick glance at the small group sitting in the corner before slumping to the bar. You were worn out today, and just wanted something strong and solitary before going home.

You sighed into the numbing wash of your drink, your eyes drifting shut. Nobody would bother you this evening; it wasn’t that kind of atmosphere.

Except- the barstool next to yours scraped against the floor.

You inhaled deeply, preparing to politely rip into whatever idiot was assuming you needed company- only to have the words struck off your lips by the apprehensive brown eyes of Marcus Moreno.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you. You can tell me to march right back to my table if you like, but uh, I just wanted to see if you were all right. After today.”

You could see that he genuinely meant it- he was perched only partially on the barstool, ready to take off again if you said the word. But his gaze was curious, concerned.

You brow furrowed. “After today?” you echoed, too caught off-guard to think of anything else. What could he mean? Nothing special had happened today. He’d disarmed you, sure, but it wasn’t the first time that had occurred in the eight months you’d been working with him.

Marcus shifted uncertainly. “You just seemed...tired. Reflexes slower than usual,” he noted wryly. “And, well. We have matching bags.” He pointed to his face, where dark shadows were visible beneath his eyes. He offered a self-deprecating, tentative smile, conscious that he was treading in new territory.

It takes you a minute to process. In all the time you’ve spent observing his fighting techniques to perfection, you’d never considered that he could have been using those same opportunities to observe you. It provokes a funny feeling in your chest, twisting your breath up in your lungs like tangled ribbon.

“Oh,” you murmur, surprised but unoffended by his mention of the bags under your eyes. “Well...I am tired today, I guess.” You took a sip of your drink, gauging his interest, hesitating before continuing. “My sister broke her hip, so she just moved in with me for while she heals. It’s been...a stressful transition,” you admitted.

He angles himself toward you, attention fully committed and eyes widening in sympathy. “Oh gosh, that’s terrible. Do you need some time off? I can clear it with the boss for you, work with Santino for however long you need.” He seemed to straighten up, as if ready to spring away and take care of it the moment you answered.

“No, please,” you chuckled in appreciation of his earnestness. “I might need a few shorter days, but neither of us need me fussing over her 24/7.” Both you and your sister were strongly independent. It meant that you had often been at odds when you were younger, but you were all each other had now, and had made efforts to improve your relationship.

Marcus nodded in understanding, settling again. He seemed at a loss for if he should leave or say something else, so you made the choice for him.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked in my lessons, Moreno? You know Santino doesn’t work you as hard.” Your fellow swordsmanship instructor was slightly younger, a newer hire who was still a little bit in awe of the Heroics.

You didn’t usually speak so flippantly to him, but his eyebrows arced high at the challenge, a smile tugging on his lips. “Sounds like somebody needs a reminder of who kicked whose ass today, ma’am.” Rolling right along with your apparent newfound playfulness.

You pinpointed, suddenly, what was different about him tonight, why this interaction felt different compared to your others. There’d always been an air of deference about him before, as if even outside of the arena he considered you a superior. But tonight he was just treating you like a peer, a regular person. Maybe it had taken your excessively dragging day for him to come to terms with the fact that you were a regular person, but the ice finally felt like it had broken between you and you just...talked, after that. For longer than both of you probably intended.

“Shoot, I have to go get Missy,” Marcus realized, catching sight of his watch. “But you- you’ll be here again? I mean, I see you here a lot.” He stumbled over his words.

Did he? It was true that you were often at the bar at the same time, but for him to acknowledge that meant that he actually noticed you. Remembered your presence.

“Yeah, I’m here pretty regularly,” you confirmed, cautiously hopeful.

“Good. I mean, I’ll see you, then- next time.” His voice rasped low, but there was a nervousness in his expression. He twisted his jacket between his large hands.

He wanted to see you again. “Yes.” You smiled at him, surprise and pleasure shining through. “I’ll see you next time,” you said with conviction.

His eyes crinkled in answer, and your breath caught. Your ordered yourself not to watch him leave the room.

You drove home with a quiet grin on your face.

[softkuna]

Yuuji Itadori || Training

Content   ║ Yuuji Itadori x Reader. You and Yuuji train quite often and like to make a competition out of it. However, his quick learning and your insecurities get the best of you.

Count      ║ 1,514 words.

Consider ║ Fluff. Fighting. Probably grammatical errors. 

Creator    ║ Aight! First little drabble up. Hope you guys like it! It’s not nsfw but I was feeling fluffy and Yuuji is a literal sunshine child. Also, whenever I write for the students, I automatically have it be that Jujutsu Tech is a college rather than a high school and everyone is over the age of 18. 

“Sir, we’re surrounded!”

  “That just means we can attack in all directions!”

  A smug smirk tugged the corners of your lips, “I mean… you’re not wrong, Yuu.” The boy gave an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, pearly white on full display. Training with him was always a delight.

  You were back to back, crouched in a way that your back right foot was slipped between his wide stance. You made a few enemies from ink, letting them drench the field’s grass in black gel. Five human-sized creatures were your limit after training for what seemed like years. No one needed to know they were the shapes that haunted you at night, paralyzed with fear as they came from all corners of you bedroom. That fear is what strengthened them. You channeled it into them, strengthening the cursed energy behind the specialized ink.

  Right now, they were just npcs in a videogame to the two of you, “These ones are 3 points, right?” Yuuji looked over his shoulder at you and you nodded. Training with him was always a game. Human-sized blobs were three points. Child-sized ones were two. Rabbit-sized ones were one. Anything larger went up by every two feet of height. So far, he somehow managed to kick your ass every time. Today would be the day you showed him up. Maki had shown you a few decent moves and like hell you’d let him trample over your personal best with this up your sleeve!

  With a springboard hop forward, he drew back a fist, “I’m gonna kick you’re ass!”

  “Oh like hell-“ You bent back at the knees, left hand keeping your back from fully colliding into the ground. An ink blob came right for your neck, swiping dangerously had you not ducked, “OI, play fair!” Both palms planted into the blades of grass, balancing you as your legs vaulted upwards. The tip of your tattered sneaker connected crisply with its lower ‘jaw’. The shoe had swept through the inken mandible, triggering the creation to melt to the earth. As the handspring flowed through, you recollected yourself on both feet only to propel forward at the next targets.

  Alas, there were only two by the time you had gotten through your first. Yuuji was always fast. Faster than a goddamn car, too. Exceptional physical prowess was presented with each corded muscle before he had even eaten the first few fingers. Rumors from his high school years didn’t fail him once, not even here amongst elite Shamans. It was something you always admired and envied about him. Your own form had been delicate, feminine, and rather weak. Some rumored it to be a heavenly restriction in exchange for your expert control over your Ink Children. You refused to believe that, however. Like hell you’d allow yourself to be restricted like that.

  A pout found its way onto your lips as you ducked another straight punch from the last standing enemy. As you swung your punch, a fist made its way to you first, kissing the space between it and your nose. With barely enough time to dodge, you managed to slip to the side, arm hooking into the one that had aimed for your face. Ink exploded onto your clothes and face. Some splattered into your open mouth, triggering a coughing fit. Your shoulder ripped backward as you were practically hauled into a spin with the aggressor’s arm still linked with yours at the elbows. One of you lost stable footing. Your heart squeezed at the impact of dense earth hitting spine, followed by Yuuji landing directly onto your chest with a resounding, “WOAH!” He popped up, forearms caging you in at either side of your head, mouth sputtering apologies, “Didn’t even see you behind that thing! Are you okay?”

  Your eyes blazed against his with explosive fury. Words ripped from your throat before thought could come before it, “Yuuji, what the fuck was that?!”

  “I wanted to get the last point!” The goof-ball grin sloppily made its way to his cheeks. The world still spun around him as it always did with you. It wasn’t until you spoke again that the grin slipped down, dragging away any semblance of pride with it.

“You were already nine points ahead!” A pout made accompanied averting eyes. Chin nudged to the side to emphasize the massacre of ink littering against the ground, “You couldn’t have saved me the last one?! C’mon man.” You knew it was irrational to cut into him for something so silly. It was just training. He knew how much this meant to you, though,  how hard you had to work to even take the impact just now.

 Yuuji’s mouth opened the slightest, guilt trickling into his chest like a steady faucet. Whoops. You had always been competitive. Much more competitive than Nobara, even, and temper to match it, too. A large hand came to rustle the back of his hair, moving to scratched his temple, “Sorry. I got caught up in it. And…” Rose crept up subtly to his cheeks and ears to match his rose colored locks, “I wanted to impress you.”

 Your head snapped back into place, locking hues with his honey-browns, “Wha-“

  “You always make such strong opponents to fight against! I wasn’t even able to hit one last week!” His brows lowered slightly, lips jutting in their own embarrassed pucker, “Just wanna show you I’m strong too. How else am I supposed to protect you?” The sentence trailed out in a grumble, gaze meandering to the space next to your cheek rather than maintaining the kerosene-lit gaze of yours.

  A warmth crept up your own cheeks, lips slightly parted in surprise. Really, you shouldn’t be shocked by this. He was always considerate of your safety. The sheer concept that it displayed during something as inconsequential as training was the bolded punctuation mark to his statement. You hated to admit it but, it made your heart flutter in its boned cage.

  He wasn’t your stereotypical muscle head (despite that being your first impression of him.) He didn’t look down on you like the men in your family did for being physically weak. In fact, Yuuji looked up to you. He acknowledged your strengths and hard work. For the hours of grueling training to even be able to move the way you did, the boy made it a point to come out and watch you. Yuuji saw how you overcame challenge after challenge. It dowsed gasoline on the fire lit under his ass. Even when it seemed like he was selfishly destroying your own target, he simply was trying to meet your bar of approval. He admired your strength, your graceful movement, your technique, and most importantly he admired you.

  “Yuuji,” You began, voice softening from its resin casing, “You don’t need to protect me. I just…” Your hands moved from their crossed position to your cheeks. Eyes fluttered shut briefly before opening again, “I just want to be stronger physically is all. I don’t want to feel like you have to protect me every time we go on a mission because of these noodle arms,” To drive the point home, you wiggled your arms beside his head before lazily resting them at his shoulders, “How the hell’s that fair, huh? Can’t a girl protect herself, Mr. Knight-in-Hooded-Armor?” You playfully stretched his cheeks, tugging the goober’s mouth this way and that, “’sides, you beat my ink kids way too quickly this time! I gotta step up my game.”

  A sunshine laugh beamed from the boy above you. His hand swatted yours away, “Alright, alright! It’s almost like I like you or somethin’!” He dipped down, nuzzling your noses together. The way his lashes dipped as his lips connected with yours was transfixing. Why did boys always have the prettiest eyelashes? Why did they have the softest lips? You leaned into him, hands clasping behind his neck and locking him in place. A content hum harmonized between the two.

  It was a moment you wished to last forever. The warmth of his sprite-flavored Chapstick slid against your teeth-bitten lips. One calloused hand cradled the side of your neck, thumb stroking the pink lingering on your cheekbone. He was so delicate and careful with you, yet somehow so sure in each touch and movement that it left you breathless every time. No matter how strong you were, he had an ability to make you weak for him every. Single. Time.

Bonus:

  The thonk of a used paper towel roll whacking a cardboard box broke the sweet moment apart. Yuuji shoved his face into your neck with a puppy-like yelp before ripping up like an angered Pomeranian, “WHAT WAS THAT FOR, NOBARA?!”

  “Maybe if you weren’t sucking face on the training field-!” The two growled at one another. The only thing tearing away their standoff was your shrill cackle. In comedic synchronicity, the two shouted, “What?!”

  “D-did you hear the sound h-h-,” Words barely escaped your lips, chest heaving with each labored cry-laugh, “His head made! Yuuji! Oh my god you’re a basketball!”

[blossom-hwa]

Danger: Onyx |1| - JUYEON

Pairing: Juyeon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

Triggers: death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 5.1k

Lesson 6: when all seems lost, do not falter. Just because it seems hopeless does not mean it is.

Previous: Ruby >> Onyx: Part 1 | Part 2 >> Next: Crown

TBZ Masterlist | Danger | Kingdom

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The meeting room is abnormally quiet when Somin enters. It could be due to the newly empty seat on the right side of the long table, but not even a whisper hangs on the lips of the remaining mages.

Somin’s mouth doesn’t even curl at their submission. As much as she would like not to show it, the failures of the man who used to sit on that empty seat affected her. Not because she felt particularly fond of him – though she will admit she was sad to see High Mage Jung’s disgrace and demotion, or simply Mage Jung now – but because it left her with a one less competent head at her table.

At the head of the room, she turns, eyes roving over the heads bowed in respect (or is it fear? Pawns and kings, does it even matter?). Her lips curl, but not in joy. In disgust.

One gave her a plan that fell to pieces. Another let a powerful Onyx mage escape from his clutches. Three more on three separate occasions were unable to track and capture the thieves running around and stealing her jewels, with one of them lacking the wits to save her compatriot from the knife of that dratted prince. And when Somin finds out who let it slip that the ruby was to be held at the gray mage’s shrine…

The loss of one semi-intelligent mind means much in this room full of bumbling idiots.

Somin takes a deep breath. High Mage Jung was not infallible either. He failed to anticipate the revolt of the prisoners entrusted under his care, failed to prevent the theft of one of the last three jewels. All because he was sleeping.

She allows a slight smirk to cross her lips. His mistakes will not go unpunished, at least. One of his daughters already awaits retribution for her father under this very palace.

“Sit,” Somin says, purposely embedding the single word with ice.

Everyone sits. Somin does, too, smoothing her full skirts under the table as she tries to hide hands that shake with anger. “It has come to my attention,” she snarls, voice dripping acid, “that this is a room full of failures.”

Several mages flinch. The others remain still, even Lee Minho, who stares at the wooden surface in front of him as though it will give him the answers to the world.

At least Somin can count on his silence, now. Much better than his inability to shut up from before.

“You are lucky that I have a brain as well,” she hisses. “I do wonder what they teach you as mages, if not a single one of you could put together a plan that would not fail on every single level. Even without your specialized training, between dividing my troops and evading Onyx attack, I was able to come up with a plan to lure that insufferable band of jewel thieves into the open.”

Silence.

Somin tuts. “None of you will ask your queen what she intends to do?”

Bom clears her throat quietly. Her stomach wound has long healed, but she still hunches over the table like it never went away. “What is your plan, Your Majesty?”

Such a good puppet. Somin almost wants to pat her head, despite the fact that the mage is at least ten years her senior. This is why Bom sits at her table. It is a table meant for those more powerful than she, but Somin needs someone blindly loyal to her cause to remain close by, no matter how dull-witted.

“We are winning the war,” she starts, allowing a slight smile to curve her lips. “This gives me leave to bring some of our generals back to the capital for, ah, a respite of sorts. I’m sure many are eager to pledge themselves to the new queen and her king, just as all of you were.”

Mouths tighten. Faces whiten. Somin represses a smirk. A gentle reminder of what she holds over their heads never hurts. “I will host a competition of dual blades,” she announces. “It is an art widely practiced among the noble and royal classes, even in some of the common pawn circles. Anyone will be free to join, and the winner will receive the onyx stone as a gift. Spoils of war.” Her smile widens. “Who could resist?”

Minho’s eyes shift from the table to her. “You believe the Onyx prince will fall for this obvious trap?”

Somin returns his gaze. “You believe he won’t?” She laughs. “The prince needs this stone. Even if he has the other four, he has no way of completing the crown unless he somehow takes this one too. He may realize it is a trap, but what other choice does he have?”

Mage Choi Jinhee, at the end of the table, raises her head. “Will you use the real stone?”

A sigh leaves Somin’s lips. Does she really need to spell everything out for them? “No,” she snaps. Her gaze turns to a certain cat-eyed mage, whose mouth thins into a line. “The real stone will be left with the crown in a place no one can access but I.” She sneers. “Need I remind you of what happened last time I listened to such foolish advice?”

Jinhee falls silent, but Minho opens his mouth. Somin curses internally. “The prince is of the Onyx bloodline,” he says, bravely (or foolishly – she’s more inclined to believe that) meeting her stare. “He will sense whether or not the jewel is real. And if it is true that a mage travels with them –”

“Which is why it will only be revealed on the last day of competition, when the winner has fought their way to the finish,” she cuts him off. “No one will see it before then, so no one will know it is fake. The prince will fight until that day, at which point he will be arrested in front of all spectators so they can see just who has managed to trespass into our kingdom during a time of war.”

“How are you so sure the prince will make it to the last day?” Minho challenges.

Somin actually laughs at that. “Have you ever watched the Onyx prince at swordplay?”

A shake of the head. Somin’s smile turns into a smirk. “I have.” She leans forward, staring Minho in the eye. “When I tell you he is skilled, I do not lie. He was taught by Wang throughout his adolescence, and he specialized in it when he underwent his knight training.” Her smirk deepens. “I will not make the mistake of underestimating him.”

Minho’s lips twitch. Somin can’t tell if it’s a result of annoyance or a smirk, and that frustrates her. “It is sometimes just as crucial not to overestimate an opponent, Your Majesty.”

Somin scoffs. “I do not overestimate him,” she snaps. “If he loses early on, we will only arrest him earlier. Perhaps it will not draw the crowds I would have liked, but as long as he is executed the next day and leaves the Onyx Kingdom without an heir to the king’s crown, it does not matter.”

No one argues with that. Silence falls over the room once more.

A smirk creeps up Somin’s lips, and this time, she allows it to show. “Now, then.” She leans forward. “Who will be tasked with creating the fake?”

. . . . .

Juyeon isn’t stupid. A contest in swordplay offering the last crown jewel as the winner’s prize can’t be anything but an obvious trap.

Personally, he feels slightly offended. Does Somin really think he’s that dumb? He might not be Jisoo with her mind for battle tactics and foreign affairs, but Juyeon has a brain that he often utilizes well, despite what Kevin sometimes likes to say.

(No matter what the amethyst heir says, Juyeon will maintain that cutting himself on a rose bush is far less stupid than setting an entire hill on fire. At least his wounds were healed. As far as he knows, half of that hill is still blackened.)

But the longer he looks at the poster Jacob brought back from the town square, the more it becomes obvious just how well-wrought this trap is. It may be obvious, yes, but more likely than not, Somin’s accounted for this. She has rarely been one to underestimate her enemies, after all. Which means that she expects him to come, knowing it’s a ploy to catch him.

Juyeon swears, throwing the poster to the ground. Of course he’ll come. Of course he will. He may have four of the crown jewels, but he needs the last one. The other four mean nothing if he can’t complete the crown.

So he has to join this contest.

He looks at Jacob and Kevin, both of whom stare at the piece of paper on the dusty ground with similarly grim expressions. Looking at them, a familiar sensation of unease grows in his mind, a tingling suspicion that someone is missing.

Which is impossible. Yes, Sunwoo left a hole in the group that can’t be filled, not even by Jacob, but this feeling is something different from the grief that still grips his heart every time he remembers the death. And then he inevitably remembers knives ripping through flesh, blood pooling on the ground, watching the life drain out of Mage Han’s eyes next to Sunwoo’s already blank expression –

Enough. Juyeon pulls himself out of his thoughts before he can spiral. This feeling isn’t the same as that of Sunwoo’s absence. It’s more like someone or multiple people are supposed to be here, helping him, which makes no sense. Hwanwoong and the others never could have stayed, and Juyeon certainly wasn’t going to drag High Mage Jung along. Jacob might really have committed murder then.

So no one can be missing. No one.

But ever since Juyeon woke up, thorn wounds completely healed after a dream of ruby roses and pain, he knows someone is. And he’s pretty sure he knows who – the shade who healed him, whose face he almost saw but didn’t because his body decided to wake up right then and there.

Which doesn’t make any castles-damned sense.

“Someone has to go.” Kevin’s voice breaks Juyeon out of his thoughts, brings him back to the present problems that have nothing to do with unnamed shades and roses. “And Juyeon’s the best at swordplay. Especially dual blades.”

Juyeon winces. It’s true, he can handle a sword and a dagger extremely well. He just much prefers the stability of a single one.

Besides, dual blades are an Ivory citizen’s weapon of choice. Normally this wouldn’t pose problems – royalty of both kingdoms, especially those who take the knight’s oath, often learn to wield multiple types of weapons – but even wearing white makes Juyeon want to crawl out of his skin, now. Using an Ivory weapon instead of his own?

A grimace crosses his face that he can’t shove away.

“It could be a fake,” Jacob interjects. “In fact, it probably is – why would Somin use the real stone, especially when we already have the other four?”

“Even if it’s a fake, we could get something from it,” Kevin argues. “Traces of magic, maybe. A mage would have had to create it, so couldn’t we track the traces again?”

Jacob frowns. “That took so long last time, though.” He sighs. “I’m not saying we have other choices. But if we could figure out something else…?”

Juyeon shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s another option.” His mouth thins as he presses his lips together. “She wants me to come, that much is obvious. Somin watched me practice when she used to visit the kingdom. She’ll expect me to get to the end of the contest, even against other highly-trained soldiers and generals.”

“You could just be being pig-headed and arrogant,” Kevin says, lips raised in a teasing half-smile. “What if she doesn’t actually think you’ll make it, huh? You have that much faith in your abilities?”

“You –” Juyeon punches Kevin in the arm, unable to force back the smile growing on his face. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t Wang call you one of the most pathetic students he’d ever had?”

Kevin sniffs. “I throw knives better than you ever will.”

“Are you two done puffing your chests around?” Jacob interrupts, cutting Juyeon off from arguing further (which he really couldn’t, anyway – Kevin has the best aim of anyone he’s ever met). He’s smiling too, though, and a wave of gratitude washes over Juyeon at Kevin’s ability to lighten up the mood. But the smile slowly disappears as he opens his mouth again. “Juyeon, if you’re going to do this, you can’t show up with your face on display. Attending the contest is bad enough, but parading around in the open is even worse.”

“Dust masks.” Juyeon turns to Kevin. “Can you make something that’ll hide my face well enough?”

He nods. “Just give me a day, I’ll have it ready. In the meantime, you need to somehow find a pair of dual blades to practice with.”

Well, that’s an issue. Juyeon’s just about to frown when Jacob points to a few lines on the poster he hadn’t read yet. “Blades will be provided so no contestant has an unfair advantage.”

Relief, then anxiety fill Juyeon’s chest. “Which means I’ll have to make another appearance to sign up for this and pick out my size.”

Kevin’s lips thin. “Show up first while wearing the mask. It’s all you can do.”

“And if someone asks?”

“Then say the roads are too dusty.” Jacob coughs. “Which they are.”

It’s a bad plan, not well thought out and far from foolproof, but if worst comes to worst, Juyeon has long legs and knows the capital well enough to get around and maybe hide.

“Well.” Juyeon sighs. “Anything’s better than setting a hill on fire.”

“Queens,” Jacob mutters. “We really need to stop using that as a baseline to judge our bad plans.”

. . . . .

Kevin follows Juyeon to competition registration. It isn’t too hard to stay inconspicuous among the masks most people are wearing, but Kevin keeps his head lowered and gaze alert all the same. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch them before Juyeon even enters his first swordfight.

But it’s hard when dust keeps flying into his face with every step he takes. Even when he deliberately tries to place his foot down with as little force as possible, it floats into the air with a deceptive grace that itches his nose and makes tears spring in his eyes.

Queens, it was never this bad all the other times Kevin visited, and he’s traveled here a lot over the past few years. Under the previous queen, the roads, though still dusty – it’s inevitable, especially in the dryer months – were much cleaner.

It’s not just that. Even here, in the square, the usual bustle of chatter and cheer sounds so much more subdued than he remembers. When he was younger, he and Changmin and Juyeon would come here on their visits to wreak as much havoc as their tiny bodies could handle. They’d get caught, eventually, but people were always up for a joke or a prank.

Now, though there’s still noise, the level is nowhere near where it used to be. Everyone’s face looks drawn, taut, a little wary, even, as they exchange coins and goods.

An unpleasant tingle runs down Kevin’s back. The current queen is probably too focused on the war at hand to care for her citizens. A scowl crosses his face as he thinks of Somin sitting high and mighty in her palace or wherever she is, directing people to do the dirty work for her.

One of his angry feet kicks a cloud of dust into the air. Kevin starts coughing again. Pawns and kings, it couldn’t get much worse than this, could it?

Just ahead, Juyeon approaches a large white building. Kevin stops where he is, standing idly by a small store as Juyeon flashes him a look that he returns. He disappears into the doors.

Now all there is to do is wait.

Heart in his throat, Kevin does his best to look casual as he lingers in the town square, vaguely gazing at several of the stalls as he tries not to catch anyone’s attention. No meeting eyes, no staring, no looking interested –

“Excuse me?”

Castling queens.

Kevin braces himself, expecting some random Ivory citizen to maybe ask him why he’s loitering around without buying anything. An excuse pops readily onto his tongue as he turns, a slight, wary smile on his face to mimic those of the others prattling around the square –

In the name of the Board and all that is holy –

It takes all of Kevin’s effort not to widen his eyes, not to curse, not to show anything in the face of Lee Jaehyun, a boy he once used to know, a boy he used to play around with on his visits to the Ivory Kingdom. As they grew older and took on different duties, they saw each other less – in fact, the last time they talked was probably a couple years ago – but there’s no mistaking it. This is Lee Jaehyun, the youngest general of the ivory army, knighted when he was just sixteen.

Juyeon himself wasn’t knighted until seventeen, and he’s one of the best fighters Kevin knows. If Jaehyun is here…

Smile. Breathe. Change your voice. Kevin prays the disinterested expression on his face from before hasn’t left as he looks at Jaehyun with veiled curiosity, heart pounding. Thank all the higher orders that he’s wearing a mask. “Yes?”

“You just seemed a little lost.” Jaehyun smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Is it just Kevin’s paranoia, or does he look suspicious? “I wondered if you needed directions somewhere.”

A brief laugh forces itself out of Kevin’s throat, stilted and deep and nothing like his normal snorts and giggles. Good – even less chance of Jaehyun recognizing him. “I don’t, but thank you.” He jerks his head toward the registration building. “Just waiting for a friend.”

Jaehyun nods. “Not signing up yourself, then?”

“Oh, no.” This time, Kevin doesn’t need to lie. “I don’t have the skill to compete against generals of the kingdom.” He cocks his head, feigning interest. “Are you?”

The smile on Jaehyun’s unmasked face tightens, but he nods. “Yes, I am.” He laughs, short and forced. “Who wouldn’t want the glory?”

“Glory,” Kevin repeats, trying to decipher the unreadable look Jaehyun wears. “Is that what matters, then?”

His tone must have been more accusatory than he meant, because Jaehyun’s eyes narrow slightly. Kevin curses internally, about to backtrack, but Jaehyun has already opened his mouth to speak again. “To some,” he says, pose deceivingly relaxed. “Why? What do you think matters more?”

Kevin’s heart is ready to pound out of his chest with anxiety. Sweat beads on his forehead and under his ivory dust mask as his mind races for a neutral answer. Jaehyun just waits, face impassive.

“Care,” he finally replies. “If I had someone under my care, I would put them before anything else, even glory.”

It’s true. He doesn’t need to lie about how he feels about Jacob. About Juyeon.

About Sunwoo.

Pain stabs his chest, pain that he does his best not to show as Jaehyun nods appraisingly. “I agree,” he says, surprisingly. “We are lucky to have a king who cares for us in the way you describe.”

Kevin tries not to raise his eyebrows too high at Jaehyun’s choice of words. King. Not queen.

Does this mean Jaehyun doesn’t care for the queen, either?

It could be. Jaehyun never exactly wanted to play with Somin when they were kids, even though he regularly got into shenanigans with the former queen. Even though she’s ascended the throne, it’s possible that the feelings remained.

With that, it crosses Kevin’s mind to reveal himself and enlist Jaehyun as an ally. But there’s too much to risk with that. They’re so close to completing the crown, so close – they can’t afford a single mistake. Besides, Kevin only has guesses to go by. He doesn’t know anything concrete about Jaehyun that’s recent enough to mean anything.

And also, Juyeon’s just exited the building, two new blades in hand. There’s no time.

“There seems to be a line forming,” Kevin remarks idly. “You should probably take your place before you’re here all morning.”

Jaehyun glances back, almost uninterested, before nodding. “Probably.” He sighs. “Well, it was nice meeting you…”

Queens. Kevin needs to think of a name. “Jihoon,” he spits out, wincing internally at how similar it is to Juyeon’s fake name (seriously, Jiyoon and Jihoon? Come on, Kevin), but it’s too late to retract it because Jaehyun’s already nodding.

“Jihoon.” Jaehyun smiles. “I’m Jaehyun.”

I know.

Kevin doesn’t say that, though, just returns the nod. “Good luck, Jaehyun.”

He means it. Because though Jaehyun might be good, Juyeon has skill, too. And he has something else that Jaehyun doesn’t.

Desperation.

And as horrible a feeling it is to have, Kevin knows with a grim certainty that Juyeon’s going to need to channel as much of it as he can.

. . . . .

When Juyeon learns the Lee Jaehyun is going to be competing in this tournament, he almost wants to give up right then and there. He may be good, but Jaehyun is a prodigy. There’s a reason why he was knighted so early and rose through the army ranks so quickly. His participation basically cuts Juyeon’s chances of winning in half.

Never mind that his chances already weren’t very high.

And then there’s the fact that Jaehyun spoke with Kevin, singled him out of an entire town square as someone to talk to. Though Kevin says he’s pretty sure Jaehyun didn’t recognize him or he probably would’ve said something, Juyeon can’t shake it off that easily. Jaehyun’s smart. He isn’t a general for nothing. If he talked to Kevin, he suspected something. Why else would he give up his position in line for a chat?

A cursory scan of the day’s duels brings Juyeon slight relief. He isn’t fighting against Jaehyun – in fact, he’s in a completely different bracket – which means that he might just make it to the last day if no one catches him. Might.

And then he’ll have to fight Jaehyun, or whoever managed to beat Jaehyun. Though to be honest, if there’s someone else at the top, Juyeon might back out right then and there. Jaehyun is that good.

But if it’s Jaehyun he ends up fighting, there’s a much higher chance of recognition. Which is also not good.

Taking a shaky breath, Juyeon readjusts the dust mask covering his face, trying to drown out the noises of the growing crowd as he steps into the arena. Kevin’s talented fingers have come into play again for the simple piece of cloth, sewing it tight enough around his mouth and nose that it won’t come loose while giving him enough air to breathe. If no one looks too closely, they won’t root him out.

Hopefully.

Juyeon breathes in. Breathes out. Dust swirls around his feet as he walks forward to meet his opponent. Already he’s forgotten the name – it wasn’t anybody he recognized, he remembers that much – and from the stuttering gaze on the boy’s face, he gathers that it won’t be too difficult to beat him this round.

He’s right. The boy – whatever his name is – has some skill but not enough, not the type that Juyeon’s honed over years of training in multiple forms of swordplay. Within minutes, he disarms his opponent, two blades thudding to the dusty ground, and his sword rises to rest against his throat.

Cheers rise as Juyeon lowers his arm, accepting the boy’s hand in a firm shake. Vaguely, he hears his fake name being announced as the winner, but already he’s slipping into one of the tents, exiting as fast as he can, then disappearing into the crowd, unnoticed.

He doesn’t find Kevin or Jacob. They said they’d be here but didn’t tell Juyeon where for fear of accidentally giving them away with a stray glance. Instead, he finds a relatively empty space at the junction between two streets, sits down, and closes his eyes to rest.

The afternoon passes in the same manner, then the next day. Juyeon almost loses his fourth set – he doesn’t recognize the move his opponent uses and it throws him off-kilter when he loses his dagger – but in the end, he manages to flip both blades out of the other’s hand with a wild sweep of his sword that sends the audience into a frenzy. Stonily, he ignores his opponent’s glare and the way she tries to crush his hand with her grip, though his heart pounds for hours after.

Two days gone. One day left.

The third afternoon, Kevin sends him off with a face whiter than usual, fingers trembling at his sides. Jacob doesn’t look much better, huddled into his red cloak as he wishes Juyeon luck. Both put on a brave face, trying to smile as Juyeon slides the blades into his belt, but their worry is obvious.

He can’t blame them. His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. Because today, Juyeon’s going to be in the most danger he’s been throughout his two short weeks in the capital.

The crowds will be bigger than ever. There’s a far smaller chance of Kevin and Jacob being able to whisk him out of a tight situation. Somin herself will preside over the final duel as he fights beneath her throne. Well, not her throne because that’s a huge piece of white marble and ivory that can’t easily be carried out of the palace, but she’ll be there.

And to top things off…

A familiar figure stands in the center of the arena, blades already drawn. Even from this distance, confidence radiates from his body, from the slight smile on his face and the easy way he holds his weapons.

Juyeon swallows.

He’s fighting Lee Jaehyun.

. . . . .

Anxiety can’t even begin to cover how Jacob feels as he watches Juyeon enter the arena. Shouts, alternate cheers and boos, follow his footsteps forward into the center of the large, dusty plain.

Jacob doesn’t join in. Neither does Kevin. They only watch silently from a far edge of the crowds, fists clenched so tightly that his nails start biting crescents into his palms.

Pawns and kings. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. If he feels this anxious, how must Juyeon feel, standing under watch of his biggest enemy, facing one of the best (or possibly the best) swordsmen in the two kingdoms, knowing there’s a very sizable chance that someone will either root him out or he’ll simply lose?

Juyeon doesn’t seem to show any worry or anxiety as he tosses his sheaths away, but maybe that’s just because Jacob is so far away. He wishes he was closer, but in the event of things gone awry, he and Kevin need to be able to escape as fast as possible.

If he was alone, standing closer might be an option. He doesn’t need a door just to shift on his own. But with Kevin here, he does.

And he can’t exactly create a door in the middle of a crowd.

A horn sounds. Jacob’s head jerks up.

Kevin’s hand finds his as the first crash of metal rings through the air.

They fight fast. All Jacob can see are flashes of silver, the afternoon sun glinting off the blades and nearly blinding him several times. Two blurred figures weave in and out of each other, barely distinguishable from this far away, and try as Jacob might to pay attention, sometimes he loses sight of Juyeon’s dark hair in the clouds of dust that whirl up from their feet.

Blades clash. Cheers sound. Jacob can barely hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears, can barely feel a thing besides Kevin’s hand clenching his in a death grip. Vaguely, as Jaehyun nearly lands a hit on Juyeon, who just manages to spin away, Jacob wonders if his blood will still be circulating in his fingers by the time this match is over.

One strike blocked, a feint parried, another slash dodged. The duel drags on and on – Kevin mutters something about sundown coming before it’s over and Jacob almost laughs, hysterical and wild with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins – and then –

Juyeon knocks the sword out of Jaehyun’s hand, sending it flying high into the air.

A scream builds in Jacob’s throat as Kevin lets out a pained wheeze. Maybe, just maybe, Jacob thinks, Juyeon has a chance to win this. Castling queens, he needs to –

But Jaehyun catches the blade.

He catches it.

Jacob nearly falls over entirely as the general resumes the fight, barely looking like he’s broken a sweat. Juyeon stumbles and Jacob almost releases his previous scream. He manages to regain his balance, though Jacob can tell even from here that Juyeon’s shaken.

Who wouldn’t be, after all? No one could blame Juyeon after that sort of stunt.

But he can’t afford to be shaken. He needs to move, to fight, to win this for the stupid onyx stone that’s probably a fake anyway because they need all the information they can get, even if it means putting the Onyx prince himself in a direct line of danger –

The dagger falls out of Juyeon’s hand. Jaehyun kicks it, sending the blade skittering across the arena.

Kevin’s nails begin cutting into Jacob’s skin.

Juyeon continues the fight. He’s already fought and won against another girl who managed to disarm his dagger hand, Jacob knows, so there’s a chance, a tiny chance that he could still make this. As sweat stings his open eyes, he prays, he prays to every higher order of the two kingdoms, pawns and kings, please let Juyeon win this –

But Jaehyun isn’t the girl from before. And with the first trip, the first tiny stumble over a stone or a rut in the ground, the general flips the sword out of Juyeon’s hand. It falls to the ground in a cloud of dust.

The tip of a blade inserts itself under Juyeon’s chin.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for juyeon he needs it)

[otonymous]

A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part I: A Matter Of Convenience

Description: An extraordinary man arrives to shake up your ordinary life Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings: robberies and mentions of firearms, physical violence, mild depictions of bodily injury, blood and masturbation, profanity Word Count: 1650 words (~8 mins of action, drama and the start of a slow burn 🔥)  Author’s Notes: This multi-chapter fic is dedicated to the lovely @op-peccatori​​​, one of the winners of my Follower Milestone Celebration!  Thank you so much, Nana, for requesting a mafia AU story starring everyone’s favourite lavender-haired man 😆 This is actually my first time writing an AU fic, and the experience thus far has been incredibly eye-opening and lots of fun!

For this piece, I wanted to localize the AU to better fit the world of MLQC, so instead of using a traditional mafia setting, the events take place in the milieu of the triads and “black societies” that are more likely to be found in corresponding parts of the world.  For those who are interested, Wikipedia has an incredibly comprehensive article on triads and organized crime.

This piece turned out to be much longer than I anticipated and is still ongoing as of the time of this post!  That being said, I hope you’ll join me on this wild ride 😂 As always, wishing you all a very happy read 😊

Jump to Chapter(s): Two | Three | Four

“Put the money in the bag and no one gets hurt.”

A black duffel bag is thrust onto the counter before you, panels wide open like a gaping maw.  You look up at the man in the bomber jacket and the only things you can process are:

One: his nostrils are flaring.

Two: why bother trying to be nondescript by dressing in all black if you’re going to leave your face uncovered during a robbery?

“I ain’t playin’ around, little girl.  Put the goddamn money in the bag right now or else I’ll shoot—”

WHACK!

The man’s eyes widen in the split second before his face crumples, teeth yellowed and uneven protruding in an ugly grimace.  His hand flies to his head, trying to stem the blood already streaking down his face when he collapses onto the counter, taking out a display of collectible miniature keychains next to the register as he does.  They scatter, some rolling across the floor before being stopped by a pair of purple Chuck Taylors tapping out an impatient rhythm on the linoleum.

You look up from those sneakers in a daze, eyes following the silhouette of a pair of jeans so worn in places you doubted the rips and tears were purely for aesthetic purposes.  And if you’d had to guess, you’d say that purple was your saviour’s favourite colour, given the lavender hair that fell over his eyes the moment he pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt, also in a shade of violet.  His other hand — clad in a fingerless leather glove — gripped the skateboard that had just connected with the head of the would-be robber, still groaning before you.

Pop!

You startle at the sound, heart slowing only when you see the pink bubble deflating between the young man’s lips before the gum is pulled back by the tip of his tongue.  And from where you stood — glued to the spot behind the counter — you swear you can detect the hint of cinnamon.  

He crouches, picking up the gun that had slid out of the thief’s hand when he was unceremoniously hit from behind, and when he chuckles — the sound dangerous and cocksure — it ignites something deep within you.

“Tsk, tsk.  Can’t very well go around robbing people with toys guns, now can you?  Especially not on my turf.  Piece of advice: don’t mess with Boss Li’s territory or else I’ll be doing more than just breaking your head the next time around.  Don’t let me catch you here again.”  

Letting out a pathetic whimper, the robber snatches the empty bag from the counter, running for the doors in such haste he almost trips over his own feet.  The electronic refrains of the door chime still ring in your ears when you realize the man has already made his way to the beverage dispenser, one long finger pressing the Pepsi button before switching to Coke, both drinks mixing in the same paper cup.

Smoothly stepping over the mess on the floor, he places the drink on the counter right next to a smear of blood.  Mind still reeling, your customer service instincts take over.

“H-hello.  Just this?”  

He nods, popping a purple straw through the plastic lid before fixing you with his amber eyes as he pays, a hint of a smirk on his face.  And that is when it hits you that he is actually…actually…

…incredibly gorgeous.

An intense wave of heat washes over your face and you can’t help but look down.  By the time you’ve worked up the courage to lift your head again, he is already at the door, merging with the dark night beyond.  He throws up one hand in goodbye, not even bothering to look back when he says, “Relax.  That guy won’t be bothering you again.”

You hear his skateboard hit the pavement, listen to it rolling away.  Only when the sound completely fades do you remember to breathe.

There was a certain tranquility in working late-night shifts at the 24-hour convenience store — aisles empty save for the occasional customer breaking the monotony: high-strung lovers grabbing last-minute condoms and overworked salarymen buying the beer and discounted meals they subsisted on.

And though your coworkers complained bitterly about the graveyard shift, they were more than happy to pass them on to you, making up every excuse as to why they were unable to show up during those times.  It was unnecessary, really.  You didn’t mind it, even preferred the solitary calm it afforded.

Until now.

Your peace has been shattered, replaced by something that made your hands ball into nervous fists — fingers gripping at the hem of your polyester uniform and wondering for the first time ever whether blue stripes made you look ridiculous.

Because for the first time in a very long while, there was something, someone, to look forward to.

Night after night, it’s the same.  Repeated glances at the clock above the magazine rack, your breath growing shallow to see it approach 1:30.  Heart leaping into your throat to hear the automatic doors slide open followed by the scuff of purple sneakers, tracing a path through the store.

Since the night of that foiled robbery attempt a month ago, he has visited like clockwork and you still haven’t figured out how to remain calm.  So you find contentment from behind the safety of the counter, watching the man with lavender hair — soft, even when lit beneath a harsh fluorescent glare as he stands at the drink dispenser, always filling a cup with Pepsi first, then Coke.

Only ever buying the same thing every time.

This strange ritual lasts all of ten minutes, fifteen at most.  And it takes just as long after he leaves for the hairs of your body to cease standing on end, as if electrified by the intensity of his eyes on yours.  

That gaze of molten gold stays with you even when you return home in the early morning hours, pulling blackout curtains across your window before falling into bed to pretend your hands were his: tracing the outline of your lips, caressing the swell of your breasts, dipping between your legs.

And when your breath falters in a quick succession of shudders, you wonder at your own sanity.  Because in spite of your suspicions about the guy with the purple hair, the warning signs that pointed to his obvious involvement with the triads that extorted money from local businesses as ‘protection fees,’ you still couldn’t help but think about the man who visited you every night without fail.

“You’re hurt—”

“I-I’m fine.  Just…just ring this up, will ya?  I’m…in a rush…”

One arm crossed over his abdomen, he places the cup onto the counter as if it took all the concentration in the world — his efforts squandered anyways when his hand spasms at the last minute to send dark liquid sloshing over the lip.  He hadn’t even bothered to put a lid on.

“…Emergency responders have just arrived on scene and are dealing with scores of injuries.  Eyewitnesses describe what appears to have been a violent clash between rival gangs in a longstanding feud over contested territory.  The police are seeking help from the public in locating several key suspects believed to have fled the scene.  Please do not approach them under any circumstances as they are considered armed and dangerous…”

The news anchor’s face on the wall-mounted television is replaced by another: that of a youthful man with lavender hair and multiple piercings on his ears — challenge exuding from amber eyes.  You scramble for the remote on the shelf behind you, mashing the power button until the screen goes black.  And in the eerie silence that descends upon the store, all you can focus on is the laboured breathing of the man slouched before you.

Skin pale, beads of sweat dot a face drained of colour save for the crimson protrusion above his left eye — soon set to transform, ironically, into his favourite shade of purple.  He tries to suppress a cough but it is too late: you’ve already caught sight of the blood spreading out from beneath the palm pressed to his stomach.

“It’s on me tonight.”

The words leave your lips without second thought as you make for the storefront, flipping the light switch even as you reach to turn the lock on the automatic doors.

“No, don’t…don’t get yourself involved…”

Ignoring his protests, you gingerly place his arm over your shoulder, doing your best to support his weight as you make an awkward attempt to hobble together towards the back of the store.

Suddenly, the darkened interior is lit by flashes of red and blue and you are pulled in the direction of the nearest pillar, a strong arm flexed as it tenses around your waist, holding you to him in an intimate embrace.

He is close…so close that your senses are flooded with him: the heartbeat thunderous in your ear, leather and sweat tickling your nostrils; the scent of blood thick enough you can almost taste it on your tongue.  The hand on your hip — grip firm in a way it almost seemed possessive, and you are ashamed to find that you can become aroused even in a situation like this.

When you finally gather the courage to look up at his face — seeking a sign in the tension dissolving from the firm set of his jaw that the police cruiser had passed — you are shocked to see his pale lips stretched into a smirk instead.

“You know...I’ve been coming here every day…for weeks now…and this is the most you’ve ever said to me.”

He is still smiling when he passes out.

Thanks so much for reading!  Hope you all enjoyed it and please stay tuned for part 2!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

(Updated): Jump to Chapter(s): Two | Three | Four

[johnkrrasinski]

two paper airplanes flying; 

full masterlist

Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x female!reader

Word count: 8,537 (yes you got that right) 

Warning: smut!!! exhibitionism, fingering, dirty talk. (MUST BE 18+) 

Summary: ransom drysdale will always find you, no matter where you are. always. 

a/n: this is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​‘s dark writing challenge. i chose prompt #24 “Character A is starting over. What happens when their past catches up to them?” hey there! i knowwww that the word count probably shocked the hell out of you cause it did me too. i got so lost in writing this fic that i ended up writing over 8k+ but honestly, this was really fun to write and i’ve been thinking of writing about ransom for awhile! so i hope you like it! please leave a like and comment. 

You stepped into your apartment unit, as you hauled the very last box of your belongings with your foot, due to its ponderosity. You were wearied from the hours you spent on moving in. And you hadn't even set everything up in place yet. You simply had to worry about getting all of the boxes out of the moving truck now.

You thanked the mover for helping you with all the commodity that was partially carried by them into your unit. You tipped them off and said your goodbye.

You closed the door behind you and you sighed. You immediately slumped yourself down on the couch, trying to regain the energy you had receded. You threw your head back as you closed your eyes. Your thoughts drifted to the chaos that had coerced you into escaping to the big city and run away.

Free. Free from the town, free from the drama, free from him.

You had been dating Ransom Drysdale for three months now. Your families were well-acquainted since you were only kids. Well, Ransom was several years older than you, but the first time you met him was when he was nothing but a fresh-faced, ambitious young man who had been spoiled by his parents since he was still in Linda Drysdale's womb.

Even as kids, he would often flirt with you, and make stupid jokes that used to elicit a chuckle out of you. At family gatherings, he would often ask you to play hide and seek and he always succeeded in locating you, no matter how clever you think you are at hiding. There's not a single hiding spot that you hadn't attempted to hide yourself in, that he failed to find. "I will always find you." He once said.

Years later, you remained good friends, despite the alteration in his demeanor. He became more impertinent. He grew into a charismatic, presumptuous, dashing young man who used snarky remarks as his weapon in family events. He was aware of his indisputable good looks. He utilized it as the power to lure any woman into his bed and that gave him even more reason to his entitlement.

He never once had to look for a job, because he knew his parents were incapable of cutting him off. Just like how he made you incapable of resisting him one night after you went back to Boston after you graduated for Thanksgiving break. You wanted to take a little break and spend some time in your hometown before you start your own clothing line that you've dreamt about since you were a toddler who was obsessed with Barbie dolls and dressing them up.

You'd always pretend that you were Barbie and Ransom was Ken. Silly little you.

You knew damn well that spending Thanksgiving with your family would be a bad idea. You had this tradition, that on every Thanksgiving, your family would celebrate it with the Thrombeys. And you knew Ransom would be there. He would make a magnetic entrance, with his nose up high and a tantalizing scowl on his face, showcasing his intact ego.  

Ransom sat next to you on Thanksgiving dinner as he would every year. You were wearing a beige-colored, off the shoulder knitted-sweater dress. Ransom would openly flirt with you in front of your parents, despite being aware that your parents strongly opposed the idea of you dating him. They respected his family, but not his notorious reputation. That's why they would never say anything incriminating that would cause a strain between your family and his, in front of them. So they'd pretend to smile and nod along.

You had warned Ransom many times to take it slow on the PDA when your parents are around.  You have told him that they weren't too keen on you being together. And so, Ransom took it as a challenge. He would put his hand on your thigh, as you try to swat him away. The more you try to resist, the harder he would try to tease you. He loved seeing you struggle under his touch and he wanted to see you fall apart in front of the entire family. Because he was an asshole who got off on your humiliation.

Ransom would slowly lift your dress as Richard and your father exchanged stories of how their business empires had been doing. He would push it even harder when Meg would make a conversation about university life as a fellow college student, of course, she'd confide in you regarding the stress exams and assignments. You were practically sisters. She trusted you more than her own cousins; Ransom and Jacob.

Ransom would keep retreating his hand onto your thigh to hike up your dress and to insert his fingers into your private parts. He would smirk when you couldn't impede him anymore. He would slowly rub your wet core and feel you under his touch. It made you squirm in your seat, as you try to concentrate on what Joni was flaunting about. She was talking so highly about a new deal she made with a skin-care company that asked her to advertise their overpriced products or something.

Ransom would peek his eyes to the side to watch your struggle, as you try not to choke on your drink. You tried to calm your nerves by gulping a glass of wine. It didn't help, his fingers were now moving so furiously that if everybody stopped talking, the whole room would be able to hear the obscene sounds of your drenched pussy against your panties.

He kept circling your bud as you try not to crumble from orgasm in front of your entire family. You held yourself back by covering your mouth as your moans were pleading to be vocalized. Meg detected the agitation on your face, from the way you sweat nervously, despite the cold air in the room. From the way you were fidgeting in your seat and the way you were a little silent from the usual.

"Y/N, are you okay? You look a little unwell."

"Y-yeah. I'm fine, Meg, ju- just... Cramps. That's all." You cleared your throat.

She nodded at that, but the look on her face told you that she didn't believe you were telling the whole truth, but she was going to let it slide.

Joni carried on with her interrupted vaunting about her best-dressed award or something. Your head started to become hazy from the impending climax that was about to hit you like a hurricane. Just a few more vigorous rubs from Ransom's skillful fingers, and then you fell apart.

You hunched yourself down slightly to hide the orgasmic look on your face, as your release drenched both your underwear and his palm. You tried to slow your breathing down by staying still in place, as you relish in the aftermath of your displayed euphoria.

Everyone was still unaware of what just happened, and you were glad of it. There's no way you'd be able to face your parents alone if they knew Ransom had inappropriately groped you under the table on Thanksgiving dinner. The look on their faces would make you wish the earth would swallow you so you'd vanish from the face of the earth.

You excused yourself, saying that you needed to use the bathroom. And you weren't exactly lying, you did need to use the bathroom. For an unspeakable reason. To make it less conspicuous, Ransom waited for a few minutes to join you.

He excused himself and followed you to the bathroom. You were cleaning yourself up when Ransom knocked on the door. You immediately knew that trouble was paying you a visit. You opened the door and his Carolina blue eyes greeted you. You exchanged nothing but glances for a moment there, then he grabbed your face in his big hands and pressed his lips onto yours brutally as if his life depended on it.

He backed your body with his and pressed you to the bathroom sink. Your makeout session didn't stop until he decided to turn your figure around in the swift motion of his hands, and he lifted up your skirt abruptly and ripped apart your panties. He threw it on the marble bathroom floor.

His broad figure was towering over you, and you had never felt so tiny against a man before. He stared into the reflection of your eyes on the mirror before he made the next move. He then pushed his finger onto your clit and shamelessly rubbed you there, stimulating you for the second time, as if you weren't soaked in excitement already.

"I've barely done anything to you and you're already soaking wet..." He chuckled condescendingly. You shut your eyes in pleasure, couldn't suppress the moans on your lips.

"You secretly like it when my fingers are buried deep in your cunt, in front of your parents, don't you. What a dirty girl."

You were too lost in the feel of his fingers to answer him. The truth is, you have wanted him for as long as you could remember. You remember 10 years old you were giddy whenever your parents told you that the Thrombeys were coming over. You had the biggest crush on Ransom since you were basically a toddler. You never said anything to him though, fearing that it would ruin the friendship. And what if... He didn't feel the same way? What if instead of reciprocating the declaration, he laughs on your face and turns his back on you?

So you buried your feeling deep until you entered your teenage years. Never hinting a single clue that you were into him. Even during his teenage years, you both went into the same school. One of the top private schools in Massachusets, the best both of your parents could possibly afford. Money was never part of your family's problem and Ransom could relate.

You watched him breaking girls' hearts here and there, throughout his adolescent years. He and you remained close for sure, but in school, he barely acknowledged you. He would always pretend that he didn't really know you well. And oftentimes, that would irk you, to the point where you'd neglect his texts and phone calls for days. When he couldn't come over, he would either text or call you, treasuring your companion through the small device.

But he went over the line, you'd always give him a silent treatment. You wanted him to know that you were exasperated at his actions. When his texts and calls remained unanswered, then he would try to FaceTime you, but that too went ignored. You'd decide to read his texts without replying, trying to give him even a harder lesson.

Deep inside of your heart, you knew that you technically had no right to be mad at him. He had the right to date any girl he wanted, or to sleep with any girl he wanted.  You weren't in a committed relationship, you barely had feelings for each other. Well, for him. Not for you, you were steep in love with him, and yet, you couldn't say or do anything about it. You were screwed, and you couldn't get yourself out of the quicksand.

But you told yourself that this was for the best. Maybe if you keep ignoring him, you will slowly learn how to get over him. You needed some space and maybe, just maybe, with the absence of his presence, you could find a way to accept that what you had was merely friendship and nothing more, nothing romantic.

The next day, after you neglected him all night, he would come up to you and confronted you about it at school. "What the hell happened? Why did you ignore me last night? I tried to call and text you a thousand times and you didn't fucking answer!"

You scoffed at his anger. Seriously? He wanted to go there? He wanted to act as if you owed him an explanation? "I don't have to answer you if I don't want to, Ransom. Now step away, I'm late to class."

He didn't flinch. He stood still and persisted in blocking you from leaving him. He grabbed your biceps, not too harsh but enough to hear him. "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on your period or something?"

You stared at him incredulously. Is he seriously this stupid? There was no point in trying to give him a lesson, he was too inconsiderate and proud to care about your feelings anyway. "Get the fuck away from me, Ransom. Just move, please, I need to get to class."

"I am not letting you go until you explain why you're acting like this! Just tell me what did I do? Did I say something wrong?" His tone softened. The look on his face told you that he was desperate to fix whatever the hell was wrong between you two, even if he didn't really have a clue whether something was really wrong or not.

"Move, or I will call the principal." The principal didn't intimidate him, none of the teachers did. He was trouble, parading around the halls like he owned the entire school. And he knew that his parents were capable of affording the entire school, that's why none of these teacher's threats could put him in fear. But he didn't want to cause a scene, especially in front of the whole school, where his reputation might be damaged.

"This conversation's not over, y/n."

You didn't give him a reaction and just walked past him, straight to class. A small part of your heart didn't want to leave him in the dark, but you also couldn't find a way to yell at him without making yourself look crazy, especially in front of the entire school.

So you put on this cold facade like you didn't really care about him and that you weren't in the mood to talk to him, hoping that he would figure it out himself. Maybe if you punished him long enough, he would have a change of heart. Deep down you know that it's wishful thinking. He had gone too deep into his fuckboy ways and there wasn't an ounce of regret in him about it. But you let your brain create these nonsensical scenarios, that once he realized that he had not cherished you in the way you deserved all this time, he would drive to your house and beg for your forgiveness, and you'd be the happiest couple in school. Maybe... Just maybe.

Years went by as you both kept playing this cat and mouse game. A perpetual cycle for the two of you. But eventually, one of you had to be the grown-up and cut it off.

Ransom took you from behind as he put a hand over your mouth to muffle the obscene noises coming out of your mouth. You couldn't help it, as much as you wanted to stay quiet and prevent your parents from catching you doing the dirty, his vigorous thrusts were too good, the friction of his shaft made your head spin.

Your knees buckled and if it weren't for his body pressing you tight against the sink, you would've crumbled to the floor already. He whispered filthy words into your ears, making you feel even more lightheaded. "You can not resist me, can you? Walking around in your designer dress, like you are this posh little princess, when I know you bury your fingers deep in your cunt every night wishing it was my cock instead..."

A few more deep-seated thrusts and you came apart. You threw your head back and rested it on his shoulder, as he sloppily pushed into you more trying to reach his own orgasm. He moved his hand that was blocking your moans to your hips. His unmerciful movements prolonged your release as he reached his.

You were spent from the intense eruption as he pulled himself out of you and stepped back, watching his fluids flow out of you like a celestial water fountain saturating its frame. He loved the picturesque view. You steadied yourself as your knees quivered. You gripped the sink tile of the sink and turned around to face him.

"Don't speak a word of this to anyone."

That made his grin grow wider, like the conceited asshole he was. "Aw, what's the matter, baby? You don't want anyone to know what a little whore you truly are?"

"Shut up. And wait here for at least 10 minutes."

You opened the door and lurked the halls, glad that no one was there to catch your shenanigans with Ransom.

You stepped out of the bathroom hurriedly and closed the door behind you quietly. You walked back to the dining room, as calm as you possibly could, despite the still lingering high from Ransom's cock, but you were good at mastering the impassive face.

Later that night, Ransom paid you another visit as you were doing your nighttime skincare routine, in your silk black robe. He quietly climbed through your window and knocked softly at the glass.

You were surprised to see him. What the hell is he doing here? Also, climbing up to your window? This isn't 9th grade and you two weren't fifteen anymore. But you opened the handle for him slightly and spoke before you let him in.

"What the hell are you doing here, Ransom? It's getting late and I'm exhausted."

"Oh, I bet you are, babygirl. After what I did to you this afternoon, I would've been worn out too." His voice teasing.

You shook your head at his stupid banter. "Shut up, and don't make any noise. My parents are sleeping next door. If you wake them up, I will act like you attacked me and let them call the cops on you."

"Can't promise you anything, but I'll try." He winked.

You rolled your eyes and you opened the door wider, to enable his enormous figure in. "What do you want Ransom, couldn't you just text or call me?" You folded your hands against your chest.

"I needed to see you again, and I actually have something to say to you."

You shrugged. "Okay, then tell me. What was so important that you couldn't call or text? Or FaceTime, it's really not that hard to ju-"

He shut you up by attacking your lips as he grabbed your face with his hands as he did earlier. You were slightly pushed back by his truculent action but he caught you and his tongue entered into your open mouth as it tangled with yours.

You were breathless from the sudden action. He kept on kissing you until he was running out of breath as he was satisfied with how swollen your lips were. You gulped as you gathered the cells in your brain that were scrambled gruffly by him back together again. You assumed he wanted sex because if there's anything that Ransom couldn't run low on, it's his stamina. And of course, being the manwhore that he is, he couldn't keep it in his pants for at least until the morning.

"Be my girl, baby."

"...What?" You backtracked your face to assess him, for you were taken aback by what he just said. The words 15 years old you were longing to hear, but not now. Not anymore.

The truth is, you had moved on. At least you thought you were. When you both went off to college, you went to separate universities, despite still staying in touch, you rarely saw one another. You got busy with unraveling the major that you were passionate about and made new friends who shared the same interests as you do. You even met a couple of cute boys that caught your eye.

Though they couldn't compare to Ransom's charm, they still lend a hand in helping you forget Ransom. You realized you couldn't be a teenager anymore and had to chase only what truly matters to you and what helps you grow.

Eventually, your feelings started to erode away, as your college days went by. Went on a few monotonous dates, went to parties with your friends, and studied hard for your grades. You had the whole world in your hands, and you weren't about to let anything or anyone, including Ransom, fuck it up. No, no, especially Ransom.

But every time you see him at annual celebrations or at family gatherings, his magnetism still pulls you in like gravity. So you decided to let loose and live your life, without fearing that you'd get deeper into your feelings because you've matured now, and you weren't going to be held back by your juvenile crush anymore.

"Ransom... How drunk are you?"

"What? No! I'm totally sober. Say yes, baby, I know you've wanted me since high school."

"Ransom, shut up. You are clearly drunk, and I need to sleep, alright?" You tried to push him playfully, knowing that he might hit the floor with a loud thud and it would risk your parents catching you both.

"I'm serious, y/n! Why do you think I came all the way over here just to talk to you? I want you, baby."

You scoffed at his antics. "Let me get this right... You want me, to be your girl?"

"Yes," he grabbed both of your hands and brought them close to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat's pace escalated, slowly but surely. You wanted to believe the look of longing in his eyes. A part of you believed that it was simply part of his charm; the way he'd gaze deeply into a girl's eyes and how he'd make them believe that he sincerely wants them, to only ruin their mascara and never to return their calls again.

But the other part of you wanted to believe that, after years of dynamic friendship, he truly yearned for you. That, after many meaningless hookups, he had realized that it couldn't fill the void inside him and that he couldn't find you in anyone else. Suddenly, the 15 years old girl in you revived. You remembered the old flame and you couldn't extinguish it now.

"I know I'm a little late, but c'mon. We've been fucking around for years and tell me, this afternoon didn't mean something to you. We'd make a great couple." He paused, giving you a moment to answer. He searched for it on your face, whilst waiting for your mouth to say the green-light word.

He then continued, replacing the silence with his beguiling persuasion. "So, what do you say, baby? I know you want this. I know you want me. We'll go on a date tomorrow and I'll pick you up at 7." The look on his ocean blue eyes confined you in spot, frozen the time. Like you were in a movie and the picture was put in slow-motion. You felt helpless under his words. You couldn't fake it anymore now, deep down you knew that you had always been his even when he didn't have a clue of it.

"Yes, Ransom, I want to be yo-" Before you could even finish your words, he cut you off by abruptly pressing his lips to yours and you were slightly shoved back from the sudden force. If he hadn't been holding you so tightly, you would've already landed on the floor. You opened your mouth to let his tongue enter as it gets tangled with yours. His hand immediately moved from your face to your thighs, lifting you up and you circled them around his waist.

He carried you to the bed, as his lips continued its misbehaving on you. He dropped on you the mattress, and untied your robes, revealing your naked body under it.  You were wearing nothing but black lace underwear, that was soon torn off from your body, exposing your moist pussy too. His lips then move to your neck, kissing the sensitive spot that took your breath away.

He bit the skin hard to leave a hickey, stamping his mark on you. He kept on trailing open-mouthed kisses to your body, as he made a quick stop on your nipples, giving them extra attention. He sucked on the right one like a starved baby, as his other hand circled on your other one, and he pinched it hard, causing your body to jolt.

He made sure it was wet enough with his soaked with his saliva until he decided to move further down, as his other hand was still groping your other breast. Without wasting any more time, as soon as he reached your most sensitive part, he immediately licked a stripe on your bud, as he feasted like a deprived man.

His fingers unclasped your breast, as he shoved the two of them inside your heated core. You shrieked due to the shock, as your hand immediately muffle yourself, trying not to make any louder noise. He lifted his head to see the expression on your face, lost in pleasure as he kept on intruding in and out of you. "Shh, be quiet babygirl, or your parents are going to walk in on you creaming all over my fingers."

Your mind was hazy from the friction his fingers caused, you stared at his face through foggy lens, as his fingers went deeper and faster. It was getting harder and harder to hold back your moans. His words sounded obscure in your ears, as your brain was clouded with the tightening coil inside you. You couldn't think, you couldn't speak, you couldn't move under him. He truly had you wrapped around his fingers. Literally.

You felt yourself nearing the explosion, your hands immediately went around his shoulders as you hid your face on his neck, he sensed your impending release, so his thumb pressed itself to your clit and circled it, making you lose your damn mind. Just a couple more flicks, and you were a crumpled mess on the sheets. Your juices splattered all of over his hand, but it didn't stop moving in and out of you, prolonging the bliss.

After you started to cool down and recollect yourself, he pulled his hand out of you and he intensely gazed into your eyes whilst cleaning himself off your juices by sucking them clean, like a goddamn peanut butter Nutella.

He grinned like a devil who had just committed his greatest crime while you were a sweating, panting mess underneath him. "You taste better than those fucking Biscoff cookies, sweetheart." He kissed your mouth one more before he decided to get out of your bed. You rose from the bed too, as you followed him to the window. "Gotta go, it's getting late. Think you need to charge yourself, baby."

You chuckled, his wittiness always gets you. "I don't know, got a couple of unused toys in my drawers, I might need to see if they work."

"Don't you dare." His expression hardened, but you knew that he was playing along with your teasing.

"Can't promise you anything, but I'll try." You winked. His remark has backfired. "Now, leave, before, I call my daddy on you."

"Oh, babygirl, soon, your father won't be the only one you call daddy." If you were having a drink right now, you would've chocked on your water. Before you could retort, he ended the windup the night with a quick reminder, "Tomorrow, 7 pm. Dress up for me, yeah?" It was merely a rhetorical question, with an imperious intent. You both knew damn well you were going to dress up for him, he didn't have to ask twice to know the answer.

"I'll see you tomorrow." As he opened the window and quickly climbed down like a thief. How he managed to be as silent as a Ninja with his enormous figure, you'll never know. But he did it impeccably anyway.

You watched him through the window, as he opened the door of his car, and slid into the driver's seat. You two were practically the modern version of Romeo and Juliet. Your silliness whispered. Your hopeless romantic heart had associated the mundanity of life with fairytales and magical characters. You quickly shook those thoughts away as Ransom drove off his BMW and vanished into the night.

You laid in your bed that night, giddy with elation, like a teenage girl who had just been asked to go to prom with him by her crush. You tried to sleep off the exhaustion from the shenanigans had left you with. But despite feeling the weariness in your bones, you still couldn't resist the grin on your face. You eventually closed your eyes, replaying the way Ransom had touched you, kissed you, and fucked you earlier as you slowly drifted away to the land of dreams.

That's how your relationship with Ransom began. It only lasted for so long, until you both started arguing more and more every day. Whenever you had a big fight, you'd often threaten him by saying that you were going to leave, and when you actually dumped him, he always came back to your door, begging for forgiveness, wearing his best apologies.

Here's the upgraded cat and mouse game you two were playing again. Only this time, you two were caught in a narrower circle, that you both started. Him by asking you out, and you by agreeing to be his girl.

One morning, you were woken up by the news of Harlan Thrombey's death. To say you were shocked, was an understatement. Of course, you were aware that due to his age, his clock was ticking. It was only about a matter of time when you'll have to reminisce about your very last conversation with him.

You and Harlan were quite close. He was like the grandfather you never had. Your grandparents from your father's side died before you could even know them. Your grandparents from your mother's side lived on the other side of the world, and she didn't get along with them, due to your mother's ambitions of moving to the United States, and refused to follow her parents' footsteps in business. She pursued her own dreams and so, they totally cut her off.

But being the boss lady that your mother was, she managed to build her own empire, making her and your father 'a power couple', as one would say. Your mother met your father while they were in college, they got married after dating for three years, and had you, a year later.

You had always admired your parent's harmonious marriage. Your father could get a little too overambitious sometimes, and your mother had high expectations of you, but, you knew deep down they loved you and wanted nothing but the best for their one and only daughter. And most importantly, they were still madly in love with each other even after years of being married. It's very rare to find those these days.

You always wondered whether it was possible for you and Ransom to see a peak of light. Whether you could have what your parents have. A loving, committed, everlasting relationship. You used to think that you were going to marry Ransom eventually. That you might see a slow change in Ransom, but eventually, you were going to end up together, have kids, maybe two, a girl and a boy. You'll name them Florence and Nathan. Yeah, you had always loved those names.

But those fantasies spontaneously combust as soon as your relationship started to get rocky. Your faith in your future with Ransom was fading, and you were okay with that, maybe it's going to sting for a while, and you were going to cry on your bedroom floor, but you'll be fine. You'll move on and you'll meet someone else, someone better, someone wiser, someone kinder with your heart.

After the news of Harlan's unexpected death loomed over the house like a ghost, you quickly called Ransom. He didn't answer. You called him for the second time, and he finally picked up. "Hey, baby." His voice sounded too cheerful for someone who had just lost his grandfather. But then you remember that this was Ransom you were talking about. He didn't have an ounce of remorse or clemency in that cold heart of his.

"Hey, I just heard the news... How are you doing?"

"Harlan's death? Well, who are we kidding, it was just a matter of time anyway. That old bastard."

"Ransom, my parents told me everything. He didn't die to natural causes, he was murdered." Saying it still doesn't sound right. The flair for the dramatic, Harlan Thrombey. Death by cliche, like the murder mysteries novels he wrote.

"Unfortunately, but I guess he had it coming. Things already went South since the party anyway." He shrugged it off.

The party? Why would the conversation suddenly steer into the party?

The night's party before Harlan's death, you attended the family's mansion a little late, for you were feeling a little sick due to your menstruation cycle. The truth was, you didn't really wanna go anyway but you promised Ransom that you were going to see him and your parents that you weren't going to be rude.

By the time you were there, you didn't even get to see Ransom for he was arguing with Harlan in his small study room. So you went over to Meg to have a little chat with a glass of champagne in your hand.  Suddenly, you spotted Ransom storming off Harlan's study as he picked up his jacket and ran to the door to God knows where. You didn't wanna be nosy, you figured Ransom would probably tell you about it later. But you were going to let him have some space, so you didn't try to stop him.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask... What happened last night? In Harlan's study before you stormed off from the party?"

Silence faltered for a moment before he answered, "just Harlan's usual antics. It was no big deal, I promise you."

You doubted that he was telling you the full truth, but it was apparent to you that he wasn't interested in discussing this topic any longer, so you weren't going to push him. People grieve in different ways, and you were going to let him deal with it in his own ways.

"Alright, for whatever it's worth, I'm truly sorry. He was a good man."

"Yeah, I know, baby. Me too. I'll call you later, alright?"

"Okay." And the call ended.

Weeks went on as the investigation of the murder proceeded, Detective Benoit Blanc, Lieutenant Elliott, and Trooper Wagner were meticulously taking every step further to find out the truth, investigating every possible suspect, learning their motives thoroughly.

As those weeks went by, your suspicion of Ransom's innocence grew. Every time you ask about him, he'd quickly shut it off and redirect the topic. He told you once, that Harlan was going to cut him off his will and that from now on, he was going to have to fend for himself. That only raised more questions in your head; how was he going to fend for himself now, is he going to get a job? Did Harlan say something else that might've indicated his farewell?

And most importantly, the conveniently coincidental timing. This heated argument between them took place the night before Harlan's death. Your curiosity grew about what really went down in his study...

The news broke when you were sitting in your spacious study, filled with books of your favorite authors. Romance novels, Sci-Fi books, business books, fashion books, etc. You like to keep yourself educated. You had just ended a phone call with a potential investor of your future clothing line when your mother knocked on your door and you let her in. There was a flash of disturbance on her face.

"Sweetheart, have you heard yet?" She approached you and put her hands on your shoulders, trying to comfort you before you even knew what she was trying to comfort you from.

"No, heard about what?"

"Ransom has been arrested. For Harlan's murder. Detective Blanc figured everything out. He also confessed of killing Fran, their help."

You squinted your eyes at her statement. "...What?" You felt like you had been struck by a thunder amidst your serene beauty sleep.

"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart. But your father and I knew that he was bad news. You should've never associated with him since a long time ago."

"He's my childhood friend, mom. You and Dad are close to the Thrombeys. How do you expect me not to be associated with him?"

"I know, but we never concurred on you two dating. His reputation precedes him."

You felt like you were going to vomit, you couldn't believe your own ears. You always knew that Ransom was a rascal by nature, but the fact that he was capable of murder dumbstruck you. And the fact that he murdered his own grandfather made you question whether he had a drop of empathy and remorse at all in that frozen heart of his.

"Where is he now, mom?"

"He's currently in custody. Detective Elliott and Trooper Wagner are questioning him for his statement."

And that's how you ended up here, in New York City, relocating your personal belongings to your brand-new place that you refer to as home. You kept recalling that night when you were finally ready to talk to him after he pleaded guilty of committing Harlan's murder.

A big part of you loathed him. A murderer. He wasn't just a man with bad intentions and bad behaviors, but he was willing to go as far as taking someone else's life if they don't grant him his wishes. Money really brings out the worst in people.

But another part of you yearned for him. Yearned for his benign words and sincere touches exchanged during late-night conversations after he fucked you like an animal in your bed. Or at his place, where he'd ask you to stay because he knew how drained you were after he made you cum three times... At least.

Things were often convoluted and acrimonious between the two of you, but when it's good, it's as gentle as the autumn breeze and as steady as Wednesday evenings in Boston. It's ironic, really, how you moved to the city that epitomized the chaos part of your shattered relationship.

For now, you were okay. You were dealing with the split at your own pace, whilst your mind was constantly calculating your next move to start your own clothing line. Making calls and closing deals here and there. Nightly meetings in fancy restaurants of Manhattan. Invariably sketching up the spontaneous designs that appear in your head.  

But your heart discreetly missing him. When the buzzing of the city was boisterous and the lights are sparkling like a Christmas tree, you wished that he was here with you instead of being locked up in prison. You loved New York and you had been dreaming of moving there for as long as you could remember.  You just wished that someone was there to share the beauty of the city with you.

Like one night when your parents were out of town, and Ransom came over to your house. You had passionately made love in the dark that night, and as always, after he was finished with you, he'd hold you close to his chest as he strokes your hair and his other hand was placed behind his head, displaying his hard rock chest.

"You ever thought about getting out of Boston?"

"Any place you have in mind?"

"New York City. I've always loved the big city life, you know? The town that never sleeps and the endless opportunities that await."

"You're thinking about moving there?"

"...Yeah. I wanna start my own clothing line, Ransom. I don't wanna live off of my parents' trust fund forever. I wanna be my own person and New York seems like the best city to start off."

"I can't stop you  if you that's what you really want but, we're gonna have to figure things out."

"What if I move to New York and you stay? How would we make this work?"

"Don't worry, we'll figure something out... I'll find you. I'll always find you."

When you were finally ready to have an one-on-one with him, you went to visit him. You put on your black coat and your Chanel sunglasses to hide your own face, not wanting to be recognized by people.

He walked into the visitation room and sat on the phone booth in his neon orange attire. His raven hair was slicked back, as neat as ever. How he managed to still look like an entitled, trust-fund brat whilst locked up in prison, you'll never know.

"You've finally come to see me."

"I'm not here to see you. I'm here to talk to you."

"C'mon sweetheart, cut me some slack here, I've been accused of my own grandfather's murder and you were going to act like a bitch on your first visitation? It's been months and I've fucking missed you."

"Shut up, Ransom. I don't wanna hear any more lies coming out of that mouth of yours. You are a fucking murderer, how could you? And your own grandfather? What kind of wretch does that?"

"That old bastard had it coming when he decided to cut me out. You think I'll let him get away with it? Hell no. That's my money! My birthright! He couldn't just-"

"Ransom, I'm breaking up with you." You interrupted his grievance.

He paused for a moment as if he was digesting the words you just unloaded on him. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. I'm breaking up with you. I do not wanna be associated with a murderer."

Suddenly, his palm struck the glass with a roar so harsh, it nearly staggered. The look on his face was murderous and his breathing labored. And in that moment, you had no doubt that he was indeed a murderer. The way his temper could strike at any time when he wasn't getting his way, you saw it with translucent eyes now.

"You are not breaking up with me, you hear me? I'm getting out of here and I'll find you. I will always find you."

"Goodbye, Ransom." And just like that, you terminated the ties that linked the two of you like a string on a puppet. Your entire history; two decades worth of whirlwind of emotions, resolved at the very last place you'd ever expected yourself to be. You rise from your seat and left him to rot in prison for his sins.

You kept yourself busy, chasing your ambitions to life. You kept reminding yourself that Ransom was exactly where he was supposed to be. You made a vow to yourself that you weren't going to let anyone or anything stand in the way of you and your dream career, and you were going to live by that.

One night, you had just returned to your apartment from a meeting with your PR team for your clothing line company. The meeting went well and they were positive that your marketing & advertising plans will succeed in shaping the brand's excellent image.

You took off your Louboutin heels and put them on the shoe racks where all of your other shoes were neatly organized, from your sneakers, sandals, boots, and wedges. The apartment was still dark, but you could see through the city lights from the window, and because you had been living there for weeks now, you had memorized every inch of your place well enough to move around blindfolded.

You switched on the lights to your left, and that's when it echoed.

Him. His voice. Vanquishing the stillness of the room.

Shivers ran down your spine, like the cold midnight air of New York, assailing you when you were clad in nothing but bare. Just like how he pounced you out of the blue when your guard was down to the point where you had even forgotten why you had it in the first place.  

"I see New York has been treating you well."

He stood there by the window, staring out into the bustling city, with a black trench coat hung flawlessly over his broad shoulders. His hands were deep in his pocket. You could only see the back of his head, but you knew if he turned around, you would see the insincerity in his words.

You stood there frozen in place, not believing your own eyes. The man you had come to fear; a murderer, who was imprisoned for his heinous crimes... He was standing in your very own apartment, on your wooden floors, waiting for you to come home.

Despite the low temperature of the room, you were sweating. You couldn't move, you couldn't breathe, you couldn't make a sound. You just witnessed as horror plays out, calculating its next move to imperil you.

He turned around, and that's when you saw it. His face displayed nothing but hollowness, Antarctica blue eyes pierced right into your soul. Like a spear shot right through the center of your heart.

“Ransom… How did you…?” Your breathing labored.

“You’re breaking up with me, you said?” He started walking towards you, deliberately. With every step his shoes thumped the ground, your heart raced, faster than the rogue wave washing over people on the shore.

You gulped. Your feet unconsciously withdrew you, as his figure was getting closer. You kept rewinding until your back hit the door, as you realized there’s no more room for you to run. Your hand immediately reached for the doorknob, but it was too late. Ransom had already seized it first, sealing your hand from turning it around as you run out of his grasp, once more.

He knew he will outrun you but he wasn’t going to take that risk. He was a man in hiding after all. He stealthily tracked you down in New York, without anyone’s knowledge, and wasted no time in paying you an unwanted visit to your apartment. He was a resourceful man, and once he set his mind on something, he will do whatever it takes to obtain it.

And he wanted you. Oh, how much he had missed you.

His other hand leaned on the door, right by your head, caging you with his body, trapping you right where he wanted you. But not for long.

“If you try to scream or run, I’ll make sure you’ll never see another light of day, sweetheart.” He whispered eerily into your ears. The hairs stood up in the back of your neck.

You weren’t going to be a fool and try to hit him or escape, knowing what he’s capable of. So you slowly unclasped the doorknob, and you pressed your forehead to the door, trying to shield yourself from this bloodthirsty beast.

Without saying another word, Ransom grabbed a full fist of your hair as he pulled you by your shoulder and directed you towards the capacious window, presenting a pellucid view of the city and how very much awake the pedestrians are.

Your hands palmed the window so your face wouldn’t hit the wall so hard, you might have a concussion. His hand moved to your back as it started to pull down the zipper of your dress. You tried to break free out of him, get him off your back, but you couldn’t, knowing that he could effortlessly overpower you.

“Don’t you fucking think of doing anything stupid, little girl. What did I warn you?”

Then you stopped thrashing around, as tears started to brim in your eyes. You tried to muffle your cries, not wanting to show him he had nearly broken you, but you couldn’t help the impotence. He brutally stripped the dress out of you, not caring if the fancy material might get lacerated.

Then he removed his own coat, and dropped it on the floor, as he used his leg to sweep both of your attires further away from your stance. The chilly night air overrun your skin, as you felt so exposed under his presence. You could hear the clinking sound of his belt, as he pulled down his pants and briefs and he moved to yours, tearing the material off of you.

Without any warning, he pushed himself inside of your wet core, feeling the slick easing him in and out of you. His hand returned to grab a fistful of your hair as he pulled back your head so he could grab you by the throat as he made you look into his eyes, whilst his other hand went to your hip, knowing full well that it could imprint a bruise on you. He then pressed his body into yours even tighter, to exhibit your bare body as he put on your breasts on full display for the entire city to see.

He slides in and out of you so easily, as his hips paced faster and unrelenting. “You really think you can run from me, huh? You must be delusional. You are mine and mine only. Always will and always be. You can’t fucking get rid of me.” He gritted through his rigorous thrusts.

You moaned in pain, as you could feel your humiliation wearing down on you. Your tears started to run down your cheeks, as your mascara got ruined along the way. Your head with clouded with shame and illicit lust.

“Let’s show the entire New York fucking City that you are mine, huh? That you are nothing but a dirty little cum-whore that belongs to me.”

You wailed louder, the mixture of pain, lust, and degradation overwhelmed you, inundating your lungs with water like you were drowning in the ocean. You squeezed his cock as you could feel your climax approaching, the fire in the pit of your stomach was ready to give in and explode. But you weren’t. You didn’t want to hand over your pleasure and give him the satisfaction of using you.

You were only human after all and the friction in your most pleasurable spot stole away all your power and strength to deny him as you yielded. A few more strokes and you crumbled. Your release washed over you and took over your body. Euphoria clogged in your brain, making you unable to think of anything else but him. His relentless thrusts that kept going prolonged your release as he tried to chase his own orgasm.

Then he let go, all the frustration, stress and anger, he unleashed all of them inside of you as he stayed still for a few minutes, making sure every drop of his cum stay inside you and none gets spilled to waste.

He breathed into your hair, as your panting didn’t slow down. You struggled with catching your breath as the glow of the moon reflected over your sweaty chest, exhibiting your exploited nudity. Your brain couldn’t even remember that you were standing on full display for you were too trounced by euphoria.

“I told you… I’ll always find you.”  

[homeformyheart]

sparring partner - adam du mortain x f!detective (twc)

author’s note: thank you for the request, @crackerdumortain and @kelseaaa for the brainstorm!! sorry this took foreverrrr. also, this was supposed to be mostly smut but as always, i got carried away with the leadup. this is my first time writing smut for these two so…forgive any weirdness. hope you all enjoy!

copyright: all characters, except my oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – adam du mortain x f!detective (regina bishop) rating/warnings: 18+; explicit smut; ns*w noted between the 🔥⚡ and ❄💧 icons (minors dni) based on/prompt: nsfw prompts // 9. for sparring to turn into sex word count: 1.7k summary: adam and regina spar for a bit before things get hot (deep romance).

sparring partner

regina let out a string of curses and loud grunts as she continued a series of jabs and practiced footwork against one of the punching bags in the training room. even with carefully wrapped hands and protective gloves, she knew she was being a little reckless with her punches, letting her frustration and anger from a week of failed missions and a patronizing mother fuel her movements.

she was so consumed with channeling her emotions into the punching bag that she failed to notice adam slip into the room and wrap his wrists. nor did she notice how his gaze followed her movements, eyeing how her chest heaved against the confines of her sports bra, sweat dripping down her toned stomach and disappearing underneath the band of her very tight workout shorts.

his eyes snapped up when regina let out a loud cry, spinning and landing a kick into the side of the bag, sending it swinging parallel to the ground. even he was impressed, given the weight of the bag and her being human.

“i don’t think the bag is an adequate sparring partner,” he teased, walking over to her.

regina whirled around, the last of her anger leaving her in a breathy laugh. she put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow in a way that was meant to challenge him. “oh? i guess i should see if morgan will spar with me then.”

adam’s smirk turned into an annoyed frown as he peeled off his shirt and widened his stance. he couldn’t help but glance over her body, the sweat glistening on her chest and stomach, the scent of it growing in his nose as she stepped closer to him.

regina knew she hit a sore spot and chuckled quietly to herself before shifting into an offensive stance, tossing her gloves on the floor. she moved first, attempting to land a blow to his stomach, then his side, before aiming for his unprotected chin. a normal opponent – and by normal, she meant human – wouldn’t have been able to dodge all those blows, but of course, adam was able to block and sidestep each of her moves before she could blink.

he stayed mostly on the defensive, catching and releasing her sidekicks and uppercuts before stepping away, matching her blow for block with ease. it could almost be seen as a synchronized dance, if she wasn’t actually trying to land a blow and starting to get frustrated. her fatigue was showing, and it didn’t take long before adam had her in a loose headlock, holding her shoulders firmly against his chest with one arm, while the other pinned her left arm against his side, hand hovering over her stomach.

she tilted her back against his shoulder so she could look at him, lowering her right hand to rest on his. regina pressed his hand against her stomach and nudged it down until adam’s splayed fingers reached the elastic band of her shorts. as she predicted, he froze and loosened his grip on her shoulders. regina tucked her foot between his legs, positioning her knee behind his and curling her foot around his ankle. she yanked her leg forward and swiveled out of his grip, pushing back against his chest.

he still had a hand on her hip as he fell backward, bringing her down with him and holding her against his body so that she’d land on top of him instead of awkwardly on the floor.

“you have improved significantly,” adam noted as he looked up at her, no small amount of pride in his voice and face.

regina couldn’t help but preen a little as she straddled him and sat up. “really?” she asked, letting out a breathy laugh.

“for a human,” he corrected cheekily, his dimples deepening as his smirk grew.

“when will you just admit that i got the best of you?” regina panted, her chest heaving noticeably even through her sports bra. she pinned his arms down and leaned forward so she could look him directly in the eyes.

🔥⚡🔥⚡

adam was all too aware of her chest bumping against his. she was the best of him but he couldn’t quite articulate his thoughts at the sight of her. “i, well—,” he stammered before letting out a low growl and flipping them, pinning her arms above her head and hovering over her.

“you are far too distracting for your own good,” he muttered.

regina’s eyes dropped to his lips and trailed down his muscled, shirtless body.

“i’m distracting? have you seen yourself?” she huffed.

his green eyes glittered with need as he stared at her parted lips, her chest still heaving against his. she pulled herself up despite her arms being pinned down and kissed him, swallowing his groan as he kissed her back with an intensity that quickly filled her core. she squirmed against his grip and wrapped her legs around his back, tugging him toward her.

she ground her hips against his, smirking against his lips as he growled. she let out a whine as he pulled away to kiss her jaw and work his way down her neck. she let out a soft gasp as he sucked at the sensitive center of her collarbone before continuing south.

he groaned at the feel of her bare skin against his. the smell of her sweat mixing with her already enticing scent sent his hypersenses into overdrive, filling his lungs to capacity until she consumed him from the inside out. all he could breathe was her.

“this is in the way,” adam growled, tugging at the material of her bra and ripping it quickly down the middle before his lips descended on her nipples.

“oh,” she breathed, her body jolting in surprise at the sudden feel of cold air against her hot skin before she smirked. “impatient, are we?”

adam slowed his movements for a second to gaze at her with a tenderness that made her forget where they were. “yes. i could live for another thousand years and never have enough of you.”

regina didn’t think she’d ever get used to the way he looked at her as though she was his reason for existing.

but the moment to dwell on it passed as adam made quick work of the rest of their clothing before leaning back over her to resume his ministrations down her trembling body.

he sat up on his knees and pulled her into his lap, waiting until her ankles hooked around his back and her arms went around his neck before capturing her lips hungrily. he kissed her again and again, stealing each breath from her until regina thought her lungs were going to burst.

adam stood, and before regina could even register the movement, he slammed her against the wall without breaking their kiss, cradling her head with one arm to soften the blow.

she wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling safe and secure between him and the wall. adam moved his hips against hers, rubbing against her core and groaning at how wet she was. regina broke off their kiss and nipped at his ear, tugging it gently between her teeth.

“i need you,” she murmured, the feel of his hard cock against her but not in her wasn’t enough.

“you have me,” he muttered back, so softly that she almost missed it.

adam positioned himself at her core and slowly pushed himself in, giving her time adjust to the angle as he lowered his arms to her thighs. regina quickly squeezed her legs and locked her ankles behind him, her heels digging into his ass and pulling him forward.

he moved slowly at first, drawing himself almost all the way out before thrusting back in. it didn’t take long before he picked up speed, letting out a soft groan with every deep thrust, her walls squeezing against him in perfect sync.

“you’re not going to hurt me,” regina gasped quietly, one hand clutching the back of his head while the other scratched at his back.

that was always what held him back from being as rough as they both liked sometimes, the fear that he’d unintentionally hurt her. but she didn’t need to encourage him this time, regina’s sweat and natural smell completely overpowered his senses until he was deeply entrenched in her.

he began thrusting harder and faster, her slick walls squeezing tighter as she mouthed at his neck in an attempt to muffle her moans. he could feel her muscles begin to tense against him as she dragged her fingernails up his back. he lowered his head to her shoulder and bit gently, not enough to break skin, but to let her know he was there, and that he was close.

she lifted her head and kissed him hard as the pressure building in her stomach released, mumbling words of love into his mouth as she came. he could feel her walls clench around his cock and with a few more, hard thrusts, he followed her over the edge, whispering his love back to her.

she kissed him softly where his shoulder met his neck before slumping against him, breathing heavily in time with the sound of his rapid heartbeat.

after a few moments, he released his hold on her so she could lower her feet back onto the floor. she took a step and stumbled; her legs still weak from their tryst. adam’s arm tightened against her waist and held her up, the pleased smirk on his face dimpling his skin.

she smiled knowingly at him before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over her head, the large fabric easily reaching her thighs. she grabbed her ripped sports bra and underwear before sauntering back to adam, who had slipped back into his cargo pants.

he looked at her inquiringly, one eyebrow raised as she tucked her clothes into one of his pockets.

“i don’t think you want the rest of the team seeing my underwear, even if they’ll figure out what just happened as soon as they step into the training room,” she said with a laugh.

adam’s cheeks turned pink as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “you do have a point. i should clean up after us,” he said.

regina chuckled and grabbed his hand. “or… you could join me in the shower for round two?”

he smirked and tucked one arm under her knees to pick her up, holding his shirt firmly against her thigh as he raced to the bath.

❄💧❄💧

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