#am I reading all of them while I wait for ao3? yes

[excitedbones]

Going to ffn while ao3 is down only to find 10 fics for the entire fandom 😳

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

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

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

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

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was enough. Alicent understood.

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

Alicent does not respond.

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

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

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

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

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tis strange.

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

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

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

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

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

Twas strange indeed.

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

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

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look at him, but do not respond.

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

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

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

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A true shame.

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

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

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

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

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

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

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

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

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

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

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

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

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

Carrying?

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

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

Your face burns upon hearing this.

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

"No, I-"

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

"That is not-"

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

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

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

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

"You what?!" he steps forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

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

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

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

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

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday. 

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This. 

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either. 

Not that you could ever tire of him. 

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway. 

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck. 

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling. 

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator. 

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight. 

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there. 

A warning. 

A tease. 

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you. 

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make. 

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two. 

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together. 

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something. 

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you. 

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you. 

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

 “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. 

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.  

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.  

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”  

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.  

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”  

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.  

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.  

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.  

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical. 

Yeah. 

Practical.  

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot. 

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”  

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.  

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point? 

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish. 

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. 

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”  

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.  

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”  

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.  

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.  

Except there’s one problem: his arm.  

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.  

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.  

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.  

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”  

“No.”  

“What do you mean no?”  

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”  

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here. 

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.  

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”  

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”  

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.  

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t. 

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had. 

After Tuesday. 

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you. 

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked. 

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him. 

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[onthesandsofdreams]

From Duty To Love

Fandom: House of the Dragon/ASoIaF Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader Summary: Cregan knew that a marriage to Queen Rhaenyra's only daughter would be different. Two people who perhaps were on the opposite ends when it came to their respective houses: Fire and Ice. He could not fault you, much like him, you took your duties seriously. And he wondered if that would only be the only kind of marriage you both would have. Until he noticed. Rating: G Notes: Listen, I just wanted to write fluff, ok?Also, while reader is Rhaenyra's daughter (Velaryon), there are no descriptions. Tagging: @flashfictionfridayofficial

Read @ AO3

Cregan knew that a marriage to Queen Rhaenyra's only daughter would be different. Two people who perhaps were on the opposite ends when it came to their respective houses: Fire and Ice.

He could not fault you, much like him, you took your duties seriously. And he wondered if that would only be the only kind of marriage you both would have.

Until he noticed.

Until his wolf eyes and instincts were forcefully opened about the subtle signs you had been sending. How you'd lean towards him during dinner, how you always tried your best to keep waiting until he returned to your shared chambers. Your offer to take him flying, something he'd yet to accept. How you always had a kind smile for him, how you in your quiet and subtle manner, were actually looking out for him. Too much time in the training yard? A bath with scented oils waited for him. Too lost in books and ledgers? A tray of bite size food and drink on his desk. His clothes always laid for him, and yes, he'd noticed that some of his clothes now bore embroidery in wolf shapes. Your handiwork, he knew it.

It also did not escaped him your kindness and respect towards his people. Your people now too. But, in your short time as Lady of Winterfell, you had earned your placed with those who had served his family, some even before he was born. Even the most hardened Northman, you'd find a way to charm and made them feel at ease. It had helped that, while you had pride in who you were, you did not looked down upon others.

He furrowed his brows, so, why then were you still shy when it came to him?

The reason slammed into him fast, The Hightowers. Of course, you'd had seen how they treated and spoked of your mother, and as such, he understood now that you did not want people to speak in the same way about you.

Not that he'd let them.

If anyone would be foolish to try and slander his wife, they would soon be acquaintances with Ice. He would not tolerate any disrespect towards you. Not now, not ever.

He put his quill down and stood from his desk, and left his solar in search of you. Asking a passing maid, he'd been told you had just gone out to see Silverwing, so, for once he gathered his courage in facing the she dragon and followed you.

He found you leaning against Silverwing's snout. He did not need to announce himself, soon enough, the she dragon moved and made you look. He saw the surprise in your face as you found him there. He watched as you stood and walked towards him.

"Cregan, is there something wrong?" He had insisted that you called him that.

"No, I just wanted to check on you?"

He savored the way your face softened, "I am well, just Silverwing was getting a bit lonely." You bit your lip. "I was thinking of taking to the skies, would you like to come?"

He did not miss the way your eyes shone with hope. And he swallowed his nervousness and fears, "As long as you promise not to let me fall."

He was not prepared for you to turn radiant with joy and all but leap at his arms. The kiss you placed on the corner of his lips felt like fire of a kind he had never known. "Never, Cregan. I will never let you fall."

He let you take his hand, and followed you towards Silverwing.

Perhaps now, duty would not be the only thing that would tie your marriage. He hoped.

[gloomwitchwrites]

You're having a bad day so they do their own version of Magic Mike for you

ANON! This ask sent me into a fit of giggles. I am so happy to do this. I had a lot of fun putting together some quick writes. I know you've been waiting a while. I hope you have a good laugh out of this, and maybe even giggle and/or kick your feet with glee. I know I did!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dancing, singing, striptease, lap dance, brief non-descriptive nudity

Word Count: 800

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

John Price

"Everything okay, love?" asks John from the bathroom.

"Just a headache," you reply. "Had a busy day."

"Busy? Or bad?"

He knows you too well.

"Bad," you sigh, propping yourself up on an elbow.

John is no longer in the bathroom. He stands inside the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with one hand.

Freshly showered. Towel hanging on his hips.

"What?" you ask, noticing the smirk on his face.

John lightly pushes off from the doorframe. In a sultry sway, John begins to approach you, both hands reaching as if to undo the towel.

"John?"

He doesn't drop the towel, just teases the undressing. Your face grows hot as he nears. John comes to a stop just in front of you, the towel still perched on his hips.

"Go on," he purrs with a heated stare.

You tug and the towel falls away.

"Plan to fuck away my headache?" you cough out, gaze darting upward, focusing on his face and not what’s behind the towel.

John grabs your forearm, helping you to a seated position. "Not yet." He places one knee beside you on the bed. John holds your chin with thumb and forefinger. "No touching until I say so."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"I’ve had a bad day," you sigh. “I’m tired.”

Turning your head away from Simon, you glance out the window.

As you exhale, something soft and large lands on your head. You yank it away. It's Simon's shirt. As you turn to address him, something else comes flying in your direction.

With a yelp, you snag it out of the air before it hits you. Simon's jeans. Belt included.

"What—"

Simon stands ramrod straight with arms at his sides in nothing but his boxer briefs and socks.

Perplexed, you fail to form words as Simon starts to saunter over to you. It’s stilted. Odd. The man has no rhythm but clearly all the confidence in the world.

"Oh my God," you murmur, clutching Simon's clothes to your chest, sinking further into the couch.

He's trying. He really is. But all you can focus on is how intense Simon’s face is, and how stiffly he…dances?

"Are you okay?" you ask.

Simon blinks. Frowns. "Yes." He glances down at himself. "Do you not like this?"

Whatever foul mood you were in has vanished, replaced with soft amusement and disbelief.

“Just…cuddle with me on the couch.”

“Clothes off?”

“Clothes off,” you confirm.

John "Soap" MacTavish

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

When you glance up, Johnny has a devilish grin on his face.

"What?" you ask cautiously.

Johnny pushes off from the kitchen counter and reaches over his head, removing his shirt. Your mind promptly forgets its previous concern. All it cares about is Johnny's broad chest and muscled stomach.

"What are you doing?" you laugh as Johnny twists the shirt and grabs either end, placing it behind your neck.

"Helping," he coos.

Now in only grey sweatpants, Johnny pushes in. You lean back, a bit startled.

"Helping how?" you giggle.

Johnny rocks his hips, swaying them slightly in a semi-erotic rotation.

"You look ridiculous."

"Maybe,” he agrees. “But you're smiling."

You are. To the point that your cheeks ache.

"I could keep going," he teases, rolling his hips again.

You playfully push at his stomach and Johnny takes that moment to sink down into your lap. "Nope," you laugh. “Absolutely not."

Johnny does an exaggeratingly awful impression of a lap dance. It sends you into a fit of giggles, and he doesn't stop until you're wheezing.

"Better?" he teases.

The bad mood is gone.

"Much."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"My brain is static," you groan. Kyle grins and starts to hum. "What are you doing?"

He saunters over to you, the humming turning into singing.

"Is that Pony by Ginuwine?" you laugh, disbelieving.

“Girl, when I break you off,” he continues to sing, removing his shirt, spinning it over his head like a lasso. “I promise that you won't want to get off.”

"Oh my god," you mutter, covering your face, cheeks flaring hot.

You peek through your fingers only for Kyle to toss the shirt at you. It lands above your head.

“If you’re horny, let’s do it,” he sings, reaching for the front of his pants. “Ride it.”

Your mouth is open, staring at Kyle as more of his clothes disappear. He’s in nothing but boxer briefs. Placing his foot on the couch, his hips flex forward, giving you a clear view of what’s beneath the fabric.

"Stop," you giggle, covering your eyes with one hand. The other extends to cover his junk.

Kyle takes your wrist and draws your palm to his chiseled stomach. "How are you feeling now?"

The static is gone, replaced with a soft affection that warms your everywhere.

"I'm better,” you laugh.

[keriarentikai]

Fandom permission statements

Hello, I am here with yet another pitch for writers to add a permission statement to their AO3 bio! Posts about permission statements tend to circulate among the podfic community, which is really preaching to the choir, so I would really love it if some writer-types also reblog this. ❤️

(While permission statements can and do address multiple types of transformative work, this post very podfic-centric.)

What is a permission statement?

A permission statement tells people who create works based on fanfics (e.g. podfic, art, remixes) whether or not you're okay with people making stuff based on your writing and in what circumstances.

Even if you're not up for giving everyone permission for everything, having a statement we can read is SO appreciated!

What is blanket permission?

Blanket permission is a term podficcers use for permissions that let us create and post podfic without having to contact the author. We love this!

What other kinds of permission statements are there and why would I still want to use one?

If you don't want to give blanket permission, having a permission statement telling folks what you are and aren't okay with helps a lot!

If an author doesn't want to give blanket permission, a statement encouraging podfic but asking a podficcer to ask first still tells us you're interested and that we can expect to receive a friendly (even if not always a 'yes') response.

If you don't want podfic made of your work at all, then telling us this saves us time and saves you from getting repeated messages from different podficcers!

Do you have an example?

Sure do! Here's the statement I currently have in my AO3 profile:

I grant blanket permission for podfics, art and translations, and any other transformative work as long as it involves absolutely no monetary profit or monetary exchange of any kind, or contribution to or use of generative AI. Please link back to the original so I can be thrilled you did it!

Why consider blanket permission?

If you do want podfic made of your work, blanket permission makes it a whole lot more likely a podficcer will choose your work! Because:

Especially for events with quick turnaround times and that include recommendations made to other podficcers for projects, it's often the only way we can get permission in time

It means we can start working on a project as soon as we decide to, rather than having to wait to hear back

Some people are less comfortable reaching out to ask and so will be less willing to podfic works without blanket permission

It can also feel awkward to ask for permission and then not do the podfic for a while (or ever), which can be a mental barrier to reaching out

Blanket permission is so helpful that we even have a whole database of people who have blanket permission so we can find them more easily and an extension that highlights their names in green for 'full speed ahead!'

Podfic makes a writer's work more accessible to audiences that aren't always able to engage with written text, and I personally love it when someone cares about my writing to put in the effort to podfic it. So I want to encourage its creation as much as I can!

No matter what kind of permission you end up being comfortable with, I hope you will consider adding a statement to your AO3 profile, and thanks for reading this pitch!

More resources:

Fanworks permission statement builder by flamingwell Directory of creators with blanket permission (FPS list)

[piracytheorist]

In Life, And in Death (1/11)

Fandom: Spy x Family Word count: 4.1k for this chapter | 32.4k in total Rating: T Warnings: Temporary character death, graphic violence, horror imagery, body horror, mild gore, whump, language Cover art by @buf309

Summary: Anya is kidnapped, and Twilight is thrown into the horrors of a mysterious, deadly village. Forced and then choosing to survive its trials - physical and mental - he's brought to figure out who he truly is. (A Resident Evil Village fusion)

AO3

~

Author's Note: Probably my most insane fanfic project yet. After I successfully probed SOMEONE, aka @spencer-is-someone, into watching a Resident Evil Village gameplay, they fell in love with Ethan Winters but felt he went through too much in the game, prompting the idea "What if Loid went through all that stuff instead". And well, 32 thousand words later, here I am, inflicting this literal horror upon y'all.

I made a post about it, and the absolutely wonderful @buf309 went and made this amazing cover art, and I literally couldn't be more thankful for that. I was so amazed when I saw the first draft sketch that I went like I'M GONNA WAIT TILL IT'S READY TO POST THE FIC. Seriously, words cannot describe how grateful I am, I sincerely hope the fic feels satisfying enough for the work you've done <3

If you know how the Resident Evil Village story goes, this is pretty much the same... yes, in all of its "parts-in-jars" glory (if you know you know, if you don't you will soon), just with Twilight taking the place of Ethan Winters. There will be a few changes from the original story to fit Twilight's character, some to facilitate the adaptation from game narrative to fanfic narrative, some to fit my own tastes, and an actually hopeful ending because we were all left heartbroken after the ending of RE Village so might as well pour some healing juice to put our hearts back together same way Ethan puts his limbs back together and hope for the best.

Do take note of the warnings, please. There is one part of the story I actually had chills while writing (yes, that part for those of you who know, it will be slightly changed but the essence will be the same) and it is based on the story of a horror/survival game, so make sure you're okay to read something as intense as this.

The story is written in full, though I'm still doing small bits of editing here and there. I don't have a posting schedule, but I'm thinking of updating twice a week, or once if I see the editing is taking longer. Chapter titles are taken from track titles of the game's original soundtrack.

So yeah, long intro over, take not of the warnings, I hope you enjoy if you read on!

~

Chapter 1: Bloodthirsty

~

“Anya, don’t sit so close to the TV,” Loid said, not looking up from the counter.

Unsurprisingly, there was no response. He wouldn’t doubt that she hadn’t even heard him, let alone acknowledged his request.

He picked up a handful of minced meat to mould into a burger steak, deciding to give her another reminder in two minutes from now. Yor had just left to walk Bond, so it was only his direction she had to follow – and she was starting to make clear whose directions she preferred to follow nowadays.

He placed the burger on the pan as his body tensed. A split second later, the door burst open.

He jumped through the opening between the kitchen and the living room, but even that seemed a pointless blessing as thick smoke quickly covered the apartment.

He rushed through it to grab Anya, who trembled against him, but he didn’t have the time to move away from the shots.

Two silenced shots, piercing through his clothes and reaching into the skin of his back.

No blood. But they were pinching his skin, and he immediately felt groggy…

He dropped to his side, unable to move as figures approached him. One of them took Anya.

“PAPA!” she screamed at him.

He feebly raised his hand. “Wait,” was the only thing he could say, before his hand dropped.

More figures approached him, and then his vision went dark.

~

Focus, Twilight.

Don’t open your eyes yet. Don’t alert the enemy yet.

He held his breath for a moment.

He was somewhere cold, outside.

He could feel something soft but freezing underneath him. Snow?

His hair didn’t feel wet, so he mustn’t have been lying there long.

It was quiet. He could only hear distant sounds of wind and crows flying somewhere close.

He couldn’t feel anyone’s presence, so he decided to open one single eye to check.

But then both his eyes shot wide open.

In front of him stood a magnificent gothic mansion. It could be a mansion, or it could be a damn castle. It was surrounded by a thick wall, like a fortress.

He sat up. He was indeed lying on the snow, but it was the least of his concerns right now.

He had apparently been placed on the castle’s garden. Right in the middle of the winter, it was only decorated by a few naked trees as well as three scarecrows.

Those didn’t seem to do their job well enough, he thought, as crows still flew around, some even sitting on them.

He got up, checking himself for injuries. He couldn’t feel any pain or any indication of pierced skin. How had they drugged him?

It was then he realized he was now wearing his jacket.

Had they dressed him for the cold? While taking off his apron and the gloves he wore while preparing food?

What the hell?

Where even was this place?

Why was he brought here?

Where was Anya?

His attention was drawn back to the apparently useless scarecrows, and a chill ran down his spine – unrelated to the cold – when he noticed something eerie about them.

Carefully, he took a few steps towards them.

His breath caught in his throat when he was close enough to notice.

Those weren’t plain scarecrows.

Those were actual, human bodies hanging on wooden crosses.

His breath finally came out shaky, forming a cloud.

What the hell was this place?

Unable to quell his curiosity, he stepped closer, trying to notice for any details on the bodies, in case he recognized them.

All three seemed to be men, of ages between thirty and fifty, and they couldn’t have been dead for longer than a week or so. The cold might have preserved their bodies, but exposure to the outside would do as much more damage.

He couldn’t recognize any of their faces – or what was left of them.

Well, he didn’t even know where he was, how far away from Berlint or even in Ostania for that matter.

He clenched his hands into fists and turned around, looking around the walls surrounding the castle.

There was a huge metal door blocking the path outside. No climbing the wall; it was too smooth and covered in even more slippery ice. Climbing the trees wouldn’t give him enough height to swing himself out.

Which meant, his only way of getting answers was through the castle.

He must have been placed there for a reason, after all, and if they’d wanted to kill him they would have already done so.

He reached the entrance, and the door swung open easily.

The entrance hall was as luxuriously decorated as the outside hinted at. A lush burgundy carpet went up the few steps, leading to a wall where a painting of three young women hung.

The door closed behind him, and he didn’t miss the definitive clang as metal bars started descending right in front of it.

He turned, and for a few seconds he weighed his options.

He could break the door quickly enough before the bars descended too low, and slip outside.

But then again, they obviously wanted him in there, and again, it didn’t seem that killing him was their priority.

He faced forward, ignoring the sound of the bars trapping him in there.

He might as well play their game.

He walked to the painting. Underneath it was an inscription that wrote “Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra.”

Which one was which?

The women on the painting didn’t seem too different from each other. The painting itself didn’t seem all too enlightening, either; it looked like any common Romantic-style oil painting.

Well, it wasn’t going to give him any answers, would it?

He turned around, walking down a corridor and out into another, larger hall. He noticed how warm the whole building was, despite the freezing weather outside and the apparently old construction of the place.

This hall had hanging, lit candles all over the walls, though they couldn’t be the source of the heating. The lighting was low, but lucky for him, he’d been trained enough in low lighting for that not to be an issue.

He jerked back at the sound of a swarm of flies coming his way, then he sensed someone’s presence.

Flies, he could handle.

But then the flies started gathering together, and within seconds they morphed into three women, dressed in black hooded cloaks.

“Wha—?” he whispered.

“Looking for Anya?” a voice said, and he assumed it’d come from one of the women. Who had just formed from flies.

The absurdity of his situation almost made him forget that she had just mentioned Anya.

Which meant they probably knew where she was.

However, he was too shocked by the sight that he couldn’t move when one of the women, all of whom were cackling, approached him and pushed him backwards.

She swung the scythe she held in her hand, and he pulled his legs away just before she could bury it in his calf.

“Oh, he’s feisty!” the woman said with a wide smile.

Her arm then almost zapped through the air, and his left leg was exploding in pain before he could even register the movement.

He yelped in pain as she leaned closer to him and took a long sniff.

Her mouth and jaw were covered in blood, though her blond hair looked pristine clean.

“Mmm, man-blood,” she said.

She then leaned back and started dragging him, by the scythe embedded in his leg, as he still lay helplessly on the ground.

She was too fast. He flailed around, trying to grab at anything they passed by to make her stop, even though that would mean the scythe would rip his entire leg open, but then another woman reached his other side and buried her scythe in his right leg.

He threw his head back, biting down another yell of pain.

Could he just have one moment?!

The women dragged him down another corridor and into what he quickly realized was a bedroom. They removed their scythes, and he quickly reached to assess the damage, when he heard the blond woman say “Mother, I bring you fresh prey,” as she pointed at him with her hand.

“You are so kind to me, daughters,” came a voice of a woman who sounded older than them.

Older, and bigger.

She was sitting on a massive chair, holding an equally massive glass of red wine. She took a sip from it, then stood up and turned to him, saying, “Now, lets take a look at him.”

He raised his head to look at her.

And then raised it higher.

She had the build of a muscular woman, with curves proportionate to her height, which must have been about three meters tall. She wore a black wide-brimmed hat over her chin-length black hair, and a long white dress that reached down to her feet, though she moved comfortably in it.

“Well, well. Loid Forger,” she said. “Came looking for your daughter, I presume?”

He sat there, frozen.

They knew who he was – or at least pretended to be? And they knew Anya was also taken?

She walked closer to him, smiling as she put her hands on her hips. “For you to think you can waltz right in here—let’s see how special you are,” she nearly purred.

She threw her hands up in a sign for something, and two of the younger women said “Yes, mother,” as they grabbed his arms and pulled him up.

His first thought was that he was standing up surprisingly well for just having had two scythes ran through his legs.

His second thought was terror as one woman grabbed his hand, and the other produced a very sharp-looking knife.

Before he could jerk back, she sliced his palm open.

He bit back a grunt; it wasn’t a deep cut, but it would be annoying…

His last thought trailed off as the tall woman reached down, grabbed his hand, brought it to her lips… and started sucking.

Now he really was frozen in terror.

What the hell was this nightmare?

The woman pulled her head back, licking at her lips with a blood-soaked tongue.

She threw his hand away. “Hmm,” she said. “Still fresh, but only barely.”

He wrapped his hand into a fist, keeping it close to his chest.

“Then let’s devour his man-flesh quickly, mother!” one of the women said, handing a handkerchief to her.

“But I’m the one who captured him!” the blond woman protested.

“Now, now, daughters,” the tall woman said, patting at her lips with the handkerchief. “First, I must inform Mother Miranda. But later, well, there will be enough for everyone.” She threw the handkerchief aside, smiling down at him. “Put him up!”

The young women surrounded him, and though he struggled, they were too strong for him as they put heavy manacles on his wrists.

A thick build, but he could break out of them with little effort.

But then, they secured a chain to them, and the chain started going up. He was lifted off his feet, and started grunting as the full force of his weight fell on his wrists.

Don’t say anything. Don’t let them take a hold of any weaknesses.

He clenched his jaw, keeping his voice from making any sounds as they headed out of the room. The tall woman had to bend to get through that door, and one of the young women – the second one who had stabbed his leg – bent down and picked up the discarded handkerchief, smelling the blood on it and laughing, as she followed them.

Breathing hard, he looked up at the manacles.

The pain was intense but manageable, though he already felt the tingling of numbness in his fingers. By his calculations, he had about fifteen or so minutes before cut blood circulation would start causing permanent damage.

Escape, first. Then you can freak out.

He grabbed the chain and dragged his body up. Though his legs were still bleeding, he brought them up so he could hold the chain between his feet.

He was gasping by the time he managed that, but at least he had less pain on his hands and a better view of the manacles.

They were old and rusty, but seemed to have a fairly standard locking mechanism. Bringing his body closer, he fished the lockpick out from a hidden pocket of his jacket.

Biting his lip, he worked through the lock of the right manacle. Just as it opened, his feet slipped from the chain and dropped down, causing all of his weight to drop onto his injured left hand.

The pain knocked the air out of his lungs.

Think! Think! Pull yourself together!

Taking in a laboured breath, he looked back up.

The lockpick had slipped from his hand and was now too far down for him to get it. His right hand was free, but he didn’t have any other options left.

Reaching up, he wrapped his free hand around his left thumb, and with a sharp pull, he dislocated it.

As his other hand was coated in blood from the cut, his wrist slipped through the manacle as soon as his thumb wasn’t in the way.

He dropped to the ground clumsily, not managing to balance his landing.

Wheezing, he looked at his left hand.

Bleeding, and a dislocated thumb.

He gave himself ten seconds.

Ten seconds to wonder where the hell he had gotten himself into, what that tall woman even was, standing at three meters tall and drinking blood, and what her “daughters” were, emerging from flies and also participating in… blood drinking? Cannibalism?

Ten seconds, and he was back to himself.

Focus, Twilight.

He looked at his legs – they were still bleeding, but he felt confident he could stand on them. Though those scythes looked sharp, they must have split a tendon or two apart.

At the corner of the room stood a vanity table, and on top of it, along with various cosmetics, lay a small green bottle with a cross on the label.

He stood up carefully, glad that his legs weren’t trembling. He picked up the bottle, carefully reading the label.

Medical alcohol.

Not one to trust this place that much, he opened the lid, and sure enough, it smelled like ethyl alcohol.

He sat down with a grunt, pulling his right trouser up. He didn’t have any clean gauze, so his only option was to pour liquid right over the wound.

He braced himself for the sting of pain, but instead, the liquid brought a cool, numbing sensation.

And then, right in front of his eyes, his wound closed then disappeared completely.

He stared at it.

Ten more seconds.

What the hell.

He looked at the bottle again. Medical alcohol, it said. It smelled like it too.

He looked back at his leg, raising his other trouser where the other wound still stood.

What the hell?!

Uncertain, he poured a little less liquid over that wound.

The wound immediately stopped bleeding as new skin seemed to form, though it didn’t heal completely.

He let out a breath. If he were honest with himself, this wasn’t really the weirdest thing to happen in the last few minutes, was it?

He turned to his mangled hand. Just how much could that liquid heal?

He poured an equal dosage to it, and was still surprised to see his thumb painlessly slide into its place, as well as the cut close completely.

Well, at least it could be useful.

He didn’t have time to worry over the supernatural. He had to get out of there, and find out where Anya was.

He took the path of unlocked doors, as he didn’t want to waste time and noise trying to break the lock of every locked door he found. Breaking the windows wouldn’t lead him anywhere – each one was sealed shut, and though he wasn’t averse to turning into a hooligan for the sake of escaping, the entire castle seemed to be surrounded by that wall.

He needed to get to a higher floor, but the safest and most silent path led him to the basement, where he found himself walking along piles and piles of dead bodies.

He had to hold his breath as he passed them by; apparently the occupants of the castle had the habit of feasting on the blood of humans, and did it so often that the amount of bodies was too big to act as decoration for their garden.

It was all men, however. As young as twenty-three, from what he could gather with a quick look.

The fly-women seemed to be confident enough in their hunting that they didn’t take away the handgun from one of the more fresh bodies. Twilight couldn’t tell if that was a police officer, a soldier, or a man aware of what he’d been dealing with, but it didn’t matter to him. He undid the holster, as gently as he could out of respect of the deceased man, and he put it on under his jacket.

He checked the magazine. Ten bullets out of sixteen.

He looked at the man. Had he shot those first six bullets right before he was killed?

The man had a shoulder bag on him, and inside was a box of bullets, a total of forty. He slid that too over his own shoulder.

He kept the safety on the gun on, but held it in his hand. He picked up a hunting knife from one of the other bodies and walked on.

As the bodies thinned out, he found a lone skeletal figure draped in a plain canvas cloak. The limbs stood out, bare, emaciated, and rotting. While other bodies were in a similar state of decomposition, they were fully clothed, at most with a few rips in their clothes. This one was the only one so bare.

And it was holding a scythe in its hand, old and rusty in comparison to the women’s scythes, but still sharp enough to do harm.

He approached it carefully, keeping both hands on the gun.

He thanked his training for that, as the figure moved when he passed right by it.

He yelped in shock, moving away from it and raising his gun at it.

“Stop!” he said. “Don’t move!”

The creature, whatever that was, didn’t seem like it listened let alone register his words. It stood up, hunched over, then lunged at him with the scythe.

Not finding any alternatives, he shot right at its head.

The creature jerked back as a screech left its mouth.

Twilight held his breath.

His blood froze when he saw it still stand on its legs and try to swing at him again.

He shot again. He was perfectly certain the bullet got through its head.

Yet the creature moved again.

And he shot again.

Only now did the creature finally drop to its knees, but it was still screeching and growling.

Desperate, Twilight took the knife and drove it through the creature’s skull, three times, until he felt it stop moving.

It collapsed on the floor.

Hell knew if it would rise again. It was supposed to be dead already, wasn’t it?

He turned around and ran.

There were more creatures on the way. Some he slashed at with the knife, some he shot at, some he simply ran away from. A few managed to nick him with their scythes, and if he were honest, he was more worried about infections than the injuries themselves.

As he found a quiet corner, he pulled out the alcohol – or whatever that was. It seemed to work on the nicks too, making them close quickly and painlessly.

He supported himself on the wall, forcing his breath to calm down.

He had to get out. Now.

Holding the gun tight to his hand, he moved to leave, but then a buzzing and a voice sounded from behind him.

“Hmm. Warm, bright, red blood.”

He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew it was the blond woman.

He made a run for it as flies swarmed around him, until he found a staircase going up, reaching into what looked like a kitchen area.

“Where are you going, little one?”

The woman appeared right in front of him, cutting off his path. She was smiling at him, surrounded by flies, her face still stained with blood.

“I just want to find Anya,” he managed.

“Aw,” she said. She then pushed him back and he fell on the ground. She lay over him, reaching at his neck and biting.

Yelling, he took the gun and fired twice at her stomach.

She reached up, laughing as fresh blood ran from her lips.

He shot at her head.

“Your bullets cannot harm m—”

Her voice cut off when another of his shots passed through her and hit the window behind her.

The glass cracked, and it quickly shattered as a cold gust of wind blew into the room.

The gust threw the woman’s hood off her head. Twilight tightened his hold on the gun when he spotted a massive, fleshy scar on her temple, a bald spot from her long hair.

The woman shrieked, then growled. Her skin, already pale as it was, seemed to start cracking and turn grey. She looked at her hands, still gasping in pain, and then turned to him, yelling, “You stupid man-thing!”

His mind finally picked up the pace. The cold made her weak?

He stood up, raising his gun at her.

“How dare you bare your teeth at us!” she shouted, then lunged at him with her scythe.

He managed to block her attack, pushing her back, and he shot at her face.

She groaned, still standing, but she said, “What? My body—it’s breaking…”

He kept his gun up. “Just let me go,” he said.

A wild rumble came from her mouth as she turned to attack him again. She reached him, and he could only block her at the last moment, his arms taking the full blow of her scythe. “Give up!” she said, reaching back for another swing of her weapon.

He shot twice at her head, and she yelled again.

The flies seemed to drop in numbers, and her skin cracked more and more. He barely managed to avoid two more of her attacks, and then she fell on him, ready to bite his head off, he supposed in the split second it took him to kick her off of him.

He shot two more times.

“This can’t be,” she said, weakly now, her body swaying.

“Let me go!” he repeated, taking two steps back.

She screamed and reached back with her scythe, and he shot again.

And then a sizzling sound came from her body, as she started swinging wildly, not reaching anything. She groaned and groaned, and her body transformed.

It seemed to calcify into gravel, as she slowly stopped moving, her hand still up in a pose of attack.

And then it broke down.

Whatever it was, it cracked into small pieces, and what started as the form of a woman was now a pile of something on the ground.

Breathing hard, he leaned his back on the wall behind him and slid down to the floor.

His hands were trembling, his feet felt like water.

What the hell was all that?

Were was he?

Why was he brought here?

And where was Anya?

What were those creatures…?

He closed his eyes. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds to freak out.

He just had to get out. Find Anya and…

He opened his eyes, his throat tensing.

Did he really have to find her?

As far as he was concerned, right now she was a liability to him. He had to prioritize his safety first.

It wasn’t like there were piles of bodies of dead girls around, was it?

Letting out a deep sigh, he stood back up. The woman had managed to hurt him a little, but the healing liquid was in short supply and he could handle those injuries up to a point.

The woman. Who was now a pile of ash.

Calm down, Twilight. Get yourself in order and find a way out.

The castle proved massive, and he couldn’t find any viable exit paths even as he seemed to reach what looked like hallways reaching into bedrooms.

Then, a mournful scream sounded from a floor below.

“What have you done to my daughter?!”

His blood chilled. If the “daughter” had been that vicious, he didn’t want to face whatever her mother had in store for him.

[dranna]

Milk Boy

AO3

Summary: You cuddle and then feed Homelander milk with your fingers after a stressful day and he whimpers all over like a good boy.

Contents: sub!Homelander, established relationship, dom!reader, fluff, tiny angst, hurt/comfort, hand feeding, gender neutral reader, any pronouns, praise kink, big scary man whimpers an unhealthy amount, soft dom, human x supe, suggested nsfw, clingy Homelander, mommy kink, sucking milk off of fingers as a passionate experience  🤨 , not beta read we die like translucent

a/n: english is not my first language 

I've been having difficulty with sleeping due to anxiety so here is the annual, lets calm down fic :')

_______________________________________________________

He was marching through the corridors of the Vought tower, leaving a disquiet air behind him among the staff and 7 members. The spiky couple of frustration and anger was merrily pushing their thorns deeper and deeper into his chest, the longer he went on. The only destination he was still able to see through the constant attacks of that annoying couple was his penthouse, several floors above, where you were waiting for him. 

You, with your calming presence and trusting eyes. He closed his ocean eyes as the lift started to ascent towards his floor, imagining your smoothing voice in his ears and your warm, loving touches. “Why is that shit so slow?!”  – his racing thoughts questioned as he took off his gloves, holding them in one palm while putting his fists behind his broad back. “Do I really have to be the one, who tells Ashely about that fucking lift?? Am I the only one who does anything in this tower?” – the muscles of his picture perfect face started to twitch involuntarily which fueled his anger deeper. “You are pathetic. – sturred a heavy hiss from somewhere inside of his mind – Do you really think you’ll ever be good enough? I’m sure you know deep down what that little human thinks about you when you leave. Hmmm. Yes, after you cried your eyes out like a little bitch!” –The elevator dinged with a sigh of relief, while he stood staring at his reflection, petrified. He looked into his own face, feeling the forming of unwanted tears at the back of his eyes. What if I am right? And you are like the others, lying to him? And… no. He cracked his neck, moving his head around to relieve tension, huffing at his own incompetence, letting the thorns sting him again. 

His fists jammed into tighter iron fists as he moved towards the living room, searching for you. The tension of his hands mirrored the tightness he felt in his gut, suffocating him. He felt like he was carrying a weight in his chest, a weight too heavy even for him, pulling him more and more intensely into a bottomless pit. “I’m scared.. please.”

He didn’t know how, but he found himself sitting on the sofa, fiddling with his ungloved hands nervously … and you, looking at him with such concern in your eyes. In his state of despair he didn't notice you in the kitchen, so when he didn’t turn to greet you, you went to investigate. 

“Had a stressful day dear?” – he heard your quiet melody as you sat down next to him on the sofa, gently holding out your hand to caress his right cheek. Oh how small he looked with his puffy teary eyes, glaring at you, as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars up the sky, kindling his dark night up with your light. He barely dared to nod, fearing to interrupt your touch on his cheek. You softly whispered “come here”, patting your thighs and pulling him towards you. 

He moved with the caucion of a scared little bird in a cage, preparing to flee but fearing to leave. At last his blond locks brushed the fabric of your clothes and his ocean irises searched for yours. He still didn’t speak but looked at you expectedly, pleading silently with his gaze. 

The moment you touched his hair, he closed his tired eyes and sighed in relief. You continued to pet him, running your fingers through his curls, carefully scratching his scalp. With every passing second, the thorns of the couple seeped out of his cramped muscles. He looked so serene like this, abandoning all pride and fears, leaving all of himself up to you. You could’ve asked anything of him at times like this and he would have done it without question. 

The Sun was slowly diving behind the skyscrapers of the city, puffing the bubbles of his breathy light over every surface. Deep below the busyness of the streets were running on in all sorts of blue and purple hues, setting the temperature lower while red heat remained in hearts. However up there, above everyone else in the sky, the diving of the sun mixed the colours of the air with the most beautiful shades of yellows and pinks, hinting their tints over thousands of windows. One stray line of warm shine found its place into the penthouse of our scene. Homelander was still laying on the sofa, with his head placed on your lap. He turned slightly, burying his face further into your chest, seeking comfort. He was so beautiful like this, his golden eyelashes in the light, leaving their merry shadows on his cheek, and coloring his hair. He was quietly whimpering and moaning, barely audible for now, under your untiring hands. 

“That's my brave boy.” – you whispered softly as you leaned down to place a kiss on his smooth forehead. He opened his azure eyes, which were swimming in their own seas and their heightened hue of colours. The blueness blended with the yellows, pinks and purples of the air as well as the mirrored colours of yours, making them shining with life and emotions. “Homelnader, you are so so beautiful and perfect, my love.”  – you told him, pulling him even closer.  “Good boy.” – You continued to sing praises over him, covering him with your love. More and more tiny voices of his began to escape from his thin lips, grabbing you desperately. 

“Hush my love, it's okay. What do you need?”

“I… C-Can I h-have …m-m-milk?” – he looked up at you shyly, his own embarrassment colouring the tip of ears. The redness of his self-consciousness travelled down from there, warming his puffy cheeks. 

“Of course you can, dear. Let's get, hm? Why don’t you go to the bedroom while I warm up a little milk for you?”  

“B-but I d-don’t want y-you to g-go.”

“Shhh, I’m not going anywhere I promise. I’ll be there with you in a minute.”

“... okay.” 

🥛🥛🥛

The now warm glass of milk you placed on the bedside table, and you slipped into bed. You positioned yourself in a half sitting position and gestured to him to lay in between your legs. He carefully placed his blond head onto your chest and waited with barely contained need. You held the glass in one hand and pushed your fore and middle finger of the other into the creamy white liquid. He chased your fingers hungrily with his eyes, not letting them out of his sight. As you moved them closer to him, his lips started to move in anticipation, curling unintendedly, preparing to taste. Oh he couldn't wait, “Please!” – he whined loudly, too occupied in caring to hold it back. “I need it, please mommy.” –  he whimpered inward, shimming closer to your breasts. Your fingers were richly covered with this sweet, snowy nectar of his, moderately showering his suit with its tiny snowflakes. 

Your slick fingers met his craving lips and he couldn't help but moan and greedily take them into his mouth. Like a thirtsing man in the desert who found an oasis, once your fingers were in his hot mouth he didn’t want to let them go. His eyes were shut, completely lost in this bliss. He sucked, then kissed, then swirled his tongue, repeating these motions until your fingers were completely clean. He was a growling mess, hungrily sucking on. 

“That's my good boy, doing so good for me.”

Looking down at him, you felt a certain warmth spreading through your body. During his pleasure, pink and red flowers started to blossom in his cheeks, planting their seeds in his veins, leaving their blooms all over his neck and chest. He breathed heavily with shallow breaths, couldn't get enough of the weight of you in his mouth and the taste of safety on his tongue. 

“Ahhh.. ah.”  – was the only thing he could manage to blurt out from amongst the many dirty noises of his delight. But he wanted to say so much more, express all the love that dwelled in his chest. He felt your delicate arms around him, shielding him from the outside word, keeping him safe, and stroking his undercut with the utmost gentleness. Your praises didn’t stop either, they continued to float over him with all the rhythmic qualities of your voice. “Good boys” were the most heard, because you knew he needed someone to reassure him that he was doing fine. However even with all the praise, and touch, and care, the biggest impact was your heartbeat. It sang so soothing and steadily into his ears, choosing the melody that it wrote only for him. “I love you. I love you so much!” – he cried in his mind while noisy sobs started to escape from his lungs – “I want you to know!” — His own heart invited yours for a dance and under your sweet harmony, the two of them began to waltz. His slowly picked up the pace, showering you with his own composition, swaying the two of you. “It’s soo good, but so much yet I want more! Ah!”

His breath was becoming rapid and his whimpers deeper, louder, begging for more. His right hand found one of your breasts and started to caress it, imitating the motion as if pushing milk out of it. 

“It’s alright dear, mommy knows exactly what her good boy wants.” — his mouth was still full of your fingers so he could only whine more breathy. 

You replaced your clean fingers with freshly milked ones and drew them along the curve of his lips, slowly savoring the noises this simple motion elicited from him. It felt intoxicating with every cell of his body buzzing with electric excitement. Whines fell from the curled, parted lips as goosebumps sent shockwaves all along his form, from the tip of his curls to the toes of his feet. 

“P-ple-ase.” 

“Please what, my love?” 

“P-p-plea-e l-let me … t-taste.” 

“You did such a good job all day my boy, have a taste.” 

This is all he needed, the second you said those words, his mouth was all over your warm fingers. His eyes rolled back under his eyelids as his head started to bob up and down in his own rhythm. His clingy sounds filled up the colourful air around you two as he was getting closer and closer to the goal of his need. Drool began to form around his lips, smearing all over his cheeks and down his Adam’s apple. No other masterpiece of a painting was to match the sight of his right now. He was utterly beautiful in his blissfully dazed state of mind, sucking on your fingers, drinking up all of ‘your’ milk. His saliva gleamed in the darkening room, contouring his face. The red flowers were full blown, offering all their beauty up to you and you only. 

“Mhm!” 

“I know my love, you can let go.” — you murmured sweetly to him, which pushed him over the edge toward his release. The tightness in his suit left a wetness on the fabric, flowing down his thigh. He appeared at peace, tiredly cuddling his head further into your chest while still holding your fingers with his lips. You gently pulled them out which elicited an adorable whine from him. You continued to pet his blond head, hinting sweet kisses all over his face. 

You carried on with caresses in silence while his breath slowed and his heartbeat steaded itself. 

“…Thank you.” — you heard his faint voice addressing you. He looked up at you with eyes that possessed so much love, they nearly bursted out. — “I-I love you.” 

“I love you too.” — you whispered back and placed a kiss on his nose. He pulled you closer to him, hugging you tightly, but not too tightly so as to not hurt you, and keeping you close. You made him feel so happy and loved, he couldn’t articulate how much, so he resorted to drawing you as close to him as possible. 

You two stayed like that for some time, exchanging innocent kisses between each other, when after a while he discovered a mischievous light in your eyes.

“What is it?” — he cocked an eyebrow up.

“Well, since there is still some milk left, it would be a pity to waste it, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, absolutely!” — he joined in, firing up his excitement again. 

“Not like that you silly!” — you giggled, making your heart jump joyfully. It made his own pump warmness along his whole system. — “Here.” — she placed the glass near his lips and slightly turned it. He slowly drank all it up, gazing up at you sleepily when he was done. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“I know, … but I haven’t said it enough for you. I love you.” — he murmured as he slowly fell asleep in your arms. 

You watched over his dreams until the Moon swam up from the depths of the sky, placing her stars up the darkness to dry. 

[sallowedbethyname]

to be home, to be loved, ch.1

pairing: sebastian sallow x reader (hogwarts legacy)

rating: mature (eventual smut)

themes: found family, friends to lovers, slow burn

summary: Eleazar Fig and Solomon Sallow died. Anne Sallow had disappeared. You, Sebastian, and Ominis tried as best as you can to move on, learn, and heal from everything that had happened. In an effort to keep Sebastian company and gave Ominis a new refuge after your fifth year at Hogwarts ended, you proposed an idea: the three of you living together in the house Professor Fig left you.

notes: am i too late to write fics for the infamous, the illustrious, the genius sebastian sallow when hogwarts legacy came out almost 2 years ago? probably, but that never stopped me before, so here it is!

read the full chapter on AO3

read chapter 2

It had been over a week since Spring arrived, melting white snow to make way for verdant green and vibrant colors. Hogwarts was lovely this time of the year, with blooming flowers and swirling butterflies softening the solemness of the castle. It was almost hard to believe that just a few weeks ago, you had been fighting for your life against Ranrok, shaking the very foundation of the castle. Yet Hogwarts still stood tall and majestic. Unshakeable. 

Everyone called you Hogwarts’ Hero, but you wondered if they knew that your sleep had been plagued with vivid dreams of bright flashes of red, the memories of the Keepers, and the light fading from your mentor’s eyes as he drew his last breath. Who would've expected that you'd have trauma by the end of your fifth year? Certainly not you.

The teachers, bless their hearts, seem to be paying more attention to you these days. Even more than before, when they used to give you tasks and extra lessons to make up for lost time. Among them, Professor Weasley was the one who often reached out to you to inquire about your O.W.L preparations. 

Curiously, though, the deputy headmistress didn't seem interested in your O.W.L or Field Guide today. Instead, she regarded you with a gentle, sympathetic expression as she handed you a thick envelope. 

“I know the grief of losing Professor Fig must be too fresh for you, but with the year ending and… in light of everything that has happened recently, I'm afraid this cannot wait.”

You stilled in your seat, immediately assuming the worst. Had the remaining goblin forces taken arms again? A new enemy entering the fray? Or perhaps you weren't meticulous enough when locking away Isidora’s repository and some of the magic had leaked away?

Professor Weasley cleared her throat. “This is Professor Fig’s will. He'd entrusted this to me the night you fought Ranrok. I assume you knew that Professor Fig and Miriam had no children?”

“Yes,” you slowly replied, thinking back to the months before Hogwarts where Fig patiently taught you everything you need to know about magic. 

What Professor Weasley said next made your eyes widen in surprise.

“Well… Professor Fig had decided to list you as his beneficiary. This means all his possessions now belong to you, including his house in London.”

“I— what?”

“It’s all stated in his will,” Professor Weasley nodded at the envelope before you, urging you to open it.

You hesitated. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion and disbelief. You wondered if this is a setup. Perhaps Professor Weasley decided to give you a surprise test before O.W.L to really gauge your readiness? But what purpose would it serve? The deputy headmistress has no reason to trick you and even if she did, she wouldn’t resort to using Fig, wouldn’t she? It would be too cruel.

Still, the deputy headmistress was silent while you mentally hyper-analyzed your current predicament. Nervously, you reached out for the envelope, pulling out its contents with trembling hands. Complicated words jumped out at you when you unfurled the parchment. You weren’t really well-versed in legal phrases and languages, but as you read through the pages and saw the stamps and signatures that belonged to Fig, you realized that everything Professor Weasly said was true.

Professor Fig left you everything.

“I… This is…”

You could feel your eyes getting wet with tears but blinked them all away, refusing to let out even the smallest sob or sniffle. Not in front of Professor Weasley, at least. Professor Fig never really expressed any sort of familial affection to you. Any praise and encouragement mostly only came because of your aptitude for magic and quick thinking. Because of that, you assumed he only saw you as his student. You two hadn’t known each other that long, after all.

You flipped the pages and began to reread everything from the beginning and, to nobody’s surprise, nothing’s changed. The content of his will stayed the same. 

But why, you found yourself thinking. A big wave of grief swept over you. A part of yourself secretly wishing Fig could’ve told you all this on his own. After all, despite everything, he had been the closest thing to a father that you’ve ever had. 

Not for the first time, your chest swelled with rage towards Ranrok, though you know it was futile.

“I had the pleasure to talk with Fig not long after he discovered you,” Professor Weasley finally spoke with a gentle voice. “He told me how gifted you are, how he had never seen someone learn magic so quickly. He was very proud of you, dear. And I’m sure that sentiment only grew bigger until the very end of his journey.”

“I… I don't know what to say, Professor, I…” you stammered. 

With a flick of her wand, a cup of warm tea appeared on the desk and Professor Weasley offered it to you. “Fig also told me that you were living in an orphanage. I suppose he hoped that, though he’s no longer with us, you can now have a home to return to aside from Hogwarts.”

You sobbed, unable to hold back the tears. Without wasting a beat, Professor Weasley was already at your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back. The warm gesture was appreciated, of course, but you tried your best to stop crying. 

“Your mentor is a good man,” she said. “He had made sure that you’ll never live in want.”

“Truthfully, Professor, I don’t know if I deserved this. I…” you paused, rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your cloak. 

“Nonsense, you’ve done so much for the wizarding world. I know Fig, he wouldn’t have made this decision if he wasn’t sure,” Professor Weasley reassured her. “But… it's up to you, in the end, whatever you want to do with Professor Fig’s possessions. I advise you to sleep on it tonight before coming up with a decision.”

Your nose flared as you took a deep breath, blinking away the burn in your eyes. “Alright,” you said, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. “I'll give it a thought. Thank you, Professor.”

The deputy headmistress nodded. “Well, I shan't keep you any longer. You still have classes to attend, after all. But rest assured, I'll always offer you my assistance should you need it.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

*

Try as you might, you couldn't stop thinking about Fig’s will. You barely paid attention to whatever Professor Sharp was saying (you were pretty sure he was giving you disappointed looks the whole time) and, when class was finally over, you began walking aimlessly around Hogwarts, hoping the excursion could help you process everything that had just happened. 

Of course, you had been giving some thought as to how you were going to spend the term break before your sixth year began. Natty and Poppy had also invited you for a sleepover at their houses. But, ultimately, you thought you were going to spend most of your time back at the orphanage, though you absolutely did not look forward to it.

But now, things have changed drastically.

You weren't trying to be ungrateful or petulant but… how many fifteen-year-olds out there got entrusted a house and a certain amount of wealth all of a sudden? 

The details of Fig’s home trickled back into your brain as you recalled the few times you had been there. It was a simple two-story house with brick walls, cobblestone roofs, a garden filled with peculiar magical plants, and a chipper house-elf named Hobbs. The insides of the house were filled with books and knick-knacks from Fig and Miriam’s adventure. It was warm there. And quiet, detached from the hustle and bustle of London’s city center.

‘Wouldn't it be so empty if only Hobbs and I lived there? How can I even stay there when Professor Fig is already gone?’ you wondered, uncertain. 

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn't realize that one of the armors in the corridor had already broken down into pieces, its parts strewn messily across the floor, no doubt it was because of their usual fight. But this detail slipped your mind and, the next moment, you found yourself falling down to your knees after you tripped over what seemed to be an iron breastplate. 

“Ow!”

“...Is that the Hogwarts' Hero I hear stumbling down the corridor?”

Cheeks reddening, you looked up to see none other than Ominis Gaunt standing in the middle of the corridor with his wand stretched forward, glowing red.  

“Yup, it's me. And don't call me that,” you sighed before pushing yourself back up and casting Reparo to fix the armor. “Fancy seeing you all by yourself, Ominis, Sebastian's not with you?”

“He’s being held back by Professor Garlick.” 

“What, did he make a student faint with a mandrake?” you asked as you inspected the repaired armor, satisfied with your work. 

“Almost lost an arm from accidentally dropping his Chinese chomping cabbage.”

You winced. “That… didn't sound good.”

That did not quite sound like Sebastian as well. You may not have known him long enough, yet Sebastian was not exactly someone you'd call clumsy. No, he had always moved with certainty and confidence, with intentions behind each of his actions. Needless to say, he wouldn't have done something as foolish as accidentally dropping a magical cabbage that could tear one's limbs. 

You turned to look at Ominis, half-surprised that he was still there. 

“How is he doing?”

“He’s… managing, though I can sense that Anne's situation still bothers him greatly,” Ominis quietly answered, carefully picking his words. “But I believe that he has come to terms with it. Slowly making peace with everything.”

“That's good to hear,” you nodded. 

Of course, like Ominis, you had been witnessing Sebastian making good progress. He seemed to be fully committed to the promise he made to you in The Undercroft a few days ago, and for that, you couldn't have been more relieved.

“Speaking of Sebastian, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about,” the blond-haired boy spoke again and it piqued your interest. 

“Mm?”

“Not here, let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“...Alright, lead the way.”

You assumed he would lead you to The Undercroft, yet it seemed Ominis had a different plan in mind because the two of you had just made a turn that certainly did not lead to your secret base. 

“Where are we heading?”

“The Black Lake,” he answered and your eyebrows shot up. “I’m unsure if this is something Sebastian should hear. Not yet, at least.”

You tilted your head to the side. This was certainly unexpected. After all, a good portion of your fifth year was spent doing unsanctioned and dangerous things with Sebastian, away from Ominis’ disapproving gaze. Now it was you and Ominis who were scheming together while keeping Sebastian out of the loop.

“This… was certainly a surprising turn of events.”

“You’re the only one I can turn to. And as to why, I'm sure you don't need a reminder.”

That shut you up. “Fair enough.”

It didn't take long before you reached the Black Lake. You held back a shiver when a chilly spring wind blew, mussing up the strands of hair that escaped your braid. Still, the sight of a verdant meadow after four months of pure white was very much welcomed. When you squinted, you could see the silhouette of the giant squid that lingered in the murky depth of the lake. 

Ominis led you to a quieter, more secluded part of the lake and you followed, sitting next to him on the grass. 

“So, what is it?”

“I know I said that Sebastian seemed to be doing alright, but… with the term break approaching, I can't help but worry for him. Anne is keeping her distance, Solomon's gone. Sebastian will be all alone.” 

“Ah… that,” you hummed. “I've been wondering about that, too, actually. Of course, I don't know Sebastian as well as you do, but I wondered if he'd be okay going back to an empty home. I figured the grief would be too much.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “I will just say it as it is. Aside from the grief, I worry he would try to do something stupid. Something we've agreed we'd help him put a stop to.”

An uncomfortable sensation pricked your skin, trailing down your spine. The faintest echo of Crucio that Sebastian cast on you back at Salazar’s Scriptorium. It was consensual, yes, you had asked for him to do it, but the pain was unbearable. It was as if you were being burned from the inside. As if a thousand knives pierced your skin over and over again. Your throat constricting on its own and breathing had been impossible.

Still, some days you wondered what was worse, the consensual Unforgivable curse or the anger he lashed out at you whenever he got too frustrated about his quest to find a cure for Anne.

‘Water under the bridge,’ you thought to yourself.

“I suppose you couldn't take him with you?”

“With me,” Ominis repeated slowly. “You’re suggesting that we bring Sebastian to a house where children are not taught but also encouraged to use the Unforgivable curses.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Curses aside, you know how I preferred not to stay in that house. I used to visit Feldcroft in the past, but now…” 

There was an awkward silence for a moment as you realized it wasn’t just Sebastian who lost his family and home. Ominis also lost a shelter. You looked up towards the blue sky, wishing you could find someplace for your two friends. Perhaps the three of you could sneak and hide in the Room of Requirements for the entire term break. That wouldn’t be too much of a bad idea, would it? Wild, but… plausible? You certainly wouldn’t have any problems with it.

Absent-mindedly, you put your hand inside the pocket of your cloak. It was at that moment your fingers brushed against an envelope. 

Professor Fig’s will. 

Suddenly, another idea popped into your head. 

“Something happened to me earlier.”

“Yes…?” Ominis arched an eyebrow, unsure of what it had to do with your current predicament. 

“Professor Weasley gave me Professor Fig’s will. He had listed me as his beneficiary… which means all of his possessions, including his home, are entrusted to me. I’ve been to the house a few times before and… it was quite spacious. There were spare rooms available.”

Ominis immediately turned to face you. “Are you suggesting that Sebastian could live with you during our term break?”

“I— well…” 

Now that you had said it, you realized how ridiculous you may have sounded. 

“I know that you tend to come up with bizarre ideas, but would your family even be okay with this? Can’t imagine they’d be pleased if you suddenly came home with a boy.”

‘They probably wouldn’t… if they existed,’ you thought to yourself. 

“Um… I sort of don't have one…”

“What do you mean you don't— oh,” Ominis immediately fell silent when he understood what you implied. The blond shifted awkwardly. “I must admit I have heard some rumors regarding your… family, but I didn’t dare to ask I…” he faltered. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t apologize. Really!”

An awkward silence stretched for a brief moment before he finally let out a sigh. “Well, that’s even more bizarre, then. A girl and a boy living together. Did it ever cross your mind that your idea is rather unconventional, if not, inappropriate?”

You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks. Ominis did not have to make it seem more serious than it really was. The three of you were just friends and nothing more. You highly doubt that Sebastian would do anything weird. Besides, it’s not like any of you had a lot of options.

“I know… it was just—” you took a deep breath. “Look, I just thought we could all stay there. Yes, you included. There's enough room for everyone to have their own privacy and there’s also a house-elf, so it’s not like it’s going to be just us.”

Ominis still looked like he suddenly got his vision and saw that you actually have three heads instead of one. 

“I don’t know what to say, thank you for the invitation? But have you considered the fact that there’s a possibility that something unwanted could happen?”

“Sebastian wouldn’t do that! And neither would you!” you replied with wide eyes, perplexed. “And even if any of you somehow did, which I highly doubt, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself.”

You were quite certain that Ominis didn't doubt you. After all, you did have the ability to wield ancient magical power and have successfully thwarted a goblin rebellion.

“Besides,” you took a deep breath. “I really don't know if I'm going to be able to live there with only a house-elf to keep me company.”

He paused. “Why is that?”

A rueful smile bloomed on your lips. “The silence would be too much for me to bear.”

“Ah…”

“A- anyway, you don't have to agree to my idea if you're uncomfortable about it. I was just thinking out loud… we need a place where one or the two of us can keep Sebastian company and you need a place to escape your family. I thought the house could be a good option.”

Ominis finally let out another defeated sigh. “You’re not wrong.”

Biting your lower lip, you inched forward, not wanting to put more stress on him. “I suppose there is a possibility that Sebastian would be completely fine living in Feldcroft alone and things would be the same despite… what had happened. At any rate, we wouldn't know unless we talked to him about it, no?”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he muttered. “We should talk to him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

The Slytherin boy arched an eyebrow. “We're going to Feldcroft with him tomorrow, remember?”

Right. You remembered Sebastian asking you to go with him and Ominis to his cottage in Feldcroft. This would be his second visit after Solomon’s death and Anne’s disappearance. The first happened just moments after he learned of his sister’s disappearance. Suddenly, your chest felt heavy.

“Alright. We'll talk to him tomorrow.”

Ominis nodded. “I have to go back, Sebastian is probably searching for me already. Talk to you soon.”

“Me, too. I promised Natty we’re going to Hogsmeade together. See you, Ominis.”

He stood up and dusted his robe. His expression was unreadable. 

“Despite everything that had happened,” he spoke again in a soft voice. “I’m grateful for all the help that you’ve done for Sebastian. I reckon it must’ve been hard for you, too, back then. I’m sorry, I realized there were times when I was being too harsh on you.”

The heaviness in your chest grew and though Ominis couldn’t see you, you still hid your face from him. A small part of you worried he could somehow sense the relief you were trying to suppress. Still, a treacherous part of you continued to wonder if Sebastian would still do what he did if you had made different choices. Had you, despite your best intention, unknowingly and foolishly led him into darkness?

You took a deep breath. 

“Thank you, Ominis.”

*

That night, you dreamt about Isidora’s final repository, tucked deep beneath Hogwarts. Yet instead of locking it away, you absorbed it. Unknown, unlimited power coursing through your veins, taking you to a greater height. 

You dreamt that you found Anne and, with that treacherous power, you broke her curse. 

*

Feldcroft was as humble and quiet as the first time you visited it. The evening sun bathed the little hamlet in a warm, golden hue, enhancing the colors of the daffodils that grew all over the grassy field. It seemed to be more alive, with villagers loitering around merchants and children running across the meadows. With the goblin forces gone, peace had returned to the hamlet.

Beside you, Sebastian was staring at the idyllic sight with a hollowness in his eyes. The price of freedom surely had never been so steep. Feldcroft was safe, but Solomon was gone, Anne did not want to speak to him, and some villagers were eyeing him warily. There were rumors that the young Sallow boy had cast one of the Unforgivable curses during the last goblin attack. Opinions were divided, some thinking he should be thoroughly investigated, while others thought “Well, good riddance! He saved his sister!”

“Sebastian…”

“Come on,” the brown-haired boy said. “All this walk is making me tired.”

You glanced at Ominis, who seemed to be holding back as many emotions and thoughts as you did. Sighing, you followed Sebastian as he made his way home. 

The Sallow cottage was in a slightly worse state, which wasn’t unreasonable, considering nobody lived there anymore. Sebastian hadn’t said anything about his desire to return, but the three of you came to the house anyway to keep it clean and well-maintained. 

Solomon Sallow was laid to rest in a simple graveyard in the back of the cottage. Anne had told everyone in the village that he died peacefully in his sleep. Silence stretched as Sebastian stood before the grave, while you and Ominis stood a few feet behind him, watching. The brown-haired boy was still as a statue and you wondered what went through his mind.

But then he sighed and turned to face you, his face calm and eyes clear without a hint of tears. 

“I'm done here. Let's get inside.”

With a flick of his wand, the door to the cottage opened easily. Inside, it was as if time was frozen. There was a glass on the table where Anne used to sit, the bed was unmade, an opened letter sitting on top of a nearby fireplace, and the windows were starting to collect dust.

“Well… let’s get to it, then. Nothing a few Scourgify can’t solve,” Sebastian said, trying to maintain a carefree attitude.

The three of you worked in silence, repeating the spell to clean any dust and dirt you laid your eyes on. You turned your attention towards the bookshelf by the window, noticing more opened letters were scattered on the shelves and the floor around it. You averted your gaze, not wanting to take a single peek at the content. One of them caught your eye anyway because it had your name written on it in handwriting you had grown familiar with. 

Unable to resist the urge, you carefully picked it up from the floor. As you suspected, it was Sebastian’s letter to Anne, and he was talking about you.

Dear Anne,

Do you remember the new fifth-year I brought with me during my last visit? I forgot to tell you this, but she’s very strong. She’s capable of magic beyond our comprehension and she agreed to help us find a cure. I couldn’t be more grateful that I met her. 

Wait for us, Anne. We will cure you, no matter what.

Sebastian

“You know, reading someone else’s letter is considered a breach of privacy,” Sebastian’s voice almost made you jump. You turned to find him already standing next to you, eyes fixated on the letter in your hand.

“I’m sorry. It had my name on it, I got curious,” you shook your head before tucking the letter back into the first empty envelope you could find and stuck it between the books.

“It’s fine. There wasn’t anything scandalous there anyway, thankfully. It was just me singing your praises,” he replied, a faint hint of playfulness lacing his tone.

You bit your lower lip as you looked up at him, uncertain. You never did manage to use your power on Anne. It wasn’t like you knew how to reverse or break a curse — the Keepers didn’t give you much knowledge beyond how crucial it was to use your power responsibly — but you wished you could’ve at least tried.

“I’ve been thinking about reaching out to the Keepers again, now that they’re all present in The Map Chamber,” you finally confessed, picking your words carefully. “These past few weeks I… I’ve been trying to practice the ancient magic on my own, but it proved to be a bit difficult without a mentor. I just…” 

You sighed. 

“I still wanted to try, if you’re alright with it. To cure Anne, I mean. We… I… didn’t manage to try it before.”

Sebastian's eyes widened as he stared at you in surprise. “If I’m al— of course, it is alright with me! Goodness, after everything I’ve done you still—” he stopped himself, taking a steadying breath before continuing. “Thank you. I… you don’t know how much this means to me.”

A soft smile curved on your lips. “I’ll start working hard, Sebastian. Of course, I have to remind you that there is no guarantee that it will work. Isidora tried to remove pain and ended up creating a destructive force that she could not control. But I promise I will try. Figure something out. Find a middle ground that Isidora couldn’t.”

“And that is enough for me. Really,” he says, half-laughing, averting his gaze because he just couldn’t look you in the eye. The gratefulness he felt was just too great and raw he feared that you could spot it with just a glance. “Though, I suppose… we can only do that if we know where Anne is, can’t we?”

Your smile faded ever so slightly. “Yes, you’re right…” you trailed off before shaking your head and giving him a bright grin. “I believe she’ll come around. You didn’t lose hope back then, so let’s not lose it now.”

The weight of the unspoken fact laid heavy between the two of you: there was a solid chance that Anne wouldn’t return. Yet you chose to gloss over it for Sebastian’s sake. You also would like to believe that the bond between the twins was stronger than any adversities thrown at them, including their current predicament. 

It seemed that Sebastian thought of the same thing because he smiled at you and nodded.

“I won’t.”

*

It took around three hours to clean the Sallow cottage until it was spick and span. By that time, the sun had set and the three of you decided to make use of the dining room to eat some desserts you had stolen earlier from Hogwarts’ kitchen. 

“I find it a sacrilege that you knew how to get into the kitchen and not tell us,” Sebastian said with a mouth full of bread. 

“Sebastian, for the sake of decorum, please swallow your food before you speak,” Ominis lamented, his face contorting in disgust. 

“With all due respect, you cannot see me, Ominis.”

“But I can hear you, Sebastian, I'm not deaf.”

You found yourself smiling at their bickering. At moments like these, it was so easy to slip back into your normal routine, so easy to believe that everything was alright. No dark arts. No curses. No forbidden artifacts. 

“I have to agree with Ominis on this one, Sebastian, it's gross.”

“See? She has spoken. Listen to her.”

The brown-haired boy rolled his eyes. Still, he finally swallowed his bread and you were grateful for that. 

“You're saying that as if I never listened to you.”

Ominis let out a sigh that sounded as if he was a 500-year-old vampire who had grown extremely tired and weary of life.

“Cases where you listened to me are, unfortunately, rare.” 

“Alright, alright. We can go to the kitchen tomorrow, I'll show you the way,” you interjected, worried that the discussion would lead to sore topics. “The house-elves were very friendly, I'm sure we won't have any trouble getting there.”

Sebastian grinned. “I know I can always count on you.”

Perhaps it was the playful glint in his eyes or the carefree smile on his lips, but his words made you smile. You tried to mask it by eating another mouthful of your cream puff. 

“Though I have to say, bit of a shame I knew about Hogwarts' kitchen so late… but there's always next year, I suppose,” he spoke again.

You glanced at Ominis, and, as if sensing your gaze, the blond boy spoke. 

“Speaking of Hogwarts, are you planning to stay here for this term break?”

There was a short silence. Sebastian leaned back on his chair and stared at the ceiling. 

“I dunno,” he answered. “I suppose I could… but without Anne this house just felt…”

A pause. He shook his head. 

“Well, if you're planning to stay here for the entire break like you used to, I guess it wouldn't be so bad,” he finished, nudging Ominis with his knee. 

“I can't. Not for the entire period. The last time I did that, my lovely mother and father had been even more unbearable than they used to be,” Ominis said in disdain. “I must spend a few days or weeks at home, unfortunately, to prevent them from going rabid.”

“Darn it. I'm so sorry, that sounds horrible, Ominis,” Sebastian sighed. 

“I agree, some people just… shouldn't be allowed to become parents,” you muttered. 

“It was nothing I couldn't handle, as unfortunate as it sounds. But if it does get worse, I won't hesitate to make my escape. You’ll probably find me on your doorstep, Sebastian.”

The brown-haired boy let out a hum. “Escape, huh? These days I've been thinking about that, too. Going somewhere far away from Feldcroft, leaving this place for good…” he said with a faraway look in his eyes, imagining his perfect paradise. “But I couldn't abandon this place when I still don't know where Anne is. Feldcroft is… Feldcroft is the last thread that connected me to my sister.”

“Are you going to stay, then?” Ominis quietly asked. 

“I dunno. Frankly, I don't like being here without Anne,” he replied before locking eyes with you. He smiled. “What about you, ace? I reckon you'd go somewhere fun after your heroic deeds this year?”

Your heart leaped ever so slightly at the nickname. ‘Ace’, Sebastian often called you, because you always bested him in a duel, because of your terrifying and extraordinary skills. He used it teasingly at first. A way of getting under your skin or initiating a friendly banter. Now, there was a softness to it.

Though, you probably only imagined it. 

“Oh, she's definitely going somewhere alright. Somewhere better than ours,” Ominis muttered. 

“Somewhere better? What do you mean?”

“It's a bit of a long story. To keep things brief, Professor Fig made me the beneficiary of his will, meaning, all his possessions are now mine,” you explained. “I now have my own house.”

Sebastian's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, brown eyes widening in surprise. “Beneficiary?” he repeated, utterly bewildered. “Woah, who would've thought? But I suppose it's not too outlandish, you were quite close with him and you saved Hogwarts. Well deserved!”

“It's a bit strange though, isn't it? I thought he would've picked a relative.”

“Maybe he doesn't have one and that's why he chose you. Could be anything, really,” he shrugged. His gaze momentarily shifts from you to Ominis. “Hold on, I didn't expect you'd tell Ominis before me. You wound me, ace.”

“This isn't a competition, Sebastian,” Ominis replied coolly, though you could sense a bit of amusement seeping into his tone. 

“You were still caught up in Herbology class yesterday,” you explained with a shake of your head. “Didn't realize you're quite possessive.”

“I mean, I saw you first,” he said with a low chuckle, the simple action successfully made your treacherous heart race. “And I was the one who dragged you into this circle, so… without me, you wouldn't have been friends with Ominis.”

You let out a laugh and you could hear the other Slytherin boy let out a bored sigh. “It doesn't work like that.”

“Ominis is right. Besides, I remember you made him mad at me for a few days because you told me about The Undercroft. So, the way I see it, you sort of ruined Ominis’ first impression of me.”

“It was a betrayal of our pact,” Ominis nodded dramatically.

“The end justifies the means!” Sebastian retorted, raising both of his hands, a cheeky grin curving on his lips. “Anyway, Fig’s will. What are you planning to do with them?”

Holding his gaze, you sat up straighter, somehow feeling nervous about what you were about to say. 

“This is just a thought. A random idea that came into my mind,” you started, greatly intimidated by the innocent way he tilted his head. “Fig’s house is rather spacious and… I don’t know if I could live there alone. Well, I suppose I won’t be alone, there’s a house-elf there, too. But I figure it would still be very, very quiet, with Fig already gone and all… I don’t know, the quiet just… unnerves me lately. So I thought… I’d like to invite the two of you to stay there, with me.”

“You’re asking us what?” Sebastian blurted. 

Had this been another one of your mindless, silly discussions, you would’ve laughed at his dumbfounded expression. But unfortunately, it wasn’t. 

“But we’re…” he took a panicked look at Ominis. “We’re boys!”

You let out a groan. “You’re saying that as if we hadn’t explored Salazar’s Scriptorium and spent who knows how long exploring goblin camps together!”

“That’s different!” he spluttered, absolutely flabbergasted. “This is… this is living together! Do you not have other friends?”

“I do, but they all have a loving and functional family, so I can’t exactly ask them!”

“I—” he was ready to retort, but you knew he knew there was no arguing that fact. Still, he shook his head. “And what about your family, huh?”

This time, Ominis spoke. “She’s an orphan.”

“She’s a— hang on. Again, how could you know this but I don’t?!” 

“You never asked!” you quickly replied, almost impatiently. “But that’s beside the point. You asked me what I wanted to do with the house, well, that’s my idea, but it doesn’t mean I’m forcing any of you to do it. It’s just… a wild, random thought.”

Sebastian was still staring at you as if you had just encouraged everyone to learn Avada Kedavra and insisted that it was actually an ethical spell.

“I mean, I think you'd benefit from being a bit more cautious and careful,” he carefully said. 

“Sebastian, I have the ability to turn you into a chicken. No offense, you're a great duelist, but I don't think you can harm me even if you wanted to. And I trust you wouldn't.”

“Of course I wouldn't!” 

An awkward silence fell. You couldn't help but glare at Ominis for being awfully silent and unhelpful, before realizing he couldn't see you. Mentally cursing yourself, you began to speak.

“Anyway, it was just an idea,” you waved your hand flippantly, now eager to return to Hogwarts. 

Yet Sebastian seemed to have a different opinion. “But you said you couldn't stand the silence and you're still grieving over Fig's passing.”

Your eyes met his and, for a moment, you feared he could look into your soul. He couldn't have possibly found a spell that gave him Dementor’s ability, could he? 

“Yes,” you admitted anyway. 

You and silence never really went hand in hand. The orphanage had been noisy most of the time. Bustling with a cacophony of children's screams, cries, and chatters. Silence used to be a respite you had often chased yet eluded you. 

But things had changed. When the noises receded and the room grew quiet, your mind became unbearably loud. There were so many sounds and thoughts echoing in the back of your head. The sound of Avada Kedavra cutting through the air, the deafening crack as the stone ceiling collapsed above you, burying Fig’s body under its colossal size, the roaring of a dragon. Each night a different memory.

Before you, Sebastian shifted on his seat, his eyes carefully searching yours. “Well, it can't be helped, can it, ace? We'll go with you. Though, Ominis would probably tap out every once in a while because he has such a pleasant family.”

“I'll try to make my family visit as brief as possible,” Ominis murmured. “Anywhere is better than home.”

You stilled, not at all expecting them to agree. A part of yourself wanted to laugh at the turn of events. You and Ominis should've been the one giving support to Sebastian, yet the tables turned and now you were the one being cared for. Perhaps Ominis had orchestrated the flow of the conversation to keep Sebastian in the dark. You found yourself not minding it, though. 

For now, you let yourself revel in the rare feeling of your friends coming to your rescue. 

“Alright. It's a deal. No going back on your promises.”

“Of course,” Ominis replied, his voice soft, a gentle smile curving on his lips. 

Sebastian locked eyes with you again and he grinned. “Wouldn't even dream about it.”

*

Time went by in a terrifying sleep. Somehow, you finished your O.W.L exams and your last day at Hogwarts had arrived. The Gryffindor table erupted in a loud, booming cheer when Phineas Nigellus Black, without masking his disdain, announced that they had won the house cup. You couldn't help but revel in your fellow housemates’ euphoria. 

“Imelda Reyes was talking about how Slytherin would win the house cup,” Nellie Oggspire said conspiratorially. “I told her if Gryffindor didn't win, then the system is rigged and Hogwarts’ integrity should be questioned! You have saved this school and the wizarding world! I say that should warrant a permanent house cup victory for Gryffindor until the next seven years!”

It was a wild idea, but you found yourself not minding it. Besides, you agreed with Nellie.

“What's important is that we won,” Natty said, a satisfied smile blooming on her lips as she sat straighter than usual. She started picking up pastries from the table and placed them on your plate. “Now, I believe our hero should have her own feast!”

“Hear, hear!” Garreth whistled. 

You let out a hearty laugh, happy at the absurd amount of pastries and desserts filling your plate. However, when your eyes caught the empty seat where Fig usually sat, an emptiness crept its way into your heart. Grief had been woken up from its slumber. You tore your gaze away and, somehow, it landed on the Slytherin table. Meeting with Sebastian's. He gave you a knowing smile and raised his glass. A silent acknowledgment, which you returned. 

Still, the emptiness clung to your figure as you dragged your feet back to your room, where your neatly packed trunks had been waiting. For a moment, you stood there, casting your gaze around the room, determined to memorize every detail even though you would return in a few months. 

“Hey, don't look too sad.”

You turned around to find Natty leaning against the doorframe, a sympathetic smile curling on her lips. 

“We'll all see each other again in a few months.”

A sigh. You let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m being sappy, aren’t I?” 

Natty’s dark eyes crinkled in delight. “You’re not, this school tends to have that effect on people. And don't worry. I'll make sure to write you lots of letters. That way, you won't feel too lonely.”

The smile on your lips grew. 

“Thank you, Natty.”

The journey to Hogsmeade train station was loud, as the students' chatter filled the air like the humming of a thousand bees. You managed to claim an empty thestral carriage for Garreth, Natty, Poppy, and yourself. As other students began to fill the remaining carriages, you spotted Sebastian and Ominis in the crowd. Quickly, you raised your hands, calling out to them.

Soon enough, your carriage was filled with familiar faces. The faces of your first friends in Hogwarts. Some roped you into trouble, some helped you achieve the unimaginable. All of them you cherished.

“Huh, I think this is my first time seeing you joining the train ride to London, Sallow,” Garreth was the first to speak, eyeing the brown-haired boy curiously. 

Sebastian's eyes locked with yours for a fleeting second before he cleared his throat. “I'm moving somewhere closer to London this year.”

Garreth hummed in acknowledgment. Silence blanketed the carriage for a moment, only broken by the huffing of the thestral and the sound of the wheel grounding against wet soil.

“I'm sorry about your uncle,” Poppy finally spoke with a gentleness akin to the caution one might show when approaching a wounded puppy. “First Anne and now your uncle… you've been through a lot.”

This time, Sebastian avoided your eyes, but you could somewhat feel the tension in his body. Feldcroft was not at all far from Hogwarts and words traveled far. Condolences had been given, as everyone, just like the villagers in that little hamlet, believed that Solomon Sallow died of natural causes. The gruesome truth was only known by you, Sebastian, Ominis, and Anne, and all of you guarded it close to your chests. 

“Thank you, Poppy, I appreciate it,” Sebastian replied with a hollow smile that did not quite reach his eyes, an expression that could be easily mistaken as grief. 

“How's Anne? Is she coming with you to London?” Natty asked. 

You opened your mouth, wanting to interject, worried that the innocent question would only rub more salt into Sebastian's wound. But to your surprise, the boy was smiling earnestly. His eyes reflected just the right amount of sadness. Enough to make everything believable.

“Anne is in France with one of our great aunts. She moved there after Uncle Solomon passed away. It was a tough decision, but… we agreed it was for the best.”

“I see…” Natty replied, completely none the wiser. “Well, I wish only the best for you, Sebastian. I know how much you care for your sister. I hope that one day, you'll be able to find a cure for her.”

This time, Sebastian faltered. From his side, Ominis inched forward, opening his mouth, no doubt eager to change the topic, worried about how it would affect Sebastian. 

Yet before he could say a word, Garreth spoke.

“I believe you will find that cure, Sallow,” he said plainly, simply, as if stating that anyone with a brain can brew an Edurus potion. “What? This world is a big place and magic is a boundless thing. I'm pretty sure it's out there somewhere. If not now, perhaps sometime in the future.”

“I think this is my first time hearing you saying something so wise, Garreth,” Natty said in amazement. “I did not know you had it in you.”

“Rude!” Garreth retorted, feigning a hurt expression. “I'll have you know that this brain of mine contains a multitude of new potion recipes ready to be tested! You think I am incapable of weaving pretty words?”

“It's a bit hard to imagine that when you regularly blow up your cauldron, to be honest,” Poppy said, grimacing. 

“And stealing from Professor Sharp's ingredients vault,” Ominis spoke for the first time, half-amused, half-relieved to fuel a new topic that did not concern Sebastian, Solomon, or Anne. 

Garreth protested, yet his voice was drowned by Natty and Poppy’s laughter. As your friends recounted more of his shenanigans, you locked eyes with Sebastian once again. His expression was soft, akin to relief. You tilted your head to one side, pink lips curling into a lopsided smile, which widened when he mirrored your actions.

No words were spoken, but you knew he found comfort in Garreth's words, and for that, you couldn't have been more relieved. 

*

It was almost sunset when the train arrived at King’s Cross Station in London. Students flooded out of the train, ready to be reunited with their families, ready to go home. Poppy found her grandmother in the crowd and you could hear her delighted squeal as she wrapped the older woman in a big hug. Garreth went his separate way not long after. You noticed him being welcomed by a group of people, all having almost identical red hair and the same kindhearted look. Must be the Weasleys. 

“Well, here we are, London,” from your side, Sebastian hummed. “Where to now?”

“The house is on the outskirts of the city. I think it's best if we take a carriage there. What do you think, Ominis?” you asked, turning to the blond-haired boy who had been rather quiet throughout the entire ride home. 

To your surprise, Ominis looked exhausted. You looked down to find him nervously fiddling with his wand.

“My mother’s helpers are here. I can sense them,” he quietly said, dipping his head low. “I suppose this means I have to go see my parents first.”

“Oh…” you stilled, unsure of what to do. 

If it were up to you, you'd waste no time whisking him away and maybe transfigure this helper into a chicken. The rest of his family, too. Good riddance. Yet you knew it wasn't what Ominis wanted. You probably couldn't do it either. Plus, you'd rather not get involved with the authorities, lousy as they were. 

“We understand, have a safe trip, Ominis,” Sebastian said, patting the boy's back. “Let us know if you need us to kidnap you from that hell hole.”

Ominis tried to smile, but it came out strained. 

“Thank you, but I'd rather you not go anywhere near my family. I don't want them to taint any of you,” he turned towards your direction. “Especially you, since we know nothing of your blood status.”

“...I understand. Please, be careful, Ominis.”

He nodded. You couldn't help but find how drastically Ominis changed in a matter of seconds. The sweet, gentle Ominis always seemed to glow when he was in Hogwarts. His smile was relaxed and his voice soft. A serene look on his face whenever he dozed off in class. Yet now, his light had been dimmed out. Eyebrows furrowed, hands couldn't stop picking on his fingernails. He looked terrified. 

“I will,” he said anyway. “Be on the lookout. I honestly do not know how long I must stay at that torture house… but I'll try to join you as soon as I can.”

Sebastian patted Ominis' shoulder once again, this time giving it a firm squeeze. “Stay safe, and I mean it, call us if you need some help to escape.”

“I will. Don't worry. I have my ways,” the blond-haired boy said, relenting. He took a deep breath and placed both hands on his trolley. “See you again. And don't do anything weird when I'm gone.”

“We won't. Not too much, at least,” Sebastian replied, amusement lacing his tone. 

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the last sentence,” Ominis huffed. He stood there for a moment, still facing the two of you. “Well, I better get going.”

“See you, Ominis.”

The Gaunt boy nodded. His expression was grim. But he adjusted his bag handles and pushed his trunk towards one of the exits. True to his words, you could see about three wizards waiting there, all dressed in black. They crowded around Ominis as soon as he was close enough, taking his belongings away from his hands to carry them on their own. No doubt it was how the heir of an important, old-money family should be treated. Yet you couldn't help but think your friend looked like a caged dove. There was a weight on his shoulders that wasn't really there before.

“He'll be alright. We've done this a couple of times before. Don't worry,” Sebastian said, nudging you with his elbow. 

“Right,” you sighed and looked around the still-crowded station. “Let's go, then, but make sure nobody sees us. I'd rather them not ask any questions or worse, spread gossip.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Bit too late to consider that detail, don't you think?”

“Oh, shut it.”

Quietly, away from everyone's eyes, you and Sebastian slipped away, but not before casting one last glance at the view behind you. At the train, at Natty, Poppy, and Garreth, laughing as their families welcomed them home, hands laced together. At Ominis’ disappearing figure. 

“You coming? I don’t mind leading but I kind of don’t know the way.”

You turned to find Sebastian leaning on his trolley, looking at you with an arched eyebrow, a playful smile tugging on his lips.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Follow me, country boy.”

“Lead the way, city girl.”

[lostintransist]

Fallen Angel | Iced Coffee & Scary Movies

AO3

>It seems you saved my life 💋 can I take you out for a drink to say thank you?🪳

Staring down at your phone you read the message again. This had to be Simon’s friend that you kissed before they all left for a job. He had been fun to talk to, a little shell-shocked when you layered on lipstick and proceeded to cover him with it before sending him out the door, but still fun.

< I'm still not calling you that. There is a cute early morning cafe I've been wanting to try if you're down.

The reply takes a while to come in. They must have just gotten back from their secretive jobs that take them out of the country. That thought brought on another one. Simon would be coming home and you hadn’t bought a single item of food since he left. He would notice but you prayed that he wouldn’t comment on it.

Your late-night coffee shop hadn’t been doing well. Either word had not gotten out to people that a place existed that wasn’t a bar to hang out late into the night or the universe was out to get you. Maybe you should print flyers to pass out at AA meetings. Now there was a thought.

Your coffee date met you at the cafe you suggested. You'd been wanting to try for months now, but most of your mornings were consumed by sleep since your shop stayed open to customers until 2 AM this was your first chance. Standing in the single beam of sunlight outside of the shop you waited.

When someone stepped close to you and stopped you opened your eyes and smiled.

Hi, ready to go in?

He still wore sunglasses and a surgical mask.

You nodded and turned to catch the door handle. Halfway open he caught the handle from behind you and opened it the rest of the way. He walks by your side as you move close enough to see the menu. A latte could tell you a lot about a coffee shop. Decided you turned to look at your date. His head shifted from side to side as he read the board. When he finally looked at you, he lifted a brow.

Smiling you signed your question.

Do you know what you want? I can order for us.

Iced caramel macchiato, large.

Your date waited with you; hands shoved in his pockets. You didn't take offense, bit hard to know where to go when you had assaulted him with kisses and sent him out the door.

Stepping to the counter you waited your turn. When your turn arrived, the barista called from the espresso machine.

"I'll be just a minute."

"Take your time." You knew how hard those rushes could be.

A few moments pass when the stressed but customer smile in place the barista is ready for your order.

"Hi, what can I get you?"

"Can I get a large iced macchiato and a medium lavender latte?"

"That everything?"

"Actually, I run After Dark a few streets into and I was wondering if you also get milk from one of the local farms."

The barista's brows shoot up, "I've been meaning to try your shop! Your open late right, like midnight?"

Que the awkward smile, "Two actually, but yeah."

"Oh man I love the idea of a late-night spot that isn't all about alcohol. To answer your question yes, has your milk been going bad really fast too?"

"Yes! I didn't want to stop ordering from them without asking another shop. I worried that I was just getting bad batches."

"Nope, not just you. Now I'll just be a moment to get these ready for you," he quoted the price, and you winced internally. You hadn't been paying yourself beyond rent for a couple months.

A card tapped to the POS from beside you. Your date pressed the 20% tip without hesitation, raising your opinion of him already. Stepping to the middle of the shop you waited for your drinks.

You signed as you spoke.

"Since I refuse to call you a bug, I'll just have to guess your name. Is Roman?"

His shoulders shook slightly in a laugh as he shook his head.

You tapped your chin with a finger.

“Hmm, must be Tilly then?”

You watch him laugh again, and shake his head.

“Ah, must be Galahad then!” You exclaim.

The smile the cracks under his mask can be seen in the way his cheeks pull to the side and the tips of his ears take on a splash of pink.

Gary. My name is Gary.

“Hi Gary, it’s nice to meet you.”

You would sign everything you could to him today. His ears must be on fire with how red they are.

Before he can reply your order is called out. Grabbing both, you hand him his drink before taking a sip of your own.

The warm flavors slide across the tongue and the lavender sits well in your nose.

“Good flavor, not overpowered by either the coffee or the lavender. How is yours?”

Gary shrugged. When he looked at your face you lifted a brow.

Watching the realization wash across him that you understood sign and even expected him to share his thoughts could be called magical.

Good, I like caramel.

“Did you want a sip of mine?” You tilt your cup to him.

He takes the cup, looks down at his hand full of drink and passes off his to you. He lifts the mask enough to try the warm drink. From his brows creeping above the sunglasses, you assume he is surprised but liked it.

Once his mask is settled back in place you trade drinks again.

Did you want to try some of mine?

“Sure,” you lean forward and sip the straw. The chill of the drink is interesting compared to the warmth of your still in your mouth.

“I like it. The weather is decent, did you want to walk?”

At his nod you head for the door. Again, he catches the door before you can hold it for him. Rolling your eyes with a smile you let him handle it.

“Do you like your job?”

Gary waggled his hand to and fro.

“Do you blow stuff up like Johnny?”

A croaking of a laugh has you smiling into your coffee. Taking that as a no.

Do you like having a coffee shop?

“I love it. I love the people who come through and making drinks and giving people a safe space to hang out that isn’t the bars.”

You can see the question in his shoulders.

“I don’t drink, for lots of reasons so going to bars has always been a bit boring for me.”

I would love to come by if you don’t mind.

“I would love if you came by, I even know your order now,” you bumped him with your shoulder.

Gary didn’t stand as tall as most of Simon’s men, but he had to be as solid as any of them. He didn’t move an inch.

What is your favorite science fact?

“Tough question.” You take a sip of your drink giving yourself time to think. “Flames don’t cast shadows.”

Gary stopped.

You made it two steps before you noticed.

Turning back, you can see him pushing up his sunglasses to send you a bewildered look. Biting your tongue you fight back a laugh.

“Do you need a moment?”

Shaking his head he settles his glasses back down on his nose as he falls back into step with you.

---- are more likely to get struck by lightning than people.

“What are?”

He signs the unfamiliar word again.

“Can you spell that for me?”

He pulls out his phone and after a few taps he shows you a giraffe.

“Oh! Is that what the sign is? Cool. Thanks for showing me. And that is an interesting fact.”

Conversation goes on like that until you see a small outdoor market. Gary doesn’t object when you drag him to every stall, showing him interesting art or magnets. You were taken by a pair of earrings, beautifully crafted, handmade and so out of your price range that putting them back didn’t hurt. Gary chatted with you about silly shirts and funny hats.

He warmed up to the date as it went on. Sharing jokes and observations that left you in stitches the day wore on. After you had looked at every booth, Gary took your hand, pulling you along this time. When he neared the movie theater he asked about a show.

Scary movie?

“I’m not a fan but I will make silly comments to you in the dark, so I don’t get too scared.”

Gary held your hand as he bought the tickets, and the popcorn. You visited the restroom before heading in for the movie. No use going into jump scares with an even semi-full bladder. He took your hand back up as you left the bathroom. The theater was empty when you looked around.

Top seats?  You signed to him.

Lifting your joined hands towards the stairs you take the lead. Settling below the projector you reach up at hand. A shadow large as life of your hand appears on the blank screen.

“Yes! I thought this theater might be the one,” turning to him with a grin you continue. “My brother and I would pick these seats when my mom would take us to the movies. We would have to stand on the seats to do it, but we would play shadow puppets while waiting for the show to start.”

You focus on contorting your fingers into a bunny. A dog appears and takes a shadow chomp of your bunny’s ears. Glancing over to Gary you caught sight of his smiling eyes. He had moved his sunglasses to hang off his shirt. The ten minutes until the previews started were filled with your giggles as Gary played shadow puppets with you.

When the movie starts you slide your hand into Gary’s and hold on for dear life as scare after scare tried to take you out. He typed out silly messages on his phone that he showed to you every time you jumped, leaving you laughing instead of cowering.

The walk to the flat you shared with Simon followed the pattern of laughter. When you got to the front door you turned.

“Did you want to come in? I have about an hour before I need to get at the shop.”

Gary shook his head. I have a few things to accomplish today.

“Okay, I can understand that,” you gave him a small smile. You truly didn’t mind; Simon often would be gone for long stretches even when he was home getting things done. “Thanks for the date Gary, I had fun.”

Me too. Hold out your hand.

You do, palm flat.

The pair of earrings that you had regretted not having the money to buy sat in your hand. When you could close your mouth and look up Gary had made it quite a distance.

“Gary!”

He turns enough to wave and keep walking.

Touched beyond words you watch him until he disappears. Looking back to your earrings you decide on an outfit to match them for work tonight.

Fallen Angel Masterlist | Masterlist

[muiitoloko]

I loved your fic about king louis! 🩷🩷 can you write another one, maybe with smut?

Title: Gilded Defiance

Summary: In a palace full of powdered masks and bastard sons, one queen dares to speak the truth. And the king, to his eternal damnation, loves her all the more for it.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, funny

Author's Notes: Yes, I’m still avoiding finishing the translation of that 10k Alan fanfic (even though I’m already halfway through) 😅 I translated this one faster because I found it funny while I was writing it!

Also read on Ao3

You turned stiffly on your little gilded stool, the fabric of your silk gown rustling like dry leaves, and glanced up at the servant beside you. “Move back, Henri. You’re blocking the light.”

Henri, ever pale and ever trembling, adjusted the parasol a mere inch. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said gently, eyes cast down, “but the sun is very hot this morning. It would be unwise for Your Majesty to be exposed.”

You exhaled through your nose, annoyed. “I am not a wax doll, Henri. I will not melt.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Enough.” Your voice cracked sharper than you intended. Henri bowed his head further but remained exactly where he was, the damned parasol still shading your face, muting the natural light you needed. The colors on your palette no longer glowed. They dulled. Lifeless. Like everything else in this palace.

You stared at your painting—the garden laid out before you in real time, but on the canvas, it was only a ghost of what it could’ve been. You squinted, trying to capture the way the sunlight caught on the marble fountain—but it was no use. It was all shadows. All servants. All interruptions.

Being queen was boring. Suffocating.

You had no privacy. Not even to paint. Something you once loved now felt like another performance. Another obligation done in silk and constraint. Other women would have relished this life, you knew. The jewels. The gowns. The sweetmeats and sweet whispers. Being waited on like a goddess.

But you weren’t one of those women.

You never wanted to be queen.

And now—now you were stuck. With the title. With a palace that smelled like old perfume and ambition. With a husband whose bed you were expected to warm, while he fathered bastards in every corner of Versailles.

God, the smell of him. The sweat. The powders that clung to his black wig. The stink of spoiled wine on his breath as he pressed his lips to your cheek, whispering politics or lust—you could never tell which was worse. You often wondered how he even managed to seduce anyone. Did he drug them? Threaten them? Or did they truly fall for that baritone voice and the crown?

You shivered, disgusted.

At least today, you thought, mixing a bit of ochre with the green, at least today you didn’t have to endure him. No royal visits to his chambers. No forced laughter. No duty. Just you and your brush. And the damn parasol.

Then came the rustling of skirts. A soft voice, almost apologetic.

“Your Majesty,” said one of your maids of honor, delicate and pink-cheeked, “His Majesty requests your presence in his bedchamber.”

You didn’t turn. You dipped your brush again. Painted a tree. A happy tree. A tree that did not live in this gilded prison.

You spoke calmly. “Tell that old skunk I will not share his bed until he takes a damn bath.”

There was a collective gasp.

Henri faltered, parasol tilting. The maid of honor stood frozen, mouth parted in horror.

“I… Your Majesty, I could never say that to His Majesty—”

You set down your brush with an audible click, sighing sharply. “Then I shall write it.”

“Majesty—!”

“Henri,” you snapped, turning with fire in your eyes. “Paper. Ink. Now.”

He blinked. Bowed. “At once, Your Majesty.”

As he scurried off, the maid stammered beside you. “Perhaps—perhaps if Your Majesty rephrased—”

“I said what I meant,” you replied, reaching for your wine. “If the king wants my company, he can scrub the filth from his royal arse first.”

You sipped. Paused. Then added, almost sweetly, “And perhaps burn that revolting wig.”

The maid’s eyes widened like saucers.

You didn’t care.

The sun, finally, found your face again—warm, golden, honest.

And you painted.

Because this was your kingdom.

Not the throne. Not the court. Not the man.

But this canvas.

And for now, it would obey.

The maid of honor stood trembling before the Sun King, her eyes downcast, lashes fluttering with terror. The letter—that letter—trembled in her small, ringless fingers. She’d never felt so close to death. One wrong word, one poorly timed breath, and her head might well roll across the marble floor of Versailles before the hour was out.

Louis XIV sat before her in a carved walnut chair, his posture effortlessly regal, draped in rich fabrics of gold and garnet. The morning light through the windows dappled the floor, catching on the gilded cuffs of his jacket and the dark curls of his black wig, powdered to perfection. His hazel eyes flicked to the sealed letter in her hand, and he raised one elegant brow.

“Well?” he said, his baritone calm and deep, like a hymn sung from behind cathedral walls. “Do you plan to read it to me, mademoiselle? Or merely admire the handwriting?”

The maid gave a strangled squeak and dropped to a curtsy so low her knees cracked. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is from... the queen.”

That made Louis blink.

He extended a hand—ringed, long-fingered, a monarch’s hand—and she placed the parchment into it with shaking fingers. The silence in the chamber stretched long as he broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning the first line. Then the second.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh.

The sound rang through the chamber like a bell—warm, rich, alive. Startled, the maid dared to lift her head, just a little, and saw the impossible: the King of France, the Sun King himself, grinning. Laughing. Like a boy who’d just been caught sneaking tarts from the kitchens.

Louis slapped the parchment gently against his thigh, shaking his head with visible delight. “Mon Dieu,” he chuckled, hazel eyes dancing, “do you know what she’s called me this time, Gérard?”

The butler stepped forward, stiff and silent as always, though one brow twitched—imperceptibly, but there. “No, Your Majesty.”

His hazel eyes scanned it once more, and then—grinning like a schoolboy in a stolen wine cellar—he held it up for all to hear.

He cleared his throat, dramatically.

"To His Royal Highness, the Most August, Most Supreme, Most Unbathed King of France—also known, in less polite circles, as Le Fromage Enthroned—"

Gérard twitched. The maid gasped. Louis beamed.

"—I regret to inform you that I must, with the deepest sorrow and a nasal cloth pressed to my face, decline your invitation to commit the sacred conjugal acts. My nose, as loyal as it is delicate, cannot bear the siege of your royal musk."

Louis slapped a hand to his chest, pretending to stagger. “Royal musk, Gérard! She makes it sound like I’m aged brie.”

He continued, eyes gleaming.

"Until such time as Your Majesty has acquainted himself with soap, water, and perhaps divine intervention, this queen shall remain cloistered in her artistic pursuits, far from the warzone that is your wig and the fumes beneath it."

The chamber was silent. The maid of honor looked ready to faint. A guard outside coughed, suspiciously.

Louis, however, was grinning like a man in love.

He folded the letter neatly and tapped it against his palm. “This woman,” he said to no one in particular, “has insulted my person, my hygiene, my wig, and my divine right to ravish her. And still... I want to carry her to my bed like a prize I barely deserve.”

“Your Majesty,” Gérard said delicately, “perhaps this is an opportunity to... improve relations.”

Louis arched a brow. “Are you suggesting I surrender, Gérard?”

“I am suggesting, Sire, that one cannot wage war on a woman who knows how to wield the truth like a saber.”

Louis snorted. “She calls me Le Fromage Enthroned.”

“Yes, Sire. It is... pungently accurate.”

The king looked off into the distance, lips pursed, thoughtful. His queen was impossible. Disobedient. Blasphemously witty. She painted like a dream and swore like a soldier. She invented a new insult for him every week.

The council was livid. One had even suggested an annulment last month—“Marry someone more tractable,” they said. “Someone less... vivid.”

Louis had considered it.

For exactly twelve seconds.

Then he’d remembered her eyes the morning after their first argument—still blazing, still unrepentant. He’d wanted to throttle her.

He’d kissed her instead.

And now she had dared—dared—to refuse his bed.

Because he smelled. Which was, unfortunately... accurate.

“Gérard,” Louis said, rising to his feet with sudden, regal resolve. “Prepare a bath.”

A collective silence fell over the room. The guards outside stilled. Somewhere in Versailles, a dove dropped dead in shock.

Gérard, who had served the king since his first stammering coronation speech, blinked. “A... bath, Sire?”

“Yes,” Louis said, sweeping his robe behind him with imperial flair. “The Sun King shall bathe.”

The maid fainted.

Gérard cleared his throat. “Shall I also lay out a fresh wig?”

“Burn the black one,” Louis muttered. “It offends the God.”

“And the queen,” Gérard added dryly.

“Especially the queen.”

He turned on his heel, golden heels clicking on the marble. “Send her another letter. Tell her I am preparing myself for her... royal inspection.”

“And what shall I write, Sire?”

Louis grinned, eyes dancing. “Tell her Le Fromage Enthroned is now Le Fromage Frais.”

And with that, Louis XIV, the absolute monarch of France, the divine ruler of a continent, strode off toward his bathing chamber like a man ready to wage the most important campaign of his reign:

The conquest of a rebellious queen... armed with soap.

Louis, freshly bathed, introduced himself to you at dinner, and you stared at him as if he were an imposter. There he sat, resplendent in garnet and gold, black wig perched at a heroic angle, face powdered to royal perfection, and he smelled like lavender. Not musk. Not damp velvet. Not the wine-soaked remnants of last night’s council meeting. Lavender.

For one wild, joyous second, you thought he had died. You actually reached for your wine, raised it slightly in a toast to the God, and whispered, “Finally.”

Then he spoke.

“My flower,” he purred, his baritone like warm syrup poured over polished marble. “You look radiant this evening.”

You froze, goblet halfway to your lips. The color drained from your face faster than Henri when someone mentioned the guillotine.

My flower.

You’d read that phrase before. On another woman’s letter. One that had—accidentally—fallen into your hands during a regrettable afternoon of “spring cleaning” (which, in Versailles, meant orchestrating the removal of seventeen decorative urns and discovering entire volumes of smut behind the drapes). It was a love letter, addressed to a certain Madame B—your rival, your annoyance, the inexplicably adored opera singer whose only known talent was appearing naked in candlelight like a perfectly oiled ham.

You’d memorized that letter. Mostly out of spite.

My dearest flower, it had read, your fragrance haunts my sleep, your voice echoes in my marrow, and your bosom is the hill upon which my honor lays down to die—

Yes. That letter.

And now he was calling you “my flower.” Again.

So either he’d forgotten which flower you were, or this man ran a goddamn botanical garden of mistresses and just rotated the metaphors.

Still stunned, you managed to croak, “You... bathed.”

Louis lifted a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I assumed you’d finally drowned in your own cologne.”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “I did it for you, you know. A man must prepare himself when waging war upon a queen’s defenses.”

“Oh, so this is war again?” you muttered into your goblet. “I thought we’d reached détente.”

“Détente is for diplomats. I am a lover.”

“No,” you said. “You are a walking infestation in silk stockings.”

He grinned, grinned, as if that were a compliment. “Ah, there she is. The tongue of a serpent and the eyes of a saint. You wound me, madame.”

“Do not tempt me to make it literal.”

His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “I trust you’ve made preparations for our evening together?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve asked the servants to warm the royal bedchamber.”

You stared at him. “For what? A ceremonial nap?”

Louis leaned in, dropping his voice to that low, honey-slick baritone that once sent entire convents into crisis. “It has been three years, my queen.”

Yes. You knew. Three years, and not a single child. Not even a whisper of one. Which was, frankly, suspicious, given the virility he claimed to possess. You often suspected he preferred to plant his seeds in soil far less fertile—and far more willing.

And yet, he had never set you aside. Never traded you for a younger, more agreeable bride.

“Why not just replace me?” you blurted, before reason caught up. “You have options. Many. I hear Madame B can even sing during—”

“She snores,” Louis interrupted flatly.

You blinked.

“Like a bullfrog caught in a wind tunnel,” he added, picking at a grape with royal melancholy.

You pressed a hand to your mouth to hide a laugh. He caught it anyway and looked dangerously pleased.

“I should trade you,” he said. “You’re willful. Rude. You insult my hygiene. Regularly.”

“You didn’t bathe for a year, Louis.”

“That was political strategy,” he snapped. “You think England bathes?”

“Frequently.”

“Well then,” he huffed, waving the idea away like a bad odor. “The point is, I do not replace you because you are…” He trailed off.

You leaned forward. “Go on. This should be good.”

He frowned slightly. “You are the only person in this court who calls me a skunk to my face.”

“Because you are one.”

“And yet you stayed.”

“Because I legally cannot leave.”

He tilted his head. “Still. You’re mine.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the lines around his eyes. The grey beneath the black wig. The faint scar on his cheek from that fencing duel with a duke who’d caught him mid-seduction of his niece.

And you said, “You are the most exhausting man I’ve ever met.”

Louis raised his goblet. “To mutual affliction.”

You clinked your glass against his and drank.

Later that evening, after dinner—after the lavender-scented civility, the too-long glances, the flirtation that felt more like fencing—you pulled out first.

You stood at the edge of his bed—His Majesty’s bed, carved and gilded, soaked in ghosts—and let the silk robe slide from your shoulders. You were already annoyed.

The room was warm. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and wine. And something new.

Soap.

You lay down stiffly on the mattress, sinking slightly into its traitorous softness, your head resting against one of the absurd, embroidered pillows. Louis’s bed. The same one he’d brought half the opera to. The same one the palace maids whispered about behind their hands, pretending to dust the candelabras.

It wasn’t as awful now that he smelled better, you admitted that much. You could tolerate it. You could even stomach his touch.

But not the waiting.

“Get on with it,” you said sharply, crossing your arms beneath your breasts.

Louis, just inside the bedchamber, untied the belt of his robe with agonizing slowness, his hazel eyes half-lidded with amusement. “So eager, my queen?”

“I’m not in the mood to be worshipped like the Virgin Mary. Just do it.”

He smiled, soft and maddening. “You wound me.”

You didn’t care. You turned your face away as he approached, letting the mattress shift under his weight as he climbed on top of you. His skin was warm. Clean. And when he leaned over you, dipping his head to your stomach, you did not flinch.

Not at first.

You watched as he pressed his lips softly to your navel. Then lower. Then higher. Slow as syrup, methodical as a priest giving confession. He kissed the curve of your breast, then nuzzled your collarbone, murmuring some nonsense into your skin—something about worship, about divinity, about blooming petals and stars.

You rolled your eyes. “Do you do this with all of them?”

Louis blinked. “Pardon?”

“This ritual. This—slow torment.” You let your hands rest atop the sheets. “You kiss and murmur and stroke like a widowed composer in mourning. It’s like fucking a sonnet.”

Louis gave a soft laugh, brushing his lips up to your throat. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“I’d prefer you be efficient.”

He didn’t listen. Of course not. He never listened when it came to this. Because he knew. Knew how your body betrayed you. Knew how, beneath all your irritation and barbed retorts, your thighs shifted when his tongue dipped too low. Knew how your breath caught when he bit down just a little too hard on the swell of your breast.

The worst part? He enjoyed it.

“I know what you think,” he whispered, lips grazing your sternum. “You think I’m reciting a script. That this is performance.”

You clenched your jaw.

He smiled against your skin. “But this body,” he murmured, warm breath trailing up to your jaw, “is not like the others.”

You turned your face sharply. “Don’t you dare try to kiss me.”

He froze. “Why not?”

“Because your mouth still smells like Burgundy and roasted duck, and I’d rather die than taste it.”

A beat of silence. Then, with a sigh, Louis leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe. “Then where may I kiss you, Your Majesty?”

You reached up and tugged. Hard.

The wig came off in your hand, the ridiculous curls falling into your lap like something slaughtered. His real hair—short, gray, tousled—sprung free, damp at the temples from sweat and heat.

“There,” you said simply. “That’s better.”

He watched you with something like reverence. Like disbelief. His hazel eyes softened, even in the firelight.

You always preferred him like this. Real. Less powdered peacock, more man.

Still, your voice was dry when you added, “Now kindly get on with it, Your Majesty, before I fall asleep.”

Louis leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to your neck, slower, deeper, his voice darkening.

“As you wish.”

And finally—finally—he stopped pretending to be a poet.

He grabbed your hips, spread you open, and buried himself in you without further ceremony.

You gasped. Not because of the intrusion—though it was sudden, welcome—but because you could feel the shift in him. No more theater. No more sonnets.

Just Louis. Raw. Real.

The candlelight danced across his shoulders as he moved above you, his hand braced beside your head, his body heavy, steady, sure. And when he groaned—deep and low in that godforsaken baritone—you hated how it rippled through your belly.

“Does my queen still want this over with?” he rasped, thrusting deeper.

You opened your mouth to answer.

But all that came out… was a moan.

He smiled, wicked and slow. “That’s what I thought.”

And you cursed him.

Because he was right. Because he knew.

Because despite all your protests—he always knew how to deflower your beautiful flower.

Louis put your legs over his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately. As if testing both your flexibility and your patience.

He watched your face the entire time—hazel eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of candlelight and the ridiculous crown of his black wig. You were already flushed, already gasping, already trembling from how long he’d been fucking you. The sheets beneath you were a mess, the room scented with sweat and musk and lavender soap.

But Louis was far from finished.

“Hold still,” he murmured, adjusting your ankle in his hand with the same reverence he might give a relic or a rare book. “I want to try something.”

Your brows shot up. “I swear, if you start quoting poetry again—”

He thrust into you before you could finish.

You choked on your protest, your head falling back with a strangled moan as he buried himself to the hilt. The new angle was devastating. Too deep. Too full. He grunted softly above you, adjusting your legs higher, his palms firm behind your knees, spreading you open like you were a puzzle he’d just solved.

“There,” Louis said, more to himself than to you. “She liked this.”

You blinked, dazed. “She who—?”

“Madame de Rochefort,” he said, his baritone smooth but distracted, hips starting to move again in slow, deliberate strokes. “She rather enjoyed this position. I wanted to see if you would.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you comparing me to—oh—God—!”

Louis smirked, unbothered. “Yes. But you do it better.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, his thrusts growing sharper, more focused, and you swore the bed moved an inch with every snap of his hips. He was panting now, mouth open, sweat trickling down his neck, soaking the collar of his linen nightshirt—and somehow, that made it worse. Because this was the real him. Raw. Human. King and man and beast.

And he was destroying you.

“Louis—fuck—”

“Good?” he rasped.

You nodded furiously, fingers gripping the sheets, your entire body taut with heat and pressure. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“I won’t,” he growled. “I want to watch you break.”

He shifted again, pushing your legs higher, pressing them against your chest, folding you open until every inch of him reached a place inside you no one else had. He was watching you—drinking you in like a man dying of thirst—watching your mouth drop open, your nails claw at the pillows, your eyes roll back in stunned disbelief.

“Does my queen enjoy this?” he asked, hips pistoning now, relentless. “Does she enjoy being filled this deep by her filthy, scented king?”

“Yes—oh God, yes—”

“Say it,” he growled, sweat dripping from his brow. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—yours—fuck, Louis—”

He moaned, the sound primal, broken. Then he lowered himself without pulling out, folding you tighter, his chest flush with yours, lips brushing your temple as he fucked into you so hard the headboard slammed against the wall.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, like a curse, like a prayer. “My queen. My ruin.”

Your climax tore through you like lightning—your thighs shaking, your voice caught in your throat, your cunt clenching so hard around him he nearly followed. But he held on. Barely.

Because he wasn’t done.

He withdrew slowly, achingly, watching your slick glisten on his cock like treasure. Then he dropped your legs gently, reverently, letting them fall open as you panted beneath him, trembling and dazed.

He turned you over onto your stomach, hands gentle but firm, guiding your hips into place with the steady insistence of a man who knew your body as well as he knew his own crown. You didn’t fight him—you never did in this position. He knew you liked it. Knew it made you feel less like a queen and more like a woman. Unguarded. Owned.

“Spread your legs,” he murmured, his baritone low, almost absentminded. “Wider.”

You obeyed, wordless. The silk sheets cooled your skin, but the warmth of his body behind you, his thighs pressed firm against yours, the weight of him solid and slow, was already building the ache again, that heat in your core you swore you’d drowned an hour ago.

He slid into you slowly, deliberately, groaning low as he sank in to the hilt.

You moaned into the pillow, your back arching. “Louis…”

“I know,” he said softly, one hand smoothing over your spine. “I know.”

He fucked you like that, deep, slow, steady. As if memorizing you. As if trying to impress his shape into the very marrow of your bones. Every thrust felt heavier now, more deliberate. Less like pleasure. More like purpose.

He was trying to get you pregnant. Again.

You both knew it.

His eyes fluttered closed as he gripped your hips tighter. Not hard—never hard, not now—but with that quiet desperation he never voiced. As if the pressure in his fingers could coax fertility from you, like wringing wine from grapes not yet ripe.

He buried his face in your shoulder as he moved, breathing hard, his words half-mumbled into your skin. “All the others gave me children,” he muttered, each word hitting like a prayer. “Every one of them. Do you know that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“You think I don’t notice?” he continued, his voice darker now. “That you look relieved every month it doesn’t happen?”

You flinched beneath him. Not from pain. From the truth.

Louis thrust a little harder. Not violently. But with bitterness curling in his gut, cruel and sharp.

“They say I’ll have to replace you. The council. The priests. They whisper it in every corridor. You think I don’t hear?”

His rhythm faltered for a moment, like the ache in his chest stole his balance.

“They say I need a queen who can give France a son. A real son. One born of gold and church and duty. Not a bastard.”

His hips slowed again, dragging his cock through you with aching friction, his hand flat on your lower back, holding you there. Caging you.

“And you’d love that,” he said bitterly. “Wouldn’t you? Be free of me. Of this crown. Of this bed. You’d paint again. You’d smile again. You’d be—alive.”

His voice broke on the last word. Not shattered. But strained. Like he hated saying it.

You turned your head toward him, your voice hoarse. “That’s not true.”

He didn’t respond. Just buried himself deeper, groaning softly as your walls fluttered around him.

But he didn’t believe you. Not entirely.

He thought of the way you looked at him sometimes—disdainful, distant, like he was just another ornament in the palace, gaudy and fading. He thought of your painting, of how you escaped into those colors more than into him. Of how rarely you touched him unless it was his request. His order. His need.

The pain crept deeper, twisting behind his ribs.

Would you miss him? If the crown let him go?

If he ceased to be your king… would you even see him?

He thrust harder, needing to feel something more than ache. You cried out, gasping, your fingers knotting in the sheets as the tempo changed. He wasn’t rough, not really, but there was a new edge now. Something sharp buried beneath the silk. A grief he couldn’t name.

Louis leaned over you, chest flush to your back, his lips brushing your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Your breath hitched.

He moved inside you again, slower now, more reverent. And when he came, deep, grinding into you, filling you with his heat, it felt more like confession than climax.

He stayed there, trembling slightly, forehead pressed to your shoulder. As if willing his seed to take root. As if that might be enough to keep you. To anchor you to him—not with chains or crowns—but with blood. With a child. With something undeniable.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And when he did, he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck and whispered:

“Please don’t leave me.”

The candlelight flickered. The sheets cooled.

And you didn’t say a word

When Louis awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty. Still warm, but empty.

The sheets bore your scent—violet and varnish and sweat—but you were gone. He blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes, his body aching in the delicious way it always did after a night with you. He stretched, let out a long sigh, and ran a hand over his chest.

Then groaned.

It wasn’t just soreness. It was the absence of you.

And that never boded well. With another groan, deeper and less dignified, he reached for the bell rope beside the bed and yanked once. A moment later, a servant slipped in with quiet, efficient terror.

“Where is Her Majesty?” Louis asked, still reclined, one arm thrown over his brow like a martyr awaiting canonization.

The servant bowed. “In the rose salon, Sire. Entertaining the wives of several ministers and high-ranking lords. For tea.”

Louis closed his eyes. “Of course she is.”

The servant hesitated. “Shall I summon her?”

Louis exhaled through his nose. “No. Let her scheme.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Louis sank deeper into the mattress, rubbing his temples.

He knew exactly what you were doing. You never hosted teas without purpose. You loathed small talk, abhorred gossip, and once declared that you’d rather share a bath with Madame de Montespan than spend a half-hour in a salon discussing upholstery.

No, when you hosted, it was war.

You were gathering allies.

For what this time? He cast his mind back, the last time you had entertained the wives of court ministers with such charm and grace, it was to promote the creation of orphanages for France’s forgotten children. And before that? The village water crisis.

He groaned again, louder this time.

Because he remembered precisely how that one went. The court had mocked you, snickering behind your back. One powdered imbecile—he couldn’t even recall the name now, some Duc of Irrelevance—had laughed openly at your request to divert funds from the royal hunting grounds to build wells for villagers.

“They should simply drink wine,” the man had said, smirking over his goblet.

And you—sweet, wicked, impossible you—had narrowed your eyes and given a gracious nod.

You’d vanished for exactly three hours.

When you returned to court that evening, you carried a jug in your delicate, gloved hands. It sloshed ominously. No one asked.

You strode to the center of the salon, smiled sweetly at the assembled courtiers, and poured the contents into a crystal goblet.

The water was brown. Sludge-colored. Vile.

You turned to the laughing duke.

“This,” you said clearly, “is what the peasants are drinking. You find it amusing. I find it a challenge.”

The court had gone still.

You held out the glass. “Drink.”

The man paled. “Your Majesty jests.”

“I do not.”

And when he hesitated, your voice went cold. Quiet.

“If he does not drink it,” you said, turning your head, “the man beside him will slit his throat.”

A guard stepped forward. Unspeaking. Sword drawn.

The duke downed the water in three terrified gulps, then vomited magnificently into an urn older than the monarchy itself.

The king had laughed for a full minute.

You had raised an eyebrow and said only, “Funds for six wells were approved by the next morning. Shall we aim for twelve?”

Now, lying in bed, Louis stared at the canopy above him with a mix of dread and admiration. If you were serving tea, it meant war. And if tea was involved, someone was about to be very politely destroyed.

Still, he didn’t rise.

Not yet.

He imagined you now—dressed in pale silk and silver embroidery, your hair a calculated mess of curls and pins, your smile razor-sharp as you poured a third cup for the Marquise de Fontenay while casually suggesting that her husband’s political future might look more radiant if he supported the construction of a hospital for war widows.

Oh yes.

You were up to something.

And God help France.

Because when you set your mind to charity—

Someone always bled for it.

[huxhsz]

— weightless paradise

transmigrated non-mc!reader x caleb

prev ch: 28 - life┆series masterlist ┆next ch: 30 - messages

This isn’t how the game was supposed to go. You're not supposed to be here. You're an anomaly. But if you’re already here, then… can’t you just enjoy it for now? Just for a little while? Before the main story begins? Before everything inevitably falls into place? ...Right?

note/s: i just realized i don't leave notes here… whoops. but yes, i do read your comments n reblogs (i'm also very much scared to reply to any of them, but i'm thankful for all your support! it always makes me happy to see all of your comments <3 thank you to all my readers ilysm!!)

first of all, we're almost at chapter 30, which was the original amount of chapters this fanfic was supposed to have. but look at us now! it’s been such a wild, emotional ride, and i’m so grateful to every single one of you who’s been with me along the way. seriously, you all have been such a huge part of this journey, and i can’t believe how far we’ve come. i can’t even put into words how much your support, comments, and enthusiasm have meant to me. it keeps me going every single time i sit down to write, knowing you’re all out there enjoying this story with me.

the fact that we’re getting close to chapter 30—my original goal—feels bittersweet. it’s like i’m reaching a big milestone, but at the same time, i’ve realized this world, these characters, and this plot have so much more to offer than i ever expected. i’m not ready to say goodbye just yet.

but i also want to take a moment to say thank you for sticking with me. the fact that you’ve all embraced these characters—especially the mess that is our trio—makes my heart feel so full. i know i throw a lot at you all with the emotional twists, the tension, the slow-burn, and even when things get a little ooc (seriously, thank you for being so patient with me!), and i love reading how invested everyone has become. your reactions have been everything. i’m so glad you guys are still enjoying this story—i am too, even if sometimes posting every day gets a bit stressful (but in a good way, you know? like a good kind of chaos).

we’ve got a long way to go before the main story kicks off, and that’s exciting and terrifying at the same time, haha. there are so many layers and so many places i want to take these characters. and even though the pace might feel like it’s picking up, there’s so much more to explore, so many more revelations and emotional beats to hit. i can’t wait to take you all on this journey, and i hope you’ll stick around until the very end!

thank you so, so much for your love and patience. it’s honestly the best feeling to know that there are people out there who love these characters and this world as much as i do. you all inspire me to keep going. <3

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

CH. 029 — UNCHARTED WATERS

The room feels colder now, a chill that isn’t from the air outside but from the uncertainty crawling down your spine.

You never meant for this to happen. You only wanted to write—just to get it out of your head, to sort through the tangled memories of Love and Deepspace and make sense of it all. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. The past you remember from the game, the present you’re living now, the future that looms ahead like an unanswered question—it’s all starting to bleed together, tangled and messy, refusing to stay in their separate boxes.

Chronosight has always been a mystery to you—more of a curse than a gift. You’ve seen glimpses of the future before, scattered images that you were powerless to stop. And yet, as your thoughts drift further into the past, as you think of the game, of Caleb, of all the moments that led you here...

You feel it.

That subtle pull in your chest, the hum of power just beneath your skin. A thread waiting to be tugged.

This time, you don’t turn away from it.

Maybe you’ve been avoiding it for too long. Maybe you’ve been afraid—not just of what you’ll see, but of what it means.

But now, as the weight of your silence presses in, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop running.

So you close your eyes.

And for the first time, you reach for the past.

It’s like stepping into a memory, but it’s not your own. It’s distant, old and unfamiliar, but it’s clear.

You see it, vividly, like you’re standing there. The lab is dim, lit only by the pale light of the long hallways and the distant glow of monitors. It’s summer, hot and still. The hum of the air conditioning is the only sound, a gentle reminder of how long you've been here. Caleb is standing beside you, the both of you wearing the drab lab clothes that marked your childhood.

You watch yourself—yourself. You’re holding something in your hand, a piece of fabric or paper, but it doesn’t matter. You can feel the nervousness, the anticipation bubbling up inside you. Caleb's eyes are wide, his expression a mix of wonder and restraint, the way he always held himself back even when he was desperate to break free.

He’s looking at the door—the one that leads to the outside world. You’re standing just behind him, your face half-hidden in the shadow of the corridor. His hand reaches for the handle, but you can already see the hesitation in his movements. The weight of the rules, the years of confinement, pressing down on him.

You’ve never seen the outside world, have you? you think to yourself, watching him, knowing the truth even as you see him there.

You’re here, at this moment, because you know Caleb. You remember him before all this—before the lab. You know the boy who couldn’t wait to escape, who could barely sit still even as the world outside was nothing but a dream.

And you... you’ve read about this in the game. You’ve seen it, the way the characters interact, the choices they make. But it’s different now. This is real. This is you and Caleb, standing on the precipice of something new.

You’ve never stepped outside yourself, not in this world. Your memories, your knowledge of the outside world—of Earth—are fragments, flashes of a life you lived before all of this. A life that doesn’t belong here. You weren’t supposed to remember any of it. And yet, the details of the outside world are seared into your mind, from the moments you lived before this world, from the things you learned from the game.

You can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the power of Chronosight, showing you things you shouldn’t know. But somehow, you know things about the outside world that Caleb never could.

"Ready?" you hear yourself ask in the past, your voice shaky, uncertain but full of excitement.

Caleb hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah,” he says, his voice tight, “but we can’t stay out too long. We’ll get caught.”

“You won’t get caught,” you say, your words brimming with something like defiance. You don’t fully believe them yourself, but you want to believe it. You want to believe that for once, you can be free.

The door opens slowly, creaking like it hasn’t been used in years. Caleb looks back at you, his eyes wide and glowing with excitement.

You step forward, barely breathing, waiting for the rush of cool air that comes with stepping into the unknown.

But then, it’s all shattered.

The sound of footsteps echo down the hallway. The door swings back, and you feel the weight of the world come crashing down. The guards.

Caleb’s hand freezes on the door handle. You can almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. His shoulders slump, his dreams of freedom evaporating in an instant. He looks back at you, frustration, helplessness written all over his face.

"Let’s go," you whisper, a tug of disappointment in your chest. There’s no time. No escape.

You both step back into the shadows. Caleb’s face is tight, his jaw clenched in a way you’ve seen before. The door shuts with a soft thud behind you.

But you remember that moment. You remember his eyes, his first taste of freedom. You remember how, for the briefest moment, he felt like he was outside, like he could breathe again.

Eden wasn’t with you that day, you realize. She was always kept apart from you two, carefully kept away from your plans and your escapes. She would have been the one to giggle and prod, urging you on.

But the reality is, she wasn’t there. Not because she couldn’t join you, but because she was the youngest, the one who was still learning about the world and still too innocent to fully understand the weight of what you were doing. She would have pushed you both to escape regardless of the consequences, but she wasn’t there that day.

She was probably off somewhere else, being kept busy and away from you and Caleb's rebellion. You imagine her dragging a guard around, asking too many questions, looking for trouble in her own way.

But that didn’t matter, because at that moment, it was just you and Caleb. Just two kids dreaming of the world beyond the lab’s cold walls.

And now, as you stand here, watching the scene unfold before you, you feel something strange. A sense of nostalgia, perhaps. A longing for something you’ve never truly had.

It’s strange, seeing your world through the lens of Chronosight. You’ve lived through this moment before, seen it from a distance, but this is different. This time, you’re an outsider—watching them, watching Caleb, knowing how it all turned out.

You wish you could have changed something. Done something differently.

But there’s no going back.

You blink, the vision fading away as Chronosight flickers and weakens. The weight of the room settles back in around you. The past is gone, and you’re left with nothing but the present, the steady ticking of the clock.

And the question still lingers in your mind—What does Chronosight really do?

Is it just glimpses of the past, the future, and the present? Or is there something more?

You stare at your hands, feeling the weight of time in your grasp. You have so many questions, and yet no answers.

And somewhere in the distance, you wonder if you’ll ever truly find your way.

The weight of the room settles back around you, but you can’t quite shake it—what you just saw, what you just felt.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re dreaming. It doesn’t feel like a memory from a game. It feels real.

Because it was.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’ve been so stupid.

This world—it isn’t some scripted backdrop. These people—Caleb, Eden—they’re not just characters on a prewritten path. They breathe, they hurt, they remember. They choose.

You press your palms to your face, trying to suppress the wave of frustration swelling in your chest.

God. You’ve been walking around this entire time like this was just some elaborate simulation. Like the world would pause when you looked away. Like you were separate from it. Like you didn’t matter.

But you do. You’ve always mattered.

Your presence here has been shifting things, hasn’t it? A little at a time. Subtle, quiet changes that snowball the longer you stay. Every conversation you weren’t supposed to have. Every moment you stole. Every time Caleb looked at you like that—like you were the center of his world.

You thought it was just part of the game.

But it’s not. He’s not. None of this is.

You groan into your hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

Because for all your supposed knowledge of Love and Deepspace, for all the lore you memorized and hours you poured into obsessing over it—you still treated the world like it was flat. Like the only cities that existed were Linkon and Skyhaven. Like the story couldn’t possibly stretch beyond the parts that were shown on-screen.

Auris wasn’t even in the game, you remember thinking earlier. So what the hell is it doing here?

And now, looking back, that thought feels so laughably narrow.

“What, did I think the world only had two cities?” you mutter to yourself, pacing now. “Do I think video games describe every single place? Does the story need to spoon-feed me every corner of a country just for me to believe it exists?”

You’re frustrated with yourself. Embarrassed. But under all of it, there’s something else.

Fear.

Because if the world is real—if this timeline is diverging, shifting, rewriting itself with every step you take—then what does that mean for you? For them? For the ending you always assumed was set in stone?

You think of Caleb. And Eden.

You’ve been telling yourself their story would unfold like it always does. That no matter how close he is to you now, eventually he’ll look at her and remember what’s “meant” to be. That all of this—his protectiveness, his warmth, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you—would fade once the main plot starts. That you’re just a placeholder. A detour.

Because Eden is the heroine. Right?

But the way Caleb looks at you—it’s not the way he looks at Eden.

And it terrifies you.

Because what if the universe tries to “correct” itself? What if he realizes you're the wrong choice? What if none of this was supposed to happen?

…What if it was?

And you’ve just been too scared to accept it.

You grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white. You can’t deny it anymore. You’re here. You’ve always been here. You’ve changed the story just by existing. You’re not watching from the outside anymore. You’re in it.

Not an NPC. Not a temporary stand-in.

A main character.

...No, not that either.

You're real. And so are they.

But even now, even as your chest tightens with everything you’ve realized—you still can’t say it out loud.

You don’t want to admit what you're feeling. Not about him. Not about Caleb.

Because he’s your friend. Just your friend.

Because even if he’s the only one who truly remembers the lab like you do. Even if his laughter used to be your only comfort in that nightmare. Even if, when the silence stretches too long, it’s his voice you crave hearing.

Even if you already know that you’re falling. Slowly. Stubbornly. Stupidly.

You still believe, in some deep, bruised part of you, that the story will begin for real soon—and when it does, you’ll be left behind.

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

For @bucktommyfluffebruary day 14: valentines day

A/N: Yes this is super late and I know it's not February anymore, but my mind wasn't cooperating much in Feb and I do have partially written, waiting to be finished fics/ficlets for all of the days, so this year we're *extending* February. How long for though - nobody knows.

---

Secret Valentine (AO3)

Probie!Buck x 118!Tommy

---

You think you're invisible but you're not. I see you and I think you're wonderful. Love, your valentine.

Tommy looked around, trying to make sense of it all.

"Did you do this?" he asked Sal, holding up the card.

"Do what?"

"This!" he shoved the card in Sal's face.

He pulled a face as he read the message and looked at the puppy holding a rose and "be my valentine" on the front.

"Why would I send you a valentines day card?"

"I don't know, to fuck with me? Make me think there's someone out there who wants to date me and then laugh at me when I fall for it?"

"That's a good one actually. I should remember that for next year." Sal said, flicking the card back at Tommy and closing his locker. "But it wasn't me."

"Who was it then?"

"How should I know? Maybe it was Howie? Or one of the girls? Maybe someone from B-shift? Maybe a member of the public dropped it off for you?"

"Then how did it end up in my locker?"

Sal shrugged.

"I don't know. I guess someone could have put it in there for them?"

"Without telling me?"

"You'd find it eventually, wouldn't you?" Sal shrugged again. "Hey probie, do you know anything about the card in Tommy's locker?" he asked Buck who had just walked into the locker room too to change at the end of their shift.

"What card?"

"That's a no then."

Tommy held up the card.

"This was in my locker. Did you see anyone put it in?"

Buck shook his head.

"I've been busy all day. I haven't been in here since the start of shift."

Tommy sighed and looked at the card again.

"It's kind of cute. With the puppy." Buck commented, nodding at the card. "Or don't you like dogs?"

"Uh no I do... I like dogs just fine. I just don't like pranks like this."

"Maybe it's not a prank? Maybe someone actually likes you and they're too shy to say it."

Tommy snorted.

"Yeah right."

"The kid is a romantic, Tom, not a cynical asshole like you." Sal joked and swung his duffel over his shoulder. "I am going to spend my 48 off with my wife. It's our last valentines day before the baby arrives and we're going to make the most of it. And I'm not going to think about any of you until the minute our next shift begins." he gave Tommy a mock salute as he walked past him out of the locker room.

"It's him. I know it's him." Tommy told Buck. "Maybe he got Gina to do it... But I know he's playing a prank on me."

"Why are you so convinced it's a prank? I think someone out there actually really likes you."

"Those things only happen in movies probie." Tommy said, shoving the card into his bag and closing his locker. "Real life doesn't work that way."

He walked out of the station to his car, mostly annoyed at Sal for not owning up to his prank.

It wasn't like they hadn't played pranks on each other before, and Sal was his best friend, he could take a fake valentine's card from him.

If only he'd just admit it.

He debated calling Gina to see if she knew about Sal's prank (and get her on his side and pressure Sal into coming clean. She was six months pregnant, Sal wouldn't dare argue with her) but when he got to his truck there was some kind of paper stuck under the windshield wiper.

For a moment he thought it was a ticket and he tried to figure out what possible laws he could have broken while parked outside a fire station, but upon closer inspection it turned out to be an envelope. One with his name on it at that.

He opened the envelope and inside was another card.

It was a simple card with a teddy bear holding a love heart saying happy valentine's day on the front.

Drive safe, the roads can be dangerous and I like you in one piece. Love, your valentine.

It was cute but he was also getting more annoyed with Sal. One card in his locker was enough.

He looked at the message in the card again. He had to admit it didn't look anything like Sal's handwriting. Or Gina's.

Maybe they got someone else to write it for them. And unsuspecting neighbour maybe.

He put the card in his bag with the other one, and drove home, planning on ignoring both the cards and the upcoming holiday.

His 48 off might as well have been a full shift with how busy he'd been catching up on chores around the house, as well as drinks with his brother and his team to celebrate his divorce going through.

And yeah maybe he'd had a few too many and was still recovering when he clocked into work at the start of his next shift.

Though he was nothing if not a professional so he forced some breakfast down and got on with his work.

Thankfully the 911 gods were on his side and no calls had come in all morning, and by midday he had finished most of his jobs around the station and figured he deserved a nap.

The alarm would wake him if any calls came in.

He dragged himself to the bunk room and crashed onto his bunk without looking or even bothering to take his boots off.

He tried to get comfortable but there was something under his pillow bothering him.

He shoved a hand underneath to get rid of whatever it was, whatever the guys had put under there, but frowned when he felt something plastic. It crinkled and it felt like a bag of sorts.

He sat up and pulled it out. In his hand was a small gift bag with a tiny card hanging from the ribbon tying it shut.

Here are some sweet hearts for a sweetheart. Love, your valentine.

"What the fuck Deluca..." Tommy muttered under his breath. He turned the bag over in his hands. It seemed like a regular gift bag just about every store sold around this time of year, and didn't look like it had been tampered with.

He opened the bag and shook the candy hearts out into his hand. They looked like every candy heart he'd ever seen. Just plain pastel coloured hard candy hearts with "Be Mine" on them.

He popped one in his mouth and hoped not even Sal was cruel enough to give him candy with laxatives in them.

After what felt like only five minutes the station alarm woke Tommy up and he rushed down to the truck bay on auto pilot. He stepped into his turnout pants and boots on muscle memory and yanked on the coat while all but throwing himself into the truck.

He was the last one in but hardly late.

"Nice of you to join us, Thomas." Sal joked.

Tommy rolled his eyes and put his headset on.

"Fuck you Deluca." He shot back and Sal laughed. "Just drive this thing and tell me where we're going."

"Structure fire on the east side of town. The abandoned warehouses."

He got assigned to work with the probie when they arrived on scene, which suited him just fine. The kid had good instincts.

The whole crew worked together to clear the warehouse that turned out not to be so abandoned after all.

A group of homeless people had set up camp in the place and it was filled with blankets, cardboard, and all kinds of trash. The whole thing was about as far from fire safe as it could get.

Thankfully there were no casualties and only a few people with minor smoke inhalation.

They were doing a final sweep of the building to make sure they hadn't missed anything and all fires were definitely out.

"This is probably what started the fire." Buck commented, putting out a small fire in the makeshift kitchen with the foam extinguisher he'd brought along.

"Yeah the whole place is a death trap." Tommy agreed. "It's a miracle everyone made it out alive." he looked around, satisfied there didn't seem to be any spot fires or anything smouldering. "I think we're done here, let's go." he turned around and took a step and the second he put his foot down, he knew he was in trouble. The floorboards gave out and he felt himself fall. Only the expected crash onto the floor below never came.

"I've got you, I've got you." Buck groaned while trying to drag Tommy out of the hole in the floor. "Almost there."

When Tommy's brain registered what was going on, he did his best to help Buck pull him up.

With one last big effort, Buck hauled him onto solid ground and the two of them collapsed into each other.

"You ok? Are you hurt?" Buck panted.

"I don't think so. Thanks to you." Tommy pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Nice reflexes." he patted Buck's shoulder.

"T-thanks." the other man stammered. "I didn't think... I just... did."

"I'm glad. It would've been a long way down if you hadn't." Tommy said and gave Buck's shoulder a squeeze before letting go.

Buck blushed slightly and ducked his head and Tommy couldn't help but think he looked absolutely adorable.

He was as out and proud as he could be at work, and he wasn't blind. He'd always thought Buck, Evan he reminded himself, was a good looking guy, but he wasn't going to make a move on a coworker, especially not one he wasn't sure was actually into men.

He'd resigned himself to just admiring the guy from afar.

They made it back to the truck without any more trouble and the ride back to the station was quiet. Everyone was tired, and when Tommy checked his watch he realised they'd been working the call for most of the afternoon.

"Well done everyone. I'm taking us offline for an hour." Bobby announced over the comms. "So we have some time to clean up and power up for the next call."

A murmur of appreciation came through the comms as reply.

As soon as Sal had parked the truck, the crew piled out. They kicked their gear off in the bay, ready to step back into for the next call.

"I need a shower." Tommy announced to nobody in particular.

"Do you want me to wash your back, dear?" Sal teased.

"Not today sweetcheeks, I have a headache." Tommy replied with a grin and headed to his locker to grab his shampoo and a clean towel.

There was nobody else in the showers so he enjoyed the fact that he didn't have to share the water pressure with the rest of the crew and scrubbed the soot off his skin.

He cleaned himself up wrapping a towel around his waist when he was done and making his way back to the lockers to get dressed.

Only when he walked in there, he almost ran right into Buck.

"Oh... s-sorry." he stammered. "Di-did you have a nice shower?"

"Sure. Had the whole thing to myself." Tommy replied. He felt the other man's eyes trail over his body and for a second he wondered if he'd missed the signs and Evan Buckley was into men after all.

"T-that's nice. I uh... was looking for laundry. Do you uh want me to take your towel?" he held out his hand.

"Give me a minute to get dressed." Tommy grinned. "I wouldn't want to flash you. Not at work anyway."

"Oh. Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. Sorry. I'll uh... I can turn around."

"It's alright. It's only been used once. I'll just hang it up to dry."

"Oh yeah. Ok. Sure. Sure thing. Yes. I'll... I'll just... go... and let you get dressed."

Tommy smiled as Buck ducked out the locker room.

Maybe he'd ask him out some time. Take him to a club and see if he could make him blush on the dance floor too.

He grabbed the bag with his toiletries to put his stuff away and frowned when he saw a note that definitely hadn't been in there before.

It was just a simple page from a department issued notebook, torn out and folded in half.

I know valentine's day is all about secretly admiring someone and anonymously telling them how you feel, but I want you to know who I am. Just for that tiny chance that you might actually feel the same. That you see me too. That you like me too.

I made reservations at Micelis under your name for this Friday at 8. I hope I'll see you there.

I'll be the one with a red rose.

Love, your valentine

"Jesus Deluca." Tommy muttered. "That's a lot of effort for a prank."

That Friday, he arrived at the restaurant almost 15 minutes late. He'd talked himself in and out of going more than once, but in the end decided a free (because there was no way in hell he was paying to get pranked) dinner with his best friend wasn't a bad way to spend an evening. And maybe he'd go to a bar or a club afterwards. Maybe Sal would want to come along. He could be an asshole sometimes, but he was a good wingman and could usually help him get rid of idiots and get with the guy he did like.

They had a routine that had worked for them since the academy, back when Sal was the only one who knew Tommy was gay, and they only went to gay bars in other cities so they wouldn't risk running into any familiar faces.

"Hi, reservation for Kinard. I don't think my friend is here yet." he told the waitress when he walked in as he looked around for Sal.

"Oh you're here!" she said happily. "We were starting to think he'd been stood up. He's been here since 7.30"

Tommy frowned, wondering why Sal would be there that early when he'd said the reservation was at 8.

He followed the waitress to a table and audibly gasped when he saw not Sal but Evan Buckley sitting at the table, fidgeting with a red plastic rose.

He stood up and smiled when he saw Tommy.

"Hey, you came."

"Just fashionably late." the waitress joked and put two menus on the table. "I'll be back in a minute when you've made your choice, can I get you a drink in the meantime?"

"Uhm just water for me, thanks." Buck told her.

She nodded and gave Tommy an expectant look.

"Oh uh... Just a beer. Whatever is on tap."

"Coming right up." she said happily and all but skipped back to the kitchen.

"You... you left the card in my locker?" Tommy asked as he sat down at the table.

"Y-yeah... uh ... surprise..." Buck said and blushed. "I uh... didn't know how else to get your attention."

"You... wanted my... attention?"

"Yeah... I... I... I like you. Everything I wrote in those cards is true. I just... I didn't know if you were interested and... I uh... was kind of... afraid of asking you out. But then... I thought we had a... uhm... a moment... On that call a few days ago."

"When you saved me in the warehouse."

"Y-yeah... so I just... kind of... stole a notepad from Bobby's office and wrote you that note while you were in the shower. And hoped you'd show up tonight."

"I thought it was Sal playing a prank on me."

Buck bit his lip.

"No. It was me. And it's not a prank."

"I didn't know you were into guys." Tommy said, still trying to process the information.

"It's... new... I guess. I didn't know either. Or... realise. I thought I was checking you out in the gym because of your work out routine... But then I talked to my roommate and he uh... made me think about some things. Like that most straight guys don't check out another guy's ass. " Buck confessed and he was bright red.

"You've been checking me out?"

"Sorry. I'm making it weird. I always do that. I'm sorry. Just... forget I said anything."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Wha-what?"

"I didn't expect to see you here... But I'm not complaining."

"Y-you're not?"

"Evan look at yourself. You're hot, you're adorable... for some reason you like me... If I'd known you liked men I would have asked you out ages ago."

"Really?"

"Well... I don't know if I would have had the nerve to ask you out... but... maybe I would have pushed myself to be brave for a change.

"Y-yeah?"

"Yeah." Tommy confirmed and smiled when Buck put his hand on the table, clearly hoping Tommy would reach out and take it, which he did and rubbed his thumb over the knuckles.

"I was so scared you would turn me down... Since... since we work together and I'm still in my probie year and..." Buck trailed off, not knowing what he was going to say.

"The LAFD doesn't have to know everything." Tommy said after a beat. "We can just... keep this between us for now can't we? Just... enjoy each other's company and see where things go."

Buck smiled.

"Yeah... Yeah ok. That... that sounds nice." he licked his lips and took a deep breath to say something, just when the waitress came back with their drinks.

"Have you come to a decision yet?" she asked in the same happy tone of voice as before.

"Yeah." Tommy said and got up and he saw the brief flicker of panic spread over Evan's face and he realised the other man thought he was leaving. He stepped round the table, leaned down, put two fingers under Evan's chin and gently tilted his face up so he could kiss him. "Was that ok?" he asked after and Evan could only smile and nod. "Good. Because I'd like to do that again."

"I... I would like that." Evan stammered.

"God you're adorable." Tommy murmured and leaned down for another kiss

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

I've been doing a lot of things recently and I'm tired. I want the princess treatment. Could you write me something for anyone where the reader gets the princess, please and thank you.

I'm so sorry you're tired anon! <3 I hope things are getting better!

Princess Treatment

Steven Grant x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• ko-fi •

Summary: Steven knows how to take care of you.

A/N: I am so sorry, I have once again just turned an ask into porn.

Warnings: soft dom!Steven, fingering, p in v sex, cream pie, begging, some dirty talk, swearing, over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 1219

It had started out so innocently. With Steven wrapping you both up in a soft blanket on the sofa, two warms drinks on the coffee table while he fed you little squares of vegan chocolate. 

He’d put a documentary on in the background, something you’d both seen and enjoyed so it didn’t matter if he talked all over it. 

Steven mainly whispered silly jokes, alternating between his purposefully terrible puns and lewd tales to nibble and suck lightly at your neck.

“Open,” he muttered, pressing the chocolate to your lips. 

You giggle and do as he asks. The sweet taste spreads along your tongue even as Steven slips the tip of his finger past your lips a little further than he needs to. He groans when you suck lightly, his throat bobbing. 

“That’s so naughty love.” He murmurs. 

You grin, releasing him. “No naughter than you.” 

He tuts playfully, watching you for a moment until a cheeky glint begins to grow in his eyes. 

Slowly, he puts his fore and middle finger into his mouth and sucks, making a show of it while keeping eye contact. Then slips his hand under the blanket and presses his hand under your leggings. 

“Steven-” You whine, a little gasp leaving you as he circles your clit with his wet fingers.

“Shh, love.” He kisses your knee, sucking lightly as he angles his body even closer to you. “Just helping you relax after your long day.” He grins, unable to keep the glee out of his voice. 

You jump under his touch, your thighs tensing as he teases in soft, agonisingly languid movements. A huff escapes your lips and you press your face into his neck. 

His chuckle rumbles in his chest. “What’s that sigh for love? Hmm?” 

“Stop teasing.” You grumble against his skin.

“Oh,” he slows his movements even more. “You want me to stop?” 

“Stop teasing.” You all but growl. 

“Oh, stop teasing… are you sure?” 

“Yes.” The word comes out clearly in spite of how you are pressed to him. 

There’s a long pause as Steven nods, pretending to think it over. 

You’re just about to sit up and glare at him when he pulls his hand away from you, leaving you slick and wanting. 

However, the groan of annoyance dies in your throat as he quickly manhandles you into the position he wants, your knees and head pressed into the settee cushions, face down ass up. He pulls down your leggings and underwear before you even have time to think, leaving them bundled above your knees so you can hardly move. 

The air rushes from your lungs as he pushes his thick fingers back inside your weeping pussy, curling them until you yelp and grab helplessly at the sofa. He pushes his thumb against you, pressing and rubbing hastily at your clit so that you have to muffle your cries against a cushion. 

“Steven-” Your own sharp cry cuts you off as he strokes deliciously inside, making your thighs shake and walls flutter. Pleasure builds and twists quickly, your body having a practically Pavlovian response to his touch. 

“Hmm, yes love?” He shuffles a little behind you, rising up onto his knees without breaking the constant movement of his fingers. 

You hiccup, already so close. “Please, I…” 

He groans, biting lightly at your backside so you jump, “Love it when you beg, sounds so good.” 

He bites his lip as your slick coats his fingers, unable to wait any longer. He pulls his jogging bottoms down just enough to pull his cock free, lining himself up with your entrance with his free left hand, while still keeping his right hand fingers inside you. 

You tense as the thick head of him presses against you, shivering as he gently pushes. 

“Oh fuck…” The words turn into a sweet cry and he starts to slip in, splitting you apart so wide as inches further, the combination of his fingers still stroking you deep making your eyes roll back. 

He moans softly, humming in approval. “So nice and warm, love, god, you’re practically vibrating around me.” He shivers, bucking forward a little to bottom out and pushing to deeper into the cushions. “Didn’t know you were so desperate to be filled up?” He swallows, trying to keep some control and composure over his voice as he starts to buck shallowly, easing out and in with long, torturous strokes. 

You cry out his name, rolling back against him, trying your hardest to get him to move faster. 

But he tuts, “uh, uh, uh, you gotta just relaaaax and take it.” Steven draws out the word, speaking in time with the movement of his hips, slowing down a fraction every time you try to move faster. 

You sob, pleasure so close to pain as your nerves scream for release, your body begging for the bliss that is so close and yet so far. 

“Steven, please.” You don’t know what else to say, how else to get him to give in. 

“Shhhh,” he squeezes your hip, still rocking so slowly, “god, it’s gonna be so good love, really, you’ll come so hard, I promise. It’ll feel so nice, you trust me right?” 

The words that leave you aren’t really words at all, just an incoherent mess of sounds, but you nod your head weakly, your thighs shaking. 

“That’s so good of you, you’re so good to me.” He moves back a fraction, arching so that he can watch his fingers and cock sink in and out of you. “You’re taking it so well, you’re so wet, you know that? Soaking me, god.” He grunts, his toes curling as he adjusts his position so he can thrust just right. 

He knows he’s hitting right when you wail, your back arching. “Oh, so good love, so good.” He mutters, not really knowing what he’s saying as he watches your body try to bounce on his cock. 

His arm hand squeezes your hip, stops you from going too fast. 

Pressure buzzes along your skin, pulsates along your walls. It’s like you're going to explode. So close you just need a little push, just a little faster, one strong thrust and you could fall into that pleasure. 

“Steven,” a cry catches in your throat as he rocks his hips. “Please, please, please, I need to come, I’m so close, I’m so, so close.” “You’re gonna come, it’s okay,” he soothes, not faltering in his pace. “You’re gonna be good and come all over me, aren’t you?” He eases out and back in.

“Steven,” you sob. 

“Aren’t you?” He eases out and back in.

You whine. 

“Aren’t you love?” His voice is so soft and gentle, holding you safe in its embrace as he slides back inside so languidly. 

And you scream. Your body convulses as the dam breaks and your orgasm just washes over you. Flows along your veins like liquid gold as pleasure is pulled from deep within. 

Steven keeps up his tempo, not even faltering, keeping on pushing you further and further into those earth shattering sensations. 

It’s like you're weightless, floating, your limbs shaking. You’re vaguely aware of Steven’s own cry as he empties himself inside you, of the warmth of his chest against your back and the light kisses he leaves on your shoulder.  

Thank you for reading!

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[orangez3st]

New Orders Just Came In

Clone Commando Boss × GN!Reader

✧ Summary: Boss loves to take care of you, especially when you're sick—even if you put up a fight.

✧ Tags & Warnings: sickfic, eepyfic, established relationship, domestic fluff (these four are deadly fluff combination I daresay)

✧ Word Count: 1.9k

✧ A/N: Woe Boss sickfic be upon ye. If you're feeling under the weather as you're reading this, I hope you get to feel better soon! Stay hydrated and don't forget some calories in. Man I miss writing short fics like this, it took less than 24 hours. Anyway, enjoy my second Boss fluff, exclusively for prompt day 6 "where's my caf?" of @deltasquadweek! 🧡🧡

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Boss (in-header image)

Once upon a time he'd promised he would never complain about the mattress in his squad's barracks. The two-inch bare-minimum necessity to catch 8 hours of sleep at most on a good day. He even has to fluff his pillow every damn day, or every hour when they're just hanging out in the barracks waiting for what's next.

He's top bunk, just so Fixer who's sleeping under him gets to shove his mechanic tools and knickknacks under the bed. Also because Sev literally sleeps with one eye open and that creeps the kriff out of his second-in-command. Scorch hates Fixer's snores, but everybody's gotta lose something.

But at your house, though…

Everything is perfect. The couch they don't have. The bean bags that aren't busted and terribly patched up. The amount of natural light pouring in from the rustic-style windows. It's lived in, the same as his barracks, but just not the same way. It's warm, it's cozy. It's everything he could've wanted for a livable living area.

Now he's complaining.

Put that aside. Boss is lucky to have you. He's lucky that he'd won you over all those months ago even though the first date was far from perfect, but you were so willing to accept what he lacks and believe in what he's capable of and in his aspirations, and still are. You are perfect.

When he's planetside, he excuses himself from the barracks and stays over at your house. Often comes unannounced to surprise you, and it works every time. Your joyous smiles and your tight hugs are such treasures—he would literally shoot someone to see them again. And anyway, that's what his mission, his duties, are for. Coming home to you and enjoying everything you both have to share, the domestic bits and pieces of it, after every of those mandatory debriefs, on-call duties.

In the kitchen, Boss stirs your herbal tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain mug as he's incorporated a tiny bit of sugar in there. His caf's brewing. The packet herby nuna cream soup he's discovered in the pantry is simmering in a pot behind him, while the toaster next to it automatically turns off as the bread slices pop up loudly.

Apparently and eventually the noise in the kitchen wakes you up, not long after your boyfriend. Still in your sock-clad feet and Boss’ worn bodysuit top, you're rubbing your eyes as you pad into the kitchen. Boss smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey.” Chuckling, the commando wraps his bare, strong arms around you as you crash into his chest. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” you mumble airily, but you sound very much awake. You peel yourself off of him, peering into the simmering pot and smiling at the sight of toast. “A really nice view to wake up to.”

Standing bare chested with only just black sweatpants in the middle of your kitchen, Boss looks at you teasingly.

“Dork,” you rasp, trying to laugh but your sore, painful throat prevents you to. “I'm talking about the food.”

“Trust me, I know,” Boss says, nodding to himself in confirmation. He then quickly rinses the teaspoon he used to stir the tea. “Am I not food?”

“Sometimes,” you answer, distracted by stirring the pot with the ladle.

Boss glances down as he leans back against the counter. He watches you for a moment. You usually hum. This morning you don’t, and he knows why. Last night you complained about the dinner you had with your friends that you might or might have not overconsumed the food your friends warned you about. His last night's concern skyrockets this morning. “Cyar'ika,” he begins carefully, “If I ask you not to talk too much, will you listen?”

You turn the stove off. “Hm?”

“Your throat's hurting.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, not even bothering to hide your wheeze.

“Okay, stop talking.” Your boyfriend holds a hand up almost sternly. “That's an order, cyar'ika.”

“But how am I supposed to wor—” you're cut off in surprise when Boss pushes the mug of tea he's been stirring for five minutes to make sure the small amount of sugar dissolves into your hands. You melt at the warmth in your palm, but you complain just as fast. “Um. Why is this tea?”

Boss shrugs. “It's for you.”

“I want caf. Where's my caf? I need one.”

He sighs. “You don't need it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You complained about your throat last night. And you were shivering. I lowered the temp in the bedroom and I consulted. This morning you must be feeling terrible, worse than last night.”

Every bit of his words ring true. You look at him suspiciously, but you lift the mug to your lips anyway. “Who are you consulting with?”

“A trained medic,” Boss says as you sip on your tea, “He dropped some of our top-shelf med supply this morning. That tea is one of them, to soothe your throat first thing. And this.” He shows you a tube of tablets that he draws out of nowhere—you’re feeling it's getting difficult to keep up, it's not good. “For your flu symptoms.”

Relief washes over you. Boss has always been very kind, and he loves taking care of you. And your house. And your needs. Basically he cares about everything about you.

“Okay,” you smile gratefully, gulping the last of your tea. “Um, tell my thanks to your medic. And thank you.” You hug and kiss his cheek before turning around for the stairs. “I'll go shower and head out.”

Boss sighs. It's one of those sighs that goes out of him when Fixer breaks into another argument with either Sev or Scorch. "Cyar'ika, you can be very adorable sometimes."

You grin widely as your cheeks flush in his praise. You turn slightly to glance over your shoulder. "Sometimes?"

"You're not feeling well," he says, ignoring your teasing. "You're staying home."

"What?! No—aherm.” You wheeze again, your voice now barely coming out. “Oh bugger…”

He raises an eyebrow challengingly. "No?"

You roll your eyes, switching to whispering. "Boss, honey, I've got deadlines and I have to be in office."

"No, I've checked your work progress and everything can be done remotely from home.” He approaches you, swiftly crowding you with his ridiculously built, strong body and his equally strong arms. Despite your protests, you can't help but melt as he cages you in them again, wrapped around your waist very snugly. "You're going to have breakfast, take your meds, wrap yourself in blanket, and sleep in.”

You look horrified. "Sleep in?"

"Sleep in," Boss nods, undeterred. "Or I'll take you upstairs myself and make a ronto roll out of you, sweetheart. Your choice."

You shuffle your feet in hesitance. It does sound tempting, and Boss knows your resolve is falling apart.

In the end, he ends up smiling so smugly. You don't say it, but he knows what you're thinking—you’re persuaded; you can't resist his charms and his unshakable duty to take care of you. Especially his charms. You know Boss as a soft-spoken person but also in a way stern about duty and orders. Plus, his thick unique accent is your sole weakness.

And then you're truly persuaded to eat the hot packet soup that you can't taste at all, with the dry toast—no butter in order not to make your strep throat worse. Boss pointedly sips on his fresh caf in front of you while having the same meal as you, yet innocently evading your ‘envious verbal attacks’ by saying that he has to be on-call at 1500, so he's got to be at HQ before that time.

And then to email your team leader and human resources to tell them you're really, really sick with the official doctor's orders in writing coming in hot soon on another email.

Boss literally nags at you when you even try to load the dishes into the washer, says he'll do it later after you're asleep—he’ll take care of the house and make sure to have lunch ready for you before he departs.

Now you're sitting with a glass of water and the tablets on the table, Boss snapping the tube close as he half-sits on the table. He looks at you, zoning out, and drags you back in by loosely brushing your hair with his fingers and pushing them away from your face so you don't look really terrible.

Grateful for everything he's done, you look up to meet his gaze. “I love you, you know that?” 

Boss smiles, his dimples showing and making the hummingbirds in your stomach flutter. “Love you too.” He leans in and kisses your head. “You'll always have me,” he mumbles to your hair, rubbing your arm. “Whatever you need. I'll do it for you.”

You grab his hand and squeeze, wishing you could kiss it but you don't want to risk infection—it’s the last thing he needs. Him being close is hazardous enough for him, but he insists on clone metabolism and stuff. So you just squish your cheek into his palm, your eyelashes flutter against his skin and make his chest flooded with warmth.

“Come on,” Boss urges you again, right after you take your meds. “Let's get you to bed.”

You squeal and giggle hoarsely as he hoists you up by the back of your knees, your chest meeting his while having your arms wrapped around his neck, and shuffle upstairs to your shared bedroom. A commando like him is strong, no doubt—admiring his strength, you always love it when he carries you. 

Boss gently drops you on your side of the bed with a slight groan. He smiles at you, brushing your hair away from your face once again before tucking you in and slipping behind you above the covers.

“Best day ever,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Don't say that. You're ill,” Boss playfully chides, pulling you close to his chest and throwing his leg over yours. “Best day would be to see you up and about again. Tirelessly chirping. Active, adorable. Like a little porg.”

You coo, not knowing what to say. “Thank you.”

Boss hums, gently rubbing your arms above the covers.

It's the comfortable silence and lazy atmosphere that make this almost like a Benduday morning. Soon enough, not within five minutes or so you think, your eyes droop heavily.

"Oh, you drugged that tea, didn't you."

Boss bites down on his lip to resist his amused smile at your tone. "You'll be fine. Just sleepy. Fi prescribed it for you."

You hum in question. "Fixer?"

"Fi," Boss insists, "From Omega. He's the squad medic. I consulted him."

"Oh." You have no idea who that is. "Prescribed? For all I know you dumped the whole bottle in there."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because you don't want me to work.”

“No,” Boss corrects you, "Because I know you are so exhausted that your immune system drops, so I want you to catch a lot of rest.”

You yawn, turning around, and curl your body above his chest. Boss releases a deep sigh as he feels your feverish body, and tugs you closer. His warm body makes you purr beneath the covers, wishing that it could swallow you alive. "Well, it's working,” you murmur, your consciousness slipping out of you and for once it feels blissful.

"Good," Boss smiles into your hair, his arms snug around your cocooned body. "I'll stay, cyar'ika. Get some rest.”

divider by me!

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[vacantwatchers]

Platonic Stobin discuss Steve's relationship with Nancy. It's kind of critical on Nancy bc I'm biased (and a hater). Read it on Ao3 here.

“Explain to me why Henderson thinks you’re into Nancy again.”

“Fuck knows, Rob. I haven’t seen her around, let alone spoken to her since all that shit at the mall.” He didn’t really like the way she’d frowned at Robin when they’d met up, definitely hadn’t liked the antagonistic tone she used when she’d asked who Robin was.

Steve felt Robin sigh before the gentle weight of her head rested atop his. “The little gremlin cornered me at lunch and demanded to know why we weren’t dating–”

“I’m out of your league,” Steve muttered to her right hand as he slowly coated her index in the dark red polish.

“Keep believing that, Popeye. He asked me if I thought you were repugnant or something and that's why I wouldn't give you the time of day.”

Steve paused to swipe away polish with his nail. “What does repugnant mean?”

Robin hummed, a little delay as she tried to find a definition for him. Steve can imagine her flicking through a little rolodex that’s full of what Robin considers Steve approved explanations.

In the space of his waiting, he’d managed to finish the first coat on her right hand and gently lifted her hand up, smiling to himself at the way Robin moved from his hand to his shoulder.

(It took three weeks of working in Family Video, working back to back shifts so dead they made the burnt shell of Starcourt look lively for Robin to come in one day with a bulging pencil case and the demand that “if you’re just going to sit there, at least paint my nails, dingus.” It took three attempts with Robin smudging her nails with her flailing before they established that when he finished a hand, he would lift it, and she would rest it on his shoulder.)

“Repugnant is like when something is really distasteful, unacceptable.”

“Tammy Thompson’s muppet singing is repugnant.”

Robin snorted into his hair. “Perfect use of repugnant, Steve. It’s also a word you can use similar to revolting, repulsive, disgusting and offensive.”

Pulling her left hand closer to his right side so he could see what he was doing, Steve hummed. “Okay. So Dustin thinks you think I’m revolting, repulsive, disgusting, and offensive?”

“Yeah, Steve, I told him I just couldn’t date such a disgusting man who spends twenty minutes on his hair after a shower and ignores me every time I tell him he needs to go to an optometrist because the way he can’t see makes me sad. No. I said that while I am happy to spend my life with you as my soulmate, we are strictly platonic.”

Sliding the brush back into the bottle, Steve gently swiped his nail down the side of Robin’s thumb. “That absolutely didn’t shut him up. Give them a minute before I do the next coat.”

Robin nodded her understanding, which made him nod. “No, me saying that didn’t stop him. Me asking if the reason he was so interested in your love life was because he was the one with the crush on you, however, did.”

“Ew, Robin, he’s like my brother.”

“That is exactly what he said, just with a lot more volume and yelling.”

Steve leaned further into the weight of Robin at his back, taking a moment to absorb the fact that she lets him take whatever touch he needs without freaking out the same way she does whenever someone else tries to touch her in the slightest. Uses the pause to organise his thoughts out of the jumbled train they come at him in. “I’m not sure when, uh. When we dated, I’m not sure it was love.”

“Okay.” Robin’s hum tingled through his diaphragm. “Talk it through, you were convinced last year you’d loved her. Don’t even try to think it out for me like you do, just say it all.”

“The ol’ Robin treatment, huh?”

“I hate that that is what you call it, but yes. Please proceed.”

“We dated, and I tried to be there for her, right? Like I had to go to these absolutely depressing dinners with Barb’s family every fucking week, because Nancy thought it was the right thing to do and I had to pretend to eat the food, and I tried to give her space when it felt like she was pulling away. I’d take her out to get her away from thinking about it all because I could see that she was struggling and thought maybe doing normal shit teenagers did would help. Would sit with her and listen when she needed me to, or just be with her when she needed silence. I’d ask about how she slept, and if she was still having nightmares, I would reach out and just try and hold her hand or hug her.

“But, I don't know. I’ve been thinking back on it, and Nancy never really did the same shit back, y’know. She would have these moods where she’d just be so angry. Angry at herself, the situation. Me. And I get it, it was fucked up and we couldn’t tell anyone without the threat of being taken away. But she’d go on and on about how we killed Barb and it was our fault and then it would turn into how it was my fault she was dead. And then so often she would say this line and at first I was like, she’s saying it in this fond way so she doesn’t mean it, but she said it so oft–”

“What would she say?”

Steve tilted his head back so he could look up at Robin. “What?”

“Nancy. What would she say?”

“Oh.” Steve looked back down, fiddling with the nail polish bottle. “She’d say ‘you’re an idiot, Steve Harrington’ and she’d make these comments, and I don’t even know if she was aware of it. Like she’d call me dumb and say don’t be stupid, or imply that I wouldn’t be able to do something or understand because I wouldn't get it.

“And when she went over my work she’d say it never made sense, and like, her tone, her tone always said it because I wasn’t smart enough. Like, she’d read over things and point and make comments, and honestly, it was more confusing than anything because the points made sense to me, but apparently not to her–”

Robin made her little grunting sound. She did it every time she needed to interject something. “Yeah but that's like, your mind's process. You do it when you talk too, that structuring thing you do where you make these links to things, and it all somehow flows. My mom said you might have something called dyslexia or dysgraphia. One of those two.”

Steve looked up at Robin, eyebrows scrunching up. “You talk to your mom about me? When did she even have time to figure that out?”

“I talk about you to her all the time because we both love you. And she noticed when you were helping me with my English homework.”

Huh. “Okay then.”

“Keep going with what you were saying, sailorman.”

Seven months, and she still hasn't given up on the nautical nicknames. Jesus.

“After early admissions for colleges had closed, Henderson actually found the essay I wrote, and he said it was good. That the parallels were there and with only a little tweaking it would have been great, and when I mentioned what Nancy said he kind of paused before reading it again and said he didn’t see what she was talking about. He even had his mom read it because for a while, she was admin for a college, and she said it would have gotten me in. After Christmas, I asked Nancy if she wanted to go with me to tour some colleges once and she looked at me when I dropped some of the names and said, ‘Do you think they’ll believe you’d fit in there?'"

“Jesus Christ,” Robin muttered.

“It just, it built up and I think at the time I was blind to it because I was trying to lose myself in the relationship, in being there for her.”

“What about you?” Robin’s hand slid down from its perch on his shoulder to his chest so she could pull him closer. “Was she there for you? Like, you told me that since ‘83 you can’t eat meat because of the smell of burning demogorgon put you off, and that having to lure the demodogs with meat was really triggering. And I know you have trouble sleeping and you have those awful nightmares that make it so that sometimes you can’t eat.

“Which, can I just say, is really concerning because you already have this habit of forgetting to eat even when you’ve brought lunch. And I know it’s probably something to do with the way you get stuck into stock or shelving, but I hate it when you get into that groove. But I’ve also figured out that you will eat anything I hand to you, as long as I’ve taken a bite first, so it’s not that bad.”

Needing to move a little, Steve tightened the nail polish and started shaking the bottle.

“Oh, uh. Those dinners with Barb’s family, it was always KFC, that’s why I never ate anything there. She’d actually get annoyed because she thought it was disrespectful? That I only ate the bread and chips? And after that first night where Barb died, Nancy never came over to my house again because she said it had too many bad memories and it made her uncomfortable to be there. So she never really saw the nightmares. When she wanted to see me, she would have me come over and she’d push me on the bed and then when she was done she’d tell me it was getting late, and kind of push me towards her window to go.”

“Steve– that doesn't sound healthy at all.”

"Yeah."

Lifting the nail polish bottle, Robin took it as the signal it was and dropped her hand in his again.

“I think, even when I was dating her, she talked more to Jonathan than me.”

“That’s fucked up, Steve.”

“I think that’s just trauma, Bobby. We weren’t good together. I don’t know. Whatever Dustin is seeing between us is completely in his head. Especially considering the money moves I'm making with Operation Metalhead.”

“You need to stop saying money moves. All you've done is wave at him and blush when he loaned you a Megadeth tape.”

Gently guiding her hand back into his best field of vision, Steve started in on the second coat. “I don't know, sounds pretty money to me.”

Steve felt Robin inhale for a deep sigh, her warmth increasing against his back for a moment before she exhaled. "I think Eddie might have actually graduated before Operation Metalhead gets anywhere close to being a success."