#and it feels like the folks saying it are one step away from sliding right down to the other side of the seesaw and following up with

[skzdarlings]

the same but different | the threesome series ; skz ; han/reader/felix

masterlist.

threesome series part 3/4.

You grew up with Felix and Jisung.  Your definition of normal has always been unique, considering Felix is a faerie and magically connected to Jisung.  So even though you are dating Jisung, when Felix tells you he needs to marry to keep up appearences in the faerie court, you see no reason to say no…

pairing: han jisung/reader/lee felix content info: sexual content. threesome. faerie au. this is an almost 16k word read. one day i will meet my maker and have to atone for that. warning for some ambiguous motivations plus general freaky faerie and supernatural stuff. felix and jisung have a magical connection, reader does not know the details but it seems they can physically feel each other's reactions and urges and they do a lot of the same things in an uncanny way. there is a 'consummation ritual' that involves being watched but reader is clever about it.

:)

-

Autumnal flurries follow Han Jisung everywhere, little tornadoes of red-and-gold kicking up an elemental fuss wherever he steps. It might be a remnant of his time with the faerie folk, or maybe a coincidence, or maybe he is such a blustery font of chaos that he is simply kicking up wind storms on his own. 

He totters into the café with his usual trail of leaves, much to the displeasure of the bus boy who follows with a broom.  The wind gets restless at the window.  It throws itself against the pane with a heavy, reverberating thunder as if nature is knocking in pursuit of Jisung’s attention.  You watch a few pine cones hurl themselves at the glass before everything settles down on its own. 

Jisung pays it no mind.  He slides into the booth across from you, heaving a big dramatic breath. 

“Good afternoon,” you say, amused with your boyfriend’s theatrics.  They are as constant as his flurries.   

“Yo, is it, ‘cause ah, HAHA—I’ve been having a day.”  He thunks his head on the back of the booth and pretends to fall asleep.  His round glasses skew with the loll of his head.

Jisung dressed up for today’s date.  He is wearing a beige coat that flatters his warm complexion plus that cute checkered scarf you gave him last winter.   You don’t mind his usual hoodies and caps as it always puts a swagger in his step, but you appreciate his effort even if it is a little random. 

He lifts his head with another musical sigh, golden blonde hair fluttering from his breath.  His big glasses make his dark eyes even bigger and you smile again.

“Hi,” you say sweetly.

He whimpers with more theatrical misery. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says like it is the most painful fact in the world.  “Why are you so beautiful?  And funny, and smart, and mine.  If you weren’t gonna be ugly and horrible, the least you could have done is reject me.  It wouldn’t have been so bad.  I could have been a lonely suffering artist, hidden away in a basement, composing symphonies for the beautiful woman out of my league.”

“I think you just described the Phantom of the Opera,” you say.

“Even better.”  Jisung sighs wistfully.  “He lived in an underground sex dungeon, right?  I don’t think he even paid rent.”   

You laugh into your hot chocolate. 

“What’s gotten into you?” you say.  It’s a rhetorical question.  Jisung is always a little silly. 

Your playful boyfriend thumps his hands on the table and glares past you, out the window. 

“Faeries,” he says brusquely.  “And their stupid faerie bullshit. My life is a nightmare and an arthouse horror movie and no one has ever suffered more than me—oooh, is that a chocolate croissant?”

You slap his hand when he reaches for your pastry.   He yelps like you chopped it off. 

“Jisungie,” you say, lifting an eyebrow, “what do you mean faerie bullshit?” 

He pouts spectacularly while unknotting his scarf.  He speaks in a watery, despondent voice, very contrary to his usual goofiness, “What do you think I mean?”

This, it seems, is also rhetorical as you have no opportunity to answer.  The bell jingles above the door and a little shiver moves down your spine. 

Unlike Jisung, you have never been to the faerie realm, but you have a gift for recognizing a supernatural presence.  Everything catches your eye as if they are sparkling fireflies, no matter their efforts to hide. 

The courtly fae, the ones that look human, have a tendency to cast enchantments both literal and metaphorical, their impossible beauty captivating to any human eye.  You are not immune to their gravitas, the way space seems to warp around them like earth is little more than gelatinous mire, but you can sense their other-worldliness before seeing them.   This is most likely due to exposure.  You did, after all, grow up with a faerie. 

You look to the doorway.  

Ah.  Speaking of. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung whines.  “He said he’d give me time to tell you.” He steals your hot chocolate and takes a swig like it’s hard vodka. 

“Tell me,” you repeat.  “Tell me what?” 

Though you are talking to Jisung, you cannot help but look over at his… his…

His Felix. 

Felix smiles when he sees you.  He scrunches his nose cutely and it makes his constellation of dark freckles dance on his sunny face. 

The freckles have always been an intriguing part of his glamour – for his human-like appearance is a mask shrouding his true faerie form – because faeries typically regard such things as imperfections.   Perhaps the freckles are residual from his time in the human realm, as Jisung’s flurries are the opposite. 

Felix is unbelievably beautiful.  He is wearing mortal clothes but he does not look truly human.  There’s something in his movements, fluid and dance-like, sometimes too swift to perceive.  His blonde hair catches the light with a perfect glow at every angle, his slender frame flawlessly draped in a black long-coat and a flattering black sweater.  His lovely ringed fingers part the air with his little wave and his perfectly pink mouth curls up in a sweet smile.  His dark eyes seem to sparkle.  

He crosses the restaurant in a few strides, quicker than a human would.  He smiles the whole time. 

“Hello,” he says, his deep voice smooth as butter.  Or maybe you’re the butter, his voice the knife, gliding right down the centre of you and settling low in your belly.  It has always had that effect. 

“Felix, hello,” you say in that quivery way you always greet him.   You grew up with both Jisung and Felix but Felix flits off to the faerie world when it suits him, and every time he returns you find yourself awestruck by him, as if you had never truly seen him before. 

Jisung smacks his head down on the surface of the table.  You and Felix look at him, you with considerable more concern.  Felix just draws his mouth into a flat line, neither smiling nor frowning, more like he anticipated his… his… his Jisung would behave this way. 

“Is it okay if I sit?”  Felix asks, pointing to the spot beside Jisung.  Jisung is somewhat sprawled in the booth but this doesn’t seem to concern Felix.  When you nod, he smiles, smooths out his coat, and simply bumps Jisung with his hip to squish himself into the booth. 

Jisung whimpers again, resting his head on the wall and pouting at it. 

“So,” Felix says.  He folds his hands on the table and tips his head, looking at you.  “How are you doing these days, hmm?” 

Faeries are known for their decorum.  It can turn sour very quickly, but it is imperative to adhere to rules of hospitality and general politeness.  

It is still strange and unnerving to have a faerie prince plunk himself into your booth and smile at you so politely.  Especially when you haven’t seen Felix in more than a year.   A year and fifteen days, to be specific, because Jisung has counted them all.  Jisung complains endlessly when Felix visits but he complains even more when he’s gone for too long. 

You think Felix must have returned to the human realm a while ago.  Jisung is usually friendly when he firsts sees him, but right now he is glaring. 

“What?”  Felix looks at Jisung.  They cock their heads at each other, the same angle, same time. 

It is always funny seeing them side-by-side.  Singularly, they look nothing alike, perhaps because Felix has intentionally deviated his glamour from being identical.  Jisung has a round face, cartoonishly cute at times, his build bulkier from his somewhat erratic workout schedule.   Felix is all sharp lines with a pointed elegance to his features, though his presence fills what space his slender body does not.  Their only similarity is their hair, similarly bouncy, alike in length, and identically shaded.  Right now it is a matching blonde. 

Despite their ample differences, there is an uncanny sameness to them.  They move the same way, tip their heads at the same time, roll their eyes in tandem.  They even take a breath at the same time.  You are certain if you pressed a hand to each of their chests, you would find their hearts beating to the same steady cadence.   

Felix was once a changeling.  Faeries sometimes swap their infants for human ones, occasionally for fun, oftentimes when their offspring is sickly or malformed.  Once a changeling swap has occurred, the faerie and human are inexorably linked to one another.  If the human parents try to kill the faerie or let it die, it will also kill their child, so it is in their best interest to nurse the sickly baby and hope the faeries swap them back. 

Felix was born too soon, a shrivelled little creature, third son of the autumn high prince’s third wife.  His mother swapped him for Jisung, stealing the little mortal away in his infancy.  Jisung’s mother was not a bewildered, simpering mortal, however.  Her resilience and intelligence was part of the family’s initial allure, but it was also the downfall of the changeling operation.  She ventured into the faerie realm and won back her son, plus the right to see the lonely faerie prince that had been so unceremoniously abandoned by his unloving family. 

She returned to the mortal world with Jisung and Felix.  The changeling prince spent his childhood bouncing between the human realm and the world of faerie.   You grew up next door to Jisung and the three of you have been a tight-knit trio since before you can remember. 

You love Felix just as much as you love Jisung, it’s just that… the faerie-ness complicates things.  You aren’t sure Felix really loves you or Jisung in a way you understand.  Even now, his enquiry after your well-being seems more like a necessary script than genuine question.  He will be uneasy until you complete your side of the exchange. 

“I’m good, Felix,” you say.  “How are you?”

He smiles, freckles dancing.  “Good,” he says.  “Thank you.”  

Felix cracks his neck and Jisung is compelled to do the same, though he looks irritated about it.  The depth of their connection has always been ambiguous to you, but sometimes Jisung feels phantom aches and pains, urges that come out of nowhere and pester him like an itch until he satisfies them.  

He seems impatient today, his glare not subsiding for a second.  

“You said I could have time to tell her,” Jisung says. 

“I gave you time,” Felix replies calmly. 

“You gave me like five minutes, man!”

“It doesn’t take more than five minutes,” Felix  says.  He seems genuinely perplexed that Jisung would believe otherwise.  He looks at Jisung with a head tilt that Jisung mirrors, then they both look at you.  “Hi,” Felix says.  “Will you marry me?  See.  That was less than five minutes.  It was five syllables, actually.  Well, I guess if you had asked it, you would have said, ‘Will you marry Felix,’ so it would have been six syllables, but that’s still less than five minutes, even if you streeeeetch it ouuuut—”

“I’m gonna stretch you out,” Jisung says, then plants his forehead in his palm.  “That came out wrong.” 

Felix does not plant his forehead in his palm but he does rest his chin in his hand. 

“So,” he says to you, smiling. “Will you?  Two syllables, by the way.”

“Shut up about the syllables, dude.” 

“Wait,” you say, interrupting their inane blabber.  If you leave them to it, Jisung and Felix will dance in verbal circles for hours and still not clarify anything.  “Marry you?  Why would I— Felix, you know Jisung and I— I don’t understand what’s—”

You love Jisung and Felix.  You find them equally attractive, in their own way and as a complimentary pair.  As much as you adore Jisung, you feel bereft when Felix is gone for a long time.  Your crush on Felix was as inevitable as your romance with Jisung.  Only where that relationship has long since solidified into a stable love, you and Felix have never done much more than hug. 

Jisung and Felix, on the other hand, have shared their own intimacies.  You caught them kissing back when you were teenagers.  You got pouty rather than angry, viciously jealous of both of them at once.  Jisung was too flustered to speak, mostly chirping like a frightened bird, while Felix just smiled and cheerily said, “Jisungie says we’re practicing.”

“Practicing?” you asked, hands on hips.  “Practicing for what exactly?”

Felix frowned, looking confused, like it had never occurred to him to follow that line of questioning. 

“For girls!”  Jisung exclaimed. 

Felix snapped his fingers and nodded.  “Right,” he said.  “Girls. That was it.  Wait.”  He looked confused again and pointed to you. “Isn’t she a girl?” 

“She doesn’t count,” Jisung said, getting redder by the second.  You threw a shoe at him and stormed out of the house. 

That was a long time ago.  That momentary flicker of suggestion was the only time Felix brought up potentially kissing you.  Even then, it seemed less desirous than pragmatic.  

And now, for some reason, he is asking you to marry him. 

“Oh my god, man, maybe if you used more than five syllables, she would get what’s going on,” Jisung says.  His gaze softens when he looks at you.  He reaches across the table to take your hand, though it takes you a second to respond.  Your fingers are frozen stiff around your mug.  “Baby,” he says in a soft, apologetic voice, “I know it sounds a bit strange, but I promise I can explain.” 

“I have to get married,” Felix interrupts, ignoring when Jisung scowls at him.  “I think it’s just for, uhhh, appearances, basically.  My brother Chan just became high prince and I’m the only one of my mum’s kids who isn’t married and she thinks it makes her look bad because all my dad’s other kids have their lives together… anyway, she said either I find a bride for myself or she was going to give me one.  And, uh, she’s not very, hmm, generous, is she?”

Definitely a rhetorical question.  You do not need to have met the faerie princess to know of her predilection for malice.  Felix would most likely be saddled with some Shakespearean donkey-headed monstrosity for all his days.  Felix, being Felix, would smile blithely and accept his awful fate, saying little on the matter when prompted. 

Felix is like that.  He shows neither amity nor animosity to much.  His emotions, whatever they are, manifest unpredictably.  He smiles a lot of blank smiles.  Occasionally he bursts into random tears that flood out of him with terrifying distress.  It comes upon him unexpectedly, so big that it is almost theatrical.  You think he might be mimicking expressions of human pain to convey whatever interior hurt he is feeling, however severe or benign, then it just stops until next time.  

He is not the sort to wail and harass you.  Even if he was desperate, he would not force you to marry him.  Looking into his dark eyes, you know that much.  There are plenty of stories the world over where supernatural princes steal mortal girls from their beds, where they compel them to dance until their feet bleed, where they fill their heads with songs that play until the human goes mad and dies in some anguished pit in their own mind. 

There are not many stories where they propose in a café.

“Felix, you idiot!”  Jisung smacks Felix on the arm.  “You didn’t even tell her the important part.” 

“Oh yeaaah,” Felix says. 

Jisung scoffs and looks at you, his expression soft again.  He squeezes your hand.

“Baby,” he says, “you know how Felix and I have a special, um, connection?” 

You know he means the changeling magic but you think about them kissing.  You push the image aside, as well as the lingering jealously, and nod. 

“Right,” Jisung says.  “We’re like… tied together and shit, right?  Like if I got hit by a bus, Felix would also go splat.”

“Faeries don’t splat,” Felix says, bristled. 

“Splat,” Jisung says sweetly, “like a big stupid faerie pancake.” 

“Jisung,” you say, “are you going to make a point?” 

“The point,” Jisung says, “is Felix is gonna live a long time, if he doesn’t go splat.  So that means… I’m gonna live a long time too.”

“If,” Felix interrupts, “he comes with me to live among the folk.” 

The fair folk.  Another name for the courtly fae.  Divided into seasonal realms, the four courts host a variety of faerie life.  Felix is from the autumn court and Jisung was spirited to it as baby.  You have never crossed from this world into the faerie world.  You know the stories better than anyone, almost more familiar with the foreign realm than the world around you, but its reality has only ever been a distant dream. 

This seems like the world’s strangest break-up: your boyfriend leaving you for his changeling faerie to live an immortal life in the faerie realm.

Except it’s not a break-up.  It’s a proposal. 

“I have no idea what’s happening right now,” you say, juggling feelings of confusion and jealousy and desire.  “What does that have to me with me?  And getting married?” 

“It will bond us together too,” Felix says, smiling again.  “Do you understand?  Isn’t that wonderful?  The three of us can be together for always.  I think you’ll really like it.”  He looks sideways at Jisung and adds, “And you’re smarter than him when it comes to the fair folk.  I would feel better if Jisung had your company.”

“What?” Jisung slaps the table.  “What are you talking about?  I’m the one who’s been there!  I am so totally super smart about faeries all the time!” 

“You once ate a magic apple and grew a tail,” Felix says.   

“You know I get snacky after my naps.  Besides, I got better.  Suck on some salty iron and boom, no tail.” 

Felix sighs, exasperated, and Jisung sighs, even more exasperated. 

“Please marry me,” Felix says imploringly.  “For all of us.” 

Felix cannot lie.  Faerie magic ranges from miniscule to immense, but lying is an impossibility regardless of rank. 

An inability to lie does not guarantee honesty. The truth can be obfuscated.  Faeries are clever with words, cleverer still what they reveal at all.  

Felix has not lied.  He needs to marry.  It would bond you.  You are smarter than Jisung when it comes to the fair folk.

Felix has not told the whole truth.  He does not need to marry you specifically.  He would be happy with just Jisung, you think.  They have something special, something you have always watched from the outside.  You know a lot about faeries but you do not belong to their world.  Felix could keep Jisung safe.  You are a spare. 

Despite the loving stare of your two oldest friends, you feel woefully insecure.  You take your hands back and rest them in your lap, staring morosely into your cooling hot chocolate. 

“Baby?” Jisung says gently.

You look up.  They look equally concerned.  They reach for you at the same time then look at each other.  They mutely come to an accord and Felix takes your hand.  You shiver immediately. 

“Sweetheart,” Felix says.  “It’s just me.  I won’t… I won’t make you do something you don’t want to do, but I… I want to know… I mean, do you not…”

“You don’t want to come with us?”  Jisung asks, his bottom lip wobbling.  Tears spill over his cheeks seconds later.  “I-I-I know it’s a bit weird.  But you’ve always talked about wanting to see it anyway.   And you don’t have any family here anymore.  Are you worried about the royal court thing?  Because I’m gonna be there and Felix says we’ll spend most of our time at his bower anyway and okay I don’t even know what that means and I didn’t wanna seem stupid so I didn’t ask—”

“It’s just my tree-house, Jisung,” Felix says.

“It’s just his tree-house,” Jisung sobs. 

“It isn’t that,” you say.  You reach for Jisung so you are holding both their hands.  You give them a squeeze.  “I love you both.  So much.  It hurts a little sometimes because of how much.  And I’m scared… I’m scared of being left behind.” 

They both pause.  Felix looks more bewildered than any supernatural creature in history, you are sure.  They are inviting you to come along and you express fear of the opposite.  It must be incomprehensible to his mind. 

Apparently it also confuses Jisung because he softly whispers, “What the fuck.”

You bring their hands together and withdraw your own touch. 

“I just mean…”  You are too embarrassed to vocalize it. 

Recognition lights their eyes at the same time.  Jisung rips his hand away. 

“I can’t be alone with Felix forever!”  Jisung cries.  “Are you crazy?  We need you!  Without you it’s just… just… just us.  It’s nothing, it’s empty.  You… you’re our person.  If you’re not there too… then… then… then I’m not going either.  I’d rather get old and die with you than live forever without you.” 

Felix’s mouth opens and closes with a storm of unspoken thoughts.  He has sobbed spectacularly at birthday cards and scraped knees, but he doesn’t cry now. 

Jisung’s exclamation rattles you.  It was such a genuine burst of emotion, so rich with devotion that you feel silly for ever doubting either of them.  Empty, he said.  You never considered what kind of echo might exist between them, how your presence filled it and made it better, not worse. 

You intend to remedy your blunder, an apology on your lips, but then Felix finds his words.

“I’ll tell you my name,” he says.  “My true name.  Will that be enough to convince you?”

Enough?

Enough?

You and Jisung stare at Felix with your jaws dropped.  Felix clenches his jaw, staring back at you. 

Faeries go by many names in their long lifetimes.  Felix was the name Jisung’s mother gave him, but it is not his true faerie name.  Names are powerful things.  If a mortal has a faerie’s true name, they can ensorcell and compel that faerie to do their bidding.  It essentially enslaves them. 

Faeries do not freely reveal their true names, not to other faeries and certainly not to mortals.  Tricky mortals have uncovered faerie names, stories of humans triumphing over wicked creatures, but you cannot think of a single story where the faerie got down on one knee and willingly offered it.

Because that’s what Felix does.  He gets out of the booth and gets down on one knee in front of you, then looks up at you with dark, desperate eyes. 

“I’ll tell you right now if that’s what it takes,” he says.  His hands are shaking.  The wind starts knocking at the window again, harder than before.  Leaves form columns of colour, shooting up to the sky, scattering in every direction. 

“Don’t,” you say.  “Don’t.”  The trust this requires is extraordinarily substantial.  It means more than any simple I love you.  Maybe Felix feels human love or maybe he feels something different.  Maybe losing you is not like losing a person, but like losing a limb or something equally vital.  It must be, for him to offer up his entire being in a word. 

The gesture means more than you can say.  The best way to reciprocate it is by refusing it. 

“It’s enough,” you say, choked up.  “It’s enough that you would offer.” 

“I’ll tell you,” he says, like he thinks you don’t believe him.  But of course you believe him.  He can’t lie. 

“I know,” you say.  “I’m sorry I doubted you.  Come here please.” 

Felix sits beside you and lets you wrap your arms around his neck.  He is tentative at first but then he looks at Jisung and holds you tighter.   The world outside settles once more. 

“Wow, that was intense,” Jisung says.  He grabs a napkin and blows his nose.  “Wheeew.  Wednesdays, am I right?���  

Felix pulls back, just enough so he can see your face.  You feel shy under his rapt attention, flush with warmth when his fingertips sweep from your temple to your jaw.  He holds your chin and tilts your face up.  He seems to be studying you.  This close, you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes, even flecks of dark, dark green and threads of gold.  There is a shimmer to the black of his iris.  If he turned a certain way, you think his glamour would disappear.  You think he would be beautiful anyway. 

He exhales.  His breath flutters over your lips. 

“Will you come with us?” he asks, his deep voice rumbling so soft and low.  “Will you marry me?”

You look at Jisung.  You cannot imagine any circumstance in which a man would look so eager for his girlfriend to accept another man’s proposal, yet this feels completely normal. 

Normal.  The three of you have always had your own definition of that word, haven’t you? 

You look at Felix, at the shimmer of his bold gaze.  

“Yes,” you say.  “Yes, I will.” 

Felix smiles and Jisung lets out a whoop!  You laugh, turning aside to wipe an unbidden tear from your eye.  Felix touches your cheek.  He looks more entranced than anything, blinking long and slow like a content cat. 

Jisung is still celebrating.  He shoves half your croissant in his mouth while you are distracted.  Then, with his cheeks stuffed full of pastry, his eyes get wide. 

“Ohyeah, weforgotsumffing!” he says around a mouthful of food.  He coughs, swallowing too quickly.  Felix clears his throat and passes Jisung your mug.  Jisung gulps it down while you and Felix exchange an affectionate glance.  

Then Jisung clinks the cup on the table and looks at you, sheepish. 

“Haha,” he says.  “By the way, you have to fuck Felix.” 

-

There are entrances to faerie in the deepest part of the woods.  Doorways are found in unlikely patterns that most humans will declare peculiar but innocuous: rings of spotted mushrooms, circular patches of darkening grass, shadows that arch with a perfect curve beneath a canopy of leaves.   

You have known this all your life, but you also knew to never go looking.  Not on your own.  A mortal wandering into faerie is not so different from a lamb wandering into a wolf den.  

Even with a wolf escort, you feel like that vulnerable lamb.  You hold hands with Jisung the entire trek, trailing behind Felix who hums as he lightly dances his way through even the harshest terrain.  Finally you come across two branches, twining up and up until they tangle like two hands clasping across a chasm.  

Winded from the exertion of the hike, you and Jisung come to a slow stop to catch your breaths.  Felix hurries ahead, his face brightening as he approaches the archway. 

“You ready?”  Jisung asks, squeezing your hand.

“Yeah,” you say.  “You?”

“Oh, hell yeah, baby,” he says with a laugh.  You look at him only to find his gaze turned on the archway, faraway with reminiscence.  “I remember it, you know,” he says.

“What?” you ask.  Jisung has never mentioned this before. “But you were just a baby.”

He looks at you with surprise, like he didn’t expect an answer.  Maybe he didn’t mean to say it out loud.  He laughs, deflecting the tension, and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  “Magic I guess, or something.  I dunno.  I just know I remember it.  There’s stuff that happened last week I can’t remember.  In a year, or fifty, or a hundred, I don’t know what I’ll remember from here.  But I remember this place like I never left.” 

You squeeze his hand again.  He looks at you and smiles, squeezing back. 

“Come on!”  Felix calls.  He is standing at the archway, waving to you.  He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a leather satchel slung across his chest.  The mundanity of his clothing looks unnatural.  If he looked inhuman in that café, he looks even less human now.  His glamour is in tact, his freckles pronounced, but there is a quality to him that defies logic.  He looks like he could take off flying and it would not be unusual. 

You and Jisung exchange a final glance then approach.  Felix smiles and walks backwards through the archway.  You can see him clearly as if he merely took another step in the woods.  He holds out his hands, you and Jisung taking one each, then you step through as well. 

Oh.

October orange sunlight pours through the trees, the early sunset colour of a clear autumn day at its close.  The woods are a mosaic of colour: green, orange, yellow, red, brown, little swirls of leaves flying from branch to branch, gathering in piles and scattering again.  You watch leaves settle over a pile of bones only for the whole apparatus to knit itself together.  You stumble to a surprised stop as a cat made of bones and leaves unfurls before your eyes.  It scampers up to Felix, rattling like an ivory windchime and somehow still purring.  Felix scratches behind its leafy ears, smiling and greeting the kitty affectionately. 

“Come on,” Felix says, not noticing the way you and Jisung are completely arrested by the sight of the cat.  “It’s not far from here.” 

It is the domicile of the autumn court.   It is built into the woods, or swallowed by it, grand structures built within and around trees, some abodes very high in the sunlit branches, some disappearing into the ground.  They are decorated with garlands of dried flowers, gardens of gourds and harvest fruit weaving around the lower rooms.  You jump, startled, when a pile of nearby leaves rises up, revealing itself to be a deer, presumably also made of bones beneath its leafy surface. 

“Whoa,” Jisung says, an apt summary.   The leaf animals have no eyes, the faces uncanny.  The deer turns its neck with a click of bone, dipping its head in a respectful bow to Felix as he passes. 

Felix doesn’t notice.  He is watching you and Jisung now, smiling with so much mirth you think he might start glowing. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, looking directly at you.  Maybe he knows what Jisung is feeling without asking.  You try to school your expression to show more than just awe. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say.  You can see how a mortal could be a swept away by the beauty of the faerie court.  Between the glitter of crunchy leaves and the wafts of cinnamon and spice, it fantastically overwhelms the senses.  You can also see how quickly this dream could turn into a nightmare, if the sun was eclipsed and the undead creatures of the earth turned their vacant eyes on you.

You do not convey the complexity of your thoughts.  Felix takes for granted that you always tell the truth, even though he knows you can lie.  You think he sometimes forgets.   His whole face crinkles up with a smile now, maybe too severely, but you appreciate his attempt to render delight for you. 

“A little further to the palace,” Felix says. 

“Palaaace,” Jisung says in a sing-song, squeezing your hand.  He almost knocks you over when a bird swoops by his head.  This raven is real, not made of leaves, and it perches on Felix’s shoulder.  “Birds,” Jisung says woefully.  “There’s always a freaky-ass bird.” 

“This is one of mine,” Felix says, scratching its head.  “I think my brother sent it.”

You watch as the bird leans in, eerily person-like in how it seems to whisper in his ear before fluttering off.   Felix neither smiles nor frowns, his mouth drawing into a thin line as he comes to a halt.

“What is it?”  Jisung asks.  His startled tone reveals that Felix might be perturbed. 

“They’re expecting us,” Felix says, gazing ahead as if he can see your destination through all the foliage.  “They’re already preparing our wedding.”

“What?” you and Jisung say at the same time.  You look at each other then you ask, “Did you tell them already?”  Felix only proposed yesterday and he has not returned to the faerie realm, unless he snuck away overnight, but you don’t think so.  He spent the night with you and Jisung, Jisung insisting on being the little spoon between two big spoons.  Felix had his arm around Jisung and his hand in yours all night. 

“No,” Felix answers.  “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“This feels spoooooky,” Jisung sings, then laughs nervously. 

“Maybe,” Felix says with a casual shrug of his shoulders.  “Maybe not.  Let’s go.” 

You and Jisung exchange another look, but you have gone too far to turn around, so you follow Felix.  He leads you to a red-bricked path that thickens with moss the further you walk.    When you reach the base of a hill, Felix stops to hold your hand. 

“Don’t look back until I say,” he says.  “You could fall.  Keep your eyes on me or the cat.  She knows the way too.” 

The cat is running around your feet, mewling, though the clack of its jaws is louder than its airy voice.  You decide to look at Felix instead.  Apparently Jisung picks the cat because he coos, “Aww, she’s kinda cute in a freaky way.  What’s her name?” 

“Babyeater,” Felix says. 

“Oh nooo,” Jisung replies.

You follow Felix and the cat up an incline that grows so steep that at one point you are walking perpendicular to the forest below.   You look at Felix the whole time, squeezing his hand tightly.   His returned squeeze is reassuring.  You remind yourself this is Felix, the same boy who kissed your scraped knees better, who sat through all your childhood tea parties even though he never really understood the concept of playing pretend, the same boy who has dutifully and lovingly obliged your every whim, however much he failed to understand its human purpose.  For Felix, it was always enough if it made you happy. 

He leads you safely over the crest of the hill, then it’s just a few more steps through a darker patch of woods before you are stepping into a huge clearing, bright and orange and gold.   Three massive, broad trees stand in the distance, an elaborate stone citadel built around the trunks.   There are faeries and other supernatural entities wandering around an autumnal garden, some scurrying with bundles of lights and candles and drapery.   The clearing and castle have been beautifully and frightfully decorated with pumpkins and dried flowers and bones. 

“Is this for us?”  Jisung asks.  “Uh, I mean, for you?”

“It looks like it,” Felix says uncertainly.  “I don’t know how they—”

Jisung screams, a proper shrill yell right in your ear, when something bursts out of some shrubbery and blocks his path.  You stumble back with wide-eyed surprise and Jisung instinctively shields you even in his terror.  Felix is not scared, his face neutral as ever, but his connection to Jisung has him reacting similarly, guarding you with his body. 

An eyeless husk straightens itself, bony limbs stretching for the sky.  You hear the crack of a neck-bone and the flutter of leaves, then all at a once a glamour settles over the faerie, revealing a handsome young man with short brown hair and dark eyes. 

“He’s still loud,” the faerie says.  “You were loud as a baby too.  Wahhh-wahhhh-wahhhhhh—” 

“Seungmin,” Felix says, nonplussed.  “Thank you for the raven.” 

Felix bows and the faerie, Seungmin, who must be the aforementioned brother, bows back as per the dictation of decorum. 

“Chan is mad he had to find out the news from Hyunjin,” Seungmin says, his mouth quirked in a smirky little half-smile.  “You better to be ready to grovel.”   

“Ah,” Felix says.   He looks over at you and Jisung who are clinging to each other, still wide-eyed with surprise.  “Hyunjin is a prince from the spring court,” Felix says.  “He can see the future.”

“Oh,” Jisung says.  “Yeah, sure, makes sense.”  He looks at you with a face that says, it definitely does not make sense. 

“Spring court,” Seungmin says with a little eye-roll.  “They burst in here with a dramatic fuss like always.  It’s embarrassing that the high prince of autumn learned about his favourite little brother’s engagement from a different court...”

“I can’t help that Hyunjin sees the future,” Felix says, more disgruntled than you have ever heard him.  It occurs to you, as you look between him and Seungmin, that Felix stands out here just as much as he did in the human world.  It is different, as here it is the little cracks of humanity that fracture his faerie face.  Not just the glamour, the freckles or his clothes, but some intrinsic bearing.   Maybe it is the sameness to Jisung, the way they block you with the same stance, the way they shuffle on the same foot.  Maybe it’s something else, but it is suddenly pronounced. 

Seungmin does not appear to notice Felix’s tone.  He just gives another bow which Felix is forced to return.  You see Jisung twitching and you squeeze his hand. 

“You don’t have to bow,” you whisper.    

“I know,” he says, then bobs twice in an aborted half-bow. 

You sigh.  You jump when Jisung shrieks again, startled by a little leaf-dog that comes running out of the shrubbery.  It is being pursued by some frantic sprites.  They yammer at the puppy in a faerie tongue as it starts to chase the cat.  All their bones are clattering as they run around, cat then dog then sprites.  Seungmin blinks at the fiasco then looks at Felix. 

“Let’s go,” Seungmin says.  He turns and gives you a bow, as is polite, then looks at Jisung and says, “Boo!” 

Jisung jumps and Seungmin cackles, bowing. 

Felix gives Seungmin a little shove, his mouth a grim line again. 

You follow Seungmin further into the garden, coming upon a feast that seems to be currently underway even while servants continue to set the party around the guests.   Food appears and disappears off the table, some faeries eating and some of them throwing food at the servants.   You have heard stories of ensorcelled human servants being trapped in places like this, but you only see faeries so far.  It doesn’t put you at ease exactly, but you don’t feel quite as frightened. 

Then all the faerie guests at the grand table stop and look at you.   Then you are frightened. 

“Hi,” Jisung squeaks. 

It is nervously and thoughtlessly blurted, but it would be impolite to ignore it, so a chorus of “hi” and “hello” circles the table in return. 

Most of them have a glamour of some kind.  A stockier, handsome faerie with bright orange hair stands.   He is on the other side of the long banquet table but manifests in front of you in mere seconds.  You are very alarmed to find him wearing bandages under a black army coat, the white wraps stained with blood.  It is very at odds with his deeply dimpled smile. 

“Hi there,” he says, looking past Jisung and straight at you.  “Wow, Felix really did it.  Welcome.  Call me Chan.  Sorry for the, ah, blood, I think it upsets humans?”  This apology seems sincere enough, accompanied with a tilt of the head, but he offers no further explanation.  He pulls you into an embrace, tucking you into the fold of one muscular arm, and laughing with an unexpectedly adorable giggliness.  “We have a human little sister.  That’s fun, yeah?”  He looks at the table and everyone nods and claps, only a few characters mutely unresponsive. 

You smile, maybe.  It feels a bit boxy.  Your brain is fitting all the pieces together, recalling that Seungmin referred to Chan as the high prince of autumn.   Chan is thus the highest font of power in this faerie court and he is hugging you. 

The hug pulls you away from Jisung who moves closer to Felix.  You look at them, watching as they hold hands, trying to convey with your eyes that you would rather be with them.

There is no time for any extraction attempt because a fuss stirs at one end of the table.  A pink-haired faerie bursts out of his seat.  He is long-limbed, tall and spindly, and he runs around the huge table at a fairly human speed.  He is wearing a billowy green jacket and a long string of pearls, his pastel appearance at some odds to the deepness of the autumn court. 

“Hey Fee-lix! Heeey!” he says, very literally bouncing when he reaches Felix.   

“Aha, hi, Hyunjin,” Felix says.   

“You brought humans!”  Hyunjin says, sweeping down to look at Jisung, then turning his dark-eyed stare to you.  His glamour is astonishingly beautiful, as bright as his pearls, a face like a handsome marble statue and a supermodel’s stature.  But he slinks like a ferret, as smirky as a fox.   “The bride,” he says with something of a wistful sigh.  His dark eyes are sparkling.  “A faerie and a human.  How romantic.  I love romance.” 

Then you are freed from hugging Chan, but only because Hyunjin cups your face in both hands and kisses you.  Not a greeting kiss either, but a deep kiss.  You sputter when he licks you. 

“Um,” Jisung squeaks. 

“This is High Prince Hyunjin.  Of the spring court, of course,” Chan says amiably, not doing anything to stop the high prince of the spring court from sucking face with his brother’s bride. 

Hyunjin stops on his own, smiling at you fondly.  “Pretty girl,” he says, stroking his whole hand over your face.  “I wish I could marry you.”  This is spoken without much longing, but it must be true or he couldn’t say it.   

He turns his sights on Jisung next.  Jisung straightens, eyes darting around for an escape. 

“The changeling baby,” Hyunjin says.  “He’s so cute now.  Can I marry this one, Felix?” 

Jisung’s eyes widen, looking at Felix, then at you. 

Felix looks unamused.  “No,” he says simply. 

Hyunjin pouts, slinking up to Jisung.  He grabs his face, long fingers grasping him tight.  Jisung’s lips part with surprise, his cheeks puffing when Hyunjin shakes his head around. 

“That’s not fair,” Hyunjin says.  “You already have one.” 

“I said no,” Felix repeats. 

Hyunjin just sighs.  “I knew you’d say that,” he says.  “Oh well.”  Then he kisses Jisung full on the mouth too, Jisung squeaking through the very wet onslaught.  Hyunjin just smiles and strokes his face, then goes back to the table. 

Hyunjin’s self-introduction triggers a similar desire in the remaining guests.  Soon they are swarming you, forced into the vaguest semblance of a queue when Chan waves a demanding hand.  You meet Felix’s mother, who smiles and coos at you like she didn’t mandate a wife in the first place.  You meet Changbin, another half-brother of Felix, who thankfully follows the example set by Chan and not Hyunjin and simply hugs you.  He is so burly and strong that it lifts you off your feet, but he has enough restraint not to crush you, so that’s something.  

There are clusters of other faeries, all noisy, all dipping in bows or trying to kiss you, and all of them from the spring or autumn court.   A hush falls over the garden when the remaining guests approach for an introduction.  Felix finally appears at your side, Jisung too, standing on either side of you and holding your hands. 

“Winter and Summer,” Felix whispers as two courtly fae and their retinues step forward. 

You know very well why Felix deigns to warn you.  The autumn court and spring court, as per their seasonal equivalents, are shifting and transitory in many ways; they grow and they learn, and they often host humans, be it in a generous or malicious capacity.  The winter and summer courts are hostile to change, and both have little to do with humans at all.  Whatever human encounters have transpired in those courts have left few survivors to speak of it. 

Their glamours fit them strangely, like new clothes not yet broken in.   The first prince wears his glamour like a boy forced into dress clothes by a parent, walking with a stiff sort of discomfort.  His robes are coloured blue and yellow, long and loose, his blonde hair turning dark blue at the root.  His dimples are deep and cheekbones very sharp, and when he smiles he reveals a whole row of long, piercing teeth that he forgot to glamour altogether. 

You jump, staring aghast as the otherwise too-pretty prince sweeps into a bow.  He looks at Chan, sees him smiling, and copies the expression with a frightful brightness. 

“Prince Jeongin,” Felix says.  He squeezes your hand, reminding you to bow back. You do so swiftly.  “Summer.” 

“High Prince,” Jeongin says, laughing for some reason, a wheezing sound. 

“You have fourteen older brothers,” Felix says. 

“Had.”  Jeongin smiles again, his dimples deepening, his teeth glittering.  “I ate them.” 

“Oh,” Felix says. There is a pause as he looks at you then looks at Jeongin.  Your face reveals terror, you are certain, but Jeongin is waiting expectantly.  Felix weighs his words and says, “Uh.  You must be happy to be congratulated.” 

You wonder how you ever thought Felix was strange.  He seems so normal suddenly, the only one who finds something wrong with a person eating fourteen brothers.  If he did approve, he would not have to word his congratulations so strangely to avoid a lie. 

Unless he just did that to appease you, a small voice says in the back of your head. A different truth is not a lie.

You wish you were not such an overthinker.  This is Felix.   Your Felix.  Yours, yours.   As much yours as Jisung, who is breathing a little heavier, so it makes Felix breathe heavier, and their combined strain has you close to panting as well. 

You are thus all breathless when you meet the final prince, introduced as High Prince Minho of the winter court.  He is wearing dark clothes, apparently sans his usual furry winter accoutrements, and his glamour is a barely-there mask that vanishes when the light hits him at certain angles.  He wears it like a loosely tied scarf, grudgingly donned.  He has not glamoured his eyes, mismatched and vibrant and vacant of all human emotion.  He does not smile when he bows.   Like Jeongin, he does not hug or kiss you. 

He looks you over, his stare raking, then he does the same to Jisung.  Whatever he sees makes him laugh, though it is a derisive sound.   Then he looks at Felix and says, “They’re fragile.  Be careful, changeling.” 

When he leaves, Jisung whispers, “Honestly, that last one got me kinda hard.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, unhappily, “I know.”   

And just like that, you are trying very hard not to laugh. 

You look at Felix and find his returned gaze to be very affectionate.  You always thought his regards looked a little too precise, like he was concentrating on forming the appropriate expression, but compared to certain toothy grins and cold laughs, Felix looks positively alight with sentiment.   He still looks strange in his t-shirt and jeans, but you think he might look strange anyway. 

It never occurred to you before that Felix’s changeling life might have made him an oddity on both sides of the veil. 

You feel a pang of sympathy, suddenly. 

Felix looks down at where you are holding his hand.  You see his gaze flit across to where you hold Jisung’s hand as well.  It exacerbates that pang in your chest, recalling your own jealousy when you found them kissing, plus all the years spent wishing you shared their magical connection.  It never occurred to you that Felix might feel some type of way about you dating Jisung, about you and Jisung both being human.  Maybe it reminded he was an outcast wherever he went.  Always very close to being part of something, never quite belonging. 

Funny enough, Jisung has always been significantly more blasé.   He sets his sights on what he wants and it never occurs to him that he will not have it.  He has Felix, he dates you, you marry Felix, he lives forever.  You look at your human boyfriend, at the way his dark eyes seem to sparkle as he looks around the garden.  You think somehow, despite his occasional shrieks and frights, he looks more home here than Felix. 

“Right then!”  Chan suddenly claps in your face, startling you.  “It’s wedding time, yeah?  We’ve never had a human wedding here before but Hyunjin is an expert so he helped us out…” 

Two faerie servants rip you away from Felix and Jisung.  Hyunjin follows you, looking very keen, his hands clasped behind his back but his whole face lit up brightly.  His eagerness does not put you at ease, nor are you reassured by his seemingly “expert” advice.  Seeing as he thought it was appropriate to introduce himself by making out with you, you sincerely doubt he is the human expert he has proclaimed himself to be.  

Sure enough, the slapdash preparations are very random.  You are shoved into a very pretty dress, but then Hyunjin attempts to adorn you with both a veil and a headpiece, and you can see an array of other accessories from international wedding regalia.  Being as polite as possible, you decline the offer to any headpiece at all.   

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, cupping your face.  “You are so humble.  Humans are so amazing, the way they just let themselves be ugly.  Wow.  Wow.  I won’t interfere with your hideous but humble head.  Should we kiss again?”        

“I think it’s better we don’t,” you say.  “It might wrinkle the dress?”

He nods sagely.  “That would be bad,” he agrees.  “Especially because your head is so bare and horrible.  The dress is doing all the work.  Can I put flowers in your hair or do you really prefer to be ugly?” 

“Uh, flowers, yeah, sure,” you say.  He says everything so frankly that you somehow can’t feel offended.  A compliment would feel just as meaningless. 

“I’ve always wanted to attend a human wedding,” Hyunjin says.  “You know, spring is a very popular time for human weddings.  But humans are always dying so fast after, so it makes me sad to watch them properly.” 

“You feel sadness?” you ask.  Though Hyunjin and Felix seem quite different, perhaps you can glean an answer to the depth of faerie emotions.  Especially considering this marriage business feels like an entirely different beast now that you are in a wedding dress with an entire congregation of faeries sitting in a garden waiting for you.  It seemed like a simpler affair when it was just Felix and Jisung in a café booth.     

“Oh, of course,” Hyunjin says.  “I feel sad all the time.  I feel sad right now because you aren’t marrying me.��  He says this with a great deal of joviality, smiling at you like he’s proud of his supposed sadness.  

You decide not to ask more questions on that front, because you doubt his answers will be very helpful.  You do enquire after the wedding festivities.  You try not to frown at the very random assemblage of traditions he has baked into a single ceremony.  It sounds like a tedious affair but you decide to brace it, supposing it could be worse. 

“Then we all watch the royal consummation,” Hyunjin says casually, adding another flower to your hair. 

You grab his wrist without thinking, stopping him.

“Did I stab you?” he asks, blowing on your head to check for blood.  “Sorry.  I keep forgetting pins in heads kill humans.”  He says this with a lot of exasperation, like it’s a personal inconvenience to him that humans die so easily. 

“No, it’s not that,” you say.  He pops another peony on your head, manifesting the little buds out of thin air.  “What do you mean ‘we all watch the royal consummation?’  Who is ‘we’?”  

“The high princes, obviously,” he says, tucking a rose behind your ear. 

You stare ahead, mouth hanging open. 

Yesterday seems so long ago now, but Jisung and Felix did explain to you that the autumn court required an act of consummation to legitimize the marriage.  Apparently it has nothing to do with virginity or rearing heirs, mostly functioning as a ritual for the sake of itself.  Once faeries decide something is a rule they must follow it. 

You were very hot in the face the entire conversation.  Jisung seemed content to describe the way you need would have sex with his changeling faerie, but you were too embarrassed to meet either gaze. 

Maybe it would have been easier if you did not want to sleep with Felix. If it was just a necessity, it would be meaningless.

But you very much do desire Felix, even if he only smiled blithely during the discussion.  He seemed unaffected while you were very flustered. 

This is a very different type of flustered. 

“I was not told there would be an audience,” you finally say.

“There isn’t usually,” Hyunjin says.  “But that’s how human princes do it, if I remember.  A whole council watches.  Felix doesn’t have a council, though, so we’ll have to do it.  It would be very rude not to indulge your human traditions.  There!  All done.”

He steps back to admire your appearance.  You are still frazzled from the conversation, from the strong floral scent that is now wrapped around you, from everything. 

“You look—”  Hyunjin pauses, then, “—not horrible at all!  I did a very good job.  Now the wedding can start.  I’ll tell Chan to start killing the sacrificial wedding goats.   We only have one and it’s made of leaves and bones but I assumed that would be okay with you.  This way we can just keep killing the same one over and over again.  I’ll be right back.” 

“Can I—”  You feel panicked.  You need to see Jisung.  Hyunjin has you sequestered in some little golden alcove.  You do not want to be hunted down if you just flee, so you ask, “Can I go look at myself in a mirror?” 

“You’re testing me,” Hyunjin says, his long fingers covering his mouth with a surprised gasp.  Then he giggles.  “I passed!  I know you can’t look at the bride before the wedding.  Wait here!”  Then he disappears out the gate and around the corner. 

You sit down in a huff and close your eyes.  You try counting backwards from one hundred to calm yourself, but you reach the low twenties and still feel tense.   

Then you hear the patter of human footsteps.  You know it is a human because faeries scarcely disturb the ground where they walk.  You hear the crunch of leaves and lift your head, feeling a rush of relief with Jisung pokes his head into the alcove. 

“There you are,” he says.  “Felix is – uh – they’re getting him – dressed – and I wanted –  wanted you—” 

You stand as he talks, as his voice drifts, as his breath catches.  He looks down the length of your dress then back up, his dark eyes watery as he exhales with a gut-punching whoosh. 

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he says.  “This – this feels weird.  I know it’s – weird.  But it’s not – it’s not wrong, right?  It’s just weird.  But weird isn’t bad.   It’s just—”

“Weird,” you say, with a little laugh.  “Yeah.  I know.” 

He smiles softly.  He wore his glasses here but he has since put in contacts.  His hair is neatly styled and he changed into slightly nicer clothes, still human world, but very handsome in his black pants and black shirt.  He is so handsome that for a moment you forget about all your worries, taking a step towards him with your hand extended.  He catches that hand, bringing it to his shoulder.  He sweeps you into a kiss that banishes all your bad thoughts, the familiar taste and feel of him engulfing you.   You sink your fingers in his hair, parting your lips under the press of his mouth. 

It's him who ends the kiss, breathlessly, stuttering, “S-sorry, wait.  I came here to tell – to tell you – the consummation – that pink guy—”

“I know,” you say with a cringe.  You bury your face in his neck.  “Ugh, a bunch of faeries are gonna watch me have sex.” 

“Faeries and me!” he says with a nervous laugh. 

“Huh!”

“I tried to stop it, but no one would really listen to me,” he says.  “Someone only listened when I said it was weird for a guy to watch his little brother have sex, and some people agreed, so Prince Chan said I should take his place, since there were no faeries of equal rank to him and at least I was human.”  He slaps a hand to his forehead.  “Sorry.  I tried.” 

“Oh, Jisung,” you say, giggling a little helplessly at your morose boyfriend.  “How do you get yourself into these situations?” 

“You’re wearing a wedding dress!” he replies. 

“That’s only because I know you!” 

“Your life would have been very boring without me,” Jisung says, smiling. 

“I know,” you say.  “It would have been awful.” 

Because for as strange as all this faerie nonsense is, you cannot imagine a world where you never knew Jisung, where you never knew Felix, where you never had this love in your life, as messy and jealous and complicated as it has been at times. 

You tip your head, gazing into Jisung’s eyes.  He shivers when you twirl a bit of his hair around your finger. 

“Jisungie,” you say, thinking of your own jealousy, of Felix’s confounding glances.  “Do you ever feel jealous at all?”

“Of what?” he asks, totally innocent.

“I don’t know,” you say.  You are not sure how to explain it without seeming ridiculous, which puts it into some perspective.  “I mean, me and Felix are about to… you know.”

“Uh, yeah.  That’s okay.  I don’t want to have sex in front of the cannibal faerie,” Jisung says, making you laugh.  “Not a joke!” 

“I know, I know.”  You kiss his cheek. 

“I couldn’t be jealous of you two,” he says, looking contemplative, as if this has never really occurred to him before.  Then he looks at you a bit sheepishly, his gaze skittish in how it darts around. 

“What?” you ask, recognizing his shy mischief. 

“I think it’s… uh… kinda hot?”  He rubs the back of his neck.  “I love you and I guess I also love that stupid faerie boy.  And… maybe… I kinda wanna see…”

You feel very hot again. 

“You, um, want to watch Felix fuck me?” you ask, frankly as you can. 

“Yes.”  He stares straight up, his ears gone completely red and his cheeks turning pink.  “I think you’ll look hot together.  I was kinda hoping we’d do something like this one day.  I mean, the cannibal faerie is a surprise, but other than that…”

You kiss him.  His arms circle your waist and he tugs you close, the kiss deepening naturally.  You let all your flustered embarrassment fizzle away, thinking about Felix, thinking about Jisung.  You get a bit handsy, squeezing Jisung’s biceps then resting your hands on his chest.  He makes a little sound into the kiss, one of his needy whimpers.  It never fails to light you up. 

“I’m nervous,” you say, speaking low, against his lips.  “Thinking about so many of them watching me and Felix…”

It is clear by his gulp and frantic nod that Jisung finds the scenario sexier than he should.   “Yeah, baby,” he says.  “What can I do?” 

You know the faeries will be occupied with Hyunjin’s myriad of rituals for a while, so you peck his lips and ask, “Get me ready?”

“Ready,” he repeats.  His gaze jumps up to the flowers in your hair.  “You are ready.” 

“Not like that,” you say.  

Jisung really does his best to be appropriate, but he gets pussy-drunk faster than any man you have ever known.  A suggestion is all it takes.  You tap his shoulder and he obediently drops to his knees. 

“Baby,” he says in a reverent whisper, sighing, eyes closing when you run your fingers through his hair. 

Heavy-lidded and so seemingly submissive to your desire, Jisung looks up at you.  Then he reaches past you, grabs the chair by the leg, and yanks.  He is not too gentle, spilling you onto it with a forceful nudge. 

You know Jisung does nothing by halves.  He is singular in his passions.   You ask him to kneel, so he kneels, so he closes his eyes, so he opens his mouth.  He pushes your dress out of his way and licks through your panties until the fabric is sticky and you are so so wet that it clings to you.  Your thighs tremble and he whimpers softly, high and light in the back of his throat. 

“Jisungie…”

“Shh, shh, shh,” he says in a raspy voice, drawing the fabric aside.  “It’s okay.  Don’t cry.  I’ve got you, baby.” 

He speaks so sweetly, like he is incapable of being mean, even while he torments you with long, twisting strokes of his tongue, never committing to a single pattern.  It is a storm of sensation, rolling through you over and over again.  You are so sensitive that slightest nudge feels like a miniature orgasm all on its own.  You gasp and whine, trying and failing to close your legs around his head. 

“Jisuuung,” you say, your voice rough. “We don’t have much time, I need to come…”

He moans when he buries his tongue in you, when he licks messily up past your clit and back down again.  You grab his hair and tug, though it does nothing to deter him. 

“Your husband can make you come later,” he says, giggling an inch from your pussy.  “I’m just warming you up…”  

“Please,” you say, “please, please, please.”

“Hmm?” is his reply, then he sighs and dives back. 

Your eyes close, brow furrowing in concentration.  You rock your hips against his mouth as he finally starts circling your clit with a single-minded resolve.  You feel flushed and shaky, pleasure and heat coursing through you, and you know you must look as ravaged as you feel.   

You open your eyes and see Felix standing in the entryway.  He looks astonishingly beautiful, his long blonde hair neatly styled back, his freckles pronounced and eyes so dark.  Long earrings made of sparkling orange gems dangle from his ears, looking at once like rippling flames and water running over bronze.  He is dressed in an approximation of a tuxedo, except the pants are leather and the shirt and blazer are cropped too short. 

He tips his head, his eyes on Jisung for a moment.  Then he holds your gaze unflinchingly, maybe daringly.  His smile appears slowly.  It is too gentle to be lecherous, tender despite the fact his gloved hand runs over his belt and tugs.  His tongue touches his bottom lip and he tips his head the other way. 

His presence startles you for a moment.  You should feel caught, or embarrassed, or something.  But the initial surprise fades and you just stare back at him.  You dig your fingers into Jisung’s hair and breathe harder as he strokes and strokes and strokes you with his tongue. 

Felix exhales.  His smile is still soft.  He lifts a darkly gloved hand and gestures to you, curling two fingers, a suggestive come here. 

Then Jisung’s hand goes from your thigh to your pussy, two fingers curling inside you without any resistance.  Felix’s smile curves into a pleased, satisfied smirk.  He nods. 

You come, holding Jisung’s face against your pussy, letting him moan and whimper with his own pleasure as you roughly fuck his mouth.  When he lifts his head, his mouth is so obscenely wet that you throb with a renewed ache of desire. 

“I think you’re ready now,” Jisung says.  He lowers your legs and slowly slides his fingers out of you.  Your breath catches, swallowing up a sound of a surprise when he uses both thumbs to spread your pussy open to his gaze – his and Felix.  Your head feels fuzzy and not with faerie magic. 

“I think so,” Felix says. 

Jisung does not seem surprised by his voice. He lets you go, your dress falling back over your lap.  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks over his shoulder at Felix.  Felix approaches, his steps silent despite his big black boots.

You watch.  Jisung’s bottom lip twitches.  He looks up at Felix with the same hazy intoxication he looked at you.  Felix bites the tip of a glove, pulling the fabric off with his teeth, then he swipes his thumb across Jisung’s glistening mouth.  Felix brings that thumb to his own bottom lip, his tongue only just swiping the tip of it. 

Then Hyunjin struts into the alcove and slaps a shocked hand over his mouth. 

“What are you doing?” he demands.  You think he is going to remark on the man kneeling at your feet, not to mention your sexually dishevelled appearance, but then he says, “Felix.  You’re supposed to have a hat.” 

“I don’t need a hat, Hyunjin,” Felix says with a sigh.  “I would like to talk to my bride for a minute.” 

“That is impossible,” Hyunjin says.  “You need a hat.  Come with me.”

It occurs to you that you are watching the two most emotional faeries in their courts, even if those emotions are aimed in strange directions, like hats.  Because Hyunjin is very adamant and Felix is very annoyed.  You are more than a little concerned that if things come to a head, it will turn horrifying without much effort.

Then Jisung leaps to his feet and puts himself between the two faerie princes.  It surprises everyone to silence.  Even Hyunjin stumbles to a stop.  He cocks his head like a predator regards a measly scrap of prey, eyes flashing as he takes a menacing step forward.  

Felix has no time to react.  You have no chance to scream. 

Jisung is a step ahead of everyone.

He bows.  Hyunjin stumbles to a stop for a second time.  It takes him a second to realize what has happened but when he does his eye twitches.  He bows back, then straightens with a huff.

Jisung bows again.  You slap a hand over your mouth to hide your surprised laugh.  Hyunjin looks far less amused.  Glaring, he bows too, as per the rules of politeness. 

Jisung leaps to the side and bows again, forcing Hyunjin to follow him.  He does this twice more, leading Hyunjin to the exit, bowing back and forth the whole time. 

“Make him stop!”  Hyunjin shrieks.

“Okay, okay!” Jisung says, hands raised in surrender.   He bows one more time, swooping low, then he turns and runs as fast as he can.

Hyunjin, obliged to return the bow, goes chasing after him with a frantic yelp. 

“Is he gonna be okay?” you ask, springing to your feet.  You dress falls neatly down. 

“Yes,” Felix says.  “Hyunjin won’t hurt humans.  He likes them too much.”  He turns to you then, his expression returned to a more passive neutrality, though you do not miss the way he looks you over.  “Will you be okay?” he asks.  “I’m sorry.  I thought we would have more time when we got here.  I didn’t know they would do this.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, too shy for a conversation after he very much watched you orgasm.  “Um.  Might as well, I guess… get it out of the way.” 

“Yes.”  He frowns at this, turning aside.  “You want to… get it out of the way.  I understand.  I’m sorry it had to be this way.  You don’t want to marry me.” 

He says it so plainly and without any hesitation.  He must believe it is the absolute truth.  For a moment, you can only stare at him, his handsome profile, the tendrils of sadness that tug at his features.  How did you never see it before?

“Felix,” you say gently.  He does not look at you.  You touch his arm and he looks at your hand.  “Felix, I am happy to marry you.  I love you.”  He looks up at that, his brow furrowed.  “And Jisung,” you add.  “I’m… I’m glad it happened this way.  So that you and I—”   He turns to you and your heart skips a few beats, affected by the warmth of his steady gaze.  “So that you and I could come together as well.  And now the three of us—” 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, then looks aside.  “I’m sorry.  That was forward, yeah?  I just… don’t want the first time to be out there.  Is that strange?  To be honest, sometimes I don’t know what’s strange or what isn’t.  The rules are different everywhere, you know?  I don’t think I’m doing a good job of this.  I’m sorry.  We don’t have to—”

You cup his face and kiss him.  It is very stiff for a moment, because you are both surprised by your brazen action.  He somehow grounds himself first, a careful hand curling around your hip to guide you a little closer.  A breath passes between you then he kisses you back. 

You touch his chest, making a sweet small sound into the kiss when his lips slide so softly against yours.  You are about to deepen it when Jisung interrupts with, “Aww, you’re kissing!  So cute!” 

You and Felix look over at him.  His hands are clasped and he is gushing as only Jisung can. 

“I thought you were running,” Felix says, with a hint of amusement. 

“Stupid labyrinth led me back here,” Jisung says.  He mimes zipping his lips shut and gestures to you.  “Keep kissing.  Pretend I’m not here.” 

“I wouldn’t want to pretend that,” Felix says, so sincerely that Jisung’s eyes widen.  They look at each other for a long moment, then Felix looks at you.  He cups your face. 

Then Hyunjin comes running in.  He swings his arms in a dramatic flail and flower petals fly everywhere.  The leaf dog comes running in and starts nipping at the air, trying to catch the petals.  In the midst of this chaos, Hyunjin storms up to Jisung and promptly bows.  Then he shoves him to the side and grabs Felix by the arm.

“Hat!” he shouts.  “Now!” 

-

It is a twenty-six hour wedding ceremony.  You and Jisung fall asleep halfway through festivity number twelve, curled up under a furry blanket near a fire pit.  You wake when Felix lifts your head into his lap.  Jisung is already curled up with his head on your belly, so you smile and snuggle into Felix.  He cups your face and strokes your cheek, the flickering firelight casting shadows on his face, making his smile seem bigger than usual. 

The consummation ritual is last.  It takes place inside the castle, in a beautiful room that appears to have been designed for this express purpose.  The mossy stone walls are decorated with dried flowers, the plush bed laden with thick red throws and burgundy cushions.   Despite the tall open windows, there is no autumn chill, a lit fireplace cozying the room with its warmth.

It would be a lovely chamber if not for the translucent curtain with a literal audience behind it.  The winter and summer princes sit ramrod straight, so uninterested in their surroundings that it actually puts you at ease.  Hyunjin looks… a little too eager to be honest, but you aren’t convinced he understands this ritual anymore than anything else today. 

Jisung is side-eying Jeongin, who is sitting beside him because Hyunjin refused to sit by ‘the annoying changeling brat’.  Minho is sitting between Jeongin and Hyunjin, casting the occasional side-eye to the spring prince.  Despite his stoic countenance, his displeasure with the company is clear. 

Honestly, the whole tableau is quite comedic.  You find yourself trying to stifle laughter when Felix finally arrives.  You were sent to separate rooms to undress and change into robes, but you arrived here first.   Felix looks at you curiously, clearly perplexed by your laughter. 

“You’re not nervous anymore,” he observes. 

“No,” you say.  “I’ve just been thinking like a faerie.” 

He tilts his head at that.  You smile and kiss him, a chaste kiss that makes his lashes flutter.  The little reaction tickles a flurry of butterflies in your belly.  You hold his hand and lead him to the bed where you sit down.  His eyes shift with a nervous scuttle, but he follows the direction of your hand when you gesture to him. 

You keep your eyes on his, intensely locked as you lift his hand and take two fingers in your mouth.  When you close your lips around his fingers and gently suck, his breath catches.  It echoes in Jisung. 

Then Jeongin whispers loudly, “Is she going to eat him?”  He sounds moderately intrigued. 

“Be quiet,” Hyunjin replies. 

“I think it’s over,” Minho says, catching onto your ruse before anyone else.  

You smile and open your eyes.  You separate from Felix and turn your head to the silhouettes beyond the curtain. 

“A penetrative performance,” you state.   “I believe that was the requirement.  And I believe that should qualify.” 

You are stretching the meaning of those words and you know it, but that’s what faeries do.  His fingers ‘penetrated’ the breach of your mouth, so it should count on the most technical level. 

“All done,” you say with a smile and wave. 

“So you’re not eating him?”  Jeongin says, frowning. 

Minho is the first one to stand.  He flicks Jeongin’s forehead as he passes, but otherwise says nothing before fleeing the room.  Jeongin follows with a slightly disgruntled shuffle, then Hyunjin stomps his foot. 

“Humans,” he says, marching past Jisung. 

The door closes behind Hyunjin.  Jisung claps a hand over his mouth and laughs into it, so hard he has to put a hand over his stomach as he doubles over.   Felix laughs too, a pleasantly low rumble that he tries to stifle with a cough.  You smile up at him, leaning back on your palms and admiring him in the warm orange light.  He tucks some hair behind his ear, regarding you with a very tender gaze when he nods his head in a curt little bow. 

“All done,” he says.  It makes your brow furrow: the little shift in tone, the tension that still draws his shoulders back.  You realize that even after everything, he is still uncertain about his place.  Even Jisung knows where he belongs, not for a moment thinking he should leave the room, but Felix takes a step away from the bed like he intends to do just that.

You grab his hand, drawing his attention back to you.  Blonde hair falls around his face, shadowing it.  He doesn’t quite meet your eyes, gaze somewhere on your chin. 

“Felix,” you say.  His fingers tighten around yours and it feels like a question.  You answer by tugging that hand, drawing him closer.  His eyes flash gold when you drop his hand to open your robe.  This time you can hear Jisung’s sharp breath too, all laughter subsiding as you let the robe fall off your shoulders, laying yourself bare before Felix. 

He looks awed but stricken.  You can see when he swallows.  He looks at Jisung then back at you, his brow furrowing.  His lips twitch in a bid to speak but no words come.   

It would be funny, this supernatural being somehow struck dumb by you in your most vulnerable state, but your smile is more affectionate than amused.

“Felix,” you say again.  “Have you ever done something like this before?” 

He shakes his head frantically, his eyes still running up and down your body. 

“No,” he says.  “Uh, no.  No.  I can – feel something when Jisung – when you – I mean—”  He chokes on an awkward laugh, turning away for a second. 

“I fucking knew it!”  Jisung says, poking his head between the folds of the curtain.  “Bro, you’re such a liar.  I asked if you could feel when we fuck and you said no!”

“I can’t lie,” Felix replies, turning to Jisung.  He forgets to be embarrassed while arguing, very plainly and patiently stating his case.  “I told you most faeries don’t think about sex like humans and that I couldn’t be certain what you were doing, yeah?  And I can’t.  And I would have told you more but you only asked the first time and I didn’t know you were going to keep… being with her.  And I – I didn’t want to make things awkward… for you… okay?  By thinking of me every time… so I just… What are you smiling at?”  His deep voice breaks, pitching comically higher for a second. 

Jisung is smirking and nodding, just a floating head with a vague silhouetted body behind the curtain. 

“Man,” Jisung says, “you’ve been acting like a monk but secretly jacking it while we get freaky in the other room… That’s naughty.”

Felix draws his mouth into a flat line then looks at you for help.  You are trying to hold in your giggles, lips pressed tight together.  When he looks at you, you exhale, waving at Jisung to back down for a second.  He ducks behind the curtain again, giggling to himself like the menace he is. 

Fortunately, Felix is easy to distract.  All it takes is opening your legs for his all his attention to zero in there.  He swallows again. 

“Sounds like we’ve been teasing you too long,” you say, your voice drawing his eyes back up to your face.  You smile and beckon him forward.  “Come on.  Let me make it up to you.” 

He looks like he is going to deflect politely, either because he is a faerie or because he is Felix, but then you grab his robe and yank him closer.  He stumbles up to you, his fingers fluttering at his sides and his shoulders still tense.  You take one of his hands and place it on the side of your face, soothing him with another gentle smile as you unknot his robe.

He is already very hard and this seems to fluster him, but he points to the curtain and sputters, “He’s – touching—“ 

“Fuck yeah I am,” Jisung says. 

“Jisung, shh,” you say, trying not to giggle again.  “And slow down.  You’re always so impatient.” 

“Am not,” Jisung says, but you can see him lean back, folding his hands behind his head. 

You look up at Felix, holding his gaze the way you did when you sucked his fingers.  You like the way he twitches and breathes harder, the way his eyes flash, the way his jaw clenches.  His thumb curls under your jaw when your mouth slides over him.  You can’t help but moan when his whole face contorts with more natural emotion than you have ever seen from him.  His breath stutters and stops and starts, his sounds so low and guttural that you feel them inside you. 

“Oh, fuck, dude,” Jisung says, rasping.  You pull back just a little, drooling and stroking with your hand, and glancing at Jisung out of the corner of your eye.  He lifts his hips and squeezes himself over his pants.  “We were fucking torturing you, holy fuck.”   

“Mmmmrrgh,” is the approximate sound Felix makes.  His eyes are partially-lidded, his expression one of immense concentration.  He pulls your face back to him with a flick of his wrist.  Appetent and quite demanding, he leads your mouth back onto him and holds you in place to shallowly and gently fuck your mouth.  He makes a pleased sound, one of deep relief, his head lolling back and the tension leaving his shoulders.   

You let him set the pace, matching the animal instinct that overcomes him.  He stops himself when he’s close, breathing hard and stepping back.  You want to ask if he is okay, but you have to flex your jaw and your voice is momentarily shot.  Before you can find that voice, he turns to the curtain and says, “Show me what you did earlier.  I want – I want to do that too.” 

There is a quiet moment, Jisung maybe surprised at the sudden attention, but then the curtain parts and Jisung steps all the way through.  He has unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, his partially unzipped pants doing nothing to hide the bulge behind his fly.  The sight of him sets off more sparks, especially when he winks at you with all his cheeky wantonness.

Felix gives Jisung a once-over too, pushing a hand through his hair and steadying his breathing.  His features look sharper than ever, darkened with a determined resolve.  He says nothing when Jisung sweeps behind him.  Jisung wiggles his eyebrows at you while he gathers Felix’s robe and slides it off his shoulders. 

“She likes your freckles,” Jisung offers by way of explanation, smooching Felix’s freckled shoulder with a playful little mwah. 

Felix tilts his head and looks at you.  “Really?” he asks.  “I can’t fully scrub them off the glamour. I think it’s somehow your fault.”  This is aimed at Jisung.

“Everything’s my fault!” Jisung says with a great deal of pride. 

“Why would you want to get rid of them?” you blurt, showing just as much as horror as you did when meeting the cannibal faerie.   Felix without his freckles is equally abhorrent.

Felix looks at you, thoughtfully.  Firelight is flickering over the room but you do not think it is a trick of shadow when his freckles seem to darken everywhere. 

“Aw,” Jisung says.  “He’s flirting.” 

Felix looks at him with a certain degree of exasperation.  “Show me what I asked,” he says. 

“Oh, wow, okay, geez, pushy,” Jisung says, circling so he standing beside Felix.  Felix drops the rest of the robe, evidently not the slightest bit shy to be standing there naked.  Now your gaze is the roving one, jumping between them, darting upward when Jisung cups Felix’s face and turns it to him. 

“You need to turn her on first, man,” Jisung says, swaying to the playful rhythm of his own voice.  Felix follows, but his eyes narrow into judgemental slits.  Jisung seems unbothered by this, standing still, tucking some hair behind Felix’s ear.  “C���mooon,” he says, with an impatient little shoulder wiggle and a laugh.  “She likes you… she likes me… as they say… badda bing badda boom…”

“I don’t think they say that during sex,” Felix says, frowning. 

“He’s right,” you say, giggling. 

Jisung sighs and looks at you.  “No audience participation,” he says, miming a zip across his lips.  “Just sit there and look pretty, baby.  We’ll get to you.” 

Felix looks at you.  Jisung leans close to whisper in his ear.  You try to decipher what he is saying based on Felix, but all Felix does is furrow his eyebrows then look sideways at Jisung.  There is a moment of quiet, then they smile at the same time.

Felix delicately cups Jisung’s chin.

The last time you caught them kissing, it spurred only jealousy.  But that was different.  That was your childish reaction to exclusion, your own anxieties speaking over everything else.  This time, you are not outside of their connection.  You even swear you can feel the faintest tingling on your own lips when they gently come together in a feather-light kiss.   

Their hands trace similar paths, Felix’s slipping into Jisung’s pants and Jisung touching him back.  The kiss deepens until their tongues touch, then Jisung giggles while Felix grins.  They look at you at the same time.

“Go,” Jisung says, nudging Felix forward. 

They let go of each other and Felix climbs up on the bed, guiding you backwards until your head is on a pillow.  Long tendrils of blonde hair brush your cheeks. He lays over you and kisses you, pressing your head into the cushion.  Even lost in his kiss, you can sense Jisung with a fuzzy awareness.  You recognize the familiar touch of his palm, his hand gliding up your inner thigh.  Felix makes room, joining Jisung at your thighs.  You twitch with an instinctive little jerk, pushing yourself up on your elbows to look at them.  Jisung puts a finger over his lips and shushes you, smiling. 

“We got it, we got it…” he says.  He cups the back of Felix’s head and pushes his head down to your pussy. 

Felix glances up at you, then him, then down.  His eyes close and he sticks out his tongue, his expression one of the sweetest pleasure when he puts his mouth on you.   What he lacks in skill, he compensates with eagerness, messily diving in with an open mouth, licking and kissing and making a mess of himself.  Jisung threads his fingers into his hair and tugs, laughing a little. 

“Easy, easy,” he says.  He and Felix look at each other as Jisung lowers his own face.  When he puts his expert mouth on you, your head falls back, thighs parting further.  You throw your arms over your head and dig your fingers into the cushions.  You chase the rhythm of his tongue, looking down when it stops, when Felix replaces him. 

“See, look at her,” Jisung says.  Felix looks up at you.  “Just like that.” 

Then Jisung joins him.  They torturously alternate whose mouth is on you.  Jisung dives at Felix, licking across his wet lips and kissing him before returning to you.  You can hardly tell one mouth from the next, gasping under two tongues as they stroke you and each other, matching blonde heads bobbing in perfect coordination between your thighs.  It is inhumanly perfect, so harmonious that it almost agonizing.  This is how mortals lose their minds here, you think.

Eventually you are so wound up that you can’t help but cry out. 

“Oh noo,” Jisung says, very unrepentant as lays beside you.  “I think we were teasing her… That’s so mean of us, isn’t it, baby?  Huh?”  He pinches your face in his hand, cooing at you while you playfully glare.  He giggles and kisses you, your own wet desire smeared across his lips.  “You’re so wet, baby,” he says, sliding his hand down your body and over your pussy, easing his fingers through the wetness there.  When you whimper, he whimpers back in faux sympathy, pouting and nodding.  “I know, poor baby,” he says, curling his fingers inside you.

Felix’s eyes light up, watching.  He props himself up on one hand and touches you with the other.  You make a sound against Jisung’s mouth, a breathy moan as Felix slides his fingers in too.  It’s thick, that many fingers at once and so suddenly.  Your thighs jerk and you whine into Jisung’s mouth.  You see stars when you close your eyes, their fingers moving at the same time inside you.  They share a heartbeat, a rhythm, not faulting in the slightest.

For a moment, you just lay there and dizzily take it, stretched around their fingers, wet and silky hot and so turned on that you feel like you’re floating. 

“Jisung,” Felix says in his rough, deep voice.

“I know,” Jisung replies, just as hoarse.    

Their fingers leave you and Jisung grabs your throat with that same hand, slick fingers nudging your chin to look at him.  Your breath catches and you think Felix’s breath catches too. 

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says, reaching down at the same Felix reaches up, a hand on each breast, teasing the pebbled peaks.  You squirm and Jisung returns his hand to your throat, smiling at you so innocently, scrunching up his eyes with delight.  “Good girl,” he says, squeezing.  Felix gasps then moans, sucking kisses wherever his mouth lazily roams.  Jisung places those same hot kisses on your neck, each kiss landing one after the other, lighting every nerve.  Teeth and tongue lave at your skin, no doubt bruising it with each little love bite. 

“That’s it,” Jisung says, and you really start to think your human boyfriend is made of more magic than autumnal flurries.  His dark eyes sparkle in the light, his mischievous smirk lighting up his handsome face.  He is so giggly and sweet despite the dastardly torture of his hands and mouth. 

You find yourself sinking into the sensations, eyes closed, body running on instinct. 

“Felix,” Jisung says.  His hand leaves your throat, sliding down your body.  You realize he is spreading your pussy lips again, teasing as Felix pushes inside you.  It is easy now that you have taken so many fingers, but the knowledge of what is happening, of who is fucking you, makes your breath stutter and eyes open. 

“Ohh,” is the only sound you can make, watery eyes on where Felix is moving slowly in and out of you.  His brow is furrowed again, that look of concentration, then he groans and all but sprawls on top of you, fucking you with messy abandon.   Jisung thumps his head heavily onto the cushion, panting heavily, as if he was fucking you. 

“Felix, you gotta—”  Jisung says, his own face twisted up with a tortured sort of pleasure.   Felix does not listen to him, still rocking his hips with a frantic unevenness.  It feels good and crazy and wild, your head lolling to the side, a hum in your throat. 

Jisung finds the resolve to push himself up, groaning with the effort.  You watch him roughly manhandle Felix, yanking his head up to get him to concentrate.  Felix’s eyes flash gold then go dark.  His mouth is hanging open and his cheeks are flushed.  He never stops moving. 

“And you said I was impatient,” Jisung murmurs, grabbing Felix’s hips and evening out his rhythm.  You suppose it stands to reason that if Jisung is the most pussy-drunk man you have ever known, than Felix would be too.  Except Felix actually is magic, and everything about Jisung seems to multiply in Felix.  He looks completely overcome.  Then Jisung suddenly asks, “Good tears or bad?”

“Good,” Felix rasps. 

“So you wanna keep going?”

“Ye-es,” Felix hiccups, then suddenly starts crying, all the messy human-ness mixing with his confusing faerie-ness, coming together in an explosive physical and emotional mania that has him burying his face in your neck and fucking you so deep and hard that your own sniffles start. 

“Yes,” you say at the same time as him, wrapping your arms around his neck.  Jisung touches your hand, his other still guiding Felix’s hips.  Felix moans in your throat then marginally turns his head. 

“Jisung,” he says.  “I can’t—unless you—”      

Jisung very unceremoniously shoves a hand down his pants, then looks up at you and smiles. 

“Okay,” Jisung says.  He moves and Felix sinks back inside you, moaning deeply, clutching you possessively.  You hold him back as fiercely, blinking up at Jisung when kneels near your face.  “Come on, baby,” Jisung says, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. 

“Yes,” Felix says, nodding at him and at you. 

You open your mouth, nodding at Jisung.  His pants get tossed somewhere and he removes his shirt at the same time his dick pushes past your lips.  They really do fuck with an extraordinary identicalness, perfectly matched without a word.  It is easy to fall into their rhythm, not even straining.  You feel like you were born to be here, between them, sharing them, sharing yourself with them. 

They come at the same time, Felix with his cheek pressed to yours, Jisung with his head thrown back.  They lay down on either side of you, flopping back at the same time. Felix has a completely dazed look on his face, his breath stuttering when you tuck some of his sweaty hair back.  He looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again. 

All three of you exhale at once.  The resulting giggle comes in three-way unison too. 

“Wow,” Felix finally says.  “It’s much more fun like this.”

“Hell yeah,” Jisung says, holding out his fist for a bump.  You swat it down before Felix can return it.  Jisung just laughs, snuggling up to you. 

Felix also rolls onto his side. He tucks one hand under his head and touches your face with the other.  You and Jisung both look at him, his faraway stare, the way a small smile unfurls on his face.

“You’re mine now,” he says.  “Forever.  Yeah?”  It’s posed like a question but evidently it is already fact to him, or he could not say it. 

“Forever and ever,” Jisung says easily, stretching out on the royal bedsheets like he has always belonged there. 

Felix looks at you for an answer too, still smiling.  You are not as easy as Jisung, but you try hard not to overthink. 

But you remember so many stories of humans wandering in the faerie world, never seen or heard from again, the tales of their disappearances ranging from beautiful to horrifying.  You think it would be impudent to think yourself different or better than them.  They thought they were safe too. 

The question tumbles past your lips before you can think twice: 

“Your true name,” you say.  “Would you still give it to me if I asked?” 

He clearly does not expect the question.  He blinks quickly, then his gaze darts to the side.  You look there to see Jisung nodding off, already half-asleep on your shoulder.  Felix is not sleeping.  You look at him, wondering still about the sometimes contradictory depth of their connection. 

“Aren’t you tired too?” you ask. 

“A little,” he says. 

You realize he didn’t answer your other question and you open your mouth to ask again.  He kisses you, cupping your face, making a happy sound when you kiss him back.  Jisung makes his own little happy sound, sighing on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” Felix says, speaking soft and low against your lips.  He strokes the side of your face.  “I want you to stay with me forever.” 

“You’d really tell me your true name?” you ask. 

“I’d do anything for you,” he says.  “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Felix,” you say, about to say more when he kisses you again.  He smiles so big and bright, it crinkles the corner of his eyes.  

“You do,” he says.  “That’s the truth.  You love me like you love him.” 

“It’s the same but different,” you say.   “Like how you love both me and Jisung.”

He is still smiling.  He kisses the corner of your mouth sweetly.  “The same but different,” he says.  “Yes.  I understand.” 

He draws you into his arms and kisses the crown of your head, sighing a happy sigh.  Jisung curls up behind you, already fast asleep while Felix murmurs sweet love confessions at you until you fall asleep too, nestled tightly and safely in his arms.

[syoddeye]

consequence / brew [interlude]

price x f!reader | 540 words series directory tags: stupidly sweet, mild coffee snobbery a/n: i was overcome by mushy feelings. this is what came out of them. not the next chapter, but a pause. ☕

“i’ve never used one of these.”

“folks are oddly intimidated by them. they shouldn’t be. they’re simple, really.”

what would the boys say? kyle’d have his phone out, for certain.

john slightly slouches, peering over her shoulder and staring intently down his nose as she weighs the grounds on a small scale. the numbers flash and roll on the screen, and after a delicate scoop with a teaspoon, they’re apparently satisfactory.

“then this?” he slides the filter on the counter with a single finger, bumping her hand.

“yep.”

she folds the paper, slots it into the top of the pour-over, and aligns the thicker side to the spout.

“kettle?”

“ready.”

his lip twitches when she doesn’t even look away from the thing, as if conducting surgery, and reaches blindly behind herself to take the kettle by its handle and splash water onto the empty filter.

“and that helps it stay in place.”

“mhm.”

she adds the coffee with her free hand and flicks the glass with a finger to encourage them to settle evenly. then, she adds another couple of milliliters to cover the grounds.

he hums. a roasted, nutty scent curls in the air. the steam drifts, and after a brief glance at the side of her head, he leans into her space under the guise of catching another whiff.

“kind of smoky, huh?” she says, turning her head toward him.

her mouth is right there. half a step closer would spell trouble.

“i’m thinkin’ sweeter.” he lets that linger for all of a second before, “why’d you only pour a little?”

her head swivels, probably for the best. “i’m letting the grounds bloom. see how the coffee’s expanded? that’s the ‘bloom’. once the water’s slowed to a drip, i’ll add more.”

“why not fill it to the brim? shave off a minute or two?”

“you in a hurry?” she pivots on foot to set the kettle down and leans against the counter. for a moment, the only sound is the trickling water. brewing. “if you rush…the filter may break. dump all the sediment and ruin it.” she nods at the kettle.

john slowly takes the handle, arching a brow.

she nods again, inked arms crossing over her chest, eyes trailing after his hands as he moves to add more water. “you made a face when i got this out–”

he frowns. “i did not–”

“–and i’m sure i can guess what you were thinking. 'who uses those anymore? why not get a machine?' and i could. i could choose something more efficient. but i like this way of doing things. slow and deliberate.”

he nearly jumps when her hand brushes his forearm, gently guiding him to stop.

“i like to savor things, don’t you?”

it’s treacherous—the ache in his chest and the accompanying heat in his belly. pleasant, but barbed. hinting at something too good to be true. too good to last. a cup of coffee. a flower. 

life rarely allows him to relish. a trail of half-smoked cigars and nights of fitful sleep follow him. but here, in her flat, he wonders if this is his chance. if he’ll get a taste for it.

he steps closer. 

“i do.”

maybe he’ll let it bloom.

[alwaysonthemend]

Author's Note: Hello hello and welcome to the first installment of my holiday fics! Up first, I had some requests for sub Jake, breeding kink, and one incredible ask talking about how we should appreciate Jake's ass more (I wholeheartedly agree) Thank you for reading and if you see any typos... no you didn't.

Word Count: 3940

Content Warnings: Fem!reader, sub!Jake, dom!reader, cussing, gratuitous use of the word ass, orgasm denial, dry humping, unprotected p in v sex, breeding kink (stay safe out there folks!) and a lil bit of fluffy domestic Jake. I think that is all but as always please tell me if I missed something. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

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It’s no secret that Jake has a lovely ass. And there’s really no other way to put it. And even worse, Jake knows that he’s got a great ass and loves to never let you forget it. And really, Jake only brags about it to you because he knows how much you love it. He’d caught you ogling early on in your relationship and he’d never let you live it down since. 

And if you’re being honest, you play into it plenty on your own. Any time he passes, you love to smack him if you can – sometimes hard, sometimes just enough for him to feel it without anyone else noticing. Jake has a body that makes your mouth water – the most delicious mixture of strong and soft, curves and hard lines of muscle. He’s a rare thing, really. And thus deserves to be appreciated as such. 

And so even though the two of you are hosting a lovely, wholesome family gathering at your house for Christmas, you still feel the need to let him know how sexy he is. 

You enter the kitchen to find him humming quietly under his breath, moving gracefully between the counter covered in ingredients and the stove. He’s got his hair tied up in a low, messy bun (your favorite) and has the apron that you bought him as a joke two years ago tied snugly around his waist. He looks positively delicious. 

“Smells wonderful.” You tell him, stepping fully into the kitchen. 

He glances up from his work, a sweet smile that crinkles in the corners of his eyes gracing his lips. 

“Thanks, babe.” He says, tilting his head as you come up to him. 

Smiling mischievously, you place your hands on his cheeks and pull him down, laying a searing kiss on his lips before pulling away with a smug smile. 

“Woah.” His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. “What was that for?” 

You shrug, grinning innocently at him. 

“Just doing what the apron told me to do.” 

Jake chuckles, glancing down to where Kiss the Cook is written in fancy red letters across his apron. 

“Fair enough.” He inclines his head, his attention diverting back to the stove. 

“And besides,” you begin, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to cup his ass and squeeze. “Your ass is looking extra lovely tonight.” 

“You say that every night.” He says, turning his body back around to face you fully. His hands find your waist and he walks you backwards until the small of your back presses into the counter. “I think you just like to tease me.” 

You shake your head, grinning up at him like the Cheshire Cat. You wish viciously that you didn’t have a group of guests waiting out in your living room so Jake could bend you over the counter and fuck you right here and now. 

“I just like giving appreciation where it's due, is all.” 

He hums, leaning down to seal his lips over yours again. You can’t tell if it's him, the heat from the stove, or both, but you feel like your body is on fire. A breathy little moan escapes you as his tongue slides between your lips and his grip on your hips tighten.

“Jake.” You whine, a throb taking up residence between your thighs. “Don’t tease. We have company.” 

Jake only laughs, pressing a thigh between your legs and putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. Then, without warning, he lifts you, setting you down on the counter and pressing himself in closer to you.

“They’re not staying all night.” He murmurs, his lips hovering just over yours. “I wouldn’t let them. I still have to give you your gift later.”

Your brows raise slightly at his words, though you’re having a hard time focusing thanks to the feeling of him being so very close to where you want him. 

“We already exchanged gifts this morning.”  

His grin is downright feline as he regards you. 

“This one is special, though. I can’t give it to you until tonight…” he runs a calloused finger over your nipple, pinching it and rolling it so that it hardens, “once everyone is gone.”

You can feel the wetness pooling in your underwear. You hook your legs around his hips, pulling him in tight to you and moan as the rough fabric of his jeans brushes slightly against your clit. He’s got one hand on your hips, the other placed palm down on the counter as he leans over you – the very picture of a man who is about to get exactly what he wants. 

“Jake, I-”

“Really?!” 

You both startle and Jake’s eyes snap to the doorway like those of a child who’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Josh stands with his arms crossed, a disgusted, incredulous look on his face. 

“It is… definitely what it looks like.” Jake says with a shit eating grin, stepping back away from between your legs and straightening his apron. 

“In the kitchen? Where we make the food?” 

“Sorry, Josh.” You say, hopping down from the counter and strolling past him, squeezing his shoulder as you go. “Just couldn’t control myself.”

Jake chuckles, turning back to the stove to stir something. 

“She can’t resist, Josh. It’s really not her fault.”

Josh meets his words with an affronted look and a gagging sound before following you back out into the living room with the rest of the guests. 

“You both are gross.” He grumbles, shuddering a bit at the grin on Jake’s face and the flush to your cheeks. 

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It feels like time moves at a glacial pace. Dinner had been fantastic – you’re convinced that Jake was a chef in another life, but you were more than happy when your guests finally began to leave. You and Jake watch them go, thanking each of them for coming and wishing them a merry Christmas. As impatient as you had been all night, it was still nice to have everyone together – a rare and difficult feat these days given how crazy everyone’s schedules are. And everyone being free tonight had been nothing short of a Christmas miracle. 

As you stand in the doorway waving as the last car pulls out of your driveway, like a cat, Jake stalks up behind you quietly and leans down, pressing his lips just above your ear. 

“Can I give you your gift now?” 

You startle only slightly before you spin around to be met with Jake’s dark eyes staring at you. 

“I’ve been waiting for hours.” You whine, and you can’t even find it within yourself to be embarrassed for how needy you sound. 

Jake smiles widely, his white teeth glittering. 

“And I’m going to make you wait just a few more minutes.” 

You open your mouth to protest but Jake silences you with a look – that same domineering look that he always gives you in the bedroom. Your mouth snaps shut and he smiles appreciatively. 

“I’m going to go upstairs and get ready and you’re gonna wait down here until I text you to come up.” He raises a brow at you, silently demanding whether you understand. You nod once, afraid that your voice will fail you. “And when you do come up, I want you in nothing but your bra and panties.” 

“Yes sir.” 

With that, he spins on his heel and ascends the stairs, leaving you a wet, shaking mess in his wake. With trembling fingers you pull off your shirt, thankful that the blinds had been drawn as the guests began to filter out. The fire in the fireplace crackles as you step out of your skirt, leaving you in only your undergarments just as he had asked. With nothing else to do, you fold them and place them on the back of the sofa so that you can easily come and get them in the morning. (You have a feeling that Jake isn’t going to let you leave the bed for the rest of the night). 

Finally, your phone pings with a text from Jake. You don’t even bother reading it before scampering up the stairs, your heart pounding and your thighs sliding easily against each other thanks to your wetness. 

As you reach the top of the stairs, you can see the door to yours and Jake’s bedroom cracked ever so slightly. Taking a deep, shaky breath, you push it open to be met with the warm glow of the mini Christmas tree that you had made Jake put in here. The fragrant scent of cinnamon and sugar wafts through the air thanks to the candles that lay lit on just about every surface. 

And finally your eyes find Jake, completely bare and leaning back in the middle of the bed, his thighs spread and his cock already hard and leaking with precum. His smooth skin washed in warm light looks damn near edible. His eyes look almost black, half-lidded and watching you closely. He’s taken his hair down, letting it fall down to rest against his shoulders. With one hand wrapped around his cock and stroking lazily, he grins at you.

“Jake, what-?” You’re at a loss for words. Your mouth has gone dry and you’re sure that your eyes have widened like saucers. 

“Your gift.” He says, his voice smooth as velvet. “Me. However you want me.” You feel as though you might combust on the spot. “All the control. Tie me up,” his eyes cast upwards to the hook on the wall above the bed that is always reserved only for you, “make me beg, don’t let me cum. Whatever you want. Just for tonight.”

“Holy fuck, Jake.” You murmur, stepping closer to the bed  and practically drooling at the sight. “This is…” You can’t find the words. It’s everything. He is everything. 

“Come on, baby.” His voice beckons and your feet move seemingly without your knowledge of them until you’re standing right next to him. “Don’t know where to start?” He mocks, darting his tongue out to wet his bottom lip.

You really don’t. He’s always the one in control, always the one telling you what to do. And now here you are, suddenly with all the power resting in your hands. There’s so many choices you can’t even decide. 

Jake chuckles. 

“I finally give you what you want and you can’t even choose.” His voice is saccharine and his hand still works over himself slowly. “You weren’t shy earlier when you came and grabbed my ass where anyone could have walked in and seen.” He reminds you, and the words are like a switch deep within you and a wicked, filthy idea pops into your mind. 

“Stop talking.” You find yourself saying, your voice coming out far smoother than you were expecting. 

Jake’s eyebrow quirks up. 

“Oh?” 

“I said stop talking.”  This time the demand in your voice is clear and Jake’s jaw snaps shut. “And stop touching yourself.” Obediently, his hand falls limp at his side. His breathing picks up. 

Without a word and with fire between your legs, you crawl into the bed. Jake is the picture of delicious sin laying there prone and waiting for you. You glide a palm down his leg, stopping at his calf where you trace small circles into his skin. 

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” You ask softly, though you aren’t expecting a response. In fact, with the way Jake’s chest heaves and his cock twitches at your use of the word ‘pretty,’ you already know that you’ve found a nerve without him uttering a single syllable. “You are,” you continue, letting your eyes glide up his form – over his strong thighs, over the soft curve of his stomach, to his broad shoulders, his glossy hair, his beautiful face, “so, so pretty.” 

A soft whine escapes him and fuck it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. You want to get lost in him, to lick across every inch of his gloriously exposed skin and to make him whine like that a thousand more times. All things that you will do later. But for right now, the ache between your thighs has become unbearable and you need to find some sort of release before you can start in on him. And you have the perfect idea for it. 

“Lay on your belly, Jakey.” You murmur and you watch with lustful eyes as he complies immediately. 

You swear under your breath as he settles and your eyes land on that beautiful ass of his – so plump and round. You splay your palms out on each cheek, kneading into the thick flesh. Without warning, you lay a harsh smack against it and he cries out – the sound like music to your ears as you watch the way his ass jiggles from the strike. 

“You know how much I love this, don’t you?” You ask, leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on his right then his left cheek. 

Jake nods, a breathy little ‘yes’ hitting your ears, muffled slightly by the pillow. 

“It makes me so wet.” You admit, rising slightly and moving yourself upwards so that you’re straddling one cheek, pressing your clothed clit into the ample muscle. “I’ve always wanted to ride it. Imagined how good it would feel on my clit.” You experimentally rock your hips and your body shudders at the pleasure it renders. “You don’t cum yet, baby. Okay?”

“Okay.” His voice is broken – breathless and needy. 

You roll your hips, the friction positively delicious and you can’t help but to cry out. You keep it slow, just enjoying the feeling. It’s better than you could have imagined – and far better than any pillow that you’d done this to in the past. With each drag, Jake moans beneath you and the sound drives you wild. 

You lean forward and place both of your hands on his lower back, digging your fingers into the flesh and using the leverage to grind your hips harder against him. You begin to bounce, abandoning any thoughts other than the release that you’ve been aching for since your run in with Jake in the kitchen all those hours ago.

With each roll of your cunt against his ass, Jake’s hips press down into the mattress making his cock rut into the mattress each time. He’s a whining mess beneath you, the friction enough to get him to the edge but not nearly enough for him to cum yet. Just enough to drive him mad beneath you. 

"Fuck." Jake mumbles, his lower back arching downwards and his ass pushing up into you more. As much as you're enjoying this, he seems to be enjoying it, too.

You slow yourself down again, sensually undulating your hips and exhaling shakily.

"You feel so good, Jake." You praise, keeping that slow pace of your hips. Jake's only answer is to moan beneath you and you can't help but to imagine doing this again. And fuck, you know that you're never going to be able to even think about his ass without growing wet... let alone admire it with your eyes.

Spurred on by the thoughts of how sexy you find this position and by the way Jake is whining and wriggling beneath you, you begin to pick up your pace. You know that you're not going to last. You can't hold it off any longer. You need it.

With yet another slap to his ample backside, you roll your hips faster, that low burning in your belly morphing into fire as your orgasm finally hits you. You toss your head back and cry out as the waves crash through you. You keep moving your hips against him, drawing out your release as long as it can go. Finally, when your body begins to shiver with overstimulation, you fall off him. 

“Y/n.” Jake whines, rutting his hips harder into the bed.

“Don’t.” You warn, stilling him with a heavy hand on his lower back. “Roll over.” He does, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen his cock so hard before. You press a hand to each of his knees and spread them wider, giving you plenty of space to settle between them. “What’s got you so worked up, baby?” You tease, eyeing him like a piece of candy. 

“You.” His voice cracks on the word and he clears his throat. “Hearing you.” 

“Aww.” You say sweetly, pinching the top of his cock between your fingertips. “So sweet, Jakey.” You’ve never really used that nickname much before, especially not in the bedroom. But right now, with him pliant and needy beneath you, it seems fitting. This isn’t the Jake that you usually have during sex – the rough, dominant Jake. This Jake is soft and delicate and oh so desperate for any bit of relief. Jake's body tenses and jerks, a cry falling from his lips each time you ghost your fingertips over the swollen head of his cock.

“Please.” He arches into you, his stomach muscles tensing and untensing as he tries to control himself. 

“Please what?” You can’t help but tease him. 

“Touch me.” 

You giggle and continue to play with just his tip, switching between squeezing and delicately tracing it with your fingertips. You can't stop the amusement that you feel. He's so sensitive, so receptive to each ghost of a touch.

“I am touching you, babe.” 

He groans, tossing his head back harshly into the pillow. You only laugh and wrap your hand around him fully. He’s hot and pulsing in your palm. You smear his precum around him and begin to pump him slowly, drawing a deep moan from him as his eyes squeeze shut. 

“I’m getting why you enjoy this so much.” You say and Jake blinks his eyes open at you. “Seeing you all squirmy and desperate.” 

Jake opens his mouth to reply but you tighten your fist and speed up a bit. 

“Oh fuck!” He groans and his hands reach out to grab you – whether to pull you in closer or to make you speed up you can’t tell (he probably doesn’t even know either), but you immediately let go of his cock at the motion. 

“Oh. I forgot.” 

You rise up a bit, reaching up and over Jake to pull open the top drawer of his nightstand, your fingers quickly finding the silk that Jake loves to use on you. You tap Jake’s chest and he surrenders his wrists to you without a fight, holding them next to each other as you loop the scarf around them and then hook his arms up on the little peg above the headboard. 

“I think the power has gone to your head.” Jake murmurs, his brown eyes watching you with nothing short of reverence. 

“Maybe a little bit.” You shrug, settling back between his legs. “I just can’t help myself though. You look so pretty like this.” 

“You like calling me pretty, don’t you?”

You shrug again and resume your stroking on his aching cock.

“And you like being called pretty.”  You challenge, speeding up your hand. 

Jake’s only answer is tossing his head back and arching his back, the muscles in his arms straining and flexing as he fights against the restraints. You move your hand quickly, so quickly that your forearm burns. Pleas and whines fall from Jake’s lips without so much as a breath in between, his body fighting between pleasure and pain. You can tell that he’s close, his mouth completely open and his chest flushed and glistening with sweat. You keep going a moment longer before bringing your hand away completely. 

“Y/n.” Jake cries, his hips rising off the bed to try and follow your hand. 

“I told you not to cum yet.” You remind him, laughing at the desperation on his face. “You’re not gonna cum yet, right?” 

He shakes his head quickly and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. 

“I won’t. I won’t.” He whines and you reward the plea in his tone by starting again. This time keeping your pace deliberately too slow. “More.” He begs you after what could have only been a minute, those beautiful eyes of his boring into your own. 

“And you won’t cum?” 

“Promise.” 

You give him what he wants, pumping him faster and pressing your thumb into the spot just below his head just like you know he likes. He’s panting and writhing beneath you and his legs begin to shake as he nears that edge yet again. 

“Jake.” You warn, but you don’t let up, you don’t slow down. 

His whole body is tense and his muscles still fight against where his arms are restrained. 

“Jake.” You warn again and his mouth drops open with a loud moan. “You better not cum.” 

“I can’t- I’m gonna- fuck, stop!” 

You do and he sighs in some mix of both relief and disappointment. He’d been so close. 

“Good boy.” His eyes crack open at that and a tired smile graces his lips. 

“It’s definitely gone to your head.” He says, trying to get his breathing back under control. 

You giggle as you reach behind you and unclip your bra. Jake’s eyes fix on your bare breasts and he bites his lip. 

“This is torture not being able to touch you.” 

“I know.” You laugh as you slide your soaked panties down your legs and toss them somewhere in the room. “Now you know how I always feel.”

“You ever gonna let me cum? It fucking hurts.” He says, his voice pitched higher. 

“So whiny.” You tsk, settling yourself on top of his thighs. “But still being so good for me.” 

He preens at the compliment, practically purring beneath you. You reach up and unhook the silk from the hook, freeing his wrists at last. You grab them and place them on your hips for him. Immediately, his grip tightens. 

“I’m gonna ride you, Jakey. And you can touch me as much as you want now.” 

“Thank you.” He breathes out and you can tell that he really means it. 

You reach between your bodies and grip his cock, guiding his head to your folds and finally you sink down on him. The stretch is delightful and so so perfect and you both moan at the feeling. 

“Holy shit.” Jake says through clenched teeth, fingers digging into your hips. 

You rise up and slam back down on him, immediately setting a brutal pace that you know neither of you will last long with. Already, you can feel your second orgasm approaching and Jake is absolutely losing it beneath you. His eyes have clamped shut and his mouth hangs open. Moans slip past him with each thrust and you can feel his cock twitching inside you. 

You stop for a moment and he makes to protest before realizing what you're doing. You rise up and plant both of the balls of your feet on the bed, squatting over him as you start to bounce again. This time, the new angle allows him to slip even deeper into you.

"Jesus."

"Fuck, you fill me up so good, Jake."

Your thighs burn but you don't stop. You won't stop if only to keep that face on Jake for a moment longer. His brows are tipped upwards, his hair sticks to his face from sweat, and his plump lips are parted in almost a snarl. You've never seen him like this – as if he truly is doing all he can to not fall apart this very second. Jake has always been vocal during sex, never afraid of moaning or crying out when something feels good (so unlike most men that you've been with). But tonight it's like he couldn't control himself if he tried. Moans, whines, even whimpers fills the space between you, mixing so beautifully with the sound of his cock moving through your wetness that has begun to drip down your thighs. This moment, here with him like this... it's like Heaven on Earth.

“I’m gonna cum.” Jake tells you and you keep going, nodding and crying out as his tip hits that special place inside of you. “Fuck, Y/n.”

It’s a warning. You’ve been together for years but you’ve never let him cum inside of you before – no matter how many times you’ve seen the disappointment in his eyes when you ask him to pull out. It was never the right time. You’re both always so busy and you never wanted to risk it. But right now... you don’t care. He’s always been patient with you. Never pushes for kids when he knows you’re not quite ready even though he wants them so badly. And really, the odds of getting pregnant with where you are in your cycle right now are low anyway. But you find yourself thinking that if tonight doesn't work you'll be trying again soon. You want this with him. It’s almost the New Year and what better a way to move into 2024? Jake has proven time and time again that he will always be by your side and as you ride him, after he's given himself wholly and totally over to you... fuck, it sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.

“Y/n! I can’t hold it! Fuck!” Jake’s voice is desperate, his body so tense you’re worried he might hurt himself somehow. 

“Give to me, Jake!” You cry through a moan, your hips grinding into his at a merciless pace. “Fill me up! Fuck, please.”

That’s all it takes. Jake yells as he finishes, a feral growl starting deep in his chests that builds up into a mighty cry as he spills into you. You can’t hold on any longer yourself and your orgasm tears through you. Stars explode behind your eyes and Jake’s body twitches and shakes beneath you as your walls clench around his spent cock. With one last exhausted roll of your hips, you collapse at Jake’s side. 

“Shit.” Jake breaths out, his chest heaving and his skin slick with sweat. "Best sex we've ever had."

“Yeah. Fuck.” 

“I-" Jake swallows once and inhales deeply through his nose for a moment. "Thank you. ” His voice sounds tired but soft and warm. Those two words are simple, all he can think of to say. But they carry the weight of everything and you both know it. He rolls over to face you, those chocolate eyes of his looking at you with so much love you think you might cry.  

“Merry Christmas.” You answer him softly in return. It seems you also had one last gift to give him this Christmas.  

He laughs and the sound rumbles deep in his chest. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

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[jolalibrary]

this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away. 

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist. 

Not that he cares. 

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm. 

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint. 

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper. 

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years. 

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag. 

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right. 

Here, he can relax. 

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck. 

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation. 

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home. 

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you. 

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon. 

Simon. 

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore. 

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one. 

And then you begin calling him Riley. 

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. 

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural. 

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses. 

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song,  but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking. 

He had smirked at that. 

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat. 

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same. 

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either. 

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening. 

Keep me company. 

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once. 

Now, it’s normal. 

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you. 

“You back for long, Riley?” 

“No.”

“Never are.” 

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.” 

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong. 

Especially when you start it first. 

“What would you do if I was?” 

That’s new. 

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing. 

But then, you are—to him at least. 

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood. 

You’re too good for him. 

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets. 

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so. 

It’s hard though. 

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral. 

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but. 

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him. 

Not that he complains. 

He’s done the same. 

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock. 

Tonight he’d likely do the same. 

Winter is in full effect when he next returns. 

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt. 

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening. 

“The usual?” 

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him. 

“Surprise me, sweetheart.” 

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn. 

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew. 

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting. 

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice. 

“Go on, try it, Simon.” 

And he does. 

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth. 

“What y’made me?” 

“You like it?” 

Yes. 

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days. 

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now. 

He drinks it. He even orders it again. 

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car. 

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you. 

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him. 

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap. 

Not that he would. 

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip. 

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb. 

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things. 

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his. 

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises. 

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park. 

“You back for long?” 

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.” 

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye. 

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face. 

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?” 

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun. 

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.” 

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face. 

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.” 

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.” 

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold. 

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun. 

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?” 

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.” 

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body. 

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart. 

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes. 

But—

“Next time.” 

“Yeah?” 

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods. 

He got your number. 

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers. 

So he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it. 

A time. An address. 

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable. 

Fuckin’ fuck. 

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder. 

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better. 

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream. 

So he sucks. Bites. Nips. 

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears. 

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in. 

So fuckin’ stubborn. 

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name. 

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break. 

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you. 

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream. 

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to. 

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big. 

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for. 

You now being one of them. 

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t. 

But then neither does he. 

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt. 

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth. 

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave. 

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are. 

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck. 

And then he wonders about something else. 

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life? 

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream. 

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished. 

It has become a habit. 

You have become a habit. 

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is. 

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness. 

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him. 

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there. 

Simon lets you be, too. 

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted. 

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length. 

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert. 

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance. 

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep. 

“What would my alias be?” 

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something. 

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal. 

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once. 

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.” 

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails. 

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough. 

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night. 

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.” 

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.” 

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding. 

“Snow.” 

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect. 

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure. 

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar. 

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him. 

And he wants to kiss you. 

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him. 

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows. 

His throat suddenly dry. 

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air. 

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price. 

It’s stretched on for months. A year. 

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it. 

Loves it. 

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing. 

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why. 

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny. 

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope. 

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him. 

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think. 

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you. 

So, Simon said your name. 

Simple. Easy. 

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share. 

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too. 

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste. 

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot. 

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own. 

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares. 

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?” 

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family. 

The moment is tender, almost fragile. 

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts. 

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…” 

“What?” 

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain. 

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes. 

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.” 

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me. 

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him. 

But it does. 

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake. 

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you. 

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something. 

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead. 

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

And he knows he should just ask again. 

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three. 

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him. 

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.  

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty. 

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt. 

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions. 

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.  

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him. 

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it. 

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep. 

Yet, here you are. 

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave. 

You are important. You matter. 

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with. 

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?” 

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him. 

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.” 

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves. 

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

[charmandabear]

No Sandra Dee

Summary:

One quick little lie to your parents, and you and your hot vampire greaser boyfriend have the entire night to yourselves.

Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.3k

Tags/Warnings: reader is in high school but age isn't specified, reckless driving, 1950s greaser au, loss of virginity/innocence, vaginal fingering, piv sex, blood drinking, degredation if you squint, rough sex if you squint, praise kink if you squint, reader is a bit of a needy slut (affectionate)

I tell you the way this idea grabbed me by the collar and shoved me up against a locker and told me to give it my lunch money... I wrote it over the course of a few hours and it refused to let me go until I finished. I saw dovah_vakarian's Greaser Astarion and with some egging on from the lovely folks in the Rabid House server (join if you want a good hang) this little ditty was born. No thoughts, just greaser Astarion. (Dovah was kind enough to let me use their render for the cover photo are you SEEING IT? Are you KIDDING ME? Go give them a follow, right fucking now.)

Read on AO3

“Alright, Ma, Pa, I’m off to Suzie’s for the night!” Your heart is pounding in your ears as you shout the lie, and you can only hope it’s not in your voice, too. 

“Alright dear, have fun! Don’t forget to remind Mr. and Mrs. Johnson about the church potluck on Sunday!” your mother calls back, and without another word you slip out the front door and into the cool night air. You adjust your poodle skirt and bound down the front steps of your home, turning down the street where he’s waiting. He looks like an absolute treat, too, leaning against his shiny black convertible, the collar of his leather jacket popped, cigarette held delicately between long slender fingers. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of those fingers. You know better than anyone what they’re capable of.

“Darling,” he greets you with that adorable foreign lilt of his. You can already feel your cheeks beginning to flush as he looks you up and down, sizing you up like a piece of meat. “Ready to leave?”

You nod vigorously. “Ma and Pa think I’m at Suzie’s, and she has strict instructions for what to say if they call.” Your mouth grows dry at the sight of his devastating smile.

“That’s my girl,” he coos, running a knuckle down your jaw and under your chin. He takes one last drag off his cigarette and drops it, grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his boot. He breathes out the cloud of smoke that obscures his features, and you inhale instinctively. The acrid smell is one that you used to absolutely hate, but now that you’re starting to associate it with him, it sends a little thrill down your spine every time. He slides into the driver’s seat and you throw your overnight bag in the back. 

“So, Astarion, where are we going?” You try to keep your tone light, but the quaver in your voice gives away your nervous excitement. He slides his red eyes over to you and a mischievous smile plays on his lips as he revs up the t-bird’s loud engine.

“Can’t some things remain a surprise?” he says slyly, and the sultry tone of his voice makes you unconsciously lick your lips. You keep your hands in your lap as he fiddles with the radio, and soon the dulcet tones of Nat King Cole fill the car. 

It’s not long before he’s speeding down the highway, and you haven’t the faintest clue where he could possibly be taking you. He pulls out the cigarette from behind his ear and pops it into his mouth.

“Sweetheart, can you grab my lighter? It’s in the pocket of my jeans,” he mumbles around the cigarette, and you glance nervously at the tight denim on his hips.

“Um, sure, just keep your eyes on the road,” you say automatically, feeling like you could kick yourself for sounding like such a square. But he just chuckles as you lean over and wiggle your fingers into his pocket. You can smell his cologne from here, a heady spiced smell that makes your chest ache. After a bit of struggling, you pull the zippo out from his pocket and flip it open for him to light his cigarette. You assume he’s going to let you bring the flame to him, but instead he fully turns his head toward you, red eyes boring into yours as you light it. 

“Astarion, careful,” you hiss nervously, your fingers shaking as you try to light the cigarette as quickly as possible. There isn’t another car in sight, but you’ve heard too many stories of reckless joyrides turning fatal.

He takes a puff and laughs, a cool, velvety sound. Your eyes trace his profile, his perfect nose and jawline, and the two small puncture wounds on his neck. You’ve fooled around with him a bit before, but you’ve never gone all the way. And you’ve always been morbidly curious about what it would be like for him to bite you. His eyes flick towards you and you flush, feeling like you’ve been caught. 

“Someone is having naughty thoughts,” he sings, and a timid giggle bubbles out of your lips. 

“What?” you squeak, and then clear your throat to try to sound more cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so?” He takes a hand off the steering wheel and gently runs his fingers down the side of your neck, and you can’t suppress the moan his touch elicits. “So you’re not thinking about…” His hand continues its journey downward and stops right at your breast, fondling lightly over your sweater. You bite your lip as he squeezes the flesh, and even through the two layers of wool and satin, your nipples grow stiff with arousal. He pinches it between his fingers and you need to press your thighs together. You can already feel the cotton gusset of your panties growing wet, and with his heightened sense of smell, he knows it, too. 

“A-Astarion, eyes on the r-road,” you stammer, but he just grins wickedly before pressing his foot down on the gas, inching up dangerously over the speed limit. 

“Darling, I promise I won’t take my eyes off the road for a second,” he says with a wicked grin, lit cigarette bouncing with every word. He keeps his promise, but his hand continues to wander southward, brushing against your thigh. You squirm and whimper, simultaneously desperate for his touch and wanting him to stop. You wrestle with your conflicting desires for a moment, before temptation wins and you let your knees fall open for him. “Such a good girl for me,” he purrs as he pulls up the hem of your skirt, and even you can smell the debauchery wafting from between your legs. 

“Just please,” you whine as his fingers skate across your inner thigh, teasing you mercilessly.

“Please what, darling?” His voice is infuriatingly innocent while he’s making the dirtiest thoughts run through your mind.

“Please be careful,” you plead, your hips bucking forward to chase his touch. He steps on the gas again, increasing the speed even more. Your heart begins to pound loudly, and you can’t tell if it’s from hurtling down the highway or his fingers dancing just outside your panties.

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I can do both,” he pouts as the pad of his thumb runs up the length of your slit, and you grip the bar on the door as a moan escapes your lips. He begins to retract his hand and slows the car down slightly, causing you to whine instinctually in protest. “So love, which will it be?”

You stare in horror at your beautiful vampire boyfriend’s face. He doesn’t have the same stakes as you, he’d be able to walk away from a car wreck just fine, but you, not so much. But your cunt is aching from his relentless teasing, and your judgment is clouded with lust.

“Just… quickly, please,” you whine, and his lips stretch wide into a satisfied grin. He slams his foot down on the gas pedal as his fingers return to your soaked panties, tearing an unseemly groan from your throat. He pushes the gusset aside and slides his fingers along your slick folds as you grip the seat. You have no idea if your primary emotion is fear or arousal, but either way it's exhilarating.

“So wet, you dirty girl,” he tuts, and you can only cant your hips into his hand in response. “If only Ma and Pa could see their darling daughter now.” He inserts a slender digit and you push a saddle shoe against the dashboard to brace yourself.

“Ah- ‘starion,” you moan, your knuckles beginning to turn white from how hard you're clutching the leather seat. He pumps his finger lazily, still looking at the dark road ahead as it flies by. 

“What would Pastor Tom say if he knew you were getting fingered by your greaser boyfriend in the front seat of his t-bird.” He punctuates the filthy statement by inserting another digit, and you squirm into his hand needily. “Such a perfect little slut for me.” He curls his fingers and palms your clit, and you rock back and forth in the seat trying to push yourself down on him deeper.

“Please, ‘starion, I need more,” you pant and you catch the speedometer breaching 100 mph as he increases the pace of his fingers. He uses the heel of his hand to rub against your clit and you can feel your orgasm building deep in your core. “Yes, please, just like that.”

“My filthy girl, so good for me,” he praises you as you whimper and moan, and you grip his wrist to control his touch. You buck desperately against him, and your hand not holding his begins to pinch and fondle your breast, chasing your pleasure. “You hungry little slut, you can’t get enough, can you?”

You’re so close, and through your half-lidded eyes you see Astarion take his other hand off the steering wheel to take a drag on his cigarette. You cry out in both horror and pleasure as you crash over the edge, fucking yourself on his hand and gripping the back of the seat. Ripples of pleasure reverberate through your body offset by your heart pounding in fear. As the waves subside, Astarion pulls his fingers out and you can feel the car slowing. You’re still breathing heavily as he pulls off at an exit, driving deeper into the woods. 

As soon as the car rolls to a stop, he growls, “Get out,” as he crushes his cigarette in the ashtray. You scramble out of the car and before you can get your bearings he’s got you pushed up against the trunk of the car, kissing you forcefully. You paw wantonly at his neck, just barely keeping up.

“Please, defile me,” you groan as he pushes his bulge into your mound. You slide your fingers into his curls and guide his mouth towards your neck. “Bite me, Astarion.”

“What a disappointment you are to your parents,” he grunts into your ear before sinking his fangs into your jugular. The pain is exactly as exquisite as you had imagined, like icy shards that melt into a warm serenity. He takes deep gulps of your blood, and with each swig his erection grows harder against you. You grind into him, desperate to know what it’s like to feel him inside you.

He pulls away from your neck all too soon, but it’s worth it to see him panting, hair disheveled, and a monstrous bloody grin on his face. “Turn around,” he snarls, but before you can comply he’s grabbed you roughly by the waist and done it for you. He bends you over the trunk and rucks your poodle skirt up to your waist. It doesn’t take him long to pull himself out of his jeans, his cock hard and glistening. You try to turn around to see it but he grabs a hold of your ponytail, keeping your head firmly forward. 

“P-please, Astarion, I need it,” you beg, standing on your toes as you present your throbbing cunt to him. He pushes your panties to the side and aligns himself with your entrance, teasing it lightly with the head of his cock.

“Their perfect little cheerleader with the perfect grades,” he growls and you can only mewl helplessly in response. He pushes into you and you both groan, the sound mixing amongst the ambience of the forest. “You’re all mine, now,” he hisses as he bottoms out, and you claw at the shiny surface of his car. He shoves your face against the cold metal and begins to thrust into you. You cry out with every stretch, the mixture of pain and pleasure becoming quickly overwhelming. 

“Harder, Astarion,” you grunt and he yanks your ponytail back further, stretching out your neck and forcing you to look at him above and behind you. He obliges your request, pounding you into the car forcefully. His face contorts with pleasure as he slides in and out of your tight cunt, and you can already feel yourself building up to a second orgasm. You push yourself back into him, desperate to feel more, when suddenly he pulls out and you whimper from sudden emptiness. But before you can protest, he forcefully turns you around again and shoves himself back into you.

“I want to see your face when I make you cum,” he growls, and you wrap your legs around him to pull him in closer. You grab onto the back of his leather jacket as he fucks you mercilessly against the back of his car. 

“Please, Astarion,” you whimper, each thrust of his cock pushing your breath out of you. “Please don’t stop.” His rutting hips begin to grow uneven, he pounds into you a few more times before you feel the pulsing of his cock against your walls. His face in the throws of passion, his mouth still slightly bloody and his hair falling into his eyes are enough to set off your second climax. You don’t hold anything back, your cries mixed with swears and his name repeated over and over echoing off the trees.

You cling to the back of his neck as you both slow, taking your time to regain control over your breathing. Eventually he pulls out and sets you back down onto your feet. Your legs quake and he laughs as you need to grab his arms to stay steady.

“You said you wanted to be defiled,” he concedes, and you pull him into a comparatively chaste kiss.

“My parents don’t expect me home until morning,” you hum against his lips, “and I can think of a few more ways to defile me until then.”

[prettyboykatsuki]

✮  tags ; desi-coded reader (tbh...specifically bangladeshi dkjfsdj), pre-wedding celebration, so blatantly selfship coded i might have to delete it if the shame kicks in , 18+

Night air wisps against your warm skin like thin threads of silk as you step away from the party - with the assistance of Sakura, who held the door open like his life depended on it.

Your arms are stiff from how long you've been holding them in the same position, but after upwards of three hours - all the mendhi required for your upcoming wedding ceremony has been put on.

From the tips of your fingers all the way down to your elbows and even some parts of your feet. It's the one aspect of the celebration you've always looked forward too. When you glance down and see it, its completely surpassed your expectations

Through the light of your window is your family and friends, traditional folk music and ballad love songs play as guest dance and laugh in the warm lights of your living room. Laughter bubbles through the crack letting out some air and you smile to yourself, careful not to touch anything.

The feeling of drying mendhi on your skin is nostalgic even in it's mild discomfort, a slight itch in the intricate designs covering your palms. You sniff a little from the cool air, lungs filling with the earthy, heavy scent of mendhi paste and the sharp bitterness of mustard oil.

You slip further away until you end up enough distance away for the sound to quiet. Crickets chirp and the wind blows - as if the whole world is feeling soft.

You aren't expecting Umemiya to pop out from anywhere. He must've noticed you leaving and followed you out. You try not to smile and fail when he makes his way towards you.

Umemiya grins brighter than the sun. In the dead of night and even amidst the pleasant atmosphere - nothing shines quite like him. He looks good in the clothes your extended family so painstakingly picked out for him. A panjabi and salwar to match, a pleasantly deep shade of blue to go with his eyes. Your kameez is more complicated, but the tailoring similarities of the florals and beadwork make you happy no matter how trivial. It feels a little more worth getting three outfits tailored looking at him.

He cuts a fine figure in general, you think.

He approaches first with worry. A furrow in his brow.

"You okay?"

You smile at him and then smile a little more at the way it makes him relax instantly.

"I'm good." You take a deep breath, hands stiff at your sides and suddenly itching to find his to hold. "Was getting hot and stiff sitting for so long."

"Oh, is it done finally? Am I allowed to look?"

"Were you gonna avoid looking at my arms for three days if I said no?" You tease. Umemiya's eyes fill with mirth and sincerity.

"If I had too."

Silly. You love him, you think. You shake your head. "You can look. Might be a little hard to see even with the street light though."

"That's okay." He says, and there's something deeply doting in his voice that makes you feel like you might sink. "An excuse to get close to you is always nice to have."

You hold out your arms and lift your palms gently to Umemiya. His admiration makes your heart swell ten folds. His hands are careful as they slide underneath your own decorate ones, careful not to touch the actual design but to support your forearms and wrists.

"It's so beautiful."

"Right? She did a good job. She's doing Kotoha-chans now."

He makes a little affirmative noise while he draws his eyes along the different shapes and patters. Traditional shapes of roses and marigolds along with inspired cuts. There's a mix of imagery, well integrated - patterns of cranes and cherry blossoms well woven into it as symbolism. Umemiya pauses, most certainly noticing the nuance.

"I like it a lot. You're gonna look so beautiful."

You brush past the words, unable to respond to them without feeling earnest flush. Umemiya is undeterred by this, just offers a smile and another light touch. He leans it to place a kiss to your temple before pulling back.

A thought pops into your head. You wanted to show him eventually - you thought at least after you washed it off, but now seems like a better time.

"Oh and..." You carefully hold your wrist up to him. "See?"

He squints for a long while before breaking out into an impossible grin. Hidden in the wrists of your mendhi design are the characters of his name - integrated into the piece. You can see the very moment it clicks.

"Is that...is it traditional?"

"Maybe? It's common at least. I thought it'd be more special with the Japanese characters though.”

A little nod to him and to you. He's silent for a long while, deep in thought about something. You don't know what exactly.

"I love it," He says, then looks up at you. He presses his forehead against yours, a gentle tap that still manages to catch you off guard as he does. The decorative teep on your forehead presses a little into his skin as he does it but you don't make a move to pull away from his affection. "I love you."

You tilt your head a little, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow.

"That's a relief."

He shakes his head. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Could you feed me something off the table inside? I'm hungry."

He almost seems upset he didn't think of it first. He nods. "I'll be right back. Stay put but be careful."

"I'm right infront of the house Hajime."

"It's always good to be careful. I'd be sad if my wife went missing just days before,"

“I’ll be safe,”

“And I’ll be quick,”

He pauses before he goes back through the door, turning suddenly before he smiles again. Impossibly gently, he runs his fingers through his hair before running back to you.

Another kiss to the corner of your mouth followed with one to your lips. The last one carefully place on the drying mendhi on your arms just where his name sits.

“I love you,”

You soften. “I love you too, Hajime. You can dote on me as much as you want when you come back.”

He grins. “I’ll hold you to that.”

glossary of terms:

mendhi - more commonly known as henna, a special skin safe paste used for decorative designs. commonly red or black.

panjabi - bangla word for kurta. basically a long item of menswear that stops just past the knee or above.

teep - also known as bindi. a decorative sticker or red dot placed in the center of the forehead.

** more cultural notes: in bangladesh mustard oil is often used to deepen the color of mendhi. it normally goes on after or while almost dry.

[maryangelex]

Concupiscence

Part 1: Skull Masks in Haunted Pubs

Simon Ghost Riley x f!Reader

Part 2

summary: you’re the owner of a pub, and you start a new fling with the masked stranger that’s become a regular, Ghost.

tags/warnings: 18+, smut, nipple play, sex on a table, barkeeper/pub owner AU, protective! Ghost, rough sex, p in v sex, dirty talking, fingering, hookup, spit as lube

a/n: behold…a new series!!! I may or may not have had this one marinading on my ao3. I wrote this taking place as a continuation of the final scene at the bar in MW2!!!

I hope yall like this one :^)

Thursdays were the slowest days at your pub. Only the regular blokes that practically inhabited the stools at the counter were the ones drinking their sorrows away on days like Thursdays, especially at 6 in the evening.  You had opted to preoccupy yourself with polishing the already clean pint glasses, not having much else to do. Your mind was nowhere in the room, thinking about what you’d make yourself for dinner later tonight, hoping a few more bored bastards showed up to your place to charge their tab and keep your business afloat. 

The sound of the news on the TV and the tuned-out sound of the playlist you kept consistently playing on the speakers were the only things keeping the pub’s heart barely beating, and keeping you from falling asleep on your feet. 

When you couldn’t find any more glasses to shine, you leaned over on the counter with a heavy sigh as you scanned the pub for anything else to entertain yourself with. Your eyes landed on a peculiar group sitting together at the farthest high tops, folks you hadn’t seen before or at least not frequently enough for you to remember their faces. 

A woman accompanied by three other men. She looked rugged and stern like she was the most authoritative figure of the four. Maybe the oldest of the men shared a rank just as high as hers; tough-looking and masculine with his facial hair. There were two younger men who looked intriguing, both of them strikingly handsome; one that had attractive features with a charming yet focused face, the other one with all-consuming blue eyes and a particularhairstyle to say the least. 

The last one of them, the one sitting farthest, was the one that really caught your eye. It was difficult to make out past the black hood, but he donned what looked like a skull-decorated balaclava and eyes like black holes in a galaxy. The grim reaper himself. 

That one looked familiar. You had a feeling in your gut that you had seen him before, that you had poured him that same glass of bourbon on various occasions in the past. It was difficult not to recognize someone who looked like that as a regular.

You decided that since there wasn’t much else to do, there would be no harm in listening in, right? You were a good listener, you kept to yourself, having a good handful of secrets you made sure you’d take to the grave. You were attentive and respectful, careful not to disrupt them or make it known you were casually entertaining yourself with whatever matter they were discussing. 

Something about Iran, cartels, Russians…something else about a nationalist ambush. Christ, you felt like it was a mistake to listen in, maybe it really wasn’t for you to hear after all. But you were in it now, too late to step back. Plus, you couldn’t help but be veryintrigued. 

Through the corner of your eye, you say them slide a piece of paper— no, a photograph— across the counter, each one taking a look at its contents until it reached the reaper, who gave the others a look back with those sunken eyes of his. You felt a chill even though the look wasn’t even directed at you, feeling like the temperature had dropped a few degrees for a moment. 

You caught a glimpse of the bearded one leaning into the woman and heard him whisper what seemed like a name. With that, their conversation dissipated, or at least it did to you, now really feeling a heavy weight to what they were talking about. You were snapped back to work by another customer requesting a second round, to which you complied by pouring him another drink. 

“Oi, lass, over here,” you heard your attention being requested by the group of strangers. You turned to look and saw the edgy-haired one, a Scot, signal you with his two fingers and a cheeky grin; you approached him to get his order. 

“I’ll take another one o’ these, bonnie,” he shook his empty beer bottle gently as a signal. 

“‘Nother one for me s’well, miss,” the pretty one next to him said, proving to you the charm you inferred he’d have when you saw him. 

You nodded at them with a polite look as you took two beer bottles. You took one of them and turned it upside down, popping open the cap by hooking them together. The Scot’s grin only grew bigger, his eyes lighting up at your little party trick before you handed each the beers, receiving a ‘cheers’ from each one. 

When you returned to your spot at the center, you felt a gaze pierce through you, a feeling creeping on your back. The same feeling you get when you feel watched like there’s a presence behind you. With a subtle glance over your shoulder, you saw the reaper return to the conversation, noting it had been him whose stare was like a ghost haunting you. You brushed it off as you tended to someone else. 

The conversation from the group changed into being more lighthearted after a while. You had busied yourself chatting with some of the other regulars but you couldn't help the lingering intrigue you had on the unfamiliar four. Their banter became slightly louder after a few drinks, with some laughs being added in. 

Every now and then you felt the weight of eyes on you again, a persistent feeling that you couldn't shake off. 

Eventually, the group dissolved one by one. The blonde was the first to leave, followed by the handsome one accompanied by the bearded one, and only the Scot and the reaper were left. The Scot was the one carrying most of the conversation, laughing the loudest and calling you over and over to refill their drinks. 

You had brought him his fourth beer of the night by now and filled the reaper's glass of bourbon only twice. You wondered how his glass was even draining given that his balaclava covered his entire face. But you served them both with your usual smile and didn't talk much unless being spoken to. 

He finally left with a stumble in his step; you heard the masked one ask him if he needed to take him home and heard the Scot dismiss him with a slur and some Gaelic phrase you didn't understand. 

But time passed and the reaper was still perched in the same spot, nursing on his third glass of bourbon. 

You eyed him every now and then, as if calculating how to approach him, or if you even should approach him. He was broad and large even sitting down, and wearing a mask like that and a hood anyone would be intimidated, but not you. 

You decided to approach him like he was a docile large dog, the bottle of bourbon you'd been pouring him was in your hand in case he requested it. 

"Need another one of those, big guy?" you quipped with a playful smile and tipped the bottle at his near-empty glass, hoping you didn't overstep with the term of endearment. 

The giant shook his head, " S'alright, love. Cheers." was all he said, swirling the drink in his hand. You stood still in front of him for a moment when he looked up at you. His dark honey-brown eyes pinned you in place.

You let go of the breath you didn't know you were holding before speaking again, "Have I seen you 'round here before?" 

"Maybe, 've come 'ere a few times," you felt a chill as his eyes scanned you up and down quickly. It wasn't fear you felt, more like intrigue. 

"I had a feeling," you chuckled, "You looked a bit familiar." You leaned slightly on the bar, supporting yourself with one arm and the other on your hip. 

"Don't get many blokes comin' 'round wearin' a mask, eh?" 

You laughed a bit louder at his comment, "Yeah I'd say you're the only one to come in like that." 

Even with a mask, you could tell he was smiling a bit by the way his eyes lightly squinted. They looked softer. It was like you could read his expressions through the mask and it was a language only you knew how to understand. 

"What's your name, stranger?" you asked, feeling like it might be too much to ask him to tell you but it wouldn't hurt to try. You wanted to put a name to the reaper that was idling at your pub apparently a handful of times by now. 

"Ghost," was all he said.

"Ghost," you repeated. Of course, with a look like that, he wouldn't tell you his real name. But now you at least had something to call him. You told him your name in return. 

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Ghost." 

"Likewise, princess," his eyes never broke away from yours as you spoke. He gently pushed his glass towards you, signaling you to pour him another one to which you complied, not holding back the smirk that grew on your lips at the sound of the nickname. 

You were called from across the bar by another customer and gave Ghost an apologetic look before leaving to where you had been called. 

As the night grew older and your pub filled slowly, you and your new regular exchanged looks from across the bar. Until you looked over your shoulder one final time and he was gone, glass empty on the counter. 

Ghost, you thought, how fitting for the way he had come and gone just like one. 

The next couple of days you saw him again, sitting at the same spot you met him, at the very farthest corner of the bar where he was left undisturbed by everyone else at the bar. No matter how loud the pub was or how crowded, you saw him there sitting still like a shadow downing his usual glass of bourbon. 

You exchanged light banter every night, finding time between your customers to go and talk to him, even if it was minimal. You started looking forward to it, even, finding comfort in the few words you two exchanged every now and then. Otherwise, he'd be eyeing you like a black hawk from across the bar, like you had a benevolent specter haunting you every night. 

On a particularly rowdy night, you felt overwhelmed by the amount of men at the pub. There was a football match at the pub and although you had years of experience with men getting loud and causing a ruckus, it didn't fail to put you on edge every time it happened.

You dealt with it well, putting them in their place and telling them to pipe down whenever necessary. You had strong enough character to defend yourself and you were independent enough to do so. It was nothing you couldn't manage.

You were filling up pint after pint from the draft and handing them over to the people around the pub, balancing trays on your shoulder back and forth from the bar to the tables, the other employees that helped you on nights like these were just as busy.

Every time your team scored, the men at the pub went wild, beer being spilled onto the floor and on each other, and the same was for when they missed a goal. 

There was one bloke that kept making the most noise, spilling the most bear, and acting the biggest fool. He was on your last nerve by now, making you exasperated with his behavior but you still managed. You were carrying a tray of pints over to his table, but at the moment you neared them the team scored a goal, to which he shot up from his seat at full force and tipped the tray on your hand. Beer was spilled on you and the floor, but worst of all it spilled over him. 

You were fuming at this, but more so at the way the man gave you shit for it. 

"Oi, what the fuck?! Ye stupid o' wha'?" he spat, wiping the beer off himself. "Fuckin' whore, pretendin' to run a pub when ya should be 'ome givin' yer man a proper wank, eh?" He guffawed with the rest of the goons sitting at his table. 

Your blood boiled at his words, and you filled your lungs with a breath to tell the fucker off and kick him out of your pub. But you were cut off by the sight of a large shadow walking past you to the man laughing. 

"I'd get the fuck out o' here if I were you," Ghost was standing inches from the man, towering over him like an omnipotent being; his words were through clenched teeth, voice a threatening growl. The man practically shrunk underneath him, his shit-eating grin disappearing into the face of someone who had just shat themselves; he might as well have with someone like Ghost telling him to fuck off.

He turned on his heel ready to bolt like a dog with his tail between his legs, but Ghost caught a fistful of his shirt to bring him to a halt. "Apologize to the lass, yeah?" he commanded to the man. 

The man looked at you with a panicked face, sweat forming at his brow as he whimpered in Ghost's grasp. "S-sorry, miss!" he stammered, and Ghost let go of him, giving him a simple groan in response as a final warning before the man bolted out the door. 

The pub had fallen silent until then, and so had you as you watched Ghost basically defend your honor. He gave you a silent nod, "Y'know where to find me if you need anythin' else tonight," his voice was quiet but assuring. You nodded back gratefully before watching him return to his post on the stool at the bar. 

You scanned the room of onlookers, all eyes on you. "Right! Everyone as you were! Nothin' to see here but the match, yeah?!" The crowd cheered at your words of encouragement and there were a few scattered claps and whistles as everything returned to normal, better now without that idiot soiling the mood. 

The rest of the night you were able to handle everyone until the match ended. Ghost's presence lingered, his form was still and camouflaging, blending into the shadows like he usually did. All you knew was that he was there and he was watching over you. You continued to glance over at him to confirm he was still there and he was, this time he didn't disappear. 

It was nearing 1 am and the crowd had disappeared completely by now. Your employees had helped you close and had said their goodbyes. The only one lingering was, of course, Ghost, fidgetting with his empty glass. 

"Anythin' else for you, big guy?" you asked with a sigh as you opened a bottle of beer for yourself with one of your rings, chugging its contents to quench your thirst. Ghost hummed and shook his head no. You approached him, supporting yourself on your elbows against the bar as another heavy sigh left you. 

"As much as I love your company, I am exhausted." 

"I'll be out o' your hair soon. Can I walk you home?" he asked generously, his eyes were soft again as they looked at you, melting you with the heat in their gaze. 

You shook your head no, "I live upstairs. This used to be an inn and I turned it into a pub," you pointed up, signaling the second level, "But separated a bit of space for myself." 

Ghost hummed again, "Smart girl." 

You took a beat before talking again, "Thank you for tonight, Ghost." you said with a soft tone, full of earnestness. 

"No need to thank me, princess." 

You took another swig of your beer and chuckled, "Let me make it up to you, please?" 

He eyed you silently for a moment, and you gave him innocent eyes that pleaded that he let you make it up to him. He took a moment before shaking his head again and adverting his eyes, "S'alright, love." 

You sighed and stood up straight, giving up on your efforts. "I'll be closing soon so, let me know when you're on your way out, alright? Night, Ghost" You gave him a smile before you spun on your heel and headed to the door leading to the small office where you kept your business paperwork. Once there, you rummaged through the desk, looking for your log sheet and the annoying paperwork you had to get done before heading home. You expected to hear the front door closing, signaling Ghost's departure, but instead, you heard the door to the office open. When you turned to look, you found Ghost by the doorway, approaching you.

Your breath hitched when he walked in, now standing just a couple of steps from you. You pressed yourself against the desk, the room feeling smaller now that his large form was so close to you, occupying the room like a major presence. The closeness sent a chill down your spine. Again, you didn't feel scared of him, in this case, it was arousal that you felt at his proximity, at the way his body was so close and his posture so tall; the way his eyes were devouring you and making your skin feel hot. 

"Maybe there is somethin' you could do f'me," his tone was low and husky. He took just one step closer and scanned you for any signs of fear or hesitation, to which he found none. "If that's what you want." 

You held your breath, your heart beating out of your chest; your core hot and eager. You shook your head in response, hands gripping the edge of the table behind you. Ghost stepped closer, his body barely pressing against yours as he snaked a hand around your waist, pulling your front flush against his. You gasped a bit in surprise at the feeling. 

"Tell me to stop," he said softly, almost a whisper. 

"I don't want you to stop," you mustered, your eyes locking with his hungry ones as you let yourself relax in his grasp, as you let your legs slightly open around him to fit his large frame between them; a silent invitation. He accepted it with a groan as he pulled you impossibly closer with the hand on your waist and the other now gripping your thigh. You felt the heat of his body and the firmness in his crotch. 

Ghost's hands moved, scaling up your torso to firmly hold your breasts. He gave them a rough squeeze that made a whine escape your lips. His thumbs rubbed against your pert nipples through the fabric of your shirt. It made you whine once more, your lips parted and your cheeks dusted with a bright shade of pink. He moved his hands to the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, bunching it at the top of your chest to reveal your soft bralette, which he tugged aside to completely expose the tender mounds of flesh.

You hissed at the cold air before he took them in his large calloused hands once again. His palms were hot as he fondled your tits, fingers circling and rubbing on your nipples. You lolled your head to the side and let out a whimper as he toyed with you. You felt his hot breath near your face through the fabric of his mask, his eyes were making you feel more exposed than you were. Your nails dug into the wood. 

One of his hands trailed down your abdomen, finding its way between your legs. He slipped it beneath your skirt, pawing at the wet crotch of your panties. You bit your lip and felt a shockwave course through your body at the sensation of Ghost's hand against your pleading pussy. 

"Fuckin' hell," he breathed. 

He suddenly took hold of your waist again and spun you around. You gasped in surprise, now facing the desk and bracing yourself with your palms against it. Your ass was pressed against Ghost's solid bulge and you heard a growl come from the man. You felt his hands smooth over your body, burning you with his touch. You moaned when one of his hands took hold of your throat, pulling your body upright to press your back against his front. His other hand moved to one of your thighs, propping it on the table and prying you open for him. He lifted your skirt and exposed your ass. His hand smoothed over your asscheeks in a circle, squeezing the plumpness of it and spreading them apart. You whined and felt the growing wetness in your panties. 

Ghost took the string of your thong in two fingers and stretched it aside, bearing your swollen wet pussy to him and you heard the sound of a growl coming from him behind you. 

"Look at you," he said, swiping a finger through your wet folds. You responded with a pitiful moan. His fingers slid up and down your slit, coating them in your slick "So fuckin' wet for me, yeah?" You nodded in his grip before his arm moved to wrap over your chest, one of your breasts in his hand as he pressed you tight against him. 

His fingers played with your petals, teasing you before finding your puffy clit and rubbing tight circles over it. You moaned out again, letting your eyes flutter closed and relish in the pressure his fingertips applied on your swollen bud. 

"Like it, pretty girl?" Ghost's face was over your shoulder, you felt his breath on the crook of your neck. You nodded drunkenly. 

His pace on your clit quickened, drawing more moans out of you and making your pussy drenched; his hand was coated in your juices at this point. You felt his cock twitch in his jeans with every moan he drew from you, and it made your hips wiggle against him. 

He cursed under his breath, abandoning your clit to move his fingers inside of your entrance, forcing their way in rather aggressively. You yelped at the intrusion, feeling the sting of his thick fingers enter your tight hole. 

"G-Ghost!" you whimpered. 

"Fuck, love, I can't hold back longer...need to stretch this pussy to fuck my cock into you, alright?" He held your body with his other arm, supporting it against his chest. You held yourself up with one hand against the table and the other held Ghost's forearm over your chest. You let him drill his fingers into you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as lewd moans shamelessly came out of you. 

"Takin' my fingers so well...you'll like my cock just as much." 

"P-please," you whined, rocking your hips against his fingers, fucking yourself on them. He thrust them into you harshly, spreading your entrance and prepping you to take in his girth. His other hand returned to your throat, his grip firm and supporting you, making your back arch painfully as you pressed impossibly close against his muscular chest. 

"Such a good girl, lettin' me do what I want with you." 

You were left clenching around nothing when he took his fingers out of you, moving to undo his pants and take his throbbing cock out. You heard the rip of a condom wrapper behind you. You pleaded for him when you found yourself empty and yearning for release. But you felt his shaft sliding against your folds, feeling the subtle feeling of the rubber sheathing his cock. 

"You want this, princess?" 

"Y-yes!" you choked out pathetically, your pussy desperate to be stuffed. Ghost splayed his hand over your tummy, holding you in place while the hand on your throat came to cup your mouth. 

"Spit," he commanded, and you obeyed by spitting into his palm messily. His spit-covered hand went to his cock, pumping himself a couple of times to coat his cock in your spit. He held the base firmly as he aligned it with your entrance.

When he pushed in you felt just how massive he was, the width of his cock splitting you open as he bottomed out. Not just girthy, but long too. You felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix when his pelvis was flush against your ass. Your pussy clenched around him, earning a low groan from him. You felt an overwhelming pressure in the pit of your stomach, feeling extremely filled by him. 

"Gh-ghost...s'too big," you moaned, tears welling in your eyes. 

"I know, princess, but I promise I'll make it feel good," he hugged you against him with both arms wrapped around you, hot breath against your ear. You felt his hips move back, retracting his cock from you slowly before he slammed back inside. You cried out at the first harsh thrust, your leg on the table moved farther away to spread yourself wider, hoping it would grant him better access. 

Ghost repeated his movements for a few more thrusts before speeding up his pace, bullying his cock into you faster and deeper. You felt his cock stuffing you impossibly full and it made you a mess of moans as he repeatedly thrust into you. The sound of your moans was accompanied by that of his hips slapping against your ass. 

He squeezed his arms tighter around you, trapping you in his buff arms. You heard his panting breaths and low grunts against your ear despite your own moans growing louder and louder. 

"Feel good, pretty?" he huffed, his cock hitting the perfect spot within you to the point you were practically screaming. The knot in your stomach grew tighter, signaling you that your orgasm was close. 

"Fuck-- so fuckin' good," you slurred, your head thrown back over Ghost's shoulder behind you. You heard a breathless chuckle from him, "Good fuckin' girl." 

His speed quickened, his strokes shorter but still just as deep. It was driving you crazy, incoherent words falling from your lips, what sounded like a chant of pleas for him to let you cum, telling him how close you were. 

He brought a hand to your clit and rubbed tight circles on it with his middle and ring finger, adding a delicious amount of pressure that only brought you closer and closer to release. 

The combination of his relentless thrusts and the pressure on your clit pushed you over the edge, and after a few thrusts, you were cumming around Ghost's cock, letting out a choked-out sob indicating your orgasm. The feeling of your walls clenching and squeezing his cock made Ghost moan.

He held your shaking body up, taking a moment to slide his cock out briefly as he flipped you back to face him. He sat you on the table and hooked your legs over his forearms, folding you and spreading you open once again for him. You whined a bit, cockdrunk and weak from the orgasm you were still coming down from. You did your best to hold yourself as Ghost slid his cock back into you with ease this time, resuming his thrusts but this time more indulgent, chasing his own release. 

You let him use you, your body relaxed as he took you for his own pleasure. You looked at him with dazed eyes, watching how he lost himself in you, listening to his panting breaths and curses between clenched teeth. 

You didn't notice when your hands came up to his masked face, but you cupped his cheeks as he continued to fuck into you at a feral speed. You took in his eyes; furrowed brows, and glossy wide pupils that made them look completely black.

Without thinking about it, you leaned your face closer to his and planted a kiss over his masked mouth. The simple act had Ghost groaning against your mouth as his hips stuttered; body shaking as he came still buried inside of you. He gave a few faltering thrusts as he emptied his balls, his forehead leaning against yours and eyes glued to yours throughout his climax. A string of curses escaped him. 

He held himself up on one arm against the table so as to not collapse on top of you. Your arms were wrapped around his neck to hold yourself. You both stayed there for a moment, panting and breathless. 

When he collected himself, Ghost pulled out his softened cock from you, taking off the used condom and tossing it to the bin near your desk. You did your best to get yourself together, feeling a strange sense of loss when he pulled away. You sat on the table with a cloudy mind, pulling your shirt down and adjusting your panties. 

There was a silence between the two of you as Ghost tucked himself back in his underwear and buttoned his jeans. You felt confused as to why but got some reassurance when he took your chin into his hand, thumb brushing your lower lip. 

Not much was said between the two of you besides Ghost whispering to you that it was time for him to go, to which you nodded. His goodbye was simple, just a hum and a silent look before turning on his feet to head out the door. 

And like a phantom, he was gone again. 

[crystalbeetle888]

Voyage into the Unknown Pt.4

Master List Pt.3 - Pt.4 - Pt.5

Trigger warning- Minor verbal sexual harassment, general violence,

The travelling days are long and tedious, however riding with the dwarf princes is at least entertaining. The two share fantastic stories of their otherworldly life. Stories of icy kingdoms embedded into blue mountains, conflicts with elves and goblins, and travelling great adventures across the world. It makes my simple life seem quite insignificant. Eight days finally pass and the town of Bree can finally be spotted through the trees. A large stone wall surrounds the village. As we pass through the tall wooden gate and down the cobblestone streets, many human folk give us questioning looks. Gandalf leads the company through some smaller back-alleys in order to avoid the townspeople's snooping, before stopping at a small open stable connected to a larger building. Securing the horses the company makes their way inside, the Inn is relatively empty aside from a few drunk men asleep at the bar. “How can I be of service?” A fat, jolly looking man behind the bar smiles warmly at the strange company. Gandalf steps forwards “We need around uh- sixteen beds, just for tonight” The man nods and pulls out a book covered in scribbled writing “Well we can do- My attention drifts away as I survey the room, the dwarves also wandering off to explore. I join Dwalin, Oin, and Gloin who have put some of the tables together to create one long sitting arrangement. Plopping down in a chair my bum and thighs ache from the constant horse riding, I groan in discomfort kicking my bag under the table while pouting like a sook. Bofur sits down beside me, patting me roughly on the shoulder “Ow” I cry out, “Oh stop it woman, I barely touched ya” He laughs rubbing the spot he hit. I lay my head on the table and let out a whine, closing my eyes “Leave the lass alone she’s probably never roughed it like this before” Dwalin chides him before sitting across from me “We’ll get some food in ya, you’ll feel right then” he says pulling out a metal smoking pipe. Bofur sits down on my left and Thorin on my right, of course at the head of the table. A tap on my right hand causes me to look over at him “Some complications have arisen, you and I will share a room whilst the rest of the company will be split amongst two others, is this alright with you?” Thorin speaks quietly and I nod in response “Alright, I will inform the others” He wanders away to speak to each dwarf individually. 

It feels like forever before a young woman comes and begins placing plates of food on the table “Here you are, I’ll just go grab the rest” lifting my head I see that the four plates have already been claimed, huffing I place my head back down ‘This is going to take forever’.

A tap on my head breaks me out of my self-wallowing and I look up to see Kili pushing over his plate from across the table “Here, you should eat first” he says. Unbeknownst to me, the surrounding conversation quiets down as the company tunes in.  “Are you sure?” I pout at the sentiment. Kili nods enthusiastically “Take it”. I hesitantly slide the plate in front of me “Thank you” I say and Kili smiles proudly. His brother patted him on the shoulder and Dwalin next to him nodded his head in approval. The stew is thick with juicy lamb and soft potatoes, smothered in a gravy like sauce. I sigh at the heavenly taste. As the company finally gets their meals and begins to dig in I just about finish mine, except for a small loaf of fresh bread and cheese. 

Being completely stuffed, I pick up the loaf and cheese, and lean over the table shaking it at Kili. “You want it?” I offer, he looks up in surprise. “Me?” He points to himself and I roll my eyes “No, the other guy named Kili” He smiles widely, slightly red in the cheeks. He gently takes the food from me, rough hands brushing mine “Thank you” He says and I smile back. Loud cheers and laughter erupts from the company as they hit their jugs together, Fili smacking his brother’s shoulder roughly. The sudden loudness surprises me and I laugh along, pretending to understand as they begin to talk in another language around the table. I turn to Thorin giving him an awkward smile “I think I’d like to call it a night now” he gives me a raised brow before nodding and handing me the key ‘I’ll be up to join you shortly’. Getting up I grab my bag from under the table and head up the creaky wooden stairs, the drunken cheering can still be heard from the second floor. “Number 4?” I mutter to myself walking through the long hall. Finding the room I gently push open the door and peek inside. The room was small with two single beds next to each other. Across from the beds a small fireplace with a pile of wood on the side sits. A large empty metal drum sits in front of the fire. Before I can even wonder what it’s for the young curly haired woman from before bustles past me carrying a heavy bucket of water. “Sorry Miss can’t stop once I start” She says with a thick Welsh accent, pouring the water into the drum. “Nah s’alright mate, you need any help?” She nods, smiling gratefully “It’d save me the extra trip, come on, follow me then” She hurries past me down the other end of the hall. Quickly trotting after her, we walk down a small set of stairs and out a back door in the kitchen, grabbing an extra bucket on the way. The back streets are silent and dark, giving an eerie feeling to the atmosphere as we travel closer to the edge of town. “Here we are,” she says, coming to an old looking bore pump. “I’ll pump” I offer, placing the bucket underneath. “If you’re sure Miss, pump been giving me a hard time lately”. Grabbing the handle, and flexing my core, I pull it down heavily with my body weight, the old machine groaning as a blast of water falls out. Twice more and the first bucket is full. “Once more Miss, then I’ll set you free” she jokes, swapping the buckets out. Huffing from the exertion I grab the handle again, once, twice- “Evening ladies” a voice breaks the silence, causing the two of us to turn. Three tipsy men creep out of the shadows into the street's lantern lights. “Awfully cold to be out here by your lonesome, I’m sure we could find a way to warm yous up” He and his goon friends laugh, stumbling closer “Not interested mate” I snap firmly at them. The men ooh and laugh “This one’s got balls aye” He sauntered over to us “I’m sure I’ll be able to fix that though” He whispers, grasping my arm, the pungent smell of yeast flowing off his breath. 

Swiftly, I grab his arm back, pulling him forward and bashing the top of my skull into his nose. Blood squirts violently from his nose as he clutches his face “Shit!” he yells, stumbling backwards. Pain spikes my head ‘Fuck that was a bad move’ I straighten myself out, blood dripping down my face. The greasy man picks himself up “You whore!” he yells, raising a lazy fist and charging. Side stepping out of the way, I grab his shirt and swing him into the metal pump with a loud crack, his body slumping onto the ground pathetically. Turning towards the other woman I smile at her triumphantly before an unexpected force hits the side of my head. Disoriented, I trip over, turning towards the other men. One stood in front, and the other younger one cowering behind him. The man swings his arm widely and I quickly duck underneath it before delivering an uppercut, throwing him on his ass. “Stay down!” I yell, before directing my attention to the last man standing, who hesitantly puts his fists up. I falsely charge at him, roaring as I hurl towards him angrily. He jumps back in fright before scampering away into the night. His friends, groaning and whining, pick eachother up off the ground and follow him, leaving me and the woman alone once again. 

“By Gods that was impressive” she says, breaking me out of my trance. I turn to her, breathing heavily and heart pounding “I mean, are you alright Miss?” she smiles shamefully. I nod in response before grabbing the bore handle again and finally giving it one last pull, filling up the second bucket. “Let’s head inside before they come back” I say, the side of my face aches with a dull pain. 

Making our way back into the room I thump the bucket down next to the drum, before walking over and flopping onto the furthest bed. “I’m sorry about what occurred tonight Miss, those wild folk can be a real nuisance when they come into town” “Wild folk?” I ask. “Yes, rangers Miss, they live in the wilds between towns, no laws out there” I hum in thought “I’ll keep that in mind”. The woman stands taking the two buckets with her “There, all ready for you Miss, you should wash up quick before your husband wants to hop in first”. I sit up to respond but she’s already left, closing the door behind her. Sighing, I stand and make my way over to the tub swishing my hand in the hot water. Quickly stripping off, I hop inside the drum, clearly not meant for bathing in, but maybe washing clothes in. I hastily rub the dirt off my body and rinse my hair, the developing bruise on my face and head aches. Once I’m more or less clean, I hop back out and dress in my long sleeve, cargo pants, and socks. A knock sounds from the door before it creaks open and Thorin enters “You left it unlocked?” he asks. “Apparently” I shrug, turning around and drying my hair, also hiding my bruised face. “The waters’ still hot if you want me to wait outside” I offer “That would be appreciated” He says.

As Thorin has his turn in the slightly too small tub, I sit on the ground across the door in the hall. Hiding my face behind my hand, as multiple company members walk past drunkenly and into their own room, giving me no mind. After some time, Thorin opens the door in a loose blue linen shirt and pants, he says nothing as I stand up and walk back inside, closing the door behind me and locking it. Thorin gently grasps my arm as I attempt to walk past him “You’re injured” he says, turning my hand over and inspecting my bruised and scabby knuckles. I laugh nervously “Ah, yeah, my hand slipped and I hit it into the- bedpost” I say, swinging my hair in front of my face. “Both hands?” he asks, definitely not believing me, “I’m clumsy?”

Thorin sighs, and gently touches my chin, turning my head to face him “Did your face slip also?” he asks unamused. I roll my eyes “I really don’t need your shit tonight Thorin” I huff, walking away and flopping on my bed. He follows, sitting at the end “At least let me inspect them”. I hesitate before sitting up. He scoots forwards, and takes my hands in his yet again. His rough fingers trace my knuckles gently “You won’t need stitches, but they should be wrapped to protect you from infection” he gets up and rummages through his pack before returning with two rolls of mostly white bandages and a smile vile. Thorin pours out some of the viscus liquid onto my knuckles, rubbing it in gently. The potion stings and smells strongly of honey and herbs. After wrapping both my hands, he directs his attention to my bruised temple and cheekbone, brushing my hair from my face. His hot breath fans across my face as he leans in to get a closer look. The lack of distance begins to make my cheeks burn, and my face feels hot. ‘Jesus I need help’ I think shamefully. 

Before I can get too flustered, Thorin pulls back “Your face will heal fine, it’s just a bruise” I let out a heavy breath and nod in response. “Do you have any others?” He asks “I headbutted him” I stifle my grin. “Him?” he asks, concerned. I hum “Some ‘Wild-men’ harassed me and the owner's daughter, nothing I couldn’t handle though, you should’ve see them” I smile at him. He furrows his brows and nods in thought. “Let me look at your head” I tilt my head down in compliance, picking at my socks in boredom. 

Thorin however, has come across an issue, touching your hair would be inappropriate given the nature of your relationship, but also given the obvious blooming affections his nephew has for you. And the apparent reciprocation of that interest by the mutual sharing of food. Thorin hesitantly lifts a section of hair, trying not to touch it as much as possible, and inspects the small bruise underneath. He continues to poke around the area, trying to get it done quickly.

“It seems you’ve gotten lucky this time” He states before rising from my bed “Next time you should take an escort however”. I look at him annoyed. “Luck has nothing to do with it, I’m just good at what I do” I praise myself, laying my head down on the squishy bed, and staring up at the ceiling. “And what is it that you do?” he asks inquisitively. I think about my wording before answering “I’ve trained in multiple forms of self-defense and hand-to-hand combat” I can hear him hum in approval “Good, we should still train you to use a proper weapon however, sword and bow” I yawn loudly “Yeah probably, but I think that’s tomorrow's issue aye” “Aye” he replies. I turn over and snuggle into the soft bed and scratchy blanket “Good night Thorin” “Good night” he mumbles back. I smiled to myself, ‘Perhaps he isn’t as big of a grumpy ass I thought he was’ I think to myself as I drift off into a deep slumber.

Master List Pt.3 - Pt.4 - Pt.5

[l-in-the-light]

When Law is in a relationship how long would it take for him to have sex? I see him taking many weeks until going that far. After a decade of holding hands follows the first shy kiss... all are difficult steps for him to take. Maybe he's even a virgin.

I decided to keep answering asks about Law's love life in bundled posts from time to time. So this will be another post containing multiple asks :D I think it will also make it easier to find them this way.

How long would it take him? Depends on his own recklessness, I suppose. He's smart, but he's also very petty, it's not that difficult to provoke him, and he hates being seen as a weakling. So he might actually try to force himself to be ready before he's actually ready to venture into that territory. And then he would deeply regret, think of himself as pathetic fool, because whatever he tried to do just deepened his trauma for him. Yeah, he's that kinda guy. It would be constant up and downs with him on this journey, many of which would be his own fault for not taking things slow enough.

But once he learns his own lesson with it, he would try to be better and take it more seriously, mostly because his partner would worry for him and scold him on many occassions already, once they realized what's going on. Don't expect him though to suddenly stop thinking of getting some petty paybacks, he just wouldn't let it slide.

How long would it take for him to actually feel good and comfortable about sex? There's no easy answer for that anywhere. People deal with traumas differently, they have different issues to deal with (even if two people have a touch-related trauma, their triggers might differ and their experiences as well). For some it will take many months, but I would say realistically speaking: years. And trauma is a bitch so it loves to resurface because of flashbacks, nightmares, and it also tortures you by putting you in an endless cycle of progress-regress. You might think you're having fun and enjoying yourself and then suddenly your brain thinks of a traumatic experience instead and everything starts to feel wrong. One day you might be fine, the next day you can't even look at other people or stand too close to them.

If trauma was a video game then the progress wouldn't be linear, it would be like being stuck in the neverending PT hallway, and unlocked skills can get locked back again and won't let you progress so you need to restart your game from the very beginning, multiple times. And even after you complete the game (as in: you reached the stage in which you're finally more fine than not fine), the game will sometimes open up by itself and take your console/pc hostage, even decades after you cleared it. Traumas don't just go away, they stay with you, you just gain more positive experiences, learn to know yourself better and work through your healing process to avoid them hijacking your life completely. Also please don't think of it as someone being broken forever, but instead as different needs for different folks. Not trying to downplay it right now, but we all have our own issues, no matter if they're trauma-related or not.

And then there's that other bitch called depersonalization and dissociation, which I'm pretty sure would be part of Law's issues, considering the fact he would have to rely on it to take care of his patients, as a doctor. Which means it might be his first instinct in approaching sex as well: try to dissociate himself from his own trauma. The result wouldn't be nice and he would find himself not enjoying sex at all as the result, because he won't really be into it, instead feeling like something is happening to his body and he just observes it from the side. And if he ends up freezing up and too stubborn to actually say that it's happening... the result would be catastrophic.

Okay, enough about trauma, it's getting depressing. Anyway, what he could do instead, is take it slow indeed. Getting used to hand holding would be a great place to start (it might take him a decade though). Maybe kissing as well, because I don't think he has any kiss-related trauma, so it might be easier on him, he won't have to work through the bad memories of it first. Indirect touches would be probably the main activity for a long, long time. Some voyeuristic fun as well. Just lying down next to each other in one bed or falling asleep would be a huge step in intimacy department as well. Things like trauma and healing take a lot of work, effort and time, and every success should be a celebrated victory (Law would hate to celebrate it though, too dramatic for him).

And who knows? Maybe he will never reach the last base. Maybe he's not even interested in it. Any sexual activity is sex anyway, not just penetrative sex alone. And I think what would matter the most to him is understanding that touch is okay (him being touched and him touching the other person), being close is okay, forgiving himself if he clams up or freezes up, accepting it's not because he doesn't trust enough, realizing that forcing himself to open up won't work. Let's say his partner is a positive person and doesn't mind constant breaks or sudden ends, or blueballing, and instead treats it all like a fun adventure and is quick to change to doing something else, completely sex/touch unrelated. I would say this is already achieving intimacy and getting acceptance (all while not making a huge deal out of it!) and I'm sure Law would appreciate it the most and definitely try to return the favour in any way he can.

So I guess my answer isn't exactly the "shy kiss, chastily holding hands for a decade" kind you probably expected to read. But it's okay, I think your idea also fits, anon, as long as Law can stand that level of sugar.

All things considered, yeah, I believe he would be a virgin. But honestly I think that would be the least important problem here, if at all. Let me preach for a moment here (or just ignore the rest). But does that even matter? The stigma around virginity is honestly stupid and there's nothing shameful in having first experiences late or even not at all. Thinking that sex is all about skills is wrong, it's about passion and learning about new partner from scratch: each person likes different things, and just because you're a master at french kissing doesn't mean your next partner would even like french kissing (or likes it done completely differently). Law is adaptable, fast learner and definitely attentive, so whether it's his first time or not doesn't matter; he would be a good partner, because that's what matters the most: that he listens to his partner. Would it be awkward? Sure. But you know what, sex is a funny thing that often is awkward anyway, so it's okay. It's not a performance in a national dance competition.

I mean, we see him crossing his arms, putting hands on his legs when he's sitting, connecting his own fingers together, he also really seems to like the weight of Kikoku leaning on his shoulder. I wouldn't say he's afraid to touch himself, from what we saw so far. But he's also not using every occassion there is to feel his own touch, I guess his comfy clothes and Kikoku serve as a substitute for that.

What about his libido? He's not exactly a teen anymore, I don't think he's that horny anymore. Besides he likes to keep himself busy so he's probably not thinking much about it in general. But let's assume one of the nights he spends talking with Shachi, Penguin and Bepo, and they talk about dirty stuff. I think he wouldn't really take part much in it, maybe he would even lie a bit (because even Law can feel insecure if that topic constantly comes up and he thinks that if he lies they will finally give him some peace), and maybe he would ask himself the question in his mind: shouldn't he be more interested? Maybe he would want to try out some things. It's not like he never wanted to. But then he knows that would mean approaching other people and he is self-aware, it would be an impossible obstacle (he had enough experience with normal people interactions after all). He might simply do stuff on his own, maybe he would find it nice, but I doubt he would find special interest in it, maybe he would even think it's a bit silly.

But on those nights when he feels especially lonely, can't fall asleep, and all the bad thoughts intrude his mind, he might succumb to self-comfort and feel sort of pathetic as the result. Low self-esteem tends to lead to that. It might become his go-to self-comfort, especially when he's a teen, and not just for sexual satisfaction, but simply touching his skin because it's comforting, the same way you would hug a plushie (but he wouldn't go that far, because he has Bepo and he likes to lean on him. Too bad, there's no shame in hugging plushies, Law!). He doesn't seem like a guy with big libido, but I can picture him compensating with self-touching. In healing process, that's definitely a better step than dissociative hypersexuality ;)

He would definitely take care of his own needs though, it would become his natural instinct, and a logical consequence of avoiding contact with others. Maybe after initial shame and self-issues subside a bit as he grows up and gains confidence at least in his fighting skills, he would remember he learned from medical books that touching himself is just a natural and healthy development in life and he would actively try to remind himself of that, till he finally stops judging himself. Trauma might have stolen him intimacy from others, but at least he can reclaim his own intimacy, right?

Well, that trust would need to happen before any sex happens, obviously. But losing control? I think that would be the trigger in itself for Law. Good news is, he doesn't need to "lose control" to receive a bj. There's so many different ways of doing it, at least one of them would feel comfortable for him. And he doesn't even have to go all the way with it and it still counts as bj. Of course if he ever reaches that stage after years of touch-related trauma. Do you think he could do it by himself with his devil fruit powers? Because I think that's in the realm of possibility.

But if he does reach that stage with a partner, finds a way that it feels comfortable for him without feeling triggering (or least likely to trigger him), then I think it has potential to become one of his fav sexual activities, simply because it doesn't have to involve hands (a bit challenging, but what's wrong with creativity?). Kissing as an activity, even if it is technically touch-related, doesn't carry bad memories in itself for him. Tbh though he is probably so touch-starved that it wouldn't take much for him to reach satisfaction, especially since he might be hyper-sensitive to touch as the result and find it difficult to calm down, his emotions overpowering him. Just saying. I bet he would hate that and feel (again) pathetic about himself, but his partner for sure would be accepting and wouldn't mind. Because why anyone would actually mind? It's not about the length, but quality, and quality would be definitely there if they even manage bj to work out in the first place. It's all really just a matter of perspective, trust and caring for each other's needs and limits. That being said, Law's partner would have to be understanding and willing to put his own needs on a shelf. There's a careful balance to work on here (needs met, no one getting ignored, not feeling like trauma is the centre of the relationship etc.) and lots of potential for exploration of a complex relationship.

Why imagine him in a typical copy-paste bj scenario if you can instead tailor it to his needs, fears, limitations and carefully sidestepping his triggers? Sex is supposed to be very a personal experience between two or more people, not just doing the same thing in different positions, rinse and repeat but with different faces and body parts, you know. It's okay to let your imagination roam free!

Glad you enjoy reading my posts! <3 He's definitely not a super lover and imo smut fics with super lovers are the most boring smut ever. Make them awkward and full of emotions, even clumsy or causing some sort of blunder, it's fun to read, I promise! And it just feels more real and interesting this way. It can still get decently steamy too, one doesn't exclude the other!

Haha, sure, I don't really care about anatomy itself, but the common fanfic fantasies of huge dicks are kinda ridiculous to me. Especially in the world of One Piece, Luffy can inflate his own arm so it turns into an arm of a giant, he can for sure do that to his peen if he wanted to. Sizes doesn't matter anyway, all sizes and shapes are a-okay. And it's okay to imagine Luffy and Law as twinks as well, if that's your thing!

That being said, size comparisons never get old in bl fics. That should always happen just for the hilarity and second-hand embarrassment of it :D

Yeah, I agree, he probably had a few sexual experiences... with himself. *runs away*

I believe in "no sex or sexual relationships on Polar Tang" ironclad rule that Trafalgar Law definitely set up. Why? Because this is noncon territory right here, you can't escape the forced power dynamics. Who would actually say "no" to their captain if it can result in being kicked out of their literal home that is Heart Pirates crew and the submarine? Do you really like to imagine Law this way, because I don't. That's why I'm pretty sure he has the rule of "no romance on the crew".

Heart Pirates by themselves though could get it on if they wanted to. I sincerely believe Shachi and Penguin have a casual thing going on that they think no one knows about (everyone knows though). Of course they only like girls though, uhum, and they do some dirty things together just because they feel a bit lonely (that's the official version). I bet one day they asked Law (just for science!) if he could perhaps turn a guy into a female with his devil fruit powers. Law didn't even honour them with an answer though, lol.

Also what cold nights? Apparently submarines are like heaters constantly working on highest setting. It has something to do with lack of proper ventilation when the ship is submerged. You could even see that in filler after Marineford when Bepo was literally sweating buckets and begging for them to get back to surface so he can get some fresh air. Also Law was leaving Wano wearing a freaking tanktop and in his fight against Blackbeard while they tried to escape in the submarine he was sweating buckets. Heart Pirates come from North Blue, I think they would actually prefer the cool nights over the heat they have to regularly deal with. Even Law's favourite season seems to be "spring on a winter island". Those guys like it cold :D

[astarab1aze]

⸻ @melancholymirth

Of all the things, Dex had never expected to be called out to by name, to be asked after with pleasantly smooth tones by a man with feathered silver hair and an...air he couldn't quite place but was murky, dark, and wholly alien moreso than charming. It intimidated him, plucked at sensitive nerves he hadn't yet been able to fully manage, naturally shy and equally as anxious - too...nervous to accept the attention right away, buzzing about behind the bar with a damp rag, cleaning up behind Faith and Saryn's every spill, splash, or forgotten tip. Quick on his feet, ignorant of those scarlet eyes haunting his every step, long fingers slowly yet rythmically tapping against the bartop and louder than everything else-

...Tap! ...Tap! ...Tap!

He swallowed, overlapping sounds isolated and separated to make room for his voice, the sound of his breath, above the rustle and buzz of a half-full bar. It drove Dexter crazy, shrinking into the cash register where the 'Collected Tips' bag was always stashed; That man couldn't stare at him as easily, at least, and for the first time in his life, Dex was glad for his diminutive size. He wet his lips anxiously, shaky fingers tugging on the zipper and stashing the barely organized wad of cash. Easy, simple, auto-pilot taking over and finding comfort in going through the motions, counting down as he put the tip bag away, silently self-soothing.

Front-facing customer service was already difficult for him, ill-suited to contact with most folks. Too...jumpy, awkward, with stutters bad enough to render anything he wanted to say incomprehensible gibberish and hands that never stopped shaking. More than that, he was just a secretary...of sorts, or so he thought; He didn't actually know what his position at the bar really was, made responsible for more than just the phones when Garrett and V were off on another one of their vacations. Too general a station, too easily replaced - just the frightful burden with no special talents and a weak will they happened to bring home. It would've been better if he could've just stayed in the back office, studying, waiting for the phone to ring.

He looked up from the register, feeling those eyes on him, seeing them not a foot away now - and, startled, he nearly leapt right out of his skin, nearly squealed, stumbling a step backward, glasses sliding down his nose at an angle. Had the stranger with silver hair done this on purpose, to rile him, wind him up and watch him go? Or maybe, maybe it was just--

What do I do...? I can't take this anymore.

Dex swallowed thinly and cleared his throat, trying his best to appear...normal, unbothered, like anyone else would be, half-heartedly glancing out around the bar and its patrons, between Saryn and Fait-- And back again, affixing his gaze to a spot just beneath the strange man's eyes, ignoring the foreboding jolt down his spine. Garrett would lecture him if he saw him floundering like this again, wouldn't he? He wrenched his hands.

"C-can I h-help you, s-sir?" he stammered, voice unsteady, fingers rushing to fix his glasses, then to tugging on his collar. "I-I'm new--" A blatant lie. "--s-so I'm not s-sure how much h-help I'll be. But if-if you're l-looking for the managers, they're n-not here right now."

Was that right of him to say? Should he have said so? He couldn't be sure, but at any other place, wouldn't their employees have said the same? Maybe he should've called Fait over, or Saryn - he was scarier, much more volatile, and could probably handle any trouble the Tall Man with Silver Hair had to bring. He'd have to keep that in mind, just in case, but what was the likelihood his voice would be loud enough above the clamour...? Besides, it wasn't as if he and Saryn necessarily got along these days; Would he come to help Dex...?

He kept on-

"F-Fait and Saryn can h-help you with drinks. I'm-I'm just p-probably not who you're l-looking for, sorry..."

[warmbloodedzines]

Here's another zine by Xalli—this one's called Folk Punk Inauguration.

[Image Description: The cover page of this eight-page mini zine has a little cut out bat drawing from the Trader Joe's newsletters in the top/middle right area and an entry band for a show at a venue called The Smell along the bottom of it. To the left of the bat are the words 'FOLK PUNK' and between that and the entry band is the word 'INAUGURATION'. Thus, the name of this zine: Folk Punk Inauguration.

The first page has half of a hot pink entry band for The Smell on it. Above it, the page reads “I've gotta say, I've been skeptical of folk punk for a while, now. I feel pretty strongly that the culture of folk punk now is what traditional punk wished it was, but I was never too sure of the music. It felt a little too weird, and I'm a bit of a snob about voices sometimes (not on purpose, I promise) so I was just unsure. It’s been growing on me slowly, though – especially after a show this Tuesday.”

The second page starts “To be honest, the night started out sort of shit. I took the train and got harassed, and got there almost half an hour late, too. The energy inside changed everything right away, though. The crowd threw a billionaire skull piñata around and beat it up for toys, and everyone looked trans as fuck, and I knew I was in a good place. Moon Bandits, Rent Strike, and (of course) Sister Wife Sex Strike all played and fucked it up!” Below that, there's the text “(I can totally draw)” and, below that, an incredibly rudimentary stick figure drawing of a crowd of people looking up at two people on stage.

Page three starts with the phrase “Some HIGHLIGHTS”-- the 'Some' made out of two cut up words ('So' and 'me') from some book and 'HIGHLIGHTS' written in black Sharpie and highlighted with yellow highlighter. Below it is a bullet point list, which is also continue onto page four, that lists that “the pit was so fucking cool! great energy... so much joy and lots of two-stepping”, “the outfits... holy shit, do people know how to dress! so cool + creative”, “the aforementioned piñata - so silly + fun”, “when SWSS come down into the pit for ‘Electricity’”, “when the pit turned into a lot of people (including me) dancing with our partners during ‘Gentleness’”, “Rent Strike's song about hydraulic press videos”, and “the way the bands talked to us: so friendly & funny & felt like family (will come back to this one). Across the bottom of both pages is a sticker for Unity Skate Co. of two naked people, one colored in orange on the other's shoulders (and the other is colored in pink). Underneath the sticker across the right side of page four is a strip of Washi tape in dark blue, red, and black colors, with eyes and lips.

Page five has the word 'MERCH' written across the top left side of it with a squiggly line drawn underneath it. Next to it, starting on the right side of page five and going all through the top of page six is an orange sticker with the word 'QUEERS' in a black bold font with underlining. Page five starts out saying “A lot of the merch was sliding scale, and the vendors were so cool! I had to get stuff!” and then leads into a list of things I bought, including “Sister Wives Strike Back (Deluxe) CD”, “Rent Strike fox (?) on fire shirt”, “Moon Bandits ‘Squash Cops’ patch”, “Moon Bandits ‘Crocs not Cops’ sticker”, and “Moon Bandits 'Protect Trans Kids' Raccoon-filled sticker”. Under the 'QUEERS' sticker, page six simply states “Anyway, the show was amazing if you can’t tell. But there’s something more there, too. Getting to mosh + sing + scream and be happy + sad with other trans people – other nonwhite people too, oh my God – was so new + beautiful. It felt like family + home in such an unmistakable + necessary way. I’m so grateful.”

The back cover has a sharpie drawing in the top left of a weird fidget toy I got from the billionaire skull piñata that got thrown around during Moon Bandits' set, which is sort of a little orange handle and two (yellow and pink) weird extensions that are made of a ball and plastic legs that attach to the handle. The little extensions swing 360 degrees around the handle and can hit each other and make noise. Next to it is a little note that says “a weird fidget toy from the piñata” and has an arrow pointing to it. Underneath it is a drawn on dashed line and then text that says “by Xalli”, “apr 19, 2023”, and then notes that my social medias are “insta: desertfirelight”, “tumblr: canineical”, and “neocities: tehuan”. At the bottom of the page is a continuation of the entry wrist band that's on the cover and first page of the zine for The Smell. This part of the band mainly says 'EXIT' on it. /End ID]

[mickeymagpie]

find the word!

@marypsue tagged me, and gave me the words sharp, take, moon, pile, and dream. I have to see if they show up in any of my WIPs, and then post the snippet they appear in if they do.

1 million 'ctrl+F's later... doing just my two main fic WIPs here because i didn't want to search every document lmao.

From ouroboros, ever hungry, the Rise of the TMNT longfic:

Donatello wakes with a violent jolt, gasping for air that doesn’t come fast enough. He reaches up, presses his palms flat over his tympana, closing his eyes again, shuddering in relief when what greets him is silent and dark. His heart beats a solid reassurance in his chest, as he gets his breathing under control. He’s still here. He’s alive. He’s alive. And, perhaps more importantly, he’s alone. Not in the room, of course, but there’s nothing in his head except for his own abating panic, and the fading remnants of the dream.

2:

“Listen, Case, I know you said it’s’all good, but I’m jus’ saying, if you want us to help you beat the shit outta someone, we will,” Leo slurs, because of course his response to the good news was to throw a party, and if there's one thing the resistance is never short on, it's alcohol. “I, for one, wouldn’t ask any questions.” “Your loyalty is noted,” Cassandra says seriously, patting Leo on the shoulder with one hand, and—with grace befitting her ninja training—using the other to slide his tin cup of moonshine out of his grip, smoothly replacing it with one full of water. When she twists her arm back, Donnie follows through with the hand-off. He takes the alcohol further away, out of Leo’s line of sight, before downing it himself.

And the rest from the Gravity Falls triplets fic:

“Bill!” Hands on his shoulders and Bill is shaking, staring at his hands, flesh and bone and skin and fingers and joints and unchanging dimensions too much and too little and he’s bound like this, stuck. He laughs, hysterical, and “Bill, calm down! You’re having a panic attack.” Is he? Is this what panic is? Huh. Funny. Horrible. He hates it! He doesn’t want it anymore! Take it away, folks! Bill realizes he’s still laughing, hyperventilating, words and questions and curses entering his mind but none of them reaching his mouth because he can't get enough air-- “Just breathe with me, Bill,” Mabel instructs. “Listen. In and out.” Seething, he snaps his mouth shut with the dull click of equally dull teeth, and does as told, matching her exaggerated inhales and exhales second-for-second until the room stops spinning and the heavy thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribs doesn’t feel so much like a death sentence.

2:

“Why do you care?” Bill demands. “Because--” Ford starts, and then… realizes he doesn’t know. There’s no reason to. No reason he should care what happens to Bill anymore, no reason he wouldn’t be within his rights to leave Bill out in the woods alone. But he can’t do that. Not-- not now. “...I’m not just going to let you get yourself killed out here.” Bill laughs a little, half-hysterical, and steps right up to Ford, lip curling with disdain and anger when he has to crane his neck back to meet Ford’s eyes. “Why not, Sixer? Huh? Why do you care what happens to me? Why haven’t you cut the shit and killed me yet?!” He shoves Stanford backward with both hands. Ford stumbles, almost falling back over a stone. He has to look down to find his footing again, and when he looks back up, Bill’s staring at him sharply, as if anticipating retaliation.

3:

“Ooooh,” Mabel exclaims in one store, beelining for a rack of different colored corduroy overalls. She looks through the sizes, pulling down a set in bright yellow to hold up to Bill. He doesn’t immediately reject them, and the legs look the right length, so she nods, slinging them over her arm with the rest of the current to-be-tried-on pile. She then grabs two more sets in the same size: one pink, and one blue. “Oh no,” Dipper says, already knowing what’s coming as Mabel turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “Dipper, do you know what this means?” “We’re gonna become those kids that teachers can only tell apart when they’re color-coded?” And wow, Bill going back to school with them in September is a super weird and terrible concept to think about.

[coramatus]

Under the City Streets (part 8)

The Old Man of the Mountain and the not-very-sudden-but-very-inevitable betrayal.

or

Happy New Year! Have an update!

For why Emmet and Volo are bothering with a weird old dude who might be Arceus in disguise, read part 7.1 - 7.5, but mainly 7.5.

When Emmet and Volo reach the foot of a mountain (more like an overlarge hill) with rotting wooden steps dug into the side, Volo insists that he is going no further. Emmet doesn’t care and says Volo can do whatever.

And yet Volo still frets as he watches Emmet ascend the steps.

As Emmet crests the hill, he finds a decrepit old shack surrounded by a veritable junkyard of wood and metal objects. A covered porch lines the sides of the shack, where an old man sits in a rocking chair facing away from him, whittling away at a piece of wood into some kind of doll.

“Hello!” Emmet greets the old man, sharply adopting his signature point and call pose, “I am—!”

“Emmet!” a chipper wizened voice finishes for him. The man doesn’t turn around as he chuckles, “Don’chu worry none. I know who ya are.”

Emmet’s pose slips. He’s never been interrupted like that before.

“Um… then, you are—?”

“Yep! I’m the Ol’ Man yet lookin’ fer. Be wit'cha inna minute, kiddo,” the man quips easily, “Just gotta put on some finishin’ touches fer ya.”

The carving knife is set aside in favor of a stump of an old black grease pencil which deftly makes a few marks on the doll.

“Aaaand done!” the Old Man announces. He turns to face Emmet with a gap-toothed grin as he tosses a small wooden doll at Emmet, who barely catches it in time. The man eyes him expectantly, “Whaddya say? Pretty spot on, I reckon.”

Blinking in confusion, Emmet gets his first look at the doll and is given pause.

It’s a simple, stylized human figure, its stumpy left arm pointed forwards with its right pointed to the side. It’s painted in white with trademark brown bands along the sides and along its flared sleeve cuffs. A familiar white hat sits on its head, bearing the distinct blue and white livery of Gear Station. Its simple face bears a v-shaped smile and unmistakable pointed gray sideburns.

“O-oh! This is… me?” Emmet says with a puzzled tilt of his head. For a long moment, he stares blankly at the effigy of himself before a faint smile breaks across his face, “Neat.”

The man snaps his knee with a gleeful cackle, “Boy howdy, you’re the first fella in a while to not up and run off on me! The second I give ‘em their doll, it’s like they seen a ghost! I like ya, kiddo!”

“Thanks?” Emmet says, his smile hesitant, not entirely sure why anyone would flee from a display of an omniscient person’s power.

He looks back down at the doll, noting that it depicts him in his complete outfit, not his current shredded, torn and injured state. A state he wishes he could go back to. Pushing past the feeling of loss, he refocuses on the Old Man, smiling with faint hope,

“Then you really know everything?”

“Just about. ‘Round these parts anyways. And whatever else comes through!” the Old Man laughs as he rises from his chair onto stooped legs to hobble past Emmet. A shaky hand grips a knobbled, white cane, its pointed tip covered in polished brass. He shakes his head as he pushes open a sliding, wooden door and shuffles in, “Ain’t never a dull day in these here parts, kiddo. Always folks wantin’ to find answers until they get ones they don’t like. Then it gets real messy.”

Old Man invites Emmet into a mildly hoarded out cabin. He is a very gracious host, offering food and drink. But Emmet cuts to the chase.

“Something happened to my brother and I need to know what that was. People call him the Woodsman but his real name is Ingo.”

“Straight to the point. I can respect that,” the Old Man nods as he hobbles along. He prepares some tea on a banked fire, as he recounts, “Yeah, I know that fella. Kid’s got a real mean streak in him. And he used to be so nice too.”

“Yep… he was the nicest…” Emmet confirms, a fond smile playing at the corners of his lips. However, it quickly fades as reality reasserts itself, a deep sadness settling in his chest, “But now I’m not sure who he is anymore…” He looks up to the Old Man, pleading, “What happened to him? I need to know.”

The Old Man sucks on his pipe, his previous manic demeanor falling away to an alert calmness, staring at him evenly, “And why would that be?”

“Because I do not understand!” Emmet shouts, shooting to his feet. His fingers grab his hair as he paces the cabin, his thoughts and feelings boiling over as he rants in desperation, “I cannot understand! Why won’t he listen to me? Amnesia does not explain his refusal to listen!” He groans, despairing, “What am I missing? What am I doing wrong?!”

Emmet is left shaking and panting, struggling to hold back tears. He’s not sure why he lost control like that in front of someone he just met, but it hardly matters now. He doesn’t resist as the Old Man guides him to a seat. The Old Man patiently stays by Emmet’s side as he works his tangled knot of emotions under control, taking careful, controlled breaths.

“I’m sorry…” Emmet whispers, his dull voice choking with pain, “I just want him back so, so much…”

The Old Man soothingly rubs Emmet’s back, not unlike a doting grandparent would to an upset grandchild, “That fellah’s got no clue how lucky he is to have such a wonderful brother lookin’ out fer him.”

“How wonderful can I be if I can’t even get him to believe me?” Emmet answers mournfully.

He shifts but he accidentally jostles his burn, making him cry out in pain as he doubles over. He’s left cradling his injured arm to his chest, shaking and whimpering as fresh tears form in his eyes.

The Old Man offers to take a look at the wound and Emmet lets him, holding out his trembling arm. With great care, the Old Man unwraps Emmet’s tie and audibly winces at the sight. But as he examines Emmet’s burn, his expression darkens. He asks if Emmet is feeling any different, to which he just sighs and admits that he feels a lot more tired. The Old Man warns him that he needs to keep a closer eye on his moods. This wound has the potential to take his life if he's not careful.

Emmet isn’t sure what he means but guesses that it could get infected and go septic. He just nods along halfheartedly, letting the Old Man apply a salve to ease the pain before wrapping his arm back up.

From Emmet’s sullen demeanor, the Old Man surmises that he’s had it rough enough and could use a real break.

So the Old Man offers a wager. He likes Emmet and will give him information no matter what. But which sort of info that will be depends on if he can best the Old Man. If Emmet wins, the Old Man will tell him that which he wants to know. If Emmet fails, he will be told what he needs to know. Emmet figures the end result will be the same so he easily agrees.

The Old Man nods sagely.

The challenge?

“Hit me.”

Emmet stills, uncertain he heard correctly.

“…say again?”

The Old Man grins wide at him with his nearly toothless mouth, “You heard me. Hit me. Deck me. Punch me. Slap me. Kick me. Ya land a hit, ya win. If you don’t by the time I get bored, then ya lose.”

Emmet thinks about this. He pushes up his tattered sleeves. With a spark of life back in his eyes, he drops into a fighting stance, declaring,

“I am Emmet. And I like winning more than anything else!”

“I know ya do, kiddo,” the Old Man gives him another gap-toothed grin.

Unfortunately for Emmet, the Old Man is far more spry than he lets on. No matter how much Emmet swings at the Old Man, his opponent slips just out of reach or catches his blows and throws him off or simply trips him. More than once, Emmet finds himself crashing into a wall.

In the end, Emmet doesn’t hit the Old Man. But he does tackle him, which is better than not touching him at all. The Old Man laughs at his clever tilting of the rules. Emmet didn’t win but neither did he lose.

So the Old Man offers Emmet a tidbit of both what he wants and needs to know.

Emmet is told how his brother disappeared. Simply put, his brother did not leave of his own free will, slipping through an unexpected tear in space-time. It was just bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.

A weight lifts off Emmet’s chest. He was always afraid Ingo left because he’d grown sick and tired of his weirdo twin. It’s a relief to know Ingo didn’t choose to be here.

As for why any of this happened?

The Old Man won’t say it himself, but he grimly informs Emmet that he needs to ask his little Starly friend.

Volo knows exactly why.

Volo hops back and forth before the hill steps, sort of a Starly version of pacing. He’s deep in thought, having begun to piece things together. For a moment, there’s a faint flutter of hope that perhaps his ordeal might see an end.

But when Emmet returns, Volo needs only one look at him to shatter that hope.

Emmet’s thin smile has vanished entirely. He watches silently as Volo tries fussing over him, nervously asking if he learned anything useful.

Instead of answering, Emmet quietly asks Volo what he has to do with everything that’s happened.

Volo’s heart sinks as he realizes what the Old Man must have said to Emmet. He tries to beg off but Emmet isn’t having it.

“Tell me the truth, Volo,” Emmet says, his flat voice rendered positively frigid. His silvery eyes bore burning holes into Volo, “Are you the reason why my brother was taken? Was Ingo’s disappearance your fault this whole time?”

“I-I can’t… I wasn’t targeting him specifically-! He came through by accident-!” Volo sputters, unable to stop the words even as he internally screams at himself to shut up.

Emmet’s eyes widen in shock, but it’s quickly replaced by a disgusted glare.

“You knew,” he hisses.

Volo is quick to make excuses, his wings outspread, pleading, “I-I’m sorry! It was such a long time ago, I didn’t think-!”

“This whole time, it was your fault,” Emmet whispers. He turns away from Volo, unable to face him as his voice trembles from barely restrained anger, “…I trusted you.”

“E-Emmet, it was an accident-! I didn’t think he was anyone important—!”

Emmet can’t even look at Volo, only uttering a single word:

“Leave.”

“Emmet-!”

“I SAID LEAVE!!!” Emmet screams, spinning on his heel to glare daggers at Volo. His face, usually so open and friendly to a fault, is now twisted into a snarl of such pure rage and hatred that it stops Volo dead in his tracks. For a split second, Volo thinks Emmet is about to stomp him flat. But instead, Emmet sharply turns away from Volo and storms off without another word.

All Volo can do is watch as what was once his only friend walks out of his life. Anger bubbles up in his chest, the unfairness of it all making him snap.

“Fine! Fine! You know what?” Volo spits back at Emmet, furiously flapping his wings to hover in place, “I will! I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again! How do you like that!!”

Emmet doesn’t even acknowledge him. There is not a hint of hesitation as he marches forwards in furious determination. His eyes are set ahead, resolutely ignoring everything else around him.

This just sets Volo off even more, “Yeah! That’s right! Leave! Just walk away like everyone else! Don’t bother looking at the only reason you even got this far! I don’t matter to anyone in the end!!!”

But by this time, Emmet has already walked well out of sight. Realizing he’s completely alone, Volo’s indignant fury deflates, fluttering to the ground, his wings drooping and despondent as he stares out at where he last saw Emmet.

For all his rage, even Volo knows he deserves this in the end.

“Emmet… Sinnoh, I am so sorry…”

Part 9

[br-uwu-cewayne]

Also i will FIGHT anyone and everyone talking about how "please, Alfred's british. he'd have technical skills but you KNOW that flavor is bland."

The UK is one of the (if not THE) biggest cultural and culinary melting pots in the world. "british food is bland and boring" yeah sure, purely british food with no outside influences can be!!!

But WHHHHYYYYYYY on EAAARRRTTHHH would a clever, intelligent, and well refined intelligence officer young man take one look at all these spectacular foods from all these immigrating cultures and the new and distinct combinations they've come up with sharing ideas amongst themselves and NOT dive headfirst into learning everything about them!!!!

[quillsareswords]

when the moon goes home, so do you

DAMIAN WAYNE X WEREWOLF!READER

SUMMARY: Let's face it: being a werewolf is hard. Especially the morning after a full moon. Lucky for you, your boyfriend likes to make it easier on you.

WARNINGS: mild description of body horror, strong language, description of eating (burger and fries)

MASTER LIST in BIO

The sun's too bright, the air is too cold, the softest hoodie you've ever touched in your life is too coarse, and by some fucking miracle, it smells too much like Damian Wayne. You didn't think that was possible. On any normal day, you might be shamelessly burying your face in it and wishing it was all you could ever smell for the rest of your life.

The morning after a full moon, however, you'd rather be floating facedown in a pond somewhere in Nowhere, Idaho.

The darkest tinted sunglasses you could get your hands on still aren't enough to spare you from the onset of a migraine as you wait for your ride to rescue you from the overstimulation of standing just off the sidewalk in Gotham City.

A storage unit four blocks from Crime Alley had not been your first choice of locale for a safe place to suffer, but it's worked out for you so far. Nobody comes knocking when they're pretty accustomed to hearing folks wail and beg for mercy. They probably aren't quite as used to the sounds of a werewolf trying desperately to rip into a state-of-the-art, Wayne Tech certified chew toy, though. Well, not until you set up shop.

You really do appreciate Damian picking you up every morning, but you're going to cry if he doesn't get here within the next five seconds.

As overpowering as the cedar in his favorite cologne is, it's nothing compared to the general stench of this side of the city. Like rot and blood and rats. So many goddamn rats. You'd rather be drowning in an expensive blend of cedar and bourbon right now.

You lean your head back against the brick you're pressing your back into and close your eyes. It's too much. All of it. The noise, the smells, the sun, the air, the hoodie, the voices, the rats, the ache in every muscle–

A discarded newspaper crinkles as a car rolls over it, and your eyes crack open to find the saving grace you've been praying for.

No sooner than the sleek hunk of German engineering slides to a stop are you practically lunging out of the alley and across the sidewalk. You dip and lean around the slow-moving stream of bodies, mindful that if you shoulder into someone on accident, you're likely to bruise.

That's your least favorite part of the morning after—the weakness. Even in the few days leading up to the change, when something flu-like overtakes you, you're still about as durable as Nokia 3310. You've tripped out of three story windows and bounced back in five minutes or less.

Unfortunately, the aftermath of your entire body ripping itself apart and then fusing itself back together in a completely different shape apparently leaves everything much more susceptible to damage. You're just glad it only lasts for a few hours.

You pop the door open and sling your backpack to the floorboard before promptly collapsing into the seat and slam the door. Immediately, pine air freshener and bourbon-themed cologne washes out the stink from the sidewalk, and you feel one step closer to peace.

You groan quietly, slouching into the reclined seat he hasn't moved since you clambered out last night and close your eyes again. The tint on the windows, in addition to your sunglasses, is finally enough to fight off the brightness of the sun.

You hear the clunk as the locks flip into place on the doors, then the mechanical grumble of the car pulling away from the curb. "You look like shit," is the first thing he says to you, smooth, deep voice filling your ears like a cool balm on a red-hot rash.

You turn your head toward him slowly. He knows better than to return the favor. "Damian. Honey. Love of my life. I love you. But shut the fuck up."

He chuckles, low and deep in his chest, the way he does when somebody faceplants or slips on an ice patch. A real laugh. "Someone had a bad night."

You narrow your eyes at him behind your sunglasses. "Someone else had a far too good one." You shift around, rearranging until you find a position in which most of your muscles stop whining at you.

He moves too, swapping which hand is wrapped around the steering wheel, and reaching the newly free one across the console to you. His fingers tap against your leg until you relent and offer yours to him. "As a matter of fact, yes, I did have a decent night. One might even say it was good."

You can't find any energy to form a reply, so you hum instead. Your fingers slot nicely between his. The skin there is still hypersensitive, defining every callus and scar that presses against your palm. You find some comfort in the familiarity, and a little more in the warmth.

"Hungry?" He finally glances toward you. If he didn't know any better, he'd say you were unconscious, the way you're sprawled in his passenger seat, dark lenses obscuring half-open eyes.

The noise you make is deep enough to be called a growl. "Fuckin' starving."

His thumb soothes over the skin on the back of your hand. "Anything particular?"

"Grease," you sigh wistfully, even though you're voice is still hoarse from a night of snarling and growling. "The greasiest burger money can buy." There's a pause, and you're looking at him again. "Please."

He releases a long breath. "Of course that's what you want. I don't understand how I'm ever surprised."

Your eyebrows furrow. "What's that supposed to mean? It's not like I ask for weird stuff."

"Last month you begged—begged—for an entire box of doughnuts."

You roll your eyes. "You try transforming into a man-eating monster and back again in one night and we'll see what you want to eat. Won't be a vegetarian after that, I bet." You pause, and he's about to argue the monster comment when you beat him. "Is it gonna bother you to have a burger in the car? The smell won't make you sick, will it?"

He has two options here. He can tell you that, yeah, it may make him a little nauseous, and he'd really appreciate it if you could wait to tear into it when you're home and not in an enclosed car; or he could lie, tell you no, and hope that you don't pick up on the fact that he's lying right to your face.

"No, I'll be alright."

You don't reply right away. You just sit there, staring at him. Wrong choice. "You're a bad liar, you know that?"

He scoffs. "My lying capabilities are perfectly adequate, thank you very much. It isn't my fault that you're a walking lie detector."

"Okay, fine—you're a terrible liar to me." You're smiling just a little, despite the ache it sets in your cheeks, which had been forced to stretch into the shape of a muzzle not three hours ago. "I'll wait til we're at my place to open anything. Thanks for the thought, though."

The last part, you say a little quieter. Or perhaps softer is a better word. A better reflection of the tenderness in your tone and in the small action he tried to take for you.

The more you think about it, the kinder he seems. You already knew this, of course, but it doesn't make your heart race any less. Here he sits, just after dawn on a Saturday, driving you home so you wouldn't have to walk or fret about your car getting stolen. He's carved out a piece of his consistently stacked schedule to make sure that you get home alright, that you're okay after your least favorite night of the month.

You never asked him to do this. You never had to. You told him about your make-shift containment method, about how much it sucked to walk home, and there he was the next morning. You didn't ask for the—what do you even call them? Toys? Distractions? The contraptions that you stuff with raw meat to keep the animalistic side of yourself preoccupied to limit the risk of the beast taking over completely and breaking out. The ones Tim designed for you, at Damian's request.

You never expected him to get involved. As far as you were concerned, this was exclusively a you problem. Just like work or house chores; something you alone handle, and get to complain about later. The most you expected from him was understanding of your situation and patience for when you spaced out staring at birds or growled at the mailman. You wish that was a joke.

In typical Damian Wayne fashion, he decided that he'd singlehandedly prove that your bar is set far too low. So he drops you off in the evening, picks you up in the morning, and insists on buying you breakfast. On his off-days, he even stays with you for the morning.

You like it when he calls you Darling. It reminds you of all the period piece romances you've seen over the years. You may be biased, but you like it better in his Frankenstein accent than you do the British ones. Why are you thinking of this?

"Darling." He gives your hand a shake, still holding it in his own, and you only realize that you'd drifted off when you wake up. "I know you're tired, but do you want anything else, or only the hamburger?"

You slide a knuckle beneath your sunglasses to rub the sleep out of your eyes. When you brave opening them, you find that he's parked the car outside of that little 60's themed diner you found last year. "Oh," you mumble, "uh...fries. Big thing of fries. Thank you."

"Of course," he dismisses. He leans over the console, presses a kiss to your temple, and then pushes his door open while he tugs his hand out of yours. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back in a moment."

"Mhmm."

You flinch when the sound of the door slamming cracks through your ear. You don't plan on dozing off again, but you catch yourself jerking back into wakefulness when the aroma of burger grease and melting cheese wafts in with the reopening car door.

He hands you the bag as he ducks back in. He tries very hard not to laugh at you when you all but rip the paper bag open and shove your face inside with a deep breath. You hear him snickering, but you're too focused on food to acknowledge him.

"Oh sweet baby jesus," you sigh, only pulling your face away long enough to fish out a cardboard to-go box of fries. There are grease stains lining the inside of the deep fried potato slices and enough seasoning to make your nose itch—a heart attack in a box, really, but there's so much saliva flooding your mouth that you're about to reach back in for a napkin to stop yourself from drooling all over his very nice car. "You're a goddamn saint, Wayne."

He sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, the most life-like you've looked since you sat down. He glances over impulsively, and finds you stuffing a handful of fries into your mouth. He makes a face, somewhere between amusement and mild disgust, accompanied by a surprised chortle. "Don't choke."

You glare at him from the corner of your eye. You at least have enough humanity left in the depths of your mind to finish chewing and swallow before you speak. "If I choke on these fries right now, it'll be a good death. I'm okay with it. I've made peace." You stick another three in.

He scoffs again. "Well I haven't. So don't forget to breathe between mouthfuls."

You roll your eyes. "Oh okay, 'cause that's important to me right now. Psh. Who needs air when I've got food." Another one bites the dust. You pick one out, though, a little more delicately than you had the first bunches, and hold it out for him. "Try one. They're good. Maybe you'll understand."

Despite himself, he admits that they are very good french fries. And like every other time he's admitted to liking something you have access to, you make up your mind that you'll be sharing the rest of them. You spend the rest of the drive more awake than you had been now that you aren't starving half to death, handing him fries when traffic is slow.

He walks you up to your apartment like he does every month, pretending not to notice the way you clutch the paper bag in your hand like a gazelle caught between a leopard's jaws. Always a gentleman. You invite him inside, with a warning that you fully intend to feast on this burger before you chug half a bottle of NyQuil and pass out for a few hours. He smiles when he accepts the invitation.

You stand over the kitchen counter, backpack long forgotten by your front door, and absolutely demolish aforementioned hamburger like you haven't eaten in days. As in, you have to alternate between taking a bite and wiping the grease and ketchup off of your face to retain at least a little of your pride.

He sees only the start of this, looking on in a twisted, pained sort of awe. It's never judgement that you find in his expression. He understands that you can't exactly help it—the few days leading up to the full moon see the same kind of appetite, but with a much shorter temper. He's accustomed to it, six months in.

Secretly, he finds it fascinating. How wolfish you can be immediately following the change. Predatory, almost.

In other ways, too, not just your appetite. You always sit a little closer, stare a little longer, when you think something may be a threat to him.

He leaves you to enjoy your well earned breakfast while he moves into the living room. He gathers things he knows you'll want; the pillow from your bed, a throw blanket you like, the water bottle from your backpack. He sets it all on the couch and makes himself comfortable. His jacket is tossed into the chair, his shoes pushed under the coffee table and out of the way.

He knows the routine. He flicks through his phone while you finish eating, you shuffle into the room looking twice as tired as before, and drop your head onto his shoulder from the back of the couch. "I'm taking a shower, be right back," you mumble. He wastes that time on his phone as well. When he hears the water shut off, he turns on something mindless from your watch history to fill some silence. You amble back into the room in a fresh set of pajamas, move the pillow so it's either in his lap or butting against his thigh, and flop yourself onto the couch with the balnket.

He takes pride in his involvement with your situation. He can't understand the way some characters in your inane werewolf movies can act—like having to assist their friends or family or partners with it all is a chore. He can't imagine complaining that you trust him so much that you want him around in your weakest moments. That you feel safe enough to ask for help when you need it.

You're more physically vulnerable now than ever, not to mention too exhausted to stay awake for more than twenty minutes and being sore everywhere. Instead of holing yourself up in your bedroom to ride it out, where you're safely alone to recuperate, you let him drive you home, and seek comfort in his presence. He likes to think that you also know that if trouble ever came knocking when you're like this, he'll do anything to keep you safe from it. That he'll always protect you, but especially when you inarguably need it most.

He sees the way your whole body relaxes when he smooths his fingers over your hair. You exhale deeply, like you'd been holding your breath all morning and only now thought to let it go.

He wonders what it was like for you before you told him. If you really did just come home and pass out alone in bed or if you tried to power through it. If you let yourself stop for breakfast or if you choked down something out of your cabinets and said good enough. If you wished he had been there or if he never crossed your mind until now.

None of it really matters, he supposes. It doesn't matter how you handled this on your own in the past. You've got him now, and he'll be here to help for as long as you'll have him.

Especially if it means he gets to spend a whole Saturday morning with you sleeping hard on his lap, watching any television show or movie he's been meaning to because it doesn't bother you as long as the volume is kept low.

You called it a curse once. You'd been half asleep, only a week or so after you'd told him. You said it should make you hard to love. That it made you more monster than human.

But he's seen monsters. He's known them personally. His family tree is crawling with them.

You're no monster. Capable of monstrous things, he'll allow, but that doesn't make you a monster.

When he looks at you, he doesn't see a monster. He sees the person who memorized how he takes his tea. Who gave him his first bouquet of flowers. Who waits up for him to make sure he gets home safely. Who uses their enhanced strength to make sure he feels safe. Who holds him like he's all that matters in the world when he wakes up in tears. Who makes sure he feels loved and valued for more than his capabilities and usefulness. Who wolfs down huge orders of fresh french fries in two minutes or less. Who can't walk past a dog without asking to pet it.

You're not a monster. You're simply the love of his life, curled up on a couch, sound asleep beside him. He'll change your mind one of these days; but for now, he's content to sit on your couch and pet your hair. You're safe with him. He's safe with you. That's all that really matters.

[passi0np1t]

AIGHT OKAY SO LIKE

i always loved the idea of eddie meeting his s/o via live streams, maybe theyre just checking it out until they respond to him and he goes "oh? Crush?" And basically talks to them everyday until he gets caught and they learn who he really is

ohoho i love this concept, haven’t seen anything like it on tumblr yet. i gotchu x

Curiosity

(The Riddler)

Summary: In which the gn reader lets their curiosity get the better of them as they make their way into a Riddler stream, and they don’t go unnoticed

Warnings: None! P tame

Notes: Ok so I lied, here’s half of a new mini series, there is defs gonna b a part two

—

You recall a saying your grandma always used to tell you as a child when she’d find you in trouble, “Curiosity killed the cat”. And maybe she was right about that. Or maybe grandma just needed to learn to live a little. Cats have nine lives after all.

Since the murder of Gotham City's mayor, his killer has been the talk of the town, especially among the poor and common folk of the city. Some are down bad and some are against the violence. And some, like you, don’t know what to think. On one hand: violence is never the answer, but on the other: when violence doesn’t answer to peace nor peace to violence, then sometimes you just have to beat them at their own game. You think you can understand that, appreciate the desperation even. This appreciation is how you find yourself in the situation that you’re in now.

You’re sitting amongst the crinkled sheets of your unmade bed, laptop resting on your thighs and fingers hovering above the keyboard. It’s taken a few long days of impersonators and dead ends to finally find the real deal, and now that you have the killer's actual website before you, you’ve got chills. It’s only a bit of curiosity, some mindless sort of investigation, you tell yourself assuringly. You’re trying to occupy your time in between gruelling shifts at work, and then the few hours of social life you manage to squeeze in on your days off. This is the fruit of your labour.

There’s a countdown for his next stream, the glitching text flashing across the screen as 10 minutes tick away. It feels like forever though, you have to do something else to occupy your time; boredom is the enemy. You click open a game of solitaire, though honestly, you never bothered to learn how to properly play or even understand the game. Though, you do remember watching your dad while away his free time competing against a computer-generated opponent, and sometimes even a few of his childhood friends — if they would have the guts to brave a stay in Gotham — that is.

You start your game, gathering your aces to start up your foundation piles. There’s only the sound of incessant clicking and your exhales as you work, your stacks building. When you run out of face-up cards, you pause, racking your brain for the next step, but you come up with nothing. Accepting defeat is easy in this case as you click the ‘?’ button and hints pop up on your screen. You need to start picking up cards from your face-down pile. You find yourself bored if it all quickly though. Solitaire has never been an engaging game for you, maybe if you were middle-aged and beaten down more by capitalism, but that day is not today.

You slide your fingers across the touchpad mouse and it zips up the screen to your open tabs, switching you back to the Riddler’s website. The grainy green numbers a stark contrast against the otherwise black screen as the last minute begins to count down. You wait in suspense and it occurs to you that you probably need a hobby. Then you remember that you do have hobbies, things you used to be able to enjoy more often before adulthood and full-time work. You’d gladly be cooking or knitting or painting if you had the time and the energy, you tut at yourself, that little voice of reason in the back of your head should shut up. Maybe a few years ago you would’ve listened to it but you feel a touch too bitter for that now. Though maybe you are becoming like your dad, this new Riddler enigma is your solitaire. Before you can get too deep, the screen in front of you goes black, dragging you away from psychoanalysing yourself for the time being. It’s stays like that, just blank, and for a second you worry your laptops gone flat, and then the screen crackles to life again.

Sounds of laptop keys clicking fill your room as a green text emerges, one letter at a time: ‘i am first on earth and second in heaven and appear twice per week. what am i?’.

A riddle. Of course, it couldn’t just be easy. You re-read it to yourself a few times, speaking aloud as you attempt to connect the dots, “First on earth, second in heaven…” As you analyse the words you realise, “E! First in ‘earth’ and second in ‘heaven’. E appears twice per week on Tuesday and Wednesday…” You input the answer with a half-grin, watching as more little green letters appear.

‘smarty…’

‘if you know me, you’ll want to share me. if you share me, i’ll be gone forever. what am i?’

You go through the same process as you did the first riddle, though this one takes you a little longer, you eventually come to a half-hearted conclusion, ‘a secret’.

It must be right because more little letters appear, ‘can you keep a secret?’ and underneath it ‘Y/N’. You click the bold ‘Y’ without hesitation, eyes glued to the screen as the game continues.

‘we’ll see…’

‘last one, what belongs to you but others will use it?’

You know this one, you’ve heard it before and you type up your answer quickly, ‘your name’. Correct again. You feel a certain hesitant pride at being able to guess his riddles, though he hasn’t made them particularly hard for you. You watch as yet again, more green letters appear, no riddles this time, just a simple question: ‘what should i call you?’ You feel like you’ve made it through some sort of initiation ritual as you gingerly begin to type out a pseudonym: ‘curiouscat’. It’s kind of cheesy but the nickname makes you smile a bit.

The screen fades to black, accepting your answer, and then finally, he appears. He’s a little grainy, cast in dim white lighting from an unknown source off-screen. He’s in his full get-up, still as stone but his other viewers are eating it up regardless as subtle flashes of text on the top left of the screen notify you of people’s donations. On the right third of the screen is the viewer's chat. There are only about 29 of you so far but you can see the numbers rising now and then, stopping at a fixed 47 after a few minutes. This takes you by surprise, you thought that there’d be many more, and for a moment you start to doubt the man before you, and then he begins. He stirs to life, cocking his head to the side, it looks like he’s reading the chat, light eyes darting up and down his screen behind clear-rimmed glasses as his heavy breaths filter out from his mask.

“Thank you for all the donations,” his gaze flicks back to the middle of his screen, “And welcome to some of our new viewers, it seems not everyone in Gotham is as stupid as I thought.”

Your eyes widen a bit at this, nerves prickling at the nape of your neck. He isn’t addressing you directly or anything but it feels weird having him acknowledge your presence. Then your relief and slight disappointment, he moves on, discussing the mayor's murder with a grim delight. His voice is deep and scratchy as it infiltrates the otherwise stark quiet of your room. It’s late and most should be asleep by now but you know how sound travels in your apartment building, so you fetch your earphones from your nightstand, plugging them in and shoving the buds into your ears.

“-loween night, I killed the mayor because he was not who he pretended to be. But I am not done.” The chat blows up at this but he doesn’t yield, any info on his next victim kept tightly under wraps as his viewers begin to discuss the mayor's death with feverish excitement.

You quickly conclude that his viewers are crazy, but also kind of funny. You wonder if you know any of them personally, if you’ve ever sat beside them on the subway or ordered your morning coffee and muffin from them. They could be anyone, the anonymity is exciting and freeing and altogether dangerous.

DData_Drag0n: can i put a hit on my boss

xXhushXx: lmao he isn’t a hitman

tr0ubleboi: i rlly liked the severed thumb, was a nice touch

xAstroCrabx: r4dioh3ad im in your walls

C10ckbreak3r: so who do we reckon the next unfortunate pig is

With the latest comment you begin to type out a reply, you’ve done a fair bit of investigating yourself — albeit light — and you’ve narrowed down the Riddler’s next victim into two categories.

curiouscat: well it’s probably a cop, right?

curiouscat: or a rich socialite but that seems unlikely atm

DData_Drag0n: oh hey newbie

C10ckbreak3r: ok smarty pants y do u think that

G0THAMSUX: are you a girl

You sit back and think for a moment, planning your next move as you watch the replies flood in. It’s not that you don’t know what you’re talking about but you are new here and they’re all for the most part giving Redditor incel. You’ve been ganged up on and doxxed by sad old men a few too many times on forums and chats and you aren’t planning on letting that happen again. Not this time. Not in front of the Riddler in a chat full of serial killer fanatics.

curiouscat: the mayor seemed close to some of the police force

curiouscat: when you think of the most corrupt groups in society it’s usually cops and politicians right? and ridding gotham of corruption is the riddler’s m.o soooo

DData_Drag0n: they’re speaking facts suck shit c10ck

C10ckbreak3r: alright fine lmao

r4dioh3ad: cat how do u know so much hm

r4dioh3ad: methinks ur a mole

xAstroCrabx: lmfao radio, not every new person is a rat stop gatekeeping the riddler

You notice that the Riddler is reading the chat along with you all, not making a sound besides his heavy sighs, but you can sense a hint of curiosity behind the frame of his glasses and you smile a little to yourself.

What you don’t know is that you’ve caught his attention. He watches you converse with the others with a quiet interest, observing you pave the way and figure out his next moves while the others squabble amongst themselves.

He won’t say his fans are dumb, every time he’s streamed they’ve managed to get past his riddles and they’re full of handy tips for weapons and tactics. More importantly, they understand him and his mission. They’re there for him to bounce his ideas off of and plan out his next moves. Hell, they pay him even when all he does is sit there and breathe. But they squabble. They have no idea. And he likes that, keeping them all on their toes, giving them just enough to keep them excited. Also, it’s better he not just come straight out with everything, who knows who’s behind these silly little usernames, he doesn’t need his plans foiled just to make a few people happy. So he supposes he should just ban you, you, you who knows too much too soon. Who are you?

He can’t bring himself to do it, even as his mouse lingers over the ban button, circling it helplessly. He knows he should but he doesn’t want to. You’re like a breath of fresh air, he doesn’t even know you but god he fucking wants to. He wants to know what you know and how. The burning curiosity begins to eat him up, gnawing at his insides and he knows he has to end the live stream early.

He waves farewell to everyone, only laughing dryly when his fans begin to pour out with last-minute questions and beg for hints that he ignores. He stares straight through the camera and it feels like he’s looking directly into your soul as the screen goes black.

You let go of the air you’ve been holding in your lungs, relief and a small sense of accomplishment filling your body with warmth. Almost a full week of searching and you finally found the Riddler, made it through one of his streams even. Though you’re not sure if you’ll be back for the next one, for now, your curiosity feels quenched. You pause in this train of thought as a yawn overtakes you, screwing your eyes shut and stretching out a bit from your stiff position in your nest of a bed. God it must be early in the a.m. by now and you have work and chores and good knows what else to do. You hate your life sometimes. Most of the time. Or maybe you’re just sleep-deprived and bored again.

You blink a few times as you think bitterly to yourself and when you fully open your eyes you find some little green text waiting for you on the black screen. Perplexed, you sit up straight again, pulling the laptop onto your thighs once more as you read it aloud to yourself, “who are you?” The question mark blinks up at you as it waits for a reply.

“Surely it’s not asking for my real name?” You ask your empty room, voice soft and a little croaky from lack of sleep. You suppose you could just leave it, shut your laptop down and never go on a Riddler live stream again, but your curiosity always gets the better of you and you type in your pseudonym, ‘curiouscat’.

Almost immediately, more letters begin to appear, backspacing on typos before settling on ‘you know that’s not what i mean’.

As you read the reply aloud to yourself you feel as if all the colour has drained from your cheeks, feverishly typing out your response, ‘who am i talking to?’ But you already know the answer to that. There’s no way you caught his attention with your few minutes of chat, the possibility of it feels thrilling and treacherous all in one.

You try to wrack your brain for what possibly could’ve hooked his interest, and then you suppose he probably didn’t like you guessing at his next victim, meaning you probably got it right. A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as he types out his reply.

‘don’t ask silly questions. you seem smarter than that’

You scoff, typing away your reply as you shove away the alarm bells of reason ringing in the back of your head, ‘says the serial killer asking for my real name’ and then ‘are you mad that i guessed your next victim?’ He at the very least definitely hadn’t been expecting it, he seems to like watching his followers scramble around in the chat.

His replies are quick, though riddled with typos that he has to keep going over. You try to imagine him hunched over his computer, breath heavy as the pads of his fingers slap against his keyboard, typing in some frenetic haze as he awaits your replies, ‘not mad, just curious’.

You laugh as he sets himself up for a perfect comeback, teasing men who think they’re so big and bad has always been a favourite of yours. You wonder if he’ll ban you if you push him too far and the outcome seems likely but you suppose it’s for the best, ‘well, curiosity killed the cat’

His reply is instantaneous, like a desperate man hoping to get in the last word, green letters form together to string a simple reply, ‘but satisfaction brought it back :)’