#and the corset itself is a little long too

[bismuthburnsblue]

she still needs some refinements to the pattern but actually. anne corset goes SO hard

[millieisawriter]

Workin' girl

arthur morgan x reader

summary: the one where arthur pulls a john — falling in love with a working girl. it was never supposed to happen, yet it did, and now arthur is left with two choices. either he, again, walks away from a woman that loves him, or tries to fight for her.

wc: 2k

all pics taken from pinterest

♡this wasn't requested, but if you wish to request something you're more than welcome♡

a/n: i see this happening in blackwater in case i decide to write a 2nd part, but when i started writing i imagined saint denis, didn't see any town/city names mentioned as i was proof-reading, lmk if you see something i missed <3

Life has never treated you kindly so eventually, as soon as you could leave your family home, you turned to the oldest profession in the world. Even if that kind of life was better, it still wasn't ideal, but it was the best you could do. Eventually, you started to like it because even with its issues and dark sides it wasn't that terrible. Some would even dare saying it was 'easy money', which you actually knew wasn't true.

Luckily for you, you ended up in one of the more expensive brothels. Maybe it was the 'splendor' of the place, the luxurious interior, that made you feel somewhat safe. Safer than you would feel in some cheap saloon where the patrons consisted of drifters with a questionable past.

You had your regular patrons, ones that you got along with well — one of the reasons why they were your regulars. These were the men that could stay a bit longer after the service itself was done without making it awkward. Ones that you could have a conversation with, ones that saw you as another human being, not just an item to relieve their frustration.

It was a normal evening, the building was neither empty nor full. You didn't have that much on your hands, you and a fellow working girl were entertaining a group of men. They sat by a table, a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and two of these men had a companion in their lap — you and your friend. Ending the evening in the bedroom wasn't certain, for now you were just trying to make them spend as much money as possible on the drinks.

Then, Arthur walked in. One of your regulars, one you were particularly fond of. The chemistry between the two of you was so strong sometimes you wanted to tell him he didn't have to pay.

His eyes immediately found you, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel jealous seeing you in the man's lap. But you, as if on command, turned to look at Arthur and as you noticed your favorite patron, you excused yourself from the table.

"Mister Callahan," you beamed, approaching the man, "so good to see you again."

He tipped his hat to you, his lips curling into a soft smile. "Evenin' darlin', thought I'd stop by again. You been keepin' busy?"

The way he always called you darling, every time, made you feel so warm and bubbly. Of course, he wasn't the first man to do that, but when it came from him, it felt almost sincere.

"Busy enough," you replied, glancing over your shoulder at the table of men you just left, "but I'll always make time for you, mister."

"Well, reckon I'll take you up on that. How bout we find a quiet spot?"

"Your wish is my command." Giggling, you took Arthur by the hand to lead him upstairs where your room was. Even if he already knew the way well enough.

Your room was just like any other room in that brothel — furnished with the most luxurious-looking furniture, tastefully decorated with expensive ornaments, every little detail taken care of.

As the door to your room clicked shut behind you, the world outside seemed to fade miles away. In that moment right there it were just the two of you, bathed in the dim light by the fireplace's glow.

Arthur's hat found its usual place on the small table by the door and he turned to face you, "I can never stay away for too long." Shortly, his hands landed on your waist, resting on the corset of your dress.

"Then maybe you should visit more often..." You suggested, your own hands finding their way to the man's shoulders.

"I'm afraid it ain't a good idea, darlin'. I always look forward to seein' you. But sayin' goodbye..."

"I get what you mean," you chuckled, "so what's it gonna be today? Just the regular service, or you want something extra? It'll be on the house."

Every time Arthur visited you, it was both blissfull and painful for him. You were so good at what you were doing it felt like a religious experience, but the attachment he held for you left a hole in his heart each time he had to say goodbye.

He had always wished he could just ask you to leave this life, and join the gang, but which woman would agree for this? Your current life, your current job, as oppressing as it was, couldn't be worse than living on the run. In Arthur's eyes at least.

In the brothel you had your own room, a wardrobe with many dresses. You had a somehow stable income, it didn't seem as if money were any issue to you. All this, compared to what you could have in the camp, was much worse. And you didn't even know his real last name, there was no reason for you to leave this life you had for a criminal.

Why did Arthur even fall for a working girl? The exact same thing happened to John, which Arthur would often make fun of him for. Maybe life just decided to pull a joke on Arthur now. But he just couldn't control himself, from the first time he saw you, you were different. With other women it didn't take long to notice they're just playing a role, but you... from the first time you even smiled at Arthur, he was drawn to how genuine it looked. And now, you had become not just a pretty face to entertain him, but someone he felt at ease with.

This time, as many times before, Arthur didn't hurry to get dressed and leave the room, return back to camp after getting what he wanted. Instead, he stayed under the covers in your bed, smoking a cigarette as you kept going on about something that happened a few days ago.

He didn't mind, he could let you yap his ears off, your voice was such a calming sound. It was almost hard to believe you weren't just a hallucination he made up. How could such an ethereal being just lay there, next to him, head propped on your palm as you lay on your stomach, talking about whatever nonsense? How could this happen to a man like Arthur Morgan?

"...so then," you paused to take the cigarette from Arthur, take one puff and hand it right back, "you'd think a man like him would have some sense, right? Well, no, he was so damn thick in the head, she just told the guard to throw him out!"

Arthur chuckled, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Bet he didn't see that comin'. I'm glad I ain't made it onto your list of thick-headed fools yet."

"Yet!" You playfully reminded him. "You seem to have more sense than others, although I can't say I'm some weak little girl. I don't even need a guard, but the madam insists it's for safety."

A thought lingered in the back of Arthur's mind. It was weird, in a sense, to know there's a guard right outside your door whenever you had a man up there. Even right then.

"I don't doubt you could handle yourself, darlin'," Arthur smirked, taking one last drag from his cigarette, "but it don't hurt havin' someone lookin' out for you."

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "Guess you're right, mister."

Arthur stubbed out the ciragette into the ashtray that stood on the bedside table, knowing what it meant. His time was up, he extended the time of his visit as long as he could. Now that his usual cigarette was finished, it was the time for him to go.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up. You watched as he reached for his clothes that had been thrown onto the floor, and for the first time a single tear started to burn the corner of your eye.

With his jeans already on, and his shirt for now unbuttoned, he reached to the pocket, retrieving the usual payment. You wiped the tear away as it escaped your eye. It was always the same routine, but it didn't make it any easier to watch him go.

"Here it is." He said almost robotically, placing the money next to the ashtray, throwing in a little tip.

You looked at the money with sadness in your gaze, then your eyes shifted to look at the man. "You know, you shouldn't have to pay, because you don't make it feel like work."

There they were, the words Arthur was so afraid to hear. Him having a more romantic kind of attachment to you was one thing. However, knowing that you reciprocated the feeling, made it more difficult.

"Good," he nodded, "cause you don't make me feel like the bastard I am," as he buttoned up his shirt.

You sat up on the bed, pulling the sheets harder around you, since you were still naked. "Arthur..." You sighed, the rest of the sentence dying in your throat.

The fact that for the first time you had used his actual name instead of calling him mister as always, made it only more difficult.

"No, darlin', don't."

"You know you don't have to leave, right?"

Oh, he had to leave. If he overstayed his welcome too much, the guard at your door would become highly suspicious. And that would only cause issues for you.

"I have to, don't wanna make it harder." Arthur replied.

"Harder for who? I know a man's nature well enough, and I can tell there's something more in the— the way you fuck me, Arthur."

He thought maybe playing dumb would help him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you were to ask me to... to abandon this life for you... I would."

Arthur gulped. It was just what he wished for, but what he couldn't allow to happen. "I've got nothin' to give you. I live on the run, it ain't somethin' you wanna be a part of, trust me."

"You think I'd rather keep fucking strangers to survive, than travel the world with a man I lo—"

"You don't." Arthur interrupted you. "You don't know what you're talkin' bout." Love was a word of huge weight, there was no way it was what you felt for him.

You insisted. "I know what I feel, and I know what you feel, I see it in your eyes, I feel it when you're in my bed, Arthur. I wanna leave this life for you."

"It ain't gonna be no escape, though, just another kind of trap. You deserve better than fuckin' strangers to get by, but you also deserve better than runnin' and not knowin' which day will be your last."

"I don't want better!" At that point you didn't care if the guard outside will hear. "I want you, Arthur!"

"I want you too, darlin'," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly, "but... you're safer here. I can't sentence you to a life of eternal wanderin'."

His words had a final tone, but as well as you could read his eyes, you could tell he regrets saying what he had just said. You could have had a roof over your head, and locks in your door, but it wasn't safety. It was survival.

You stepped closer, reaching out to grab Arthur's hand. You knew he didn't want to leave, you were sure he wants you just like you wanted him. "Arthur..."

His heart ached when he saw the way your beautiful eyes looked at him, but still he decided to kiss you. It only made it worse, making another cut in Arthur's already damaged heart.

"I gotta go." He stated, freeing his hand from yours.

"No." You refused as if you had any say in that matter. You could demand he takes you with him now, wherever he's headed, but what would it do?

"I can't make promises," he continued, putting his boots and jacket on, then his hat, "but I'll figure somethin' out."

You stayed silent, watching him leave the room, not knowing if he's going to keep his word. All you had now was the money, that you didn't even want from him, and the promise that could have been empty.

[littlest-w01f]

After party

Azriel x Reader

For @starfallweek [hosted by: @azsazz and @writingsbychlo]

Starfall Week 2025 Masterlist

Day 6 - Starfall this year was a costume party and now Characters A and B can't find one another.

Summary: On the night of Starfall, the party didn't end until the sun came up, and after a nasty break up your sisters dragged you out to party with the rest of the Inner Circle. You end up running into someone whose it.

Cw: Dark!Az, he mad mad, jealous Az, shadowplay, choking, I think by far the most Azriel smut I've written... Smut 18+ MDNI

a/n: Long fic WOOHOOO, strap in and strap on! (would fit better if there *was* pegging involved but still it has Azriel's dick in it so it had to be at least that big)

The pulsating beats of the music thrummed through your body as you stepped into Rita's, your sisters flanking you on either side. Twinkling lights cast a warm glow over the busy crowd, your faces illuminated by flashes of colour from the mirrored disco ball above. The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, sweat, and something more primal.

"You needed this," Feyre said, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. She was dressed as an angel, her shapeshifting powers giving her a way to form pure white feathered wings, and Rhysand was somewhere getting drinks for her, dressed as a dark devil to compliment her. "To get out, have some fun. Forget about him."

Nesta nodded, humming in agreement, her lips curving into a small smile at her sister's words. You knew they were right, after everything that had happened, you desperately needed a night out. Nesta was already snatched away by Cassian, dressed as old warriors of legends, lost in the music.

Elain, dressed like a walking garden, was nursing her drink and sitting by, even though such parties weren't her scene she was with the shadow twins, talking and having a laugh.

You wore an outfit that looked like it was made of life itself, the shimmering fabric seemed to pulse with an inner light, leaves and vines twisting around your curves as you moved. The skirt you wore flared at your thighs, the corsetted top barely covering your curves. Your hair had white tinsels in it, styled up in a high pony, a mask over your face, fully covering you. You found it hilarious, dressing like life, given your powers. Nesta had convinced you to dress slutty to "catch a better male for the night" as she put it, there was plenty blushing involved on your part as she went into detail about the importance of a matching set of lace underneath.

While you stood there, amidst the pulsing throng of bodies, dancing your heart out for the past hour or so, having a little too much to drink, you couldn't recall, the music seeming to flow through your very veins, you felt a sudden presence behind you. Strong hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against a firm chest. You could feel the heat radiating off the body pressed so close to yours.

"I must say, that costume is... Captivating." A low, heavy voice murmured in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Life itself couldn't possibly be more beautiful than you look tonight."

You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of a someone covered in darkness, he wore a cloak over his head. Suriel? A scythe in hand. Death. How poetic.

You felt a thrill run through you at the dark stranger's bold touch and flattering words. There was something magnetic about his mysterious aura, something familiar too, the way his strong hands held you possessively. When you glimpsed his cloaked form and the ominous scythe, a frisson of excitement mixed with apprehension danced along your nerves.

The mysterious male in the death costume spun you around to face him fully, one large hand still resting possessively on your hip. Up close, you realised you could truly not see his face, as if the darkness that surrounded him made him appear headless. His other hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, leather glove-covered fingertips grazing your skin and leaving tingles in their wake.

"I've been watching you all evening," He murmured, his deep voice resonating through you. "Watching you move, watching you shine brighter than anyone else here. Tell me, little life, do you often have this effect on strangers?"

His thumb traced idle circles on your hipbone through the thin fabric of your costume as he waited for your response, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin.

The male's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your hip as he awaited your response, the heat of his touch seeming to brand your skin even through the thin fabric of your costume. You swallowed hard, pulse quickening at his proximity and the dark promise in his tone.

"I… I don't know what you mean," you managed to say, voice coming out breathier than intended. "I'm just here to enjoy the party with my sisters." Even as the words left your mouth, you knew they rang hollow. There was a part of you that revelled in his intense focus, in being singled out amidst the writhing sea of bodies. You were glad you had let Nesta talk you into wearing a matching lace set to "be ready for a male" in her words, because you were going to fuck him tonight, you just felt like it, in your slightly tipsy state, you needed someone to forget him, someone currently without a face seemed like a wonderful option.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled from the cloaked male's chest at your feigned innocence. "Is that so? Well then, allow me to change your mind." In one fluid motion, he pulled you flush against him, one muscular thigh slipping between your legs to press intimately against your core. The heat of him seared you even through the layers of clothing separating your bodies.

"This isn't just enjoyment, little one. This is destiny." His gloved hand slid up your side to cup the swell of your breast, kneading the soft flesh possessively. "Can't you feel it? The pull between us, like moth to flame?" Leaning in, he nipped sharply at the sensitive skin below your ear before soothing the sting with his tongue. "I'm going to worship every inch of you tonight until you're begging."

You gasped as his thigh ground against your core, but instead of pulling away, you leaned closer, "And what of you, do you approach random females having fun out of nowhere and think everyone wants you?"

The cloaked male threw back his head and laughed, a rich, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Oh no, sweet thing. I don't make a habit of approaching just any female." His hand slid lower, gripping your ass and pulling you impossibly closer. "But when fate drops a goddess wrapped in silk directly into my path, I'd be a fool not to act."

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his mouth moving over yours with skilful intent. One hand fisted in your hair, angling your head to just push the mask past your lips as he plundered your mouth thoroughly. When he finally released you, you were left panting, knees weak.

"My apologies, I couldn't resist sampling the nectar of the Mother herself," He purred wickedly, he wasn't sorry at all. And you weren't either, cause you felt like you knew those lips, and you kissed him back more confidently.

He broke the kiss, only to trail his lips along your jawline, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Mmmm, I can taste the wine on your lips. But there's another flavor beneath it, something sweeter. The essence of life itself." His hand slid under your skirt, calloused fingers caressing the smooth skin of your thigh. "I wonder, does all of you taste as divine as your mouth?"

The crowded dance floor seemed to fade away, the pulsing beat of the music dimming to a distant thrum. All you could focus on was the heat of his body pressed against yours, the wicked promises in his gravelly voice, the teasing caress of his fingers inching higher up your thigh. Your core clenched with need, arousal dampening your lace.

He groaned softly as his fingers brushed against the damp lace covering your most intimate area. "Already so wet for me, aren't you little goddess?" His hand traced teasing patterns over the soaked fabric, applying maddeningly light pressure. "I bet you're aching to be filled, to be stretched wide. Let's take this somewhere private, yeah?"

Then he pressed his scythe to the back of your head, then you realised that it wasn't simply a part of his outfit and the blade was very much sharp. As the reality of the situation dawned on you, a surge of fear mixed with exhilaration coursed through your veins. The cold metal of the scythe pressed firmly against your skull, a potent reminder of his power and dominance.

"Move, now," He commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. Without hesitation, you allowed yourself to be led through the crowd, his grip on your arm unyielding. The dance floor receded further into the background as you stumbled after him, your heart pounding in your ears.

He guided you through a door in the back, set for privacy in the club's nightly activities, the doors were dark red yet translucent, you could make out faint bodies of lovers pressed together, the male guided you to one of the empty rooms. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and something muskier, more primal. A large wooden table dominated the centre of the space, its surface polished yet stained with age.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, he spun you around to face him, pressing you back against the cool wood of the table. His hands roamed over your curves, squeezing and kneading as if to claim every inch of you as his own.

"You look exquisite in the dim light, like a Nightbloom blooming under moonlight," He murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "So delicate, yet perfect for the taking." His fingers deftly untied the bow at the front of your corsetted top, revealing the lacy cups barely containing your breasts. "Let's get rid of these restrictive garments, shall we?"

With practised ease, he peeled off your corset, leaving you in your mask, tiny skirt and the soaked lace covering your cunt.

His hungry gaze devoured the sight of your nearly bare body, drinking in the curves and valleys of your skin. The way your nipples pebbled in the cool air, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed heavily, the glistening evidence of your arousal on the lace clinging to your cunt. Every detail was etched into his memory, fueling his desire.

Without warning, he swooped down, capturing one pert nipple between his teeth. He suckled gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. At the same time, his hand delved beneath your skirts, fingertips grazing the sensitive inner thighs as he worked his way upward.

"Mmm, you do taste divine," He purred against your breast, his free hand palming the other, rolling the nipple between his fingers. "I could feast on you all night long."

You cried through the pleasure, head rolled back, you still couldn't see the male's face, covered in darkness, but as the shadows flickered in the room, you were fully sure who he was, yet you still played the part of not knowing.

His gloved hand slipped past the lace barrier, fingers brushing against your slick folds before circling your clit in deliberate strokes. "Such responsive little life," Death murmured approvingly, his hot breath tickling your skin. "I can tell you're eager for more."

With a sudden, decisive move, he hooked his fingers inside you, thrusting them deep into your clenching heat. A guttural moan escaped you as he pumped his digits in and out, stroking that magic spot within you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"That's it, let me hear you," He coaxed, his thumb continuing its relentless assault on your clit. "Scream for me, little goddess. Show me how much you crave my touch."

"What should I moan for you?" You gasped, toes curling on the table, hands gripping the sides as his gloved fingers curled inside you, now that you knew, you could sense the scars on his hands. "Death?"

He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending tingles through your body. "Yes, Death," He confirmed, his fingers never ceasing their sensual torment. "And I'm here to collect your soul..." His shadows moved the Scythe to aim for your throat, forcing you to keep your head up.

His pace quickened, pumping into you harder and faster until your whole world narrowed to the sensation of his fingers stretching and filling you. The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter in your core until you teetered on the brink of release.

"Now, scream for me, life," He demanded, his thumb rubbing merciless circles around your throbbing clit. "Let go and give me everything." With a final, brutal thrust, he pushed you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

With a final, ruthless thrust, he pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed, back arching off the table as a scream tore from your throat. Waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in ecstasy, light leaving your form as it slammed back in, you were a little ashamed to admit that your previous lover had never made you feel like that just by his fingers, or any part of him.

Death watched, mesmerized, as you came undone beneath his skilled touch. The way your cunt spasmed around his fingers, the flush of bliss on your cheeks, the sheer abandon in your expression, It was intoxicating.

As the aftershocks subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips to taste your essence. "Delicious," He purred, savouring the flavour of your climax, tasting your essence.

He leaned in close, his shadowy form looming over you. "But don't think that was enough to sate me, little goddess," He whispered, his breath a chilly caress against your ear. "I want to consume every last drop of your sweetness, to drink deep from the well of your desire until you're utterly spent and begging for mercy."

He grabbed your hips, pulling them back against his straining cock. The thick head prodded insistently at your entrance, seeking entry into your welcoming heat.

With a swift, powerful thrust, Death buried himself to the hilt inside you, his rigid cock stretching you wide open around him. A harsh groan ripped from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your slick walls enveloping him, your tightness a delicious contrast to the chill of his skin.

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm that shook the table beneath you on it's legs. Each stroke was a claiming, a possession, a declaration of his dominance over your quivering form.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, punctuated by your cries of pleasure and his guttural grunts. His shadows danced across the walls, mirroring the wild, primal energy coursing through his veins as he lost himself in the carnal delight of taking you.

The shadows covered the translucent glass, so no one outside could see the two of you. His movements became even more frenzied, hips snapping forward with reckless abandon as he chased his own release. The table creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but he paid it no mind, too consumed by the need to fill you, to mark you as his own.

"Fuck, you're so tight," He gritted out between clenched teeth, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigour. "I'm going to fill you up, little life," He snarled, his voice raw with lust. "Every last drop of my seed, marking you as mine." With a final, brutal plunge, he buried himself to the root inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilt his cum deep within your womb.

The sensation of his hot release flooding your insides triggered another orgasm, your body trembling and clenching around him as you came once more. Body curling around his to grip on.

"He. Didn't. Deserve. You." Azriel grunted as he slammed through your climax, his hood falling down, the shadows that he'd used to cover his face falling, "I hated hearing you sob for him at night. When my mate should be moaning for me." He growled the term and for you it was like time stopped.

Azriel captured your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your gasps and moans as he rocked into you, his hips grinding against yours in a slow, deliberate dance. "You're mine now, y/n," He growled against your lips, nipping at them possessively. "Mine to claim, to cherish, to fuck."

His words sent shivers down your spine, a thrill of excitement mixed with trepidation. But there was no denying the fierce passion burning in his eyes, the unyielding conviction in his tone. He wasn't asking, he was declaring, staking his claim on your very being.

As if to emphasize his point, Azriel pulled out of you abruptly, only to flip you onto your stomach and yank your hips up into the air, his shadows gripping your ponytail, grabbing your form still for him.

Without wait, Azriel lined his still hard cock up with your dripping entrance once more, still more to go, the blunt tip probing at your slick folds. Then, with a savage grunt, he drove into you again, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"Ah- AZ!"You felt every inch of him, his hard length splitting you open, reaching depths you didn't know existed. He set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against your ass as he took you with animalistic ferocity, each stroke driving home his claim on you.

Azriel's grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. "This is what you needed, isn't it, Life? To be taken, claimed, owned?" His voice was a low, menacing purr, laced with dark promise. He pressed in fully, bruising your cervix with a rut of his hips. "Because I'm not done with you yet. All you needed was me. Your mate. But instead you went for that pathetic male. I could feel you when you were under him, how little he pleasured you. I wanted you to explore around and that was the male you chose to have your heart broken by? That male made you cry!"

Azriel's accusations cut deep, striking at the heart, you had chosen wrong. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but he continued unabated, his relentless pace never faltering as he pounded into you.

"You thought you loved him, didn't you?" He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Thought he understood you, could make you happy. But look where it got you - crying yourself to sleep, desperate for something more. Something real."

His hand left your hair to trail down your spine, nails digging into your skin as he gripped your hip, holding you in place for his brutal thrusts. "I am that something real, y/n. I've always been here, waiting for you to realize it."

"Az..." You whimpered under the weight of him, his cloak fell as his wings stretched to their full might. Though you weren't scared of him, instead you felt something snap between you, a thread of gold that connect you.

Azriel's wings unfurled, casting an ominous shadow over the room as they spread wide, the leather a stark black against the dim lighting. The sight alone would have been intimidating, but coupled with his dominant position over you, it was a potent display of his power and control.

As he continued to pound into you, his movements grew more erratic, his hips snapping forward with a frenzy that bordered on violence. The table creaked ominously beneath you, threatening to collapse under the force of his thrusts.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," He growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "No other male will ever satisfy you like I can. You belong to me, body and soul." His hand slid from your hip to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse race. "Say it, princess. Allow me to kill him and I will bathe in his blood, for ever shedding a tear on your pretty face not born of pleasure."

Azriel's grip on your throat tightened, cutting off your air supply as he held you in a vice-like embrace. His free hand slid down to grasp your jaw, forcing your gaze upwards to meet his intense stare in the obsidian of his shadows, being so dark they reflected back everything he was doing to you, like a mirror to the show.

"Look at me, y/n," He commanded, his voice a low, dangerous hiss, his eyes were fully shadow. "Meet my eyes and tell me you understand. Tell me you're ready to let go of that pathetic excuse for a lover and embrace the darkness that's been waiting for you all along."

His hips never ceased their relentless assault, each brutal thrust driving home his point, his possession, his ownership, his jealousy. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of his unspoken threat hanging over you like a spectre of doom. "Say it," He repeated, his grip on your throat constricting further.

"Yours," You choked out, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. "I'm yours, Azriel."

With those three simple syllables, the dam broke. Azriel released his hold on your throat, allowing you to gasp in a ragged breath. His fingers dug into your jaw once more, angling your head to the side as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Good girl," He purred, the approval in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Now, let's finish what we started."

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, fucking into you with a newfound intensity, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion. A ring of white forming around the base of his cock, everything of his he'd already deposited deep within you.

In that moment, he didn't look like a male who'd put on a death persona for a little party, but he was death himself, come to take you. And you would gladly go with him.

Azriel's movements became more frantic, his strokes growing shorter and harder as he chased his release. His nails raked down your back, leaving red welts in their wake, a physical manifestation of the claim he was making on you.

"You're mine now, y/n," He growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "My mate, my love, my everything. No one else gets to touch you, to taste you, to make you scream."

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating as he spilt his seed deep inside you again. The feeling of his hot cum filling you, you let out a strangled cry as he put his entire weight on your back, the table underneath giving out. Mixed with a shadow that rubbed insistently at your clit, it triggered your own climax, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came undone in his arms.

Azriel collapsed atop you, his weight pressing you into the now very broken table as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. His chest heaved against your back, his hot breath fanning over your neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, looking over his shoulder at you with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "That's right, princess," He murmured, his voice husky with satisfaction. "You're mine now."

Slowly, he withdrew from you, his softening cock slipping free with a wet pop. A trickle of his essence leaked out, glistening on your inner thighs as he settled beside you, pulling you into his embrace.

"You're safe with me, y/n," He whispered, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. "You know that, right?"

Azriel's words were a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, his warm breath against your skin calming the lingering tremors of your climax. You nodded.

"I know," You replied softly, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. "I trust you, Azriel. I... I feel what Feyre explained she felt."

He hummed in approval, his arms tightening around you as if to pull you deeper into his embrace. "Good," He murmured, his lips grazing your temple. "Because I intend to keep you safe... And satisfied... For eternity." He kissed your temple, "Still, tell me, should I kill him? As much as I didn't enjoy you wanting to go after someone else, he did break your heart."

Azriel's question hung in the air, heavy with implication. In truth, part of you wanted revenge, craved the sweet justice of watching Azriel's wrath unleash upon the one who had wronged you. But another part, the part that had surrendered itself to this dark, beautiful male, whispered that perhaps there was mercy to be found.

"No," You said finally, your voice firm despite the uncertainty swirling within you. "I don't want you to kill anyone for me..."

Azriel regarded you for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, slowly, a dark smile curved his lips. "I will end generations for you, my mate. Anything that hurts you is nothing but dirt to me."

Azriel's declaration sent a thrill through you, a mix of fear and exhilaration at the depths of his devotion. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw no cruelty there, only an unwavering commitment to your well-being. He would be your darkest protector, your mate.

"I believe you," You whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a tender kiss. "And I'm glad to have you by my side, but he's not worth any more moment of my time. Just let him go."

Azriel's response was immediate and passionate, his mouth claiming yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless. His hands roamed your curves, mapping every inch of your body as if reassuring himself of your presence.

{General Taglist- @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-angst @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo @mellowmusings @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tele86}

{Azriel Taglist- @fxckmiup @annamariereads16 @saltedcoffeescotch @satorusemepls @fieldofdaisiies}

[transmutationisms]

can u elaborate on posture being a lie

As Beth Linker explains in her book “Slouch: Posture Panic in Modern America” (Princeton), a long history of anxiety about the proximity between human and bestial nature has played out in this area of social science. Linker, a historian of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, argues that at the onset of the twentieth century the United States became gripped by what she characterizes as a poor-posture epidemic: a widespread social contagion of slumping that could, it was feared, have deleterious effects not just upon individual health but also upon the body politic. Sitting up straight would help remedy all kinds of failings, physical and moral [...] she sees the “past and present worries concerning posture as part of an enduring concern about so-called ‘diseases of civilization’ ”—grounded in a mythology of human ancestry that posits the hunter-gatherer as an ideal from which we have fallen.

[...]

In America at the turn of the twentieth century, anxieties about posture inevitably collided with anxieties not just about class but also about race. Stooping was associated with poverty and with manual, industrialized labor—the conditions of working-class immigrants from European countries who, in their physical debasement, were positioned well below the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant establishment. Linker argues that, in this environment, “posture served as a marker of social status similar to skin color.” At the same time, populations that had been colonized and enslaved were held up as posture paradigms for the élite to emulate: the American Posture League rewarded successful students with congratulatory pins that featured an image of an extremely upright Lenape man. The head-carrying customs associated with African women were also adopted as training exercises for white girls of privilege, although Linker notes that Bancroft and her peers recommended that young ladies learn to balance not baskets and basins, which signified functionality, but piles of flat, slippery books, markers of their own access to leisure and education. For Black Americans, posture was even more fraught: despite the admiration granted to the posture of African women bearing loads atop their heads, community leaders like Dr. Algernon Jackson, who helped establish the National Negro Health Movement, criticized those Black youth who “too often slump along, stoop-shouldered and walk with a careless, lazy sort of dragging gait.” If slouching among privileged white Americans could indicate an enviable carelessness, it was seen as proof of indolence when adopted by the disadvantaged.

This being America, posture panic was swiftly commercialized, with a range of products marketed to appeal to the eighty per cent of the population whose carriage had been deemed inadequate by posture surveys. The footwear industry drafted orthopedic surgeons to consult on the design of shoes that would lessen foot and back pain without the stigma of corrective footwear: one brand, Trupedic, advertised itself as “a real anatomical shoe without the freak-show look.” The indefatigable Jessie Bancroft trained her sights on children’s clothing, endorsing a company that created a “Right-Posture” jacket, whose trim cut across the upper shoulders gave its schoolboy wearer little choice but to throw his shoulders back like Jordan Baker. Bancroft’s American Posture League endorsed girdles and corsets for women; similar garments were also adopted by men, who, by the early nineteen-fifties, were purchasing abdominal “bracers” by the millions.

It was in this era that what eventually proved to be the most contentious form of posture policing reached its height, when students entering college were required to submit to mandatory posture examinations, including the taking of nude or semi-nude photographs. For decades, incoming students had been evaluated for conditions such as scoliosis by means of a medical exam, which came to incorporate photography to create a visual record. Linker writes that for many male students, particularly those who had military training, undressing for the camera was no biggie. For female students, it was often a more disquieting undertaking. Sylvia Plath, who endured it in 1950, drew upon the experience in “The Bell Jar,” whose protagonist, Esther Greenwood, discovers that undressing for her boyfriend is as uncomfortably exposing as “knowing . . . that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files.” The practice of taking posture photographs was gradually abandoned by colleges, thanks in part to the rise of the women’s movement, which gave coeds a new language with which to express their discomfort. It might have been largely forgotten were it not for a 1995 article in the Times Magazine, which raised the alarming possibility that there still existed stashes of nude photographs of famous former students of the Ivy League and the Seven Sisters, such as George H. W. Bush, Bob Woodward, Meryl Streep, and Hillary Clinton. Many of the photographs in question were taken and held not by the institutions themselves but by the mid-century psychologist William Herbert Sheldon. Sheldon was best known for his later discredited theories of somatotypes, whereby he attributed personality characteristics to individuals based on whether their build was ectomorphic, endomorphic, or mesomorphic.

[...]

Today, the descendants of Jessie Bancroft are figures like Esther Gokhale, a Bay Area acupuncturist and the creator of the Gokhale Method, who teaches “primal posture” courses to tech executives and whose recommendations are consonant with other fitness trends, such as barefoot running and “paleo” eating, that romanticize an ancestral past as a remedy for the ills of the present. The compulsory mass surveillance that ended when universities ceased the practice of posture photography has been replaced by voluntary individual surveillance, with the likes of Rafi the giraffe and the Nekoze cat monitoring a user’s vulnerability to “tech neck,” a newly named complaint brought on by excessive use of the kind of devices profitably developed by those paleo-eating, barefoot-running, yoga-practicing executives. Meanwhile, Linker reports, paleoanthropologists quietly working in places other than TikTok have begun to revise the popular idea that our ancient ancestors did not get aches and pains in their backs. Analysis of fossilized spines has revealed degenerative changes suggesting that “the first upright hominids to roam the earth likely experienced back pain, or would have been predisposed to such a condition if they had lived long enough.” Slouching, far from being a disease of civilization, then, seems to be something we’ve been prone to for as long as we have stood on our own two feet.

[pricetagged]

(don't you know) that death is a very stable job ii

Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing Knights. Medieval/Fantasy Knight! Simon AU. 8.9k As mentioned in Part i this was inspired by a scene in 'The Serpent Queen' and @/bi-writes 'a hand for a hand'. Content: mild violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), oral (f-receiving), PIV sex,. Reader is described as a young woman, (generally body-neutral but implied to be plump/curvy).

________________________________________________ -------------------------------------------------------------- ii

As the Palace loomed taller and taller you felt you stomach drop lower and lower. You imagined that Simon's horse must be kicking it up the street by now.

Lady Thamesbury's maid had braided your hair into some intricate crown that Simon said looked 'real pretty on ya'. You let Simon pick your riding clothes and fasten your cloak, content that he wouldn't have you looking a fool. Still, you feared that you could look like many other things to the nobles of the court.

It was almost anticlimactic, reaching the doors and being ushered in by staff who flustered around to welcome the Duke of Northmire and Earl of the Northern Isles. You leaned heavily on Simon's forearm as he walked you towards the throne room, his heavy bootsteps echoing the pounding of your heart. Ornate wooden doors opened to reveal a large hall, bisected by a long, elaborate carpet leading to the throne itself. It seemed rather empty, actually. You had expected to see throngs of corseted and besilked courtiers watching you from over the tip of their noses, waiting to see if the silly little dormouse would scratch up the furniture. Instead, the Heralds announced you to the King who sat upright like a cat on his dais. The only other occupants were a lean, handsome man, an upright, elegant lady, and an imposing, whiskered man by her side.

For all your anxiety, it was rather inconsequential. You stuck like a limpet to Simon, ducking and curtseying as he bowed, nodding and smiling as he spoke. The King seemed only mildly interested in you, offering bland congratulations and agreeing to meet with Simon to close the marriage banns and approve the union. He seemed distracted. You had the distinct feeling that you had walked into something important. Something intense. It hung in the air, heavy and viscous as clay. It clung to the walls, to the faces of those gathered, thick and dark and cracking. You hoped that it would flake off, terra fluttering down as you scurried away and out of sight.

Out of mind.

"Good to see you again, Simon," The bearded man clapped him hard upon the shoulders, familiarity warming his smile. He nodded your way, "I see you’ve been busy."

The corners of your lips twitched, smile sprouting up under the glow of this friendly attention. He was big, almost as tall as your Knight. He stood tall, too, finely dressed and fully armed. There was an ease of movement to his steps, his words, like he was used to stating his will and having it be so. Your keen eyes caught the signet ring snug against his thick fingers, and the decorative scabbard at his hips. The weapon within was doubtless more dangerous than its ornamentation would imply.

"Y'r Highness," there was a note of irony in Simon’s voice. Irony without teeth. Playful. "This is my wife."

His warm hand clutched at your waist, strong forearm steeling your back. You bobbed a little curtsey, flustered at the attention.

At the contact.

"Where did he find you, eh?"

"More like where did she find him?" the handsome man at his side cut in, eyebrows quirking between you and Simon.

"Not loungin’ around the palace playing quoits and collectin’ favours from pretty ladies’ maids," he rumbled over the sound of Johnny’s snicker.

"But Simon, the ladies’ maids know all the best secrets," he shot back, rakish glint undimmed in his eyes. Shaking his head slightly, he continued more seriously. "We missed you, Your Grace. Lot of things happening lately."

The four men shared a look, familiarity and trust allowing secrets to leap between them without words. The unspoken danced in the air, silent and striking. You looked away, unfamiliar with the steps and turns. Not privy to the unutterable brotherhood that bound them.

The outlander, the echo of your father’s voice dripped poison in your mind. Playing pretend at the palace.

Only, that wasn’t quite true.

Cold light filtered through stained glass, turning kaleidoscope on the flagstones. On you and Simon. Simon who had yet to leave your side, arm pressing you to his as you bathed in softly coloured apricity. Your sentinel, shielding you under his shadow from the swill-soaked streets of the lower pits all the way up to the palace. Of course he felt how you stiffened, shrinking in on yourself a little. Of course he noticed your shiver, the slight tilt of your head down and to the side. His fingers stroked gently across the softness of your waist, soothing.

"Well, you still got your courtly manners or wot?" He looked between the two men. "Been ridin’ all day. Want to get to our chambers, settle a bit."

"Me an’ all, cannae feel my legs," Johnny slapped at his thighs, perking up at the thought of a soft bed and warm hearth. "Where hae they put me this time?"

"You’re down in the stables with the other beasts, MacTavish," the handsome man cut in again, cheeky. You could hear the grin in his voice.

Johnny swaggered forwards, clapping his friend hard on the shoulder as they all laughed. Tension swept away, you walked along winding corridors swathed in rich tapestries and flickering sconces. As you went, you got the names and titles of your new companions. The confidence of the bearded man made sense, serving now as a Grand Duke but having worked in the service of the Crown for decades. John was his name, and only he outranked Simon. The final man, charming in both face and manner, was Kyle, Prince of Thamesbury. You could see now the similarities between him and his sister, both tall and lissome. Both blessed with a prepossessing sort of beauty, inviting and familiar.

They bid farewell at your door, all bowing at you with a promise to meet with Simon later. Johnny, naturally, made a show of raising your knuckles to his lips to land a smacking kiss that shocked you into laughter so much that you didn’t even think to be embarrassed of your scars.

Their footsteps grew fainter and fainter into silence.

Just you and Simon, like those first few days. A little thrill warmed your chest, like an ember glowing happily red in its fireplace. You wondered if he could feel it, if the warmth suffused outwards to him through flesh and bone and armour until it buried deep into his chest cavity, ribs and gristle acting as the hearth for whatever this was to grow. To blaze brightly.

The door shut, heavy oak and iron ushering you both into your own little world.

"C'mere."

You didn't even think, just folded yourself into him before the final syllable left his lips. He was still outfitted in riding gear and half armour, cold and hard pressing against your cheek. Strong arms enveloped you, cradling you against his bulk. You tipped your head back, gazing up into his eyes. His face was obscured, but you knew what lay underneath. His eyes, dark but so soft, crinkled slightly as you looked up. You imagined the harsh lines of his gnarled face were soft, too, beneath the mask. Your lips parted, aching to ask him-

The rough pad of his fingertip stopped the words before they could form.

Confused, you blinked up at him. There was a barely perceptible shake of his head, finger still gently shushing you. He leaned down, fabric rustling against your ear as you strained to hear his low rumble.

"Wait. Walls 'ave ears."

Like a cat, you nuzzled your face closer to his. His warmth bled through the mask as your lips traced the valley from cheek to ear.

"When?" you felt him shudder as you whispered, the ghost of your breath almost louder than your voice. "I want to know what's going on. I want to help you."

"Tonight. I'll tell ya tonight. After the feast. Few things I still need t' scope out."

He felt your nod.

"Good girl," he pressed his forehead to yours. You felt, more than heard, the rumble of his voice. "Behave y'rself. And remember, you don' answer to anyone who isn't me."

------------------------------- Simon sent away the ladies maids with a curt nod. They'd come to drop off the evening's clothes, to dress you and braid your hair. He watched all the while, eyes never leaving wherever they touched you. They recognised the warning that lay in his silence, never lingering on your skin or teasing you to draw out stories and gossip. You couldn’t even say that you felt like a doll, because you'd always seen the rich girls talk to theirs as they draped them in little cotton overskirts and twisted their flax string hair. As they plucked and pulled and bundled you supposed that you could be akin to a stump doll. Not the soft, delicate, pretty kind but rather the ones roughly hewn from wood into human form. Harder. Sturdier. And yet, as they lifted your arms and twirled you around you reminded yourself that you were malleable too. You could articulate your limbs, turn your head, and weather through the rough and the cold.

And maybe, as Simon's signet ring glinted behind you in the vanity mirror, maybe the storms had passed.

You stared into the mirror as you watched him dismiss them. It was a big, gold ornate thing. Almost grotesque in with its twisting gilt frame, little cherubic faces and animals warped into the design. It was the largest one you'd ever seen. The clearest, too. You could see each and every strand of your hair, swept back and gleaming as decorative pins glistened like dewdrops above your brow. Your skin glistened too, some of that warm little ember in your chest heating you from the inside and making you glow. You looked softer than you ever had before, even when looking at your reflection in the sudsy, shimmering waters of the river where you once stooped and sweated your labour.

Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the past few weeks of care and good food. Maybe it was-

Your Knight stepped up behind you, too tall to be entirely within frame, and placed his heavy hand softly on your shoulder. He leaned down, cheek against yours as he looked at you through the looking glass. His pale blond lashes trembled slightly, pupils flickering across your image as if he sought to study it. To keep you in this frame, you and him imprinted together on polished silver. You wondered if the superstitions were true, if mirrors really could capture the soul and keep it bound forever in the confines of cold metal and glass. His dark, burning eyes met yours and you flicked the thought away. It wouldn't matter if it were true. There was no frame that could hold a Ghost, and if he couldn't be found there then neither would you.

"Suits ya," he trailed his fingers across the dense, glossy velvet of your cotehardie. "I should dress y'in more than just black 'n white. The colour suits ya."

"I like your colours, though. They suit you."

It was true. Black and white. Dusk and dawn. Beginning and end; it was a study in contrasts, the underlying tones and shades to every colour in existence. You could picture it now, the Squire boy from a township not unlike your own. He must have been tall for his age, some kind of strength burning in him and catching the attention of those who normally wouldn't deign to look at errand-boys and helpers. You could picture him older too, black armour on a pale white horse cutting a swathe of red across a copper-drenched field. And now, his pale, scarred face was free from its usual black mask. Gazing right back at you.

"Would you give me a favour? Something in your colours to carry to the feast?"

He huffed a little, dour expression belied by the warmth in his eyes.

"Isn't it meant t'be the other way around? You granting me a ribbon or a handkerchief or a lock of y'r hair?"

"Well, I don't exactly know how these matters work, Simon. I wasn't raised for it," you felt no embarrassment referencing your past to him now. Here. In your chambers. "But I know enough to say that one normally is granted a favour before embarking on a quest or challenge."

There a was a little archness to your tone, a silly attempt to mimic the cadence of the women you'd heard shuffling around the courtyard.

"I see," he couldn't quite suppress the twitch of his thin, scarred lips. "Cheeky thing, aren't ya. Attending a feast as my wife that difficult, eh?"

Your nose scrunched, protest etched into your nerves before the words formed. "Attending the feast is. I'm not well educated, but I am not stupid, Simon. I know that something is afoot - yes, I know you'll tell me later. I- I'm just not entirely sure what is expected of me."

Instead of answering, you watched as he tugged at the fastening of his surcoat until the thick, black cord slipped free. It was exhilarating watching hands that wrought death move so dexterously. You had never considered yourself an aesthete, but imagined that gazing at Simon would make you so. There was a sort of rawness to his beauty, like a cliff weathered by sea and spray. The valleys and ridges, the pockmarks and scars, stood as a testament to strength and endurance. And now, it was brought low before you.

His reflection dipped lower and lower out of your line of sight, a mountain brought low by a breeze. He still appeared huge, behemoth, on his knees. It caused something to cramp in your belly, watching through the mirror how he matched you height even as he crouched to the floor. You burned, low and furling in your core until it rose languidly up to your cheeks. Your underlayers, the soft cotton chemises, felt suffocating and itchy against your dampening flesh. You held your breath, scared to snuff out this moment, this dizzying feeling that made your face hot and sent your thoughts swirling.

It was excruciating, feeling the heavy drag of your skirts inching up your calf. The rough, uneven pads of his fingers ticked the curve of your ankle as he lifted it to his lap. Cool, woven leather coiled around and around, tying a little piece of him around you. It wasn't tight, just nestled comfortably, but you knew that you'd feel it as you walked. As you sat and listened and talked, all the while pretending that you couldn't feel the extemporal wedding-garter nestled under your skirts. Secret as a whisper.

His hand lingered, fingertips swirling higher above the makeshift anklet, taking in the softness of your calf. How the muscle twitched as you tried not to shudder. You licked your lips and finally, finally, dragged your eyes away from you own blown pupils staring back at you through the mirror. You looked down past layers of tight bodice and velvet skirts until you could see that his pupils were just as blown as yours.

His eyes never left yours as he stood, brushing close to your chest util he towered over you once more. You could feel the rise of his chest through your bodice, his calm, steady breaths belied by the intensity of his gaze on yours. Maybe he could feel your pulse, hammering so hard that it must surely be visible in the delicate line of your arched neck. Maybe he could feel your hitching breaths, just as he could feel yours. His rough, warm hand came to caress your cheek like unpolished wood meeting velvet. You leaned in, held your breath, and let your eyes drift closed.

In the autogenic darkness of your lids you watched shadow turn to phosphene as you felt his face dip lower. The slight tickle of stubble on your cheek wrought a shiver, before you melted into the press of his scarred lips against yours. It was languid, slow, dragging across your lips until they parted. His large hand cradled the back of your head as he tasted you, wet and open-mouthed, until you felt dizzy and weak-kneed. His lips moved up, stopping finally to kiss your forehead as you swayed in his arms.

"I told ya already. Be good, be wary. And don' answer to anyone who isn't me." You nodded slowly, looking up at him with head heavy and hot. He smiled, then, a gristled, toothy thing that twisted his already scarred face. You couldn't help but to smile back. "There she is, my wily little dormouse. Time t'go."

Arriving at the Great Hall was a blur, but somehow he managed to direct your bambi legs across uneven flagstones and winding stairs. Your thoughts cooled as you journeyed through the damp, castle halls, leaving behind something viscous and sticky on your flesh. Between your thighs. You shivered in the cold, stone halls, grateful now for the heavy clothes that earlier had felt so burdensome. How far had you come from the girl who knew nothing of men except to avoid them? The girl who imagined slipping in the shoal of the lower districts, unsteady on the grit of the sandbanks until the water swelled and took her away. In lieu of pinching yourself at the table, you crossed your legs and pressed one ankle into the other, the facsimile of elegance and ease.

Only you knew that you sought to dig the cord around your ankle deeper, let it tear through integument and tendons until flesh healed over top and fused it into you.

Would even that be enough? Would anything?

His meaty thigh pressed into yours.

You smiled prettily up at him, something secret in the curve of your lips and the fluttering of your lashes. The wine at the table was heavy, fragrant, and made you lightheaded almost as much as Simon had earlier. Almost enough to set you at ease, to make you forget about all others in the room.

The bubble burst as feasting turned to frolicking.

You didn't know how to dance. The reason was multifold, the first being that it simply wasn’t a part of your education. People danced in the lower districts, yes, but you imagined it to be a little too raucous, too unrefined for current company. Another reason was that it hardly fit the directive - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - that ruled most of your life as you scurried away from the sight of others. Who had the time, energy, or inclination to dance when each day was spent splitting skin with lye and cold water, working until the body ached and belly rumbled? You hadn't even had the coin for a glass of cheap, tavern swill after handing all earnings over to your father.

You noticed how, during the feast, the threat of Simon's reputationn had killed any attempts at conversion. You wondered, now, if alcohol and music would embolden anyone beyond curious glances and hushed whispers. Hopefully not.

You were joined only by the men you had met earlier. Simon's friends; the Ghost's brethren.

"Dinnae fancy a dance, Yer Grace?"

"Not if y'r offerin'."

"Nae offering you, that's fer sure," Johnny turned towards you after slapping Simon on the shoulder. "What d'ye say, Bonnie? Know how tae jig?"

You shook your head hard, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. You could picture it, sure that he'd be nothing if not an enthusiastic partner, twirling you around the floor like a leaf on the breeze. He was outfitted in a slightly more decorative version of his usual islesman garb, gold threads intertwined with the heavy wool of his tartan. His eyes still shone a little too bright, that same intensity dancing across his face, but it didn't alight your instincts. Simon trusted him. You trusted Simon. There was comfort in the simplicity.

"I'm not much of a dancer, My Lord. I'd only step on your toes."

"My toes can take it, nae bother."

"She doesn't want t'dance. Go bother one of th'other ladies." There was no real heat in Simon's voice, amusement clear in the tilt of his brow.

"Yer no fun. Just plannin' tae glare from the corner o'the hall all night?"

"You could join us, if ya want. Might change the glare t'a glower once the candles burn down."

Johnny chuffed through his nose at that, rolling his eyes at thr approaching Kyle. With a nod in your direction, he addressed his friend.

"Disnae want tae dance, barely will talk without a dour comment. Got any ideas to liven them up, Gaz?"

"Don't look at me, I'm here for some quiet too. Too much chatter, not enough said over there," he nodded towards the group of men he'd just left across the hall. Earlier, the heralds had announced them as the King's military advisors and diplomatic envoys. They looked it, too, standing tall and with the ease that is born of power and prestige. Their swords glinted and mouths smiled even as their eyes remained flat and shifty. Arch and calculating as a gentleman fox.

"Yer all dreich as a ditch in winter," he groaned half-heartedly, winking at you as you tried not to laugh.

Simon caught your eye, too, something playful flickering around him, turning his shock of blond hair into a nimbus. Your mind was already able to fill in the blanks of his face, to paint over the black maw of his mask. You knew that he was smirking, tongue running across his teeth as he savoured what he was about to say.

"I'll tell ya a joke, then, Johnny-"

"-oh, naw, not another one o'those-"

"What do you call it when a wizard's wand is broken?"

"A wizards..? Dinnae ken."

"A spell of bad luck."

Even Kyle groaned at that, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "That was terrible. I heard better over there," he nodded towards the strategic envoy across the floor.

"Okay, okay. One more. What do y'call a Knight with poor swordsmanship?" Simon crossed his arms across the wide barrel of his chest and leaned back against the wall, all ease and confidence despite the heckling audience.

"Dinnae know."

"Y'call him John MacTavish," he didn’t wait for the line to land before he let out a quiet hehehe, laughing even as Johnny's face turned red and chest puffed up.

"Yer a roaster, Simon, an absolute roaster. That's my cue tae find Price," he called over his shoulder as he marched towards a nondescript side door.

"You best go and join him, Simon. The Captain was looking for you too," Kyle must have read the hesitation in his frame, the way his face lingered on yours. "I'll be here."

It left you off-kilter, slightly. The heavy weight always balanced at your side was striding across the room, cutting a swathe through revelers as they tried both to avoid him and keep him in their sights. Little flocks of feathery, pecking creatures banding together as the wolf skulked through their coop.

They didn't even warrant a glance from him.

But for you it left you lopsided. Watching as he slipped into the shadows. Missing him. Maybe you'd always feel that way, always need something to ground you. Before, it was the weight of a basket set against your plush hip, digging in and leaving bruises with the heft of sopping shifts and underskirts. Now it was him, wide, warm palm frequently brushing the swell of your waist. Large shadow always in your periphery.

In the future, could that space be filled with something of yours? Both of yours. Something sweet and small and-

could it-?

"It must have been an interesting courtship," Kyle's low, smooth voice cut through your reverie.

"Yes, most unexpected," you turned to look up at him. With just the two of you, temporary wallflowers decorating the fringes, you could take in more of his face. Neat little mustache; big brown eyes. Beautiful. Smart. Like the bloodhounds who stirred around the forest's edge, just waiting to catch the right scent. "But I'm glad for it."

Wordplay was best-served when honest. You were not as skilled as those around you, perhaps, but you had experience in knowing when and where to hold your tongue.

"As are we," he must have caught the slight widening of your lids, the parting of your lips. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, all sincere camaraderie. "No need to look surprised. I've followed him to the bleakest, blood-soaked fields this side of the known world. I've never known him to make a bad decision. Don't let others find room for doubt."

It was strange, this ready acceptance from his men. It was all the more stark when contrasted with the strangers at the palace. You'd seen the glances around the room, yes, the curious eyes. The occasional sneers. The whispers of The Ghost and his captive bride. But you'd grown hardened against rumours over the years, though attention still left you askance.

"Noted, my lord." you played coy - be sweet-. "I defer to your expertise."

He laughed, smile lambent as the light from a candle. "Johnny tried to tell me you were skittish."

"His lordship likes to talk."

"And you don't, I see. That's good. Some things are better left unsaid."

"Yes, so I've seen," you sent a pointed look at the door through which your husband had disappeared.

He looked at you, then, something like respect under the arch of his brows. "Smart too. Though, Ghost was right to keep this to himself." It was silent for a moment before he squinted at something across the ballroom. "You could help, if you wanted."

"Help with what?"

"With a little fishing. The man on his way - yes, him. Blond hair, black tunic - he's been sniffing around all night for scraps. He's very keen to see what Ghost has been doing since the Zakhaev Campaign in the East."

You were reminded starkly that the man who knelt at your feet and kissed you so softly spent most of his life blanketed in the smoke and splatter of the battlefield. It wasn't something that you had forgotten, per se, as you thought back to the circumstances of your meeting. Rather, it was known to you in the same way that you knew the sun would rise in the morning. You saw it from a distance, admired it even, but did not think on it beyond that. Perhaps it was naïve, brushing off the reputation of your husband whilst others whispered it in fear. But you thought back to his directive to you, 'Don't answer to anyone who isn't me,' and turned to regard the approaching newcomer.

It was as clear as the crystal you'd been sipping from all night; you wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to this man.

Rather, he wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to you.

He sought you out. He thought that he anything you would reveal would be to his benefit. You hid your smile behind your wine glass.

"He's important, I take it?"

"You've heard of 'The Shephard'?" he continued at your nod. "The King's advisor. An old war dog. Graves answers to him."

It swirled around, more information clouding the glass rather than clearing it. You weighed it up in your mind, testing the form and density of your thoughts. One stood out, and you cradled it. Let it roll around in your mind and still your tongue-

-Whatever this intrigue was, it truly didn't interest you.

As a girl, when you hungered so deeply that it gnawed at you even in your sleep, you cared nothing for the palace. The Crown meant nothing to you, nothing to the other laundresses, as you pounded stains against rocks in the long, humid days of summer. Knights and Lords and their ilk seldom slid far enough down the tiers to be seen in your village. They meant nothing to you. Not when food, fire, safety were hard to find and hard-won.

But perhaps that's why your interest was stirred a little. With belly-full and body-warm what were you left to think of? When 'Simon' became synonymous with 'safety', what would you do to keep it that way? What would you do to fight for it the way your bone-tired body once fought for basic dignity?

Simon had spilled blood for you. Had painted the cobbles at your feet with the sluggish, rusty ichor of your worthless father.

What would you-?

You glanced at the buffet table to your left, setting down the shield of your wine glass. It slopped over, a little claret stain bleeding onto the tablecloth. You tried not to take it as an omen. You gazed at the excess of the banquet, a kaleidoscope vanitas of fruits, cheeses, meats. Would they be left to rot? Untouched as the nobles twittered and flitted 'til the small hours. Would the servants be privileged enough to feed off the scraps after they'd been left to go stale? You let the rich, heady scent turn bitter and harden your face.

"Your Grace, may I present Philip Graves, Commander of the Shadow Company," Kyle gestured at the newcomer, all ease and neutrality. "Commander, the Duchess of Northmire."

"I believe that congratulations are in order," he bowed, a lazy half-nod in your direction. "Allow me the pleasure of your company with a dance."

"I'm not much of a dancer, my lord. But, you are welcome to keep our company as we observe," you demurred, eying the sharp cut of his smirk.

"Oh, I insist. It is a ball, after all," he licked at his lips, "You can, uh, balter as much as you please."

You played off your sneer as a smile. A little twitch of your nose. "But of course."

As he drew you forth you spent the gallows steps to the floor studying your quarry. He was handsome, yes, but there was something cold and sharp to his face. All angles and slopes in shades of pewter. You thought to handle him like a particularly sharp knife.

"Enjoying the festivities, ma'am?" you let him draw you just close enough to be polite, and slipped into his steps. "How does it compare with the parties back in your lands?"

"It doesn't; this is the palace, after all."

He hummed, dead eyes and charming smile. "That's a real pretty accent. I didn't quite catch where Ghost snapped you up from."

"My father arranged it. Not so exciting as to be the topic of court gossip."

That earned you what must have been a laugh. A soft chuff as he fixed you under his frigid gaze. Perhaps he thought you'd squirm, that you were some simple country lady raised to be sweet and obliging as she was packed off to the palace. You'd scurried from men like him, before. The kind of greasy, nipping dog that was sent down badger holes and rabbit warrens, slick and fast and mean. The kind who was powerful under another's command, crunching through necks and then coming to heel when called.

"I'm not one for gossip, My Lady," something stirred behind his lips, mouth twisting as he considered his next words.

Whatever they were, they were left unsaid.

"Been lookin' f'r ya."

"Ah, Ghost" he greeted your husband like an old friend. "Congratulations. Quite the charming little parvenu you've got here."

You didn't need to look behind you to feel how those words settled about as well as vinegar in the stomach. Sour. Biting.

"Be careful, Graves," his voice was rough, like the words scraped over angry, spitting coals before he released them. The firm, heavy bulk of his body pressed close to your side. You melted into him, leaning close so that the three of your stood in a clumsy isosceles. "Run on back t' Shepard. Heard he's callin' ya, missin' his dog."

"No need for that. We were just having a chat, weren't we now?" You kept your lips sealed, chin held high as you fidgeted out of his grasp and towards Simon. You didn't like the look on his face, the mocking, smug set of his smile as his eyes darted between you both. He sighed, like you'd somehow disappointed him. "You know, Ghost, playing knight-errant doesn't suit you."

Once back in Simon's arms you realised how Graves had left you distorted, shoulders hitched high and neck twisted and taut. Where you'd joined hands felt tacky, like dipping your fingers in the thick, greasy tallow you'd once used to make soap. You didn't look as he strutted away, instead just breathed in the comforting leather and musk of the sentry at your side.

Your eyes found the banquet table again, still glistening with fats and sweets. Only now, you could see the flies hovering around, rubbing their bristly black-stick legs together and burrowing in deep. ----------------------------

You were loath to slip away from Simon after that, now used to having him fill that empty, aching place in your chest. But the walls were closing in.

The air in the room had grown balmy and sweet, spilled drinks and sweat saturating the tablecloths and curtains. It reminded you of the drinking districts, of grubby hands digging into your arm and dragging you down to - to -

-to whatever didn't happen that night. That night Simon showed up.

Still, you needed air. You needed something cold; some sharp, icy breeze to sweep through the foliage sprouting in you mind. You sought to forage through what was left, scrabble over the dead leaves and twigs until you uncovered the verdant little buds below (I belong here. I belong-). You felt unmoored, like a spiraling sycamore leaf battling weather and wind until you were blown into the palace. Ready to be swept away. It was so easy to believe Simon when it was just you and him. You imagined the matter was as simple to him as breathing. The blood of other men spilled because he willed it. Men listened to him because he said so. You were his because he found you.

Simple.

But as you navigated the warren of palace halls in your fancy clothes and borrowed finery, you felt the acetous bubbles of doubt fizzing in your stomach. It was not Simon you doubted, but rather yourself. Little dormouse playing pretend. Talking and walking as if your timorous little heart wasn't fluttering in your chest. As if the petticoats and overskirts didn’t feel warm and burdensome, like the kind that would swell with water and drag you under back when you were nothing but a timid, inchoate shadow under the thrall of your father.

Something of Grave's words niggled at you - knight-errant. You know he meant it as an insult, but it just didn't quite fit Simon. Like throwing a cheap blow against the steely armour on his hulking frame. It just glanced off. But a little scratch lingered. The hint of something accusatory - like he'd slipped the leash, wandered too far and-

Low, rolling voices echoed off the damp stone walls. The sconces flickered as you looked around, boxed in between a heavy tapestry and unlatched door.

"-distracted by that little pony he's picked up from god-knows-where." It was Graves, cocksure and brash. "Now's the time, boys. Order's from on high."

"Allen is already in place with Kingfish. Awaiting your missive."

"That's what I like to hear," you could hear the swell of his chest. Anticipation let his words flow like honey from a hive. "Now, you and your brigade are to, uh, accompany the 141 when they're sent to El Reino de Las Almas in two days' time. Remember, no loose ends."

"Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed."

The blood rushing past your ears drowned out the rest of the exchange. Your whiskers twitched, prickling with unease as you glanced about for an escape. The sound of the door scraping across the tiles killed that hope.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" It was hard to turn your head, like trying to mold stiff wax, but you managed it. "Little far from the Grand Hall.

Your mother's advice echoed in your mind, as familiar and comforting as well-worn clothes. (Be quiet, be meek, be sweet-

-Don't answer to anyone who isn't me).

"You're right," you let out the breath you were holding, hoping to pass it off as relief. "I'm glad to see you, Commander Graves. Perhaps you would do the honour of escorting me? I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

"Don't do that. Don't think that I'll be taken in by that. You're puttin' me in a tough spot," he seemed to chew at his next words, rolling them around as he pinned you down with his dead eyes. "My lady."

Run, you thought. You eyed up the man before you, not as big as your Knight but still not worth underestimating. But a glance down the shadowed, unfamiliar halls had you thinking again. Run where?

He caught your furtive little twitch, tutted at you as he grasped at the meat of your upper arm. "Let's have a little talk, you and I."

You would have tripped over the layers of your skirts were it not for his vice grip holding you up. He let go abruptly, letting you stumble into the study from which he'd just emerged.

This time the door latched shut.

Papers littered the writing desk, all maps and missives that you couldn't read. You watched the slow, rolling drip of the candle wax in the corner as you tried to calm your racing thoughts. Would it burn down before you got out of here? Would someone stumble in, see only you and the cooling puddle of paraffin spilled across the floor?

What would Simon do, you thought. Simon, who was being set-up by the sinewy, sharp-toothed predator pacing behind you.

What would I do for Simon?

"It's real unfortunate you had to hear that." Funny. There was nothing of misfortune in his tone. "See, I don't much fancy what has to be done. But I can't let you go tellin' tales."

You raised your arms to your chest as he approached, letting the sleeves roll down and reveal your forearms. Your tough, cross-hatched labourers' hands.

He raised an eyebrow at your silence, somehow managing to look down at you from paces away. You knew his type. Like the nasty little terriers your father used to bet on, cheering as they tore into the squeaking, scrabbling rats trapped in the ring. It was nothing personal for him, you were sure, but that wouldn't stop him from enjoying it.

"Telling tales implies that my words would be fictitious," you couldn't resist one little dig. Let him chew on that, sniff at the bait you cast as your mind raced with what to do next. What to do, what to-

"Cute," it bought you only a second. "You realise that this is bigger than you, sweetheart. If it were up to me-"

You darted for the letter opener to your right, papers flying as your shaking, numb fingertips grappled to pick it up. There would be no talking him around, no amount of demurring and fluttered lashes that would get him to unlock his jaw.

"Now why'd you have to go and do a silly thing like that?"

It was silent for a beat, your wide, glossy eyes fixed on his unblinking stare. He was cold, focused in a way that tugged at the animal instincts in the back of your neck. You watched as he tilted his head to the side, sure that his teeth were slick and limbs coiled ready to snatch you as you made a mad dart for the door. Only, that wasn't your plan. You weren't the meek little ingenue he written you off as. A softer thing would have swooned as he manhandled her into the room alone, unchaperoned. A gentler creature would have bristled at his familiarity, calling you 'sweetheart' like he had the right. His years surrounded by lesser men and court sycophants had blinded him to one simple truth.

You weren't one of them.

It seemed to catch him off guard, shifted him slightly off kilter as he watched you steel your jaw and brace yourself near the table's edge. You'd hauled heavier loads than the delicate little paper knife biting into your hands. You were soft, yes, but it was a layer built over strength. Years of labour had seasoned you to pain, had hewn muscle and callouses just as valuable as those earned by other means. You weren't strong enough to fight him, true, but you were damned sure you would hold him off.

You tensed low and balanced, surefooted on the tiles as much as you were on the riverbanks. Shadows flicked under the sway of the dying candles, obscuring the razor contours of his face. Ephemeral. Volatile. You gulped down the bile bubbling up your throat as he advanced lazily towards you.

Only, something else emerged from the shadows. Transmuted from black and grey until he was not a shade but a man. A Ghost.

The candle snuffed, sooty trails of charcoal spiraling up. You saw through a haze, achromatic. Felt the shifting of weight, the dull thuds of fists hitting meat. Sluicing through sinew until you scented something metallic and hot. Your racing thoughts and galloping heart couldn't keep up with the scene, uselessly flitting across apparitions as the details struggled through the thick sludge of your mind.

-two shadows, or three? more?

hands grasping at you - no, holding you -

- something soothing -

-someone crying? were they-? -something heavy, trussed up and dragged-

-'We've got it, Simon-'

Your trembling fingers clutched at something slick, solid.

"Easy, easy dormouse," your quivering chin was pressed hard against the soaked fabric at his neck. You tasted salt on your lips, hot and wet and bleeding down your cheeks. Simon. Simon stroking at your hair as he cradled you close. He was so big. How could have forgotten the heft of him, the way he swallowed you up in arms as thick as branches? "I've got ya. You're with me."

You swam through the mire, nuzzled your nose into his neck one last time before peeling back. It was still dark, hazy, in the room. But pressed this close it didn't matter. You reached up, shaking fingertips stroking along the lines of a face revealed only to you. You could just about make out the pale crown of his hair, the whites of eyes that rested heavy on your face. You wondered how you looked to him, if he saw past the shuddering breaths and cracked lips to recognise that it was joy that sprung your tears. More than relief, more than gratitude it was some kind of retrouvaille. You wanted to cup the feeling, let it ripple and glimmer in between your palms as you brought it to his lips.

He'd lap at it - no, he'd drink it down greedily. Your sentry. Your paladin. The man who made you an orphan just to take you in.

How foolish of you to doubt that, to doubt yourself. You, who survived every winter and every famine made harder under the roof of your father. You, who bade the man who told you he wasn't made for anything but bloodshed, yet knelt at your feet.

You pressed your lips to his through the fabric of his mask, let him taste the words that cut through your sobs. "Never again, Simon. Never again."

Doubt. Faltering. Loneliness. Meekness, quiet, skittishness-

Never again. ------------------------------- You didn't flinch from the sight of the red that splattered the finery of your clothes. You'd seen gore before, had scrubbed at it until your fingers burned and skin peeled. Only, that wasn't your job anymore-

The snick of a match snapped you from your reverie. You were back, ensconced in your chambers with your knight. Your husband. You weren't sure of the time, of what happened at the ball or in the study. It didn't seem to matter, not when you were tucked away in the safe little suite where only you and he existed.

"I drew a bath f'r ya," his voice was soft, restrained. That just wouldn't do.

"Simon, look at me, look," you reached for him in a wispy parallel to your night at the townhouse. He was solid, planted to the ground but you felt him give as you tugged him close. You had to arch your neck back just to meet his eyes. "I- won't you join me?"

It rolled between you, this suggestion. You saw exactly when the idea took root, heat blossoming to burnt umber as his pupils dilated. You pressed in close, feeling the soft give of his stomach. If you placed your ear to his chest, would you hear his heart race? Could he want you as much as you wanted him? Did he know about the covetous, greedy thing that quivered inside your chest and cried out for you to bite down on the dense, keloid-slashed muscles until you tasted iron?

Would he let you?

It was scalding, searing heat that had simmered all the while he carried you back. Dizzying and fervent you wondered for a moment if you'd died in that room. That you'd risen some hungry, gluttonous creature driven only by voluptuary urges. But then you remembered the longing from earlier, the heady rush that sapped the strength from your legs as you watched him kneel before you.

"Will you make me beg for it? Make me say please?"

"Never," he spoke it like a promise. "Think I'd leave ya wanting?"

His hand felt cool against your cheek. You closed your eyes and leaned into it, hoping it would douse the flames somewhat.

It stoked them higher.

You reached for the tie of his mask as he reached for your dress. The fabric prickled at your skin as it slid down, laces loosened at the front and revealing your chest to him. Your breasts felt heavy, nipples pebbling in the cool air under they were covered by his palm. You could see his lids dip low, desire making them heavy as he kneaded your sensitive flesh until you arched into it.

"Beautiful," he groaned as he dipped his head down. "Fuck, just need to have a taste-"

His large hand spanned your back, keeping you upright as he knelt before you once more. The heat of his mouth surprised you, wet tongue laving at soft skin as his other hand reached up to squeeze and roll at the sensitive peaks as you gasped and squirmed. You tugged at his hair, nails scratching into his scalp in a way that seemed to spurn him on. He pulled at your skirts, urgency tearing the seams against your hips and making you hiss. He mouthed down the swell of your stomach until he kissed away the sting, sucking new marks atop the ones he just left.

Desire sparks followed his mouth, leaving you sticky and pulpy until you sagged against the bed. It was an ouroboros kind of appetite, where the more he satiated himself the hungrier you grew. You felt raw, winded, as he spread your thighs to make space for his broad shoulders. So broad that the stretch hurt, made you arch up from the bed to paw him away with clumsy fingers.

"Simon, I can't- what are you-?" you whined as his teeth left imprints in the softness near your core.

"Shh," he soothed you with his tongue. "Need t'get you ready f'r me. Just lie back."

His forearm bulged as it banded across your stomach, keeping you pinned. You pressed your lips together, swallowed your cries as you felt him nudge at the wetness between your thighs. Gentler than you expected, he parted your folds, running his thick finger through the wetness that had gathered there.

"Ah-" you bit back a whine as he found the spot where you throbbed, circling the little bud at the apex of your core until your knees shook. Only the bulk of his shoulders prevented you from snapping them shut.

"That's it, love. Don' fight it. Let me see ya," he rumbled over the buzzing in your ears. You felt too hot, too heavy to do anything but twist against the pleasure that he wrung from you. Spread out, naked on satin sheets that stuck to your drenched back. You were open to him, entirely laid bare and thought made you ache. You felt yourself drip against his rough palm, soak the fingers that prodded your fluttering entrance.

"I need you, but I don't-"

"S'alright, I know what y'need."

You tried to follow the pull of his voice, to raise your head off the mattress and watch but the nudge of his nose against your folds had you falling back. His mouth felt hot, tongue laving over your sensitive flesh in a way that had you clawing at the sheets. You keened out, wanting to squirm away and press closer all at once. The noise would have embarrassed you, slick and loud in the quiet of the room. Would have, except you heard him groan into you, felt the rumble of it against your cunt as he feasted. He ate you like he was starving, fingers digging into your thighs so hard that you knew he'd leave an imprint in purple and red. Your thighs shook against his grip, body twisting against the pleasure building and building until it snapped and you surrendered.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you panted towards the canopy. Shivers danced along your spine as you lay limp on the mattress, exposing your hot, wet flesh to the coolness of the night. You were so slick that you felt the air biting at your inner thighs, and Simon's sloppy, lingering kisses at your core had you swiping at his hair.

"Simon, it's too much," there was something whiny, breathy in your voice.

"No such thing as too much of a good thing," he shed the remainders of his clothes, crawling up the bed until the firm lines of his body pressed into the soft lines of yours. He hovered above you, face-flushed and eyes dark. "I'm going t'take as much as I want, and I still won't be satisfied."

"What-?"

"Y'r my wife," he leaned down, let you taste yourself against his lips. "Mine. Never had much that was all f'r me."

You smiled into the kiss, shaking off the shyness that urged you to cover up, hide, look away- "Me neither."

You nipped at his lips, let him feel the indent of your blunt little teeth until the press of his fingers against your entrance left you open-mouthed and slack. His thick, calloused fingers circled your hole, testing how you fluttered and dripped for him. Stretched you out on the width of two fingers until you cried into his mouth. You felt the nudge of his cock, heavy and throbbing, as he made a space for himself inside your body. He was so thick, rocking in slowly so that you felt the exquisite sting of every inch. Your whines caught in your throat, head spinning as you danced the line of pleasure-pain spread open under your husband.

He carried you to the bathtub afterwards, your cunt aching and dripping with his spend. (He had run his fingertips along your swollen folds, scooping up his cum and pressing it back into your stretched hole. Kissed you sweetly as he whispered filth, knuckle-deep in your cunt).

Now, in the lambency of candlelight, he rasped promises and secrets against your goosebumped flesh. His fingers trailed over perfumed water as he knelt by side, content and warm; aeipathy subdued for now, but enduring.

"When I first saw ya, I -" he cut himself off, strained as he searched for the words. You lay silent, patient as his words ripened behind his lips; laconism blooming into ephemeral fruits. "Y'reminded me of the girls back home. Th'ones by the river or in the taverns, too smart or too busy to bother with the likes of me. Familiar, real. Beautiful."

Your breath hitched, heart swelling under your breast as your watched him struggle for the words you were so wont to hear.

"When I first saw you, you scared me," your lips twisted a little, wry, as you confessed to him. "Only, you scared me less than him."

You scoffed, water splashing as you drew your knees to your chest and tucked your head low. You looked at him, needing him to read the truth in your face as you bared yourself just as he had. "I'm sorry, that's not particularly romantic, is it? Being desperate? But it's true. And I'm so thankful for it, since otherwise I might not have- we might never have-"

The words caught like wire in your throat. Painful.

Unthinkable.

But wasn't it beautiful, that brutal honesty? Wasn't it a relief to purge the poison; to dig in and drain the bad humours like rivers swirling into estuaries.

If you expected censure, you wouldn't find it. Not from him, no. You felt his finger chuck under your chin and let him raise your head.

"I know, dormouse. I know" --------------------------------

Well, it is done. Several months later and finally posted. I'm not 100% happy with this, but I can't justify sitting on it any longer. Also, it's December and seems fitting to wrap this up before the end of the year (part i wasy my first ever COD fic).

[emeritusemeritus]

Hear me out! Possessive sex + Overstimulation + Brat Taming + Breeding. Both of the Weasley Twins please. 🤭

I just always have this thought of just teasing the shit out of them when they’re work and fleeing afterwards. It’s almost as if we took their job of teasing us, and I could just imagine how pent up and frustrated they can be when they can’t do anything since there’s kids and adults around. The joke shop is suppose to be an appropriate place especially when it’s meant mainly for kids..Perhaps, add a part where we purposefully flirt with one of our old classmates. You can choose who! If you don’t like this idea, I completely understand! Feel free to add some kinks if you like or story elements. 🫶

Hi Anon! I’m so sorry it has taken so long to get this out, writing has had to be on the back-burner for now but I’m slowly getting back! Sorry for the lack of smut, it’s more of the setup as I’m abit smutted out 🖤

Warnings: Sexual tension, brat behaviour, Dom!sub relationships, polyamory, teasing, sexual references, mild swearing. Flirting, mentions of pregnancy, pregnancy kink, breeding kink.

Word count: 2.5k

Wonder Witch

You knew what you were getting into the second you opened up your wardrobe and changed into the outfit you'd carefully prepared for today. Your husbands had already long since departed the flat to set up the shop for the day, leaving you just a little later to sleep in, which you were thankful for.

Today was the big launch of new wonder witch products that the twins had been tirelessly working on, perfecting the range ready for the big launch today. You'd helped with ordering violently pink balloons to decorate every orifice of the shop, had banners printed and had even managed to convince Madame Puddifoot's to make some limited edition iced biscuits for the celebration, all in the same sickening shade of pink.

The icing on the cake was the costume that you'd picked out ready to hand out and display the new items, recreating the wonder witch icon on the packaging.

The dress in itself wasn't too risky, an array of pink and gold overlapping fabric that fell just above your knee, with a pointed witches hat in a smilies style. But it also had exposed shoulders with dropped sleeves and a corseted middle which hoisted in your waist to create a rather dramatic shape, highlighting your hips in a way that you knew would drive your husbands crazy. You carefully curled your hair and applied a healthy dose of mascara to really make your eyes pop before applying an equally vibrant lipsticks that you'd found matched the colour of wonder witch perfectly. You added a little highlighter around your cheeks to give you a little bit more of a playful look and slipped on your shoes to really help bring the look together.

When you looked in the mirror, you were more than pleased with yourself. You looked hot.

Checking the clock, you saw that it was 8:53am, just in time for the store to open. You could hear the twins flapping, mainly George, the moment you opened the door towards the staircase. They were bustling ready for the big opening and the unsurprising lack of Verity meant that she was probably going to be late again.

"Angel can you put these products on the... shit." George says the second you walk down the stairs, noticing the outfit almost immediately.

"What's up with you?" Fred asks, walking over to George under the staircase until he comes into full view, noticing that his twin seems to be frozen on the spot. He turns, looking towards the direction George seems frozen at and you watch as his eyes widen also comically wide. "Holy Godric."

"Morning," you say cheerfully, leaning up to press a kiss to George's cheek before doing the same to Fred as they look at you in complete shock, mouths slightly parted. "Where do you want me?"

"Um," George says, clearing his throat though his eyes hardly move from the curve of your breasts, a prominent feature of your dress. You fight the urge to laugh, wanting to keep up your little innocent play, pretending that you had no idea why they were looking at you like that.

"You want these on the shelf?" You ask, batting your eyelashes at them, watching as Fred's tongue pokes out to wet his lips.

The little clock on the wall chimes, signalling the store opening, just as you bend down to grab the box of products and you look up with pouting lips, watching as the twins hardly react to the chimes.

"You gonna unlock the doors big boy?" You ask Fred with a singular raised eyebrows, noticing how he doesn't even attempt to pull out his wand. A frantic knock on the doors pulls him out of his thoughts and you all turn to see Verity knocking to be let it, surrounded by a large crowd of customers ready to shop the new products. You flash a little wink at George as Fred unlocks the doors with a flick of his wand, the fireworks and the tricks beginning all in perfect synchronisation. When you look back up after picking up the box of products and see your two men still staring at you, completely unaware of the swarm of customers bursting through the doors, you knew today was going to be fun.

The store was packed right from opening, a never-ending swarm of people crossing through the doors until the shop was almost too full of people, all wanting to get their hands on the new merchandise. It was an overwhelming success, the new line of wonder witch products and cosmetics and you were thankful, fortunate and insanely proud of your husbands for pulling off the ideas you'd created together. You should have been tired, drained from the day as it neared closing time but truthfully you were on an adrenaline high, on cloud nine from teasing your husbands all day and seeing their increasing desperation.

All day you'd made sure to be a little bit of a brat, an utter tease whilst trying to portray yourself as an innocent Angel- something you knew for a fact that they didn't believe in the slightest.

George was easier to rile up, always quicker to respond to your more subtle teasing. You'd brushed past him a number of times today, the packed shop only aiding your need to slowly brush your ass against the front of his trousers as you squeezed past him or to pass something up to Verity on the stairs, ensuring that he got a face full of cleavage as you stretched up. You'd caught him staring at you more times today than you could count on all your extremities, especially when you climbed the stairs above him, ensuring that he knew your bare thighs were right above him.

Fred didn't always respond to subtlety, so you knew your efforts had to be boosted when it came to him. You'd purposely licked and sucked at one of the dark mark lollipops in the most outrageous way whenever he was paying attention and you'd even heard him choke on his own spit when he noticed.

You knew you had him when you were explaining to a group of seventh year girls about the patented daydream charms and how how they worked, passing out the colourful boxes items around the group as they accepted them with eager and curious eyes.

"Up to thirty minutes of pure, blissful imagination; let me tell you it will create a very realistic daydream of your choice so you know that boy you're crushing on? You're going to have the best thirty minutes of your life."

You're met with a round of playful giggles as you smile at them, knowing you were in for a good sale.

"Have you used it?" One of the girls asks and you nod eagerly with a smirk, knowing that Fred was just behind you from the way you could feel his presence, hearing him talk only moments before.

"Not since I married him," you say with a smirk as you receive another round of girlish giggles. "Between us, those thirty minutes with Fred were some of my most imaginative creations, believe me these little things are special," you say, twisting the box in your hands. "Just don't tell George." You watch as the girls' eyes light up and they quickly shove them in their baskets. You turn then, catching Fred's eye as he pretends not to have been listening and you act as if you're bashful about what he might have heard, placing a strand of hair nervously behind your ear as you walk away, making sure to sway your hips ever so slightly, knowing he'd be watching.

By lunchtime, you'd effortlessly riled them up to a point that it was so painfully obvious what they were trying to hide that you found yourself biting back a smirk for most of the day. They were so easily and deeply affected that it was rather fun to watch, but none more so than when Dean Thomas came into the shop just after the dinner time rush. You'd taken a quick break and had reapplied your lipstick, carefully checking you appearance before you walked down the stairs back to work. Dean had been talking to both of your lives near the stairs when he spotted you, eyes briefly widening as he took in your appearance. Unfortunately for him, Fred had been mid sentence and had definitely noticed Dean checking you out, making his go silent and cause a thunderous look to cross his face.

"Y/n, hi! It's good to see you!" Dean smiles as you approach them all, careful to avoid looking at the faces of your husbands who had now both caught on to Dean's over-pleasant demeanour.

"Dean, good to see you too!"

"You look good! Who knew that y/n (*maiden name) would become wonder witch!" His hands gesture towards your outfit and then to the display of new products to the side with your likeness on.

"It's Weasley," both twins said a little too quickly, in perfect synchronisation, making you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a laugh spilling out at their obvious jealously.

"Of course," Dean says somewhat absently, not picking up on the sudden hostility aimed at him by the shop-owners. "So what have you been up to? Do you see the others much?"

"Didn't ask us this many questions," you hear George mumble under his breath to Fred, who has crossed his arms across his chest and is hardly blinking, watching Dean closely.

"The usual," you smile, shooting a fleeting glance at your two husbands who's red faces seem to match their hair. "Keeping these two in line, keeping the shop afloat," you joke.

"So no little Weasley's running about yet?"

You could almost sense the little eye twitch George did at the words and you were certain that Fred seemed to stand even straighter, making himself even taller to tower over Dean.

"Hopefully soon," you say, biting your lip and George's eyes flicker to you with a fire in them, your words affecting him more easily than you'd anticipated. Fred seemed to incidentally lose his footing and was knocked off balance for a second, breaking the rather playful mood that had settled between you and Dean.

After Dean had left with a few things he'd come for, you finally accepted your fate and let the veil slip enough to drop the innocent act you'd been playing all day. Fred had cornered you beside the till, a stolen moment of peace as you reached high up to re-stock the daydreams, flashing him with a glimpse of your stocking.

"Really Freddie?" You pretended to admonish as you felt his rather prominent evidence of arousal against your hip as he started to get grabby with you, nearing the end of his restraint. "This is a respected establishment Mr Weasley, there are children about!"

You shuffled past him with a little tut, hiding your smirk behind your hair, leaving him stranded with mouth agape at your sudden boldness. George wasn't faring much better, his eyes still fixed on the curve of your breasts whenever he caught a glimpse, silently watching you rile him up further and further as your act slipped away.

With one last attempt at completely flipping the switch inside of them, throwing them over the metaphorical cliff, you doubled down your efforts. It was nearly closing time and you walked slyly over to the cash register whilst George was cashing up for the night and began stretching, pointing out your chest and making some very questionable noises. You adjusted the little cold shoulder straps on your dress and readjusted your breasts in the dress, sensing your attentive audience of George who was close by and Fred who had stopped what he was doing to watch you from across the shop. You suddenly turned and walked behind George, placing your hand on his hip as you squeezed past to reach for a carrier bag, carefully dragging your hand over his lower back as you leaned down. When you began to turn and walk away, you felt a large hand shoot out and grab your wrist.

“Angel.”

His tone was clear and clipped, telling you everything you needed to do.

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” he says, moving to stand behind you in the near empty shop, an obvious erection pressing into your behind. “Keep going little brat, you’re only fuelling the fire.”

When he lets you go and turns back to his task with no other reaction, you knew it was time to slip away. You rushed up the stairs, carefully avoiding both of them, ready for the next step of the plan. You’d prepped dinner on your lunch break, wanting to get ahead for the night and flicked the oven on with a flick of your wand as soon as you made it upstairs. You kicked off your shoes, pulled off your panties and waited, busying yourself to ward off the desperate arousal you were feeling, anticipating a good but long night ahead.

As soon as you heard the familiar, incoming footsteps on the landing, you bent over in your skirt to slip the pie into the oven, giving them quite a show when they walked in.

“Fucking Godric,” you heard Fred exclaim when he stepped through the door, followed by a similar curse only moments later by his twin as they see your pussy on full display for them, peeking out from below the short skirt as you bend over.

“Princess,” he says, beginning to stalk over to you as you pulled yourself up, closing the oven. You looked at them innocently, big doe-eyes and fluttering lashes as you watched them darkly approach you.

“You were naughty today,” George says, his hand reaching out to cup the back of your neck as he pulls you into a devastatingly sinful kiss that immediately makes your nipples harden under the dress. You gasp into his mouth when you suddenly feel a hand creeping up your inner thigh, underneath your dress.

“Remember what you said to Dean, princess?” Fred asks, voice dangerously low, prompting you to nod whilst trying to catch your breath. You knew exactly what you’d said, what you’d hoped for.

“Reckon we should start now?” He asks, his hand ghosting over the curve of your ass, feeling the bare flesh underneath his fingers. “Want you knocked up right fucking now.”

“Agreed,” George adds, somehow looking and sounding ever darker and more determined than Fred. George suddenly reaches out and turns off the oven with a harsh flick of his wrist, smirking when you look up at him in confusion at him turning off the oven.

“We’re not gonna be done with you that soon,” he says with a devilish smirk. “Gonna cum in you over and over, taking turns filling you. There’s gonna be so much cum in you that you won’t know where you start and we end, get you all round from us. Now.”

“Get on the bed.”

[wallofchynax]

PLAYTIME WITH BUNNY

Synopsis: You're Playboy Bunny model and your job is to pose with the Heartbreak Kid, Shawn Michaels for a centerfold for Playgirl. However, during the photoshoots, Shawn decides to get handsy with you during the shoot. (Requested)

got a request? send it over to me <3

The camera flashes as a blinding light covers against the dimly lit photoshoot set for Playgirl. There’s soft music, jazz or something, as an attempt to set the mood but Shawn Michaels, well, he doesn’t need it. Both of you understood your roles in this moment. 

There you were, dressed in the classic Playboy Buny ensemble, velvet corset hugging your curves, sheer tights making your legs seem impossibly long, bunny ears perched atop your styled hair, you know you look good. The glossy black of your heels accentuates the arch of your foot, and the way the corset cinches your waist only makes the swell of your breasts more prominent. Shawn, of course, notices. He’s been noticing since the moment you walked in. 

Shawn Michaels. His chiselled torso bare, only adorned with a pair of tight, low slung leather pants that lung to his thighs and hips like sin itself. His golden-brown locks were tousled in that perfect, messy way, framing a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. His hazel eyes glinted with mischief as he reached out to adjust the positioning of your waist, his large, calloused hands skimming over your hip like he had every right to touch you. 

“Gotta makes sure we look good together,” he murmured, voice a deliberate slow Texan drawl that sent a shiver down your spine. 

It wasn’t necessary. The photographer told you both where to stand but Shawn seemed intent on taking his time, his palm sliding lower along the swell of your hip, lingering at the bare skin where your corset ended, and the curve of your ass began. 

His arm is draped around your waist, fingers resting just a little too low, pressing into the plush curve of your hip. The photographer instructs you both to get closer, and Shawn takes the liberty of pulling you flush against him, his palm sliding up to rest just beneath the swell of your breast. 

“Are you always this handsy?” you tease, tilting your head to glance at him.  

Shawn grinned, his fingers tracing idle circles over your hip through the satin fabric of your corset, “Only when I’m feeling inspired,” 

The photographer called for another pose, this time, Shawn was meant to stand behind you, hands on your waist, chests just barely brushing. You moved into position, arching slightly, angling yourself just right. 

But Shawn...Shawn made no attempt to keep his hands where they were supposed to be. 

His fingers spread wider, smoothing over the dip of your waist, slowly gliding down to the plush curve of your thighs. 

Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed the sensitive skin there, his grip tightening just enough to send a thrill through you. 

“Relax,” he whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’ve got you.” 

Your stomach fluttered, and you swallowed hard. You were supposed to be focusing on the shoot, but the way his body was pressing into yours, the way his fingers were teasing just beneath the seam of your costume, had your mind spinning in a completely different direction. The head between you was palpable now, thick and electric, and Shawn was enjoying every moment of it. He had you where he wanted posed, perfect and painfully aware of just how much he was pressing against you.  

"Alright, let’s get closer," the photographer called, adjusting the lighting. "Shawn, hands on her waist. Maybe a little more intimate this time. Make it look real." 

Shawn didn’t need to be told twice. 

He slid up behind you, his breath hot against the side of your neck. His hands found their place on your waist again, but this time, he let his thumbs slide under the edge of your corset, just barely grazing the soft skin underneath. His touch was slow, deliberate, like he was testing the waters, seeing how much he could get away with. You felt his fingers flex, squeezing just enough to make your thighs tense. 

“You’re making this too easy for me,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, though there was a rougher edge to it now, something darker beneath the teasing. 

That was when he shifted closer, a little too close. You felt it. The unmistakable hardness against your lower back. Your finger curl at your sides as a wave of heat flashed through you at the thought of just how much you were affecting him.  

Shawn must’ve felt the way your body stiffened because he chuckled, the sound low and full of smug satisfaction. "See what you do to me, sweetheart?" His lips brushed against your ear, barely a whisper, but the weight of his words sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs. "Got me all worked up, and we’re not even done yet." 

The photographer snapped another picture, oblivious to the way Shawn’s grip tightened subtly, pulling you even further into him. You swallowed hard, trying to focus, but the way his hips rolled just slightly, enough for you to feel him, had you struggling to stay composed. 

"Shawn," you breathed, barely above a whisper, though you weren’t sure if it was meant to be a warning or an encouragement. 

"Mhm?" His nose brushed against your cheek now, his lips just close enough to ghost over your jaw, teasing, never quite touching. "Something wrong?" 

You had half a mind to push back against him just to see how he’d react, but before you could, the photographer called out, “Perfect! Now, how about one where you’re sitting in his lap?” 

"Oh, I like this guy." 

His grip didn’t father as he guided your back, sinking into the leather couch with you between his legs. You barely had a chance to say anything before his hands were on you again, one on your waist and then the other one on your bare thigh. His fingers toyed with the thin strap holding your corset together, a wordless taunt that had your breath catching.  

"You comfortable?" he asked, voice thick, low, and teasing. His fingers slid up your thigh, stopping just shy of where you wanted them, his palm warm and firm. 

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. But God, you didn’t want him to stop. 

"Shawn," you whispered, this time more of a plea. 

He hummed, fingers tracing slow, torturous circles just above the sensitive crease of your inner thigh. "Say the word, darlin'," he murmured against your ear, breath hot and inviting. "And we can forget the cameras for a while." 

Not long later, the photographer called for a break, and you barely had time to catch your breath before Shawn was on you again. His hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, and before you could question him, he was pulling you off the set with his strong grip. 

“Shawn!” You started but he shot a look over his shoulder, a smirk playing at his lips, hazel eyes dark with somehting that sent a thrill straight to your core. 

"Just a little detour, sweetheart," he murmured, leading you down the hall. He knew exactly where he was going—past the racks of wardrobe, the scattered production staff who barely noticed as he maneuvered you through a side door into the private bathroom. 

The door clicked shut behind you, and before you could fully process what was happening, he had you pressed against the cool tile wall, his body flush against yours, all heat and tension and something just shy of reckless. 

"You’ve been driving’ me crazy out there," he rasped, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head while the other skimmed down the length of your waist, fingers teasing along the edge of your corset. "Doing’ all that posing’, looking’ at me like you know exactly what you’re doing’." 

Your breath hitched as his knee slid between your legs, pressing just enough to make you shift against him instinctively. He let out a low chuckle, dipping his head to graze his lips along the side of your neck, not quite kissing, just teasing, torturing, drawing out the anticipation until you were burning for more. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your eat, his voice rough with restraint. But you didn’t want him to stop. Not even once.  

Instead, you arched into him, tilting your chin up, your lips just barely grazing his. "Don’t stop." 

That was all he needed. 

Shawn’s grip on your thighs was tight, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he hoisted you up against the wall. The smooth tile was cool against your bare back, a stark contrast to the searing heat of his body pressing into yours. His cock was already hard beneath the tight leather of his pants, grinding against the thin scrap of fabric covering your core, teasing you, making sure you felt every inch of him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his breath hot against your skin as he trailed rough kisses down your throat. His tongue flicked over your pulse point before he nipped at it, his teeth scraping just enough to send a sharp, delicious jolt straight to your cunt. “You feel so goddamn good.” 

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your legs further apart as he ground against you again, this time more deliberate. You gasped at the friction, the way the rough texture of his pants rubbed against your clit, sending head flooding between your legs, he smirked at your reaction, rolling his hips again, slow and purposeful, making you squirm.  

“You like that, huh?” he murmured, dragging his lips back up to your jaw, “Knew you’d feel good against me. Been thinking about this since I saw you...” 

His hands roamed up to your ass, squeezing as he rocked into you harder, making sure you felt just how thick he was, how desperate he was to be inside you. His cock twitched beneath the leather, straining against the fabric, and you could already imagine how he’d feel stretching you open. 

One hand left your ass, moving between your bodies, slipping beneath the satin of your costume. His fingers found your slit, pressing against the damp fabric of your panties, a satisfied groan rumbling from his chest as he felt how wet you were. 

“Fuck...look at you...” he raped, dragging his fingers up and down your slit, pressing just enough to make your thighs tremble around his waist, “Alright dripping for me...You been wanting this too, huh? Getting all worked up posing with me out there?” 

He pushed the fabric of your costume and your panties aside, dipping his fingers into your heat, sliding though your slick folds, teasing you, not giving you want you wanted just yet. His thumb found your clit rubbing slow, torturous cicles as he watched your face, drinking in every little gasp and hitch 

“Tell me what you need, baby,” his voice whispered thick with lust and want as he dragged his cock against you, the outline of him pressing perfectly against your aching core. 

“You. I need you,” 

And that was all he wanted to hear. 

And with one hand, he made quick work of his belt, the leather sliding through the loops before he popped the button of his pants, shoving them down just low enough to free his cock. It sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and leaking as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

He teased you at first, dragging his tip up and down your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness first as he dragged it out. 

“Fuck...you’re so wet for me,” he groaned, pressing, just the tip inside, stretching you just enough to make you whimper, “Gonna take me so good, huh?” 

And then, with one sharp thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock stretching you open, filling you completely. Your walls clenched around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he let out a low, guttural moan. 

“Goddamn,” he hissed, pulling back just enough before slamming back in, making your breath catch. “Tight little pussy, wrapped so fuckin’ perfect around me.” 

He set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard and deep, each thrust pushing you further against the wall, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the small bathroom. His grip on your ass was bruising, his fingers digging in as he held you steady, driving into you with relentless precision. 

“Shit... fuck, so fucking good baby,” he grunted, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, “Fucking never gonna get enough of that perfect pussy of yours~” 

His cock continued to hit that spot inside of you, repeatedly, making you cry out as your walls clenched around him, drawing him deeper in, making him groan through gritted teeth. His pace never slowed, each thrust dragging more desperate, more desperate like he was claiming you, making sure you felt every single inch of him.  

"That's it, baby," he growled, his breath hot against your lips, his grip tightening on your hips as he slammed into you harder. "Taking me so fuckin' good, like you were made for me, this pussy was made for my cock..." 

The words sent a shiver down your spine. The intensity of his thrusts making your head spin. The wet, filthy sounds of his cock plunging into your soaked heat filled the air, mixing with the soft, breathless moans spilling from your lips. Your legs trembled around his waist, your heels barely clinging to his lower back as he held you up, fucking into you like he couldn't stand the thought of stopping. 

"Shaw!" Your voice was barely a whimper, broken by the sharp roll of his hips, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you, again and again. 

"Yeah?" He smirked, his forehead pressed against yours, sweat slicking his skin as he watched you fall apart. "That feel good? You like being' fucked like this, baby? All helpless and fuckin’ mine?" 

Your body betrayed him, his cock twitched in response, his smirk turning into something rougher, darker.  

“Yeah...fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head on your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin deep he sucked a deep, bruising mark into your throat, “You’re close, aren’t you? Can feel that little pussy getting tight around me,” 

The words only send your spiralling further, the pleasure tightening in your belly, coiling so intensely that you were barely holding on. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping your steady as he fucked you harder, his pace turning desperate, reckless. 

"Come for me, baby," he growled, his voice low, guttural, raw with need. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles. "Wanna feel you come all over my cock." 

The pressure inside you snapped like a rubber band, and your orgasm slammed into you, sending white-hot pleasure tearing through every nerve in your body. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking his cock as your head fell back against the wall, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. 

A few more brutal thrusts and then he was gone, burying himself deep, his body shuddering as he spilled inside of you, his cock throbbing with every pulse of his release. His breath came hard and fast, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he let out a satisfied groan. 

For a long moment, the only sounds were the harsh breathing between you, the lingering tremors of pleasure still humming though your veins.  

Then, Shawn lifted his head, his smirk lazy and smug as he dragged his lips over your jaw.  

“Now that was a good fucking break,” he murmured, his voice still thick with satisfaction. 

He pulled back just enough to let you slide down the wall, but his hands stayed on you, steadying you when your legs wobbled. 

"Hope you’re ready to get back out there, sweetheart," he teased, tucking himself back into his pants before smoothing down your rumpled costume. "Still got a lot of pictures to take." 

You shot him a glare, still trying to catch your breath, but the heat in his gaze made it clear; this wasn’t over. 

Not by a long shot. 

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Renaissance!Leon headcannons 🩷☁️

A/N: I could not stop thinking about this. Enjoy my word vomit! At least it's pink..

~Fi 🐝

Warnings: horrendously historically inaccurate, FLUFF, disgustingly sweet, absolutely filthy too, NFSW content 17+, cunnilingus, PiV, creampie, cum eating, my love for Leon is a warning in itself.

Word count: 1.2k

Please don't copy my work! I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

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🎀♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡⚜️♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡🎀

Renaissance!Leon who makes sure you only get the best. Silks, velvet, expensive jewelry, the most beautiful gowns you could ever ask for and whatever else your heart yearns for. Luxurious bubble baths with rose petals, lavender oil and goat milk, while your chamber maid gently combs your hair.

Renaissance!Leon who treats you like an absolute goddess, he would do absolutely anything for you, no matter what. He feels like a madman sometimes with all the things he has done for you, and would do for you in the future.

Renaissance!Leon who loves taking off your corset. It's such a sweet and intimate moment, the feeling of the laces gliding over his fingers as he frees you from your prison. He places soft and loving kisses on every new inch of skin he exposes while unraveling the garment.

Renaissance!Leon who takes you to every event he can, solely to show you off. To show all those other noble bastards that you chose him, that you're his and he's yours. Not that they had a chance with you anyway.

Renaissance!Leon who has gotten into many fist fights and duels because a poor noble looked at you even a second too long. He's always victorious, of course, he knows his way around combat and rapiers.

Renaissance!Leon who was always a bit of a rebel, defying the orders of whoever, just because he could. His sense for freedom was one of the many things that made you fall for him.

Renaissance!Leon who loves to have little forbidden midnight rendezvous with you. Before he was officially courting you, you two used to sneak out, just you, the moonlit nights and all the love you held for each other.

Renaissance!Leon who has made love, not fucked, to you under the stars, just to show you much he truly cared for you.

Renaissance!Leon who loves to take you on outings, riding through a nice corner of nature on a sunny day, going on a walk through town and buying you new clothes and accessories, or having a cute picnic on the grounds of his huge estate.

Renaissance!Leon who loves waking up with you. The silky sheets draped around and over your figure while you're being illuminated by the morning sun makes you look ethereal in his eyes, like an Angel. He will watch you adoringly as your chest rises and falls with soft breaths while he litters gentle kisses over your skin.

Renaissance!Leon who loves the feeling of being buried underneath your many petticoats and skirts while he's taking you to heaven with his tongue, nestled between your thighs.

Renaissance!Leon who has fucked you over and on every surface in the house, he just can't help himself when you look so pretty all the time. He's still in the honeymoon phase and he will never leave it. He's addicted to you, his beautiful wife, and will forever shower you in his love and affection.

Renaissance!Leon who is so worked up from how you look, how you act, how you smell, that he just has to fuck you in the carriage on your way to a ball.

Renaissance!Leon who buries his face in your squished up tits, breathing in your intoxicating perfume. You have to stop him from sucking and biting marks on your supple skin, promising him he gets to do all of that later.

Renaissance!Leon who has you seated on his cock while he bucks his hips into you, the movement of the carriage making you bounce in his lap. He almost collapses at the sight, your face contorted in bliss while his entire lower half is covered by your new extravagant dress. One hand is on the back of his neck while your other is steadying yourself against the wall of the carriage as you subconsciously press him closer to your flush tits.

Renaissance!Leon who would love nothing more than to abandon the idea of going to this stupid ball just so he can hear you sing your symphonies of bliss for him until dawn.

Renaissance!Leon who loves the little gasps and whimpers that fall from your lips when he glides his tongue over your tits.

Renaissance!Leon who almost goes dumb when you clench around him, his head falling back and his breathing picking up. He damn near punched a hole in the carriage when you finally came undone around him, making him spill deep inside you not long after.

Renaissance!Leon who is so hot and bothered during the ball, because he just imagines how his cum drips out of you, staining the new silk skirt while you socialize like he just didn't fuck your brains out on the way here.

Renaissance!Leon who cannot concentrate on a single conversation which leads him to take you again in a little dark corner of the library, fucking you against one of the many bookshelves.

Renaissance!Leon who has the noble class wondering how you don't have 10 children yet with the way he's all over you constantly. The answer; Lemon tops.

Renaissance!Leon who basically rips your corset to shreds the second your back in your home. He's on his knees for you immediately, licking the trail of his cum off your thighs before he tastes you and fucks you with his tongue until you're light headed.

Renaissance!Leon who just loves you so fully, it makes your heart feel all fuzzy. Whether it's when you take a joined bath, his fingers gently caressing your skin or when he holds you close and whispers all kinds of sweet things in your ear.

Renaissance!Leon who assures you with absolute certainty that he loves every inch of you. Every stomach roll, every bit of chubbiness and fat that you believe to be in the wrong place (it isn't, and he will fuck those thoughts out of you if he has to), every stretch mark, every scar, every mole, all the body hair that you're unsure about, every little, fickle thing that is deemed imperfect, makes you even more perfect in his eyes.

Renaissance!Leon who cannot believe his luck sometimes. He doesn't know what he did to end up with you, this absolutely gorgeous woman who is so loving and kind and gentle with him. But he's so incredibly grateful each and every day, and he will continue to show you his appreciation.

Renaissance!Leon who loves fucking you, but there's nothing he loves more than to make love to you. Gentle, slow and sensual. Soft and sweet kisses, compliments and praises that make your heart (and pussy) flutter. He will pour his heart out to you while he's so deep inside of you, you can almost feel him in your throat.

Renaissance!Leon who has secretly dabbled in the arts of poetry, just for you. He's never been artistic but you, you made him feel like a lovesick fool, writing down the most cliché lines, purely because you moved him in a way nobody else had.

Renaissance!Leon who would die for you, and will protect you until he can't anymore. He's so grateful for the life you've shown him; that he's worthy of that life. He wants nothing more than to grow old with you and then do it all over again in the next life.

Renaissance!Leon who loves you with no exception. He lives for you, you make him have a purpose. He loves you more than the sun could ever love the moon.

🎀♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡⚜️♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡🎀

I will definitely make this a whole fic at one point, but I'm working on so many things right at the moment, I needed to quench my thirst somehow until I go Jane Austen on this <3 ~

[muffinsin]

🎃 A Halloween to remember 🎃

Sub! Bela Dimitrescu x Dom! Donna Beneviento

[ Tags : Mommy kink, orgasm control, praise kink, sex in public and semi-public spaces, costumes]

Donna and Bela have some fun before- and during-Alcina's Halloween celebration!

Masterlists

╰┈➤ A part of the Happy Halloween collection, the other parts in this collection being Cassandra x an OC found here and Daniela x OC x OC found here

One more day!🙌 Cassandra’s bit is coming tomorrow👻

Bela glanced at her lover as she held her hand out, a white fabric in it. “Don’t you think it’s a little infantile to dress up, draga?”, she questioned, but took the garment nonetheless.

Donna merely smiled at her, eying the garment now held by the blonde. The woman placed a hand at Bela’s back, gently guiding the woman to the long mirror by the wall of her workshop. Golden eyes found hers immediately, full of love. Donna’s darker eye found hers as well before it flickered back down to the costume she had crafted for her darling.

”Your mother is hosting a Halloween party. It would be rude to attend without costumes, doll. I’m sure your sisters are going to dress up as well”, Donna answered easily. “Besides-“, she added, her voice dripping lower. Bela bit her lip at this, all too familiar with the voice. “- I have a feeling you will like your costume, doll”

And like it she did, truly. Bela blushed bright red as she finally tried the costume on in her room, Donna’s eye set on her.

The corset was tight and the dress exposed some of her cleavage, yet what really got to her was the slight change of fabric in certain…areas.

The blonde bit her lip to stifle a noise when she turned around and the dress rubbed against her bare nipples. The fabric was rougher around them, a sharp contrast to the soft fabric hugging her. An intentional change, she imagined.

The matching panties were the same, soft and delicate, yet a rough patch right where her clit was, rubbing against her every move. Donna truly did know what she was doing, and it seemed the skilled seamstress took no pity on her sensitive lover.

”Do you like it, doll?”, Donna cooed. Her hands came to rest on Bela’s hips, delicate and trained fingers finding the string of the corset and tugging just as the blonde was about to give an answer. “Ye-Aah! Yes, Donna”, Bela answered. Her hands shot to the front of the corset automatically as it was tightened.

The costume itself, aside from its obvious, yet hidden features, was breathtaking. Pale in color and yet complimenting Bela’s own, pale skin, soft and beautiful. The woman looked almost as though she was out of one of the many fantasy romance books her sister loved to read, a princess come to life.

The blonde looked oddly innocent in the white-ish garment, without the blood smeared around her chin and lips and with her hair looking almost golden in the light of her room’s chandelier.

”We have a few hours before the celebration”, Donna whispered, skilled hands traveling across her lover’s body. Bela whimpered as her breast was cupped through the dress. “And I have this terrible yearning, doll”, she added. Bela bit her lip and leaned back, her back against the doll maker’s front, her head resting on the woman’s shoulder. Immediately she felt Donna’s lips on her exposed neck. She moaned loudly at the surprisingly bite that followed, so that the other woman promptly pushed a hand over her mouth.

”Will you be quiet for me, doll, or must I gag you?”, Donna asked lowly. She squirmed already, her hips twitching and grinding against the air, blushing and moaning as the action merely caused the panties to tease her clit.

”Mghmmm”, she moaned at another squeeze of her breast. The dollmaker truly knew how to work her hands, and Bela never failed to stand amazed at how well the brunette knew her body. Donna was able to bring the sensitive blonde to the edge in mere minutes if she chose to.

”Good girl”

The blonde whimpered and felt the familiar ache between her legs. She was sure she was growing wet already

Upon being released, she felt the corset being undone and almost whimpered as the dress was taken off her again, leaving her aching clit without its touch.

Noticing this, the lady of the mountain and waterfall was quick to press her palm into Bela’s cheek, shushing her needy lover. “Don’t fret, we’ll let you wear it later, doll. But we can’t risk you dirtying it before the party now, can we?”, She cooed.

Bela moaned as her bare breasts were cupped and nipples were pulled. “We both know you tend to make messes with your needy cunt, after all”

She bit her lip as she watched her lover nearly fold the dress and store it away for later, and smirked when the woman instead walked towards the drawer close to the blonde’s bed. “Come here, darling”

The blonde did not have to be told twice, quickly returning to her lover’s side, shivering as the chill air of the room hit her bare body. She was sure she would not be feeling chilly for long.

The woman squirmed slightly as the drawer was opened and Donna traced her fingertip over various toys, humming occasionally. She knew she teased the blonde, but could she truly be blamed, when Bela was simply so precious to tease?

The blonde bit her lip as Donna pulled out a vibrating clit clip, her legs instinctively pressing together.

“Kneel, sweet girl”, Donna said, her voice low and erotic and enough for the Dimitrescu to follow the command and drop to her knees. She felt wetness between her legs as she was praised for this and her good posture. “Now hold your hands out while Mommy makes her selection”, Donna ordered calmly. Again, Bela obeyed, her hands held out and cupping the clamp as it was dropped in them.

She could not see the toys from her kneeling position, merely peeking up at her lover whenever she moved even slightly.

”Good girl, stay still for me”

Bela bit her lip and blushed slightly again as another toy was put in her palms, a black strap of large size.

Upon looking at the toy, she remembered the many times it had been used on her, whether their first try when Bela was brought to orgasm after orgasm until she nearly passed out, her balance was tested when the dollmaker rammed the strap in and out of her while pressing her up against her workshop’s wall, or the numerous times the woman wore it under clothing and flustered her girlfriend once she sat on her lap and realized this. Bela smiled shyly, thinking of the many times this led to Donna’s hands on her hips as she moved on her lap, riding the strap with bouncing breasts and breathless moans and gasps.

She blinked and blushed even harder as the brunette gripped her chin, tilting her head up so she would face the older woman. “Where did my little doll go?”, she asked, recognizing the look in Bela’s eyes. She knew her darling would not last much longer before she whimpered and begged for Donna or started grinding herself against whatever was offered to her.

”The strap, Mommy”, Bela whispered obediently.

She smiled at Donna’s chuckle and squirmed slightly as the woman turned back to searching the drawer. The blonde watched as more items were dropped in her palms, among them red nipple clamps connected by a thin, red chain, as well as a medium sized butt plug sporting a heart-shaped, red jewel at the end.

Bela bit her lip when the older woman pulled a ball gag from the drawer, black and large, and opened up her mouth eagerly when she was commanded to.

”Good girl, I see you’re behaving exceptionally well today, Bela”, Donna cooed. The blonde woman moaned as the gag was placed between her lips, stretching her mouth open as the dollmaker fixed it at the back of her head.

She blushed when the other woman tapped the toy, muttering something of how adorable her lover looked like this.

She next saw Donna retrieve a shirt piece of dark red rope, her wrists already pushing together in front of her. “Good girl, you know your place”, Donna praised, wrapping the rope around the woman and tying her hands together.

The blonde still held onto the toys dropped in her hand. Her eyes widened slightly as Donna pulled lube and a rather new toy from the drawer, a large and especially long, pink dildo with a suction function at the bottom. They had only used it once before, and Bela pressed her thighs together as she recalled the stretch it had caused her, how she felt torn in two by the toy and how shaky her legs had been for a good hour.

“Follow me, sweet girl”, Donna cooed, a hand on Bela’s elbow to help the woman stand. She followed eagerly, until she was gently pushed to her knees again right in front of the bed. Donna sat on it comfortably, a dark eye set on the Dimitrescu.

”Spread your legs for me, doll”

The woman did so with gusto, blushing and making a quiet sound at the back of her throat upon exposing her wet cunt to her lover. She had barely been touched and was throughly soaked already.

Bela squirmed when the nipple clamps were put on her, moaning and whimpering as her sensitive buds were squeezed. “Mghmm!”, she moaned when the chain was tugged gently, her hips rolling and back arching as she attempted to follow the movement.

Next the clit clamp was put on her, trapping the small bud. The fly woman shivered, expecting the pleasure. And yet when Donna turned the little toy on, Bela felt unprepared. Her thighs clenched together and her back arched, tongue pressed up against the gag as she whimpered and mewled for her lover. A nudge of Donna’s leg against her thigh had her spread them again, albeit a little shakily.

”I see you’re already enjoying your favorite toy, Bela”, Donna cooed. “You’ve been such a good doll for me, I’m going to let you keep that for a long time today”, she promised, watching first the relief and excitement in Bela’s eyes, then the shock upon the realization of what the words truly meant.

Bela’s gasps and whimpers fell on deaf ears as the vibrator kept buzzing happily against her most sensitive spot. After mere seconds the blonde felt close and on edge already, hips bucking and thighs quivering. She forced herself not to cum yet, instead did her best to focus on the other woman.

Donna smiled to herself as she heard Bela’s desperate noises and reactions to the toy tormenting her sensitive clit. She stroked her hands alongside the long dildo, then squirted some lube on top of it. Bela’s eyes were wide as she watched, expecting Donna to push it inside herself. Instead, golden eyes widened when Donna placed the toy just in front of Bela’s dripping cunt.

”Now, wreck yourself for me, Bela”

She whimpered and blushed helplessly, tied hands rubbing against one another as she scooted forwards and sunk down on the toy. Her moans muffled, she rode the toy slowly, shivering as the mere tip caused her so much pleasure already. The woman watched as Donna too undressed, setting aside the black garments and spreading her legs for her blonde lover. The fly mutant growled momentarily, displeased at the large gag in her mouth preventing her from leaning forwards and tasting the other woman’s core.

She whimpered as Donna pushed her fingers inside herself, blushing slightly and using her foot to push down on Bela’s thigh. The blonde woman whined and moaned, sinking down lower on the pink toy. It was halfway inside of her and already filled her perfectly. She thrust her hips forwards shakily, moaning and grinding on the toy. “Mgnmmm, ‘onna!”, she moaned loudly behind the gag.

The blonde shivered as this kept on for a few minutes, her muffled moans increasing in volume and frequency, her cunt so wet, her own wetness drooled down the dildo. She had not yet dared push down more, avoiding the stretch it would surely cause her relatively tight hole. She cursed her own unnatural, cadou-induced healing abilities at times, which had her holes simply heal after a stretch and cause her to be tight and ready for the next one. Donna, however, took great pleasure in this, as Bela knew. She noticed the smirk on the doll maker’s face whenever she noticed Bela was tighter again and about to writhe around her fingers yet again.

Wet fingers were wiped against Bela’s cheek, just close enough to her nose for the predatory woman to smell the arousal that stuck to them- Donna’s arousal. She whimpered pathetically, as if begging the dollmaker to remove the gag. She smelled so well and her cunt glistened with wetness as she fingered it. Bela yearned to dive forwards and lick it. She knew she could bring her lover so much pleasure with her tongue!

Instead, her hair was tucked behind her ear and Donna smiled at her. “You will cum today, sweet flower”, she spoke lowly. “Do not wait for my permission, Bela, I give it to you now for the rest of this day and night”, Donna cooed. The blonde would normally beam at this, thanking her lover and embracing the bliss of her orgasms. But she had her lover figured out, and whimpered at the mere thought of how many orgasms she would be put through until they would finally head down to the main hall for her mother’s celebration. She had nearly forgotten about that.

Alas, no matter how hard the poor woman attempted to hold back, the vibrating clamp and dildo paired with the constant pressure of the nipple clamps left her no choice but to cum only shortly after, her body shaking and thighs quivering, the vibrator turned down a little, yet still buzzing away at her pink clit. Bela moaned and gasped, feeling her own, creamy cum run down the dildo.

It seemed, however, this was when Donna lost her patience regarding the toy.

“Mghm! MGHMMM!”, Bela shrieked around the gag as her shoulders were grabbed and she was pushed down, made to ride the toy properly and take it all the way inside her needy cunt. It went inside easily enough due to the lube and her creamy pussy, yet stretched her wide and made the woman arch her back. She swore she felt the toy inside her lower stomach, the way she was sure she at times felt Donna’s strap so deep in her, she thought it rearranged her guts.

”Good- girl”, Donna moaned, her fingers returning to her hot core. Bela moaned and squirmed to beautifully for her, loud despite of the gag and sensitive all because of her lover’s treatment. Her hips dragged upwards as she straddled and rode the long toy, her thighs shaking. Bela whimpered as she was forced to watch her lover finger herself right in front of her, unable to touch her.

She screamed into the ball gag as her nipples were teased and the vibrator felt even more intense, her eyes pressing shut as she attempted to stop herself from a second orgasm already. Her cunt felt so full and good, stretched and warm and so wet. “Mmmnmm!”, she moaned, shivering and resting her chin on the brunette’s knee. She looked up at Donna with lidded eyes, struggling to keep them open as she was handed pleasure. “Keep riding it, doll, I’m so close”, Donna gasped.

The blonde kept up her movements, toes curling as she felt right on the edge. The toy felt so good inside of her, her clit so needy and warm against the vibrating clamp. She moaned helplessly as, after mere moments, Donna came, moaning and biting her lip to stifle her own loud noises.

Her hand jerked forwards, seemingly without meaning to, and the blonde screamed into the gag as the chain was yanked, tearing yet another orgasm from her. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through her nose, legs shaking as she sunk down completely on the dildo inside of her. She squirmed helplessly at the vibrator’s continued assault, whimpering and gasping helplessly. She gasped for air when the gag was pulled from her mouth and moaned when Donna pushed her own, wet fingers in her mouth instead, granting Bela- at last- the taste she yearned to have.

Her hips thrust upwards as she sucked the fingers clean one by one, first the index and middle finger, then Donna’s ring finger, eventually the thumb she had used to rub her clit. Bela had not realized when she became this riled up, until she felt nearly overstimulated, another orgasm well on the way due to the toy being ridden and the vibrator teasing her.

When Donna slipped her fingers out her mouth, the breathless blonde did not hesitate to beg, whimpering and moaning, attempting to beg her dominant lover to allow her to stop cumming. Donna chuckled darkly at this, a dangerous glint in her eyes that never failed to arouse Bela even more.

”But flower, did you not only yesterday beg Mommy to let you cum?”, She cooed. Bela squirmed, moaning as she rode the toy and mewling at the memory of her on the bed, edged for hours by the new vibrating dildo Donna had tried on her, begging her lover over and over and over again to let her cum already.

”No, I do not think so, doll. You will cum until I allow you to stop”, She cooed, gentle fingers cupping Bela’s face as the blonde’s eyes rolled back and she slurred words and phrases even Bela didn’t understand.

”Good girl, such a good little slut, give me another one”, Donna said, chuckling lowly and quietly as Bela’s back arched again. She made sure to cover her submissive’s mouth with her hands as she came, screaming and moaning. She had no doubts Alcina Dimitrescu would all but eagerly cut off her head if she was to hear the fellow lady of the village inflict such pleasure on her precious eldest daughter.

Bela cried tears of overstimulation as she came, whimpering and gasping when the doll maker at last removed the clamp from her sore and bright red clit. Her legs felt heavy as she was pulled on the woman’s lap, her bottom sticking out for the brunette. Bela gasped and tried to catch her breath, inner thighs wet. She frowned when Donna picked up the soaked dildo, then shrieked as its tip was thrust inside her mouth. “Don’t you think you’re done yet, my dear”, the doll maker cooed, thrusting the toy slowly inside her gagging girlfriend’s mouth. She stroked away the woman’s tears gently before leaning down and taking the woman’s hand in hers. Bela squeezed it reassuringly, promising that despite the ache between her legs and the tears of overwhelming pleasure, she was alright and wished to continue.

It had always been like that between the two, with Donna taking good, often tender and sometimes rough care of the blonde, and the Dimitrescu in turn reassuring the other woman by squeezing her hand in such moments.

The blonde gagged and moaned helplessly, her hand let go of as Donna instead dragged hers back. Bela whimpered when she felt it between her legs, skilled fingers sliding teasingly between her soaked folds. She jumped when her sore clit was tapped and moaned around the dildo as it was pushed deeper in her mouth. She had to admit, her own cream on it tasted divine.

She groaned around the toy as she felt two of Donna’s fingers pushing inside her cunt, easily finding the rough, sensitive spot inside of her and targeting it. She squirmed on her lap and whimpered helplessly, cum and spit drooling down her chin as she throated the wet toy, back arching the harder Donna worked her fingers between her legs.

”You feel so good for me, Bela”

”Such a soft cunt”

”Does that feel good, doll?”

”Good girl, keep throating it, Bela”

The blonde grew needier and needier with every over her lover’s statements, reduced to a moaning, whining, squirming thing over her lap, cunt soaked and nipples so hard under the clamps, chin full of drool rather than blood and gagging on the large dildo as it was pushed down her throat.

She shrieked as the skilled woman’s fingers curled inside of her and she saw stars. She arched her back, whimpering as another orgasm approached. “Mghm! Mhmm!”, she begged, gagging and moaning around the wet toy. Donna merely pushed it in and out of her mouth at a faster tempo.

“Good girl, Bela, that’s it”, she cooed when the younger woman came with another scream, her hand thrusting slowly to help her lover ride out the orgasm before she pulled her hand out of the woman’s warm core. Bela watched through barely open eyes as her lover licked each and every wet finger, humming as she did so. She blushed at the sweet image.

Gasping for breath when the toy was removed from her mouth, Bela was relieved when the other woman threw it to the far end of the bed. She crossed her legs at the ache between them caused by the many orgasms and the stretch caused by the toy. Her legs felt heavy and shaky and she didn’t doubt she’d have trouble walking if she attempted to stand up at that moment.

She watched as Donna raised her arm, checking the time on her clock. They had a good hour left until they needed to head downstairs. She smirked down at her sore lover, hands finding Bela’s body yet again. The woman moaned softly as her behind was squeezed and shrieked in surprise as she was tugged off the comfortable lap and moved to the bed. “On your hands and knees, little fly”, Donna commanded.

Bela did so eagerly once she saw her lover move to grab the strap, her hips even moving and her ass shaking at Donna invitingly. She giggled at her lover when the toy was thrust between her wet southern lips, yet her grin turned into a gasp as the vibrating clamp was yet again put on her clit, her cheeks bright pink again as it caused her to writhe on the bed within mere seconds, fisting the bedsheets and arching her back as she moaned. “A-Ah! D-Donna!”, she gasped when the woman pushed herself inside of her, the hard strap shorter than the dildo, but longer. Bela whimpered at yet another stretch of her, hips shaking as they were grabbed by skilled hands.

Donna loved this position, she thought as she thrust her hips forwards. Bela’s back was arched for her, making her behind stand out for the dollmaker. Her legs quivered and shivers overtook her skin as she moaned and mewled from the pleasure, her tied arms against the bed as she fisted the bedsheets.

The blonde woman moaned as her body was rocked forwards with every little thrust, making her moan and groan with every move. It was truly unfair how sensitive she was, and how well the other woman knew this. She felt her orgasm building embarrassingly quickly from the clamp and the strap, blushing as she was taken harder and harder by the second. “Pl-ea-aah!- se!”, she slurred, hips grinding back against her lover. She shrieked when she was pulled backwards and closer to Donna, having moved forwards on the bed due to the many powerful thrusts inside her core.

She barely heard Donna’s breathless chuckle as she came again, her face against the cool sheets. Bela had lost count of how often she had cum already, her body protesting as they kept coming, her mind too eager for more. She gasped when the older woman reached forwards and pulled her back, and groaned when she was pulled back against her lap and the new position caused the strap to sink in even deeper.

”I want you to do something for me, Bela”, Donna cooed, slow, but precise thrusts up into the needy blonde. Bela gasped at these, moaning and rolling her twitching hips. She resisted the urge to rip the vibrating clamp off even as it tortured her sensitive and sore clit. It was bright red already and sensitive to the touch.

“I want you to finger yourself for me, sweet flower”

Bela frowned in confusion- how could she do so with the strap occupying her cunt? Upon pointing this out, the dollmaker laughed. Bela gasped in surprise as she felt the woman pull out, her cunt suddenly empty, then tensed as she felt the tip push against her tight asshole. She whimpered and moaned, yet obeyed and pushed her fingers inside herself, nearly immediately rocking against them. She felt so needy still, helpless to the pleasure she was given. She briefly wondered whether she was truly this desperate of a slut or whether her sweet, not so innocent girlfriend had a role in this. After all, ever since their first attempt of Donna using her plant’s pheromones on the fly mutant and discovering some had a rather…aphrodisiac-like effect, she seemed all for it. Bela shivered at the thought of the woman using her to have her wreck herself for her this way. She rocked against her own fingers harder and screamed as a hand was again slapped over her mouth and Donna pushed herself deep inside her unoccupied, tighter hole.

”Sweet girl, what do we say?”, She whispered into Bela’s ear in her low, husky voice. She knew it made the younger woman’s head spin, who merely slurred out a “thank you, Mommy”, between her moans.

Bela whimpered as she felt the other woman inside of her, even against her fingers as she thrust into her in the other hole.

She moaned lowly at the deep thrusts into her, her head thrown back and against Donna’s shoulder yet again, her thighs warm and trembling. Her fingers curled within herself as Donna reached forwards and squeezed her full breast. She mewled, eyes shut and lips apart. Her clit felt so, so good.

”Are you going to cum again, doll?”, Donna cooed, almost innocently. Bela whimpered in Return, shaking her head despite her quivering thighs and the bubbly, light feeling rising in her stomach. She knew even if she attempted not to, if she stopped fingering herself, if she crossed her legs, the vibrator and strap would still keep on and bring her to another orgasm.

And so they did, after mere minutes of thrusting inside, until the blonde came with a scream and fell forwards on the bed, squirming and gasping, trying to catch her breath and accommodate to the sudden emptiness of her holes.

She felt gentle hands stroking her hair, praising her, and felt the clamp turn down to the lowest setting of its vibrations.

Donna undid the rope around the woman’s hands and pressed a sweet kiss to her temple, allowing her lover the sweet moment of peace as she gathered their costumes. It was time to head to the grant celebration, after all.

Bela rose to her feet as Donna mentioned this, shrieking and blushing as they gave out and the older woman caught her in her arms with a worried look. She shot her a small smile and pressed a reassuring kiss to her lips. “Think you’ve got me good”, she whispered with a grin. Donna smiled in return and steadied the blonde as she walked again, on her own, albeit on wobbly legs. She frowned as she felt the vibrator buzzing lowly against her sore clit. Donna must have forgotten to take it off…

Yet, as the Dimitrescu reached down, her hand was swatted away. She eyed Donna with wide eyes, shocked at the realization of what her normally shy lover had planned for her. “Behave, doll. You know I am capable of punishing you if you dont”, the doll maker warned. Bela shivered at this, memories of previous punishments flooding her mind, whether it was being ignored as she was tied with a vibrator between her legs in front of Donna as she worked, a rough railing that left her on the verge of passing out (in the best way), being edged until she had learned to appreciate orgasms given to her, or the particularly naughty one in which she was so full of aphrodisiacs caused by the other woman’s cadou infected plants, she was brought to orgasm after orgasm with mere spanks and licks, something the normally proud and controlled blonde found particularly humiliating and arousing.

Bela squirmed as she was bent over the bed, her sore cunt inspected and her bottom groped and squeezed. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Donna reach for the beautiful butt plug, before she felt its cold, metallic tip against her hole. She squirmed as it was dragged through her southern lips, collecting the wetness that drooled out of her like honey. “Donna…y-yes”, she moaned softly the vibrator like a light tease on her clit, the plug rubbing against it as it was covered in her cream. She squirmed as it was dragged between her cheeks, its top pushing inside her ass. After mere seconds of being teased and played with, Bela felt it push inside of her fully, sealing the hole and adding yet another decoration to her body. She squirmed as she felt it sit inside of her, the feeling of the plug not foreign, but still unusual for the blonde.

She squirmed as another toy was grabbed, one she was unfamiliar with. The dildo was smaller, with a strange, rilled shape. She frowned- something seemed off about it. It was made of wood, yet was smooth and almost soft looking. She moaned as it was inserted in her soaked cunt, then shrieked in surprise as she felt it move, yet saw and felt both of Donna’s hands on her hips. She threw the brunette a questioning look that turned rather silly looking when another trust followed and Bela’s eyes crossed at the pleasure. Donna giggled at her needy lover.

”I’ve listened to your encouragement regarding my powers”, she explained, cupping Bela’s warm cheeks as the blonde moaned and panted from the smaller dildo moving within her. “I decided to breach out from plants again, back to my dolls”, she continued, her thumb reaching out to wipe away the drool that spilled from Bela’s lip. “Upon studying my dolls more, I realized it was the cadou in them that let me control them”, she added. Bela shivered as the toy buried itself deep inside of her, then stood still.

“I then discovered I could use this on other things than merely my dolls, sweet girl. A small portion of the cadou embedded in the wood is all it needed for this…”, Donna cooed, her hand resting between Bela’s legs. The woman whimpered. She felt so turned on as she thought over her girlfriend’s words. If she was truly correct, Bela had just discovered a whole new kink and ways to be used by the brunette.

As she was pulled back to her feet, Donna handed her the previously put away costume, praising her as Bela took it. She moaned as she pulled the panties up her slim legs, a blush warm and bright on her cheeks. Never had she been naughty enough to wear such…accessories or be filled under her clothing, not in public anyway.

She sighed as the nipple clamps were removed from her dress, yet whimpered when upon pulling up the dress, she realized it made little difference due to the rough patch of material right at her nipples. She sat on a clean spot of the bed as she finished dressing, now properly in her finished costume: the crafted panties and dress, white stockings and her usual, black heels. She squirmed slightly- she looked so pure, it was unusual for the blonde. Still, the costume looked beautiful on her. She made a mental note to thank Donna for it once they were done and her mind was not occupied with such filthy thoughts.

She blushed yet again as she saw Donna’s outfit for the first time. The woman’s face was partly covered by a masquerade mask, hiding the cadou infection on her eye, her hair was put up in its usual bun, and instead of the dark dress, she wore an outfit resembling a vampire. Bela blushed even harder as she now understood their costumes- the fair maiden Mia and her darling Count Dracula, one of the most popular books around the castle, a story even the blonde knew. She was sure Daniela would love their costumes and partly dreaded seeing the younger woman and needing to interact normally with her while being teased so cruelly.

”Are you ready to head down, love?”, Donna asked, a white gloved hand pressing gently against Bela’s back. The woman blushed, nodding and pressing her eyes shut as the moment they exited her room, the vibrator picked up its buzzing frequency. She was almost completely sure she wasn’t going to survive this.

Bela was clingy, very much so, and knew so. However, she never expressed such clinginess in public.

Until that very Halloween party, that is, as the poor blonde barely left her lover’s side. She blushed and pressed her thighs together subtly ever so often, breathing lowly as she was unable to escape the pleasure. Merely a few minutes in, her body had been brought to another orgasm already, which left her legs shaky and her breathing ragged.

”Donna”, she moaned in the woman’s ear after merely attending the celebration for half an hour or so. The dildo inside of her moved quickly, bringing her intense pleasure she barely managed to resist- for a time being.

She whimpered as her hip was squeezed. At that point she nearly sat in the older woman’s lap even, something the blonde would have found highly inappropriate and embarrassing in public was her mind not occupied.

”Now, doll, it would be rude to leave this early. Where are your manners, Bela?”, Donna cooed. The blonde squirmed as subtle as she could, feeling yet another orgasm rising within her. How many had her body been forced through on that day already? Six? More? Bela doubted she would be able to keep up, and was sure if her lover continued this, her body would protest completely. She felt oddly excited at the thought. Due to her inhuman nature it was not uncommon for Donna to drag multiple orgasms from her, whereas Donna herself lasted for less ones. Yet it had happened a few times in the past that even Bela was pushed over the limit, as the dollmaker would bring one too many orgasms upon her lover and find her content, yet passed out against her, resting until she awoke a little time later, clueless as to what happened until she remembered moments later, blushing preciously.

“Please, mommy”, she whispered in the woman’s ear, the dildo rubbing her insides and the clamp vibrating against her clit. Every move teased her sensitive nipples. The blonde’s legs were so shaky, she needed to press them together and hold them merely to lessen their trembles.

She squeaked as her throat was kissed- they seemed to truly resemble their costumes now- and Donna scolded lightly: “Sweet bug, no one has left yet. Even your sister is still here, Bela”

At this the blonde noticed the brunette for the first time. She was barely aware of her surroundings due to her mind merely focusing on the ache between her legs, and rose an eyebrow at her sister’s costume, a matching set with her girlfriend, such as Bela matched with Donna. Only was Cassandra dressed as a devil, whereas her partner took the role of an angel. Bela took a moment to eye her sister, squirming and seemingly panting. When the brunette woman caught her eye, she stared right back at her. Both sisters adverted their eyes, turning to their lover as they blushed slightly. Bela cursed mentally upon having her sister of all people see her in such a way, or at the very least surely have a suspicion of what was going on beneath Bela’s dress. She was sure the woman would never let her live it down again.

More time passed, and Bela begged for one of her sisters to leave. Her legs shook so much, Donna had restrained one with her hand, her clit ached as the poor blonde neared her third orgasm since they had walked downstairs. She last saw stars and tiny, black spots blurring her vision as she came. She was sure she could not last much longer. Her cunt was sore and soaked from the dildo, so much her panties were completely soaked through and she left a wet patch on her girlfriend’s costume when she forgot herself and opted for grinding down on her lover’s thigh for a moment, an action stopped as the woman reminded Bela of where they were.

Her eyes kept flickering to Cassandra, as if begging her to leave. After all, if her sister left, Mother would not be upset if she did too, and she doubted her younger sister would stop dancing, flirting, and playing with the maidens anytime soon. The redhead had a blast, it seemed, surrounded by maids that were sweet on her, dancing and being showered in the attention, affection and romance she craved. Perhaps, if Bela was not feeling so overstimulated and soaked, she would join her sister to tease her a little for this, squeeze her cheeks and tell her to play nicely with the maidens. She so loved teasing her younger sister, giggling as the woman insisted Bela embarrassed her and shooed her off every time. The younger woman was simply too precious to tease, truly.

It seemed however, now Bela was the one being teased, in the best and cruelest way. She grabbed Donna’s hand in her own, shaking ones when Cassandra rose to her feet and strode over to their mother. Hope filled Bela’s eyes and she bit her lip harshly as another orgasm washed over her, making her hips twitch and her body jerk on her lover’s lap. She was happy for once that Daniela kept all the maidens entertained and trained on her and Cassandra occupied her mother, ensuring no one saw her twitch and grind against her girlfriend like a lycan in heat.

”Please? We must go!”, she begged breathlessly when she noticed the brunette sister grab her lover’s hand and disappear out the room. Donna once again caught Bela around her waist as she attempted to stand and her legs gave in, steadying her and kissing the side of her face until the blonde squeezed her hand and walked over to the countess with the intention excuse herself from the party.

Donna laughed lowly as Bela pushed her against the door the moment it closed, whimpering and moaning as her hips dragged against her and she sank down on the dollmaker’s thigh. “P-Please, yes!”, Bela moaned, right on the edge with the vibrator turned up properly. She moaned as she wet her girlfriend’s thigh, grinding down harshly and arching her back at the pleasure. “I-need-“, she moaned, whimpering into Donna’s mouth as her lips shushed her.

”I know, doll”, Donna cooed. She was incredibly aroused and proud of the younger woman, a smile plastered on her face even as her underwear stuck to her and she felt like a touch alone could make her orgasm.

Bela shivered as her dress was peeled from her, kicking off her heels and moaning as the panties were taken from her and the dildo pulled out, mindlessly falling to the floor. Donna undid the clit clamp and dropped it as well, instead guiding her lover to the bed. Bela was utterly soaked, her cunt and clit red from the amount of orgasms she had been out through. She knew, she would give her lover at least one more.

She gasped as she was pushed backwards, her hips twitching and legs trembling as she watched the brunette undress. She moaned when wet panties were peeled away and she was granted a look at Donna’s soaked cunt.

Upon straddling the blonde, the lady of the village brought their lips together again, moaning and humming into Bela’s mouth, her tongue easily dominating the one of the younger woman.

”You have been…”- a kiss to Bela’s jaw, -“…such a good…”- another to her collarbone. The blonde threw her head back-“…and perfect girl for me today”, Donna finished, another kiss pressed to Bela’s chest. “You’ll be a good girl for me a little while longer, won’t you?”

”Yes, Donna”, Bela all but moaned. She whined as her lover angled herself up until her cunt rubbed against Bela’s, their wet and messy clits pushing against one another. Bela moaned at this, her head thrown back as both women started to move. Praises showered down on her as the skilled dollmaker played with her sore nipples, sucking and pulling them, squeezing and even twitching them a little. Bela shook under the woman, her hips grinding against the cunt weakly, her mouth dropped open as she moaned loudly.

”Does this feel good, doll?”

The blonde could merely moan and nod her head, whimper and cry as she felt on edge again already. She was so sensitive, she doubted she could last long until she hit the edge again. Donna was well aware of this. “Can you do mommy a favor, sweet flower?”, She cooed. Bela nodded, then, once her breathing evened again, added: “Yes, mommy, anything!”

Donna smiled proudly at the submissive woman. She felt warm and well on the way to her orgasm as well.

”Wait until Mommy tells you to cum, Bela”

The blonde mewled at this, thighs nearly pressing together to help her, yet Donna pushed them apart easily to continue grinding her clit against the one of the younger woman. Bela felt so close already, tears springing at her eyes as she attempted to hold back. She leaned up when Donna was in reach, sucking a nipple into her skilled mouth and moaning around it, her hands holding onto the brunette’s hips almost desperately. She was so, so close, and it was all that was on her mind.

Donna moaned on top of the woman, back arched as she worked herself closer and closer to orgasm. She blushed and groaned quietly, by far less loud in bed than her needy lover. Still, she was utterly soaked, and the thought of soaking the blonde’s cunt in her own cream merely excited her more. Whereas Bela preferred to mark her using claiming bites all over the dollmaker’s pale body, the woman enjoyed ensuring Bela smelled of her. Whether that was in a vile way such as this, literally smearing her scent over the blonde woman, or by keeping her plant’s pheromones on Bela to subtly mark her, Donna enjoyed both.

She groaned as Bela teased and bit her nipples, her wet tongue around her breast. She was so close.

”G-Good girl, more, she groaned, cupping the back of the younger woman’s head to keep her against her breast and nipple. She felt herself right on the she and squeezed Bela’s jaw until the woman’s beautiful, golden eyes set on her.

”Cum, my sweet girl”

[smiley-mcdoggington]

Stan dressing as Princess Unattainabelle for Ford on their anniversary is stuck in my head

WHEN I TELL YOU THIS TOOK SO LONG I PUT THEM IN THE CORNER THEY'RE THE WORST I NEED A NAP TW GRUNKLE FUNKLING TW FEMINIZATION TW FANGIRLING DURING SEX TW CUM MARKING

A corset is basically a girdle if Stan doesn't think about it too hard, and yeah, maybe his rugged long pirate hair looks kinda nice with some conditioner for once and with a few little braids that had taken way too long because it was slightly harder than braiding a squirmy 12 year old's full mop. Stan still thinks he looks ridiculous. At least at that bar in 77' being ridiculous was part of the fun, now Stan was flipping through Ford's game manual looking at pictures of a very disproportionate basement dweller's idea of what a woman looks like and realizing this is one of his worse ideas. Not as bad as the llama incident but up there.

Firstly, he was fat. No getting around it, the corset was almost worse than the girdle, at least the girdle didn't have spaces in the sides where hips should be and love handles are instead. Secondly, the part of the dress supposed to be filled out were indeed filled out except with saggy old man tits instead of, you know, anything that could hold a shape that wasn't sad and droopy like two rotten pears stuffed in his bodice. Thirdly, his hair was thin, started thinning in his twenties and never came back fully, and it looked even worse trying to look anything like the picture, weighing itself down with the braids and making his hair look greasy and his forehead too prominent and it was just a terrible look for him. He didn't do regency, even in 77' his appeal was new money gold-digger, not fucking princess.

But Stan had already bought the shit, and it was Ford's returnaversary, and Stan would be dammed if he didn't at least get a laugh from Ford after spending so long on the stupid hair and the stupid makeup and the stupid dress he had actually liked until he saw himself in the mirror.

Stan knocked on their bedroom door to get Ford over from their tiny kitchenette. "Hey, Sixer!"

Ford's steps were almost silent as he went over and tried the locked handle. "Yes?" He asked.

"Where were you in your nerd game again?"

"DDnmD? I had to stop right before I got to Princess Unattainabelle and the final boss fight with Probabilator - why do you ask?"

"This princess - she, like, on the boss's side?" He asked, knowing the answer.

"Certainly not, she's been kidnapped and tied up behind a puzzle door. Why? Do you want to play?" Perfect, Stanley just needed some rope and Ford's desk chair. He grabbed the emergency rope - there probably wouldn't be an emergency in the next few hours.

"Remember what I said about Never?" He asked, setting up the chair to face the door without letting it drag on the floor.

Ford sighed. "Really, you indulge in the kids' interests, why not mine?"

"I'd say I indulge you more than enough already, Poindexter." He said, tying his torso around the chair back - not much, just enough he couldn't lean forward or slump back.

"But you won't try just a single game with me? You know how hard it is to play by myself? I know all my plot twists."

Stan tightened the rope around his hands, behind his back and doing something good to his posture. "You know what? Fine, but I'm not getting up, so we're playing in here."

"That suits me perfectly, my manuals are in there anyway." Ford tried the handle. "Stanley? It's locked."

Stanley nearly giggled evilly, but kept it down. "The hell? No it's not." He said, knowing full well it was. Take that for a puzzle door.

Ford tried the handle again. "Stanley, its definitely locked."

Stanley didn't care to keep the smile off his face. He put the slightest fringe of panic into his voice. "Sixer?" He said, and he could hear Ford's posture shift. "The door's stuck - there's, like, weird runes on the door? Did you put those there?" He lied.

Ford jiggled the handle harder. "Stanley? What do you mean 'runes'?"

"Six if it wasn't you who the fuck put these symbols here and why the fuck can't I open the door?" He asked. "Is there someone in here..?" He put the slightest tremble in his voice with an evil, evil smile.

Then Ford was stomping around, probably looking for Stan's lockpicking set.

Then there was a second of silence followed by a loud bang as the doorknob blew off the door with one of Ford's scifi guns. Well. That works.

Ford kicked in the door, gun still raised, but the second his eyes landed on Stan he froze.

Stan faked a little struggling that was mostly arching his back. "It was Probabilator! He said he wouldn't let me go unless I agreed to marry him!" He whined like a prissy princess, waiting for the laugh, the 'What the hell are you wearing Stanley?', the threatening to get pictures.

But when he peeked at Ford from where he'd dramatically closed his eyes and thrown his head back, Ford was still just staring at him. Shame curled under his confined ribs. Maybe it wasn't even funny, maybe Ford could tell how much time Stan spent on his stupid outfit and just thought he looked pathetic. Maybe he was trying to think of how to politely leave to throw up. Maybe this was the last straw for Stanley "Try Hard" Pines and Ford would avoid looking at him directly until he could throw him into the nearest land mass where he could be a gross old man in a dress away from Ford's precious retinas.

Ford took slow steps forward and Stan waited for the laughter or the questions or the slap in the face, eyes closed and head turned as far away as he could while he tried his best to pick at his own damn knots around his wrists.

Then a wide palm was on his cheek. "Princess." Ford crooned, a thumb running along his cheekbone while Stanley very carefully opened his eyes to face him. "You're safe now, I've come to rescue you, my lady." He said, voice soft and gentle like the 'I love you's he'd mutter on the bad nights.

Stanley blinked at Ford, down on one knee, and struggled for a second to find any good reaction to that. He swallowed heavily and got back into character. He tilted his head down like a blushing virgin, pushing his chest out further. "Thank the gods, I was beginning to think all hope was lost before you found me, hero." He said, not bothering to pitch his voice up to keep it from cracking. Ford didn't seem to mind at all, eyes still flicking around to different details of his appearance.

"Of course, my lady, I could never allow for your virtue to be stolen by the likes of Probabilator." He said, and if Stan hadn't gotten into his period dramas he would not have known what 'virtue' meant.

Stan hadn't been a virgin since he was thirteen, he certainly couldn't stay one with some of his past careers. But, the thought send a shiver down his spine. The idea of Ford being his first, instead of Coach's daughter that in hindsight was way too old to be sniffing around the middleschool. The idea of Ford being his only, and not the clients he couldn't count because when you're high enough you lose track. Just Ford.

He turned his head away, putting a hesitant look on his face because Princess Unattainabelle didn't say 'Fuck Yeah'. "Thank you, you're right. My virtue is to be earned by someone deserving."

Ford licked his lips. "Of course."

"Someone heroic, and strong, and kind - willing to brave that villain's lair just to save me." He said, eyes away and trying very hard not to smile.

Ford practically had stars in his eyes, fifteen again and looking at the telescope Stan stole for his birthday, a red flush up his forehead and burning his ears. "I agree. You deserve only the best, my lady."

Stanley sighed. "But I will never receive it." He said, face dramatically tilted away, straining the ropes to keep his back arched and his chest out brazenly. "That villain will never cease while my virtue remains, how can I hope to marry when I cannot even hope to stay safe from him? When he will hunt me until he has me for only himself? " He batted away nonexistent tears.

"He cannot hunt a virtue you do not have." Ford said faintly, and if it were anyone but Stan it would have sounded like an accusation instead of a proposal. Luckily, Stan knows Ford and his inability to not sound like an asshole.

Stan gave his brother a shocked look. "Do you mean-- here? Now?" He asked, sounding agast at the idea he'd been hinting at.

Ford stood, and with Stan tied to the chair he loomed. "My dear, once my claim is staked you will never worry for your safety again. I will protect you with my last breath if you allow me." He purred.

Stanley looked up at him, wide-eyed like a wounded deer. "Please." He said, voice low. "Be gentle with me."

Ford broke. "God, Stan." He huffed while he dropped back to his annoyingly good knees, pushing up Stan's skirts and kissing up his thighs until he was mouthing at Stanley's boxers, half-hidden under the fabric while Stan hummed and rolled his hips against Ford's mouth.

Ford yanked his boxers down and immediately snatched him and swallowed his tip, rolling it with his tongue, shallow sucks and kitten licks that made all the layers feel a thousand times hotter. He huffed, knowing a Princess wouldn't knee Ford in the shoulder and tell him to stop fucking around, but with the rope he couldn't push forward at all. Ford pulled back a little and kissed right against his slit and Stan realized Ford was treating his cock like a clit. He would not admit the noise he made at that realization but it had Ford petting his thigh and shushing him, drawing back and making Stan wonder what he did wrong.

Then Ford's head finally got out from under his skirts, and Stan's hands jerked in his annoyingly good knot trying to reach for him. His whole face looked sunburnt, glasses sitting crooked on his nose, hair a static mess, and a little giddy smile when he took Stan in again. Stan wanted nothing more than to drag him forward and kiss that stupid look off his face. But instead, Ford slid his hand up his thigh and to the rope keeping him to the chair.

Ford's hands were quick on the knots, not a second to slip or hesitate, no wasted movement, the ropes fell to the floor quicker than they'd been tied and then those hands were on his corset, running over details with his fingers. Stan shifted, tried to sit straighter, legs together and politely to the side even if his bare dick was itching at his soft cotton slip and visibly tenting his skirts.

Ford stood straight and moved, Stan tried to figure out how to show him his bound wrists when suddenly there was an arm behind his shoulders and under his knees and the next second he was out of his seat. He looked up at Ford, who looked like Stan's weight didn't matter at all, like Stan was that waify little princess in his book. He felt himself curl the longer he spent off the ground, shake and awkward while Ford carried him, but it was only for a few seconds before Ford laid him out on their bed like a fragile little thing he'd never been before.

Fingers were in his hair, fiddling with the little braids while the other hand started running up his thigh. "So perfect." He muttered, and it stabbed Stan the same way it always did, right under the lungs, making his breath stutter. "My lady, your beauty is beyond measure."

Stan's whole face was hot. "Is it?" He asked, goading Ford with a bashful look.

"Of course." Ford kissed his cheek. "Wars have been started over your beauty, and they would never end if they saw you now, with your silver hair and freckles and broad shoulders and..." His eyes trailed downward. "And the way you spill out of your dress..." He crooned, lips pressed against the hairy cleavage Stan couldn't properly fit in the bodice. "Having you after all the years I spent loving you, it's incredible."

Stan's throat was tight. "Could you untie my wrists?" He pleaded. "So I can show you how much I love you back?"

Ford's lips curled in a smile against his chest, and he pulled away enough to help Stan flip onto his stomach to get at the rope.

A thumb ran along his wrist just under the rope, before Ford covered Stan like a blanket, hands on his sides and lips on his ear with that smile still on his face. "No, my love, not tonight." He said simply, grabbing him by the hips and dragging him up onto his knees, pressed onto Ford's cock through the skirts.

"why nh-not?" Stan asked, rolling back slightly into the frotting.

Ford didn't answer, instead one of his hands was up Stan's skirt again, dragging the heavy fabric up until cold air hit his ass. Stan wasn't usually looked at too closely, he didn't know how to make the angle look pretty, but he tried anyway, arching his back and dragging his legs a little apart. A thumb ran down to his hole and Ford paused.

Stan had been... Optimistic. Before he properly saw himself all together. "Are you wet for me, my love?" He practically cooed, and Stan pressed his face into the mattress. Ford pinched his thigh and he nodded. "Perfect."

Ford stuck two of his own fingers into Stan, scissoring them just to check before pulling away.

Stan shifted onto his cheek to glance behind him, but he couldn't see a thing under the poof of his bunched-up dress. Ford leaned forward, one hand pressing his bound wrists deeper into his back, the other lining him up, and pressing forward.

Stan would bottle and sell the feeling if he could, would make a killing. He pressed back into Ford while Ford leaned over him again to kiss his cheek, his neck, his ear. He felt spoiled, and he would never fight being spoiled.

Ford set the pace slow, strong, angling at Stan's prostate without giving him a chance to breathe unless it was on Ford's time. He started pushing back as much as he could, he was probably staining his slip but he didn't care, he'd been hard since he put the dress on.

His brother's hand on his wrists left to pet his flank. "You take it so well, it's like you were made for me, princess."

Princess.

"Please--" Stan groaned. "Please, Stanford--"

Ford started moving faster, too fast, Stan felt like he was on fire. "I know, princess, I know." He didn't, Stan was clutching his hands together like a prayer, drooling through his sheets, if Ford knew what he was doing he'd be a lot more smug right now. Stan couldn't keep up anymore, Ford's hands on his hips were the only thing holding him up at all.

Stan made one attempt at Ford's name that sounded more like a wounded dog and Ford moved one of his hands down to his drooling cock. "Do you wanna come, princess?" He asked, and Stan couldn't even last until Ford started moving his hand, yelling into the mattress and coming all over his pretty fingers.

Ford helped him ride it out, kissing his neck and muttering about how beautiful that was until Stan went lax. Then he immediately yanked himself out, grabbed Stan by the shoulder and flipped him to his back, wrenching his wrists and spooking the hell out of him.

But Ford, dick in cum-covered hand, was looking down at him like a kid looked at a puppy in a shop window, squirming where he sat. "Your dress? Can I?"

Stan arched himself in an attempt to get more comfortable laying on his hands, and Ford followed the movement. "Of course, you won." He said, expecting the dress to finally come off.

Nope. Ford straddled him and started jerking himself, tight and fast, dick pointed at the dress' low neckline. Stan's breath hitched, and he pushed his chest out, looking Ford in the eye and waiting. He put on his phoniest meek look. "Will this make me yours?"

Ford whined, painting the front of the dress and Stan's cleavage white, staring at his work while he rode himself down. His shoulders drooping was the only warning before Ford all but fell on top of him, immediately kissing all over his face, his already gross hand smearing his mess around and trying to hide it as a grope. Ford was gonna pay to get that cleaned.

"Thank you Stanley, you're so perfect - so wonderful - my Stanley." He panted. "It's not even our birthday, what did I do to deserve this?"

"It's your returnaversary." Stan said. "Now would you get these ropes off me?"

Ford pulled them both to their sides to fumble at the ropes without looking. "I'd hardly consider that a date to spoil me, you were the one that did all the work getting me home."

"Yeah, well, mom did all the work for our birthday but we're still celebrating that."

"Touche. I suppose I'll have to figure out a way to pay this back." He said, finally getting the rope undone.

Stan hummed, throwing an arm over Ford the second he was able. "Hm."

Ford snuck one hand down to pull the blanket over them. "I'll think of something in the morning, old men need to sleep."

"Hm."

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 2: Seen

cw: dark themes, dubcon/noncon, *read at your own discretion*

word count: 2.7k

[<<< chapter 1]

The weeks had been exhausting, to say the least.

You were used to being pulled in a hundred directions everyday, used to being the face for the kingdom, put on show like a prize horse in your fanciest dresses and most dazzling jewels.

But, all you could think when you see your reflection is how heavy they feel; the faceted rubies and diamonds are just pretty chains to you, the uncomfortable whale-bone corset around your waist is a cage, the pounds and pounds of bright velvet and silks weigh you down, making your urge to flee a vain one.

I would never get far.. Though, if I jumped into the pond, I doubt they would ever be able to lift me out in time- would they say it was a tragic accident?

“My Queen.”

The brassy voice startles you from your own thoughts, your eyes meeting warm copper in the mirror image. They aren’t concerned, not really; if anything, you think you see the faintest hint of frustration in his shadowed expression,

“The King waits..”

Oh, right. You were still sat at your vanity, the boar-bristle brush still clutched between your fingers, your long waves hanging freely over your shoulder and back, body only covered in a flowing, white nightgown. And very suddenly, you’re too aware of just how exposed you are in your guard’s presence, too aware of how warm his gaze feels lingering on your skin before he looks away just as quickly.

“Thank you, Ser Simon..” You let your head fall forward, your hair covering the bloom of red that’s settled over your cheeks.

He’s been an attentive guard in his short tenure with you, and at times, you’ve found it quite eerie, the silent way he moves, the way his eyes track everything around you, how his mind and his senses could possibly be so intensely focused on everything all at once.

But, what unsettles you the most is how seen you feel.

The knight has this uncanny ability to read you, as if he were fluent in your body language, in every tiny expression that might possibly flash across your features at any given time. Such as when he sees the way your eyelids settle low over your eyes when you’ve grown weary of a particular conversation, or the way you clench and unclench your fingers when you become restless, the way your jaw flexes when you’re angry-

He’s quickly picked up on every little thing, and you’re still not sure if your find it annoying or are grateful for it,

“Elia?” You call for the young handmaid, her slight figure approaching quickly as Simon’s retreats, “If you’ll just set out my things, you’re free to enjoy the rest of your night.”

After your nights with the King, you preferred the comfort of solitude, preferred to take care of yourself afterward. And by now, it is just as much a part of this primal ritual as the act itself, and the more distant part of you almost looked forward to it- to the after- when you get to be alone.

Because you so rarely ever get to be thoroughly alone..

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She goes about setting out the small basket of certain items you usually need to get through these nights, a vile of purified olive oil, fresh aloe vera and witch hazel for the times your King might have had a rough day beforehand- clean cloths, et cetera-

“Thank you.” You nod at Elia, giving her a soft smile before looking toward your guard to give him the same gesture; you were as ready as you could be, no sense in putting it off any longer.

As soon as your chambers door is pulled open, His Majesty himself sweeps in- and you just know he’s in a mood-

“Husband.. You look well.”

You notice the door hasn’t closed yet, looking beyond your husband’s slightly smaller frame to see Simon looking back at you- and you realize this is the first time he has been present for these nights, and the look in his eye is full of something..

He can’t possibly look angry, can he? No.. that’s absurd-

You give a small nod, watching how he regards you for a moment longer before returning the movement and closing the doors behind him.

Looking back at your King, it’s all too easy to forget that he’s a handsome man, with his sweeping dark hair and lean muscular build; but there’s something about the ice in his blue eyes that has always made you feel cold in his presence. Even when he steps closer, wide palms resting on your cheek and hip, you don’t really feel the heat of his touch, your body knows what’s coming, but, even so, it fails to find arousal.

“Ah, my pet.. beautiful as ever.”

You’re not sure ‘hate’ is the right word to describe his little name for you, because it doesn’t feel endearing or sweet in the slightest, the way he says it is demeaning and possessive. Like he wants to reiterate and reaffirm that you really are nothing more than bitch in heat for him- but that’s fine, you don’t really think you could handle it if he actually wanted to spend more time with you.

These few times themselves were hard enough to get through; and in the years since the first time he bedded you, you’ve been studious in learning how to work him up to get it over with sooner, rather than later-

“My King..” You drawl, reaching for the leather ties on his trousers, “How I’ve missed you.”

He pushes you down to your knees slowly, eyes never leaving your face, “Hmm.. What have you missed, sweet pet?”

His length falls into your hand easily, already fattening with need, and you’ve never seen anyone other than him like this, so you suppose he’s large- he fits in your palm nicely, your fingers wrapping around his shaft,

“This, my love..”

You look up at him with wide eyes, and watch his head roll back the moment the soft flesh of his tip slides through your lips-

This is how it always starts, and for all you know, this is really all there is to it. Because once you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, and his grip on your hair tightens painfully, you know it will be over soon.

Thank the fucking gods above.

Tugging you up and over toward the sprawling bed, he turns you, watching as you settle on your knees before him, the nightgown falling up your torso, ass in the air, just as he prefers.

Your back arches for his touch, and you bite into your bottom lip as he pushes into your heat- it’s tight and uncomfortable, but that never stops him, he simply leans down to grab the glass of oil before continuing at a brutal pace.

There are no noises made other than the lewd, rhythmic smack of skin against skin, and you’re not sure if it’s seconds or minutes before his breaths grow heavy, his grip becoming a bruising hold on your hips until he slams into you one final time- the familiar, slightly nauseating, warmth pulsing deep in your core as he fills you yet again.

And is it horrible that you now truly hope it takes?

Not because you want to give the wretched man a child, an heir, or that you want to see your belly grow distended and your tits swell into nothing more than a cow’s udder for his helpless babe; but because if it takes, that means you’ll be free of your wifely duties to him for a blissful nine months-

His hand comes down harshly on your bare buttcheek, the sharp pain causing you to gasp out a pitiful sound, followed by a nasally chuckle as he pulls out of your channel without ceremony- surely enjoying the way his spend dribbles down between your thighs as he does,

“How do you like your new guard? Quite the interesting choice you made.”

Yanking at your garments, you stand along with him, not bothering to meet his eyes as you speak,

“He’s fit in well. A proper shadow, as he should be, no?”

There’s a noncommittal sort of grunt made, the sound of leather straining as he ties the straps at his waist before stepping closer.

And what he does next, you really don’t know if he does it because he feels something, no, certainly not- or if he does it because he thinks it’s what you want, which you do not- but he leans down to take your lips. It’s always a harsh and clashing kiss, over just as quickly as the rest of it,

“He’s a protective shadow, isn’t he?”

A flare of anger courses through you at the sly and prodding comment, and it takes more than a deep breath to settle the surge of violence that burns through your gut.

But, your mouth has always seemed to move faster than your brain, unfortunately,

“Well that’s his job, isn’t it?” You shoot back, fingers tangled in your own hair as you twist it into a loose braid, “Pray tell, are you planning to kill this one, too, husband? A warning would be-”

Before you can properly react, a hot, searing pain explodes across your cheek- the force of his back handed slap rattles through your head, and a small whimper is all you give him before biting your tongue and casting your eyes down to the floor.

“You’d do well to mind that smart mouth of yours, wife. Maybe you should be focused on providing my kingdom an heir instead of your witty remarks..” His voice drops into a mocking tone as you flinch away from his touch, “You’ll do that for me, won’t you, pet?”

There’s a crack in the floor that consumes all your attention, but you still nod sweetly, “Of course, Sire.”

Too-wet lips push against your hairline, his palm settled at the nape of your neck, “Good girl..”

Praise has never felt so degrading than when it comes from him. It makes you want to crawl into yourself, hide away from the world-

Fuck, how did you ever get here. How could this possibly be your life? You remember the stories told to you as a little girl, practically memorized them- and this, these horrors were never written into your tales.

Or, perhaps, they were just conveniently left out..

Because you were so sure then, so sure if there was true love in this world, that if anyone would find it, it must be you, right? You had been betrothed to the King since you were just a babe, a perfect little girl born to unite your kingdoms in peace and prosperity-

Ha.. and look at you, now. Poor little Queen.. how foolish I was-

“Your Grace.”

Damn it…

You look towards the door, seeing the black clad figure blocking out nearly the entire width; and it’s only when he sees your face head on, that his body flinches forward- eyes widening behind the sharp angles of his helm.

Clearing your throat, you turn away from him, waving your hand, “I’m tired. And I’m sure your relief will be here soon, just go, Ser. I relieve you in his stead.”

“You’re bleedin’..”

His voice holds none of the usual harshness this time, and it’s like his words turn on the part of your brain that registers pain- hissing when your fingers graze over the deep split at the corner of your mouth.

There’s crimson on the very tip of your finger when you pull away, and the color seems too bright, too foreign in your eyes; the King had never struck you before, yet he managed to draw blood the very first time.

Was I really so weak, and simply never knew it?

A piece of cloth replaces where your fingers had been, and your next breath catches in the back of your throat from the unexpected contact, the surprising gentility in his touch. He’s close now, closer than he’s ever dared come- and you know you should be disgusted at his blatant lack of decorum, you should reprimand him and command him to leave; but, you don’t.

Instead, your eyes travel slowly, up and up the breadth of his armored chest and neck, until finally, you meet his eyes. They’re steady on your lips at first, but like every time before, they find yours quickly- his gaze just as intense as ever.

Gods, has he moved closer?

He’s close enough you can smell him now, his rich scent overwhelming you with each warm breath he exhales and you inhale. He smells like vetiver and steel, warm and cold, like the first frost of winter, and the first cup of spiced wine in the fall-

“Shall I call for your handmaid, My Queen?”

My Queen.. My Queen- it plays over and over in my head, always and only ever in his honeyed voice.. I hate it- no, I don’t.. but shouldn’t I?

It’s just.. He does not say it like the others- he doesn’t say it just out of respect and title, no- gods, it’s like he’s praying when he speaks those two measly words. There is devoutness in his tone and reverie in his gaze- But, that can’t be right. You are just upset right now, reeling from the night, from the week prior, and the weeks before that.

You’re simply imagining these things, giving importance where none is due. You just need to rest-

Tired, yes. That’s all.

“No..” You don’t mean to whisper, but his proximity steals your voice, “I’m fine.. Please- Go.”

Your neck is still craned looking up at him, your lips parted as you struggle to control your breaths, and maybe it’s the stupidest thing you could do, but you find yourself unable to stop. You let your fingers wrap over his gauntlet, not really pulling him away, but hoping he does it on his own- because you don’t think you could, you don’t think you really want to.

“Please..” You beg again, even quieter than before.

Simon gives a small sigh, his head tilting, eyes searching your face again- though, for what, you can’t be sure. But, after a slow blink, he takes one step back, then another, until he’s at your chamber’s door- and you’re forced to realize how painfully cold you feel in his absence.

“Sleep well, My Queen.”

Your knees buckle before the latch is even properly closed, the stone floor unforgiving as you all but collapse into yourself- trying so hard to be quiet, because you’re the Queen, and Queens do not sob, Queens do not let priceless rugs soak up their tears, or wish to drown in them, all the same.

The Queen should be grateful, should be proud of her station, of the gift bestowed upon her by her fortunate bloodlines.

Queens are strong, or they’re supposed to be. And you think you were strong once.. when the world still appeared beautiful and rosy in tint, when the promise of all the things that could be were still so bright and full of wonder.

You don’t consider yourself strong anymore. You feel like a ship without sails, listing dangerously in the stormy waters, entirely at the mercy of the sea. Waiting, just waiting for that one perfect rogue wave to capsize you, to wash you away into the nothingness-

But, truthfully, and it’s a truth you’ll never speak aloud, a truth that sits with you, hangs over you- you really don’t know how much longer you can stand to keep playing this charade of a life.

Not when the dark waters look so appetizing, so peaceful.

She doesn't know that her guard stays just beyond the thick wood, that he listens to her quiet sobs until he’s sure that she’s managed to cry herself to sleep.

It’s a haunting sound to him, for reasons he can’t explain or understand.

Because Simon Riley is not a good man, he is merciless and unkind, a woman weeping has surely never stopped him before- yet, with The Queen, the anguish and desperation in her cries claw at him, they dig themselves into his muscle and marrow.

He only ever wanted this position because he was truly tired, utterly weary and exhausted to his core-

But, His Queen.. she changed everything.

a/n: thank you for being here!

[Chapter 3 >>>]

[viktoriaashleyyx]

Since I am getting ready for another Renfaire tomorrow, here's some Renfaire 101 from a lifelong Rennie:

The pleats of your kilt go in the back

Your corset is laced from the middle (most of the time)

If these things are off most times more experienced Rennies will quietly let you know, there are some assholes in the mix, but most of us are cool if you are. I can't tell you how many times I have relaced someone's corset for them in the bathrooms.

Put your boots on before your corset

You don't have to dress to theme, or dress up at all. If you wanna wear jeans and a t shirt go for it. It's still fun.

Wear comfortable shoes. Lots of walking no one really cares if you're shoes don't match. I'm wearing my Docs cause my $5k Faire boots are a little tight and I keep putting off breaking them in during off season.

I know you're there for a good time but so is everyone else. If you're a belligerent drunk, limit yourself, if you can't keep your hands to yourself, stay tf home.

Take into account how you will ride home. Not just in terms of having a designated driver (v important) but also it's not very comfortable to ride home after a long day in a corset. You're gonna be tired and grouchy. Throw a t-shirt or some jammies in the car to change into when you get back to it, some soft slippers too.

Stay hydrated!! No alcohol doesn't count! Most faires I have been to have Powerade/Gatorade and bottled water for sale, tap water for free. Bring a few Gatorades to put in the car (can't bring them inside but they aren't gonna search your vehicle). Even if it's cold out hydration is important so you can keep having fun.

Sunscreen.

I bring my kids so I always have a small first aid kit on me, some wet wipes, bandaids, cortizone, the likes. Has been useful for my kids and others. If you can fit it into your bag, bring it.

Don't steal shit, this isn't Walmart. Most shops (at least at the faires I go to) are artisans selling their craft and they have worked really hard to purchase and build the booth they're in. If you can't afford it, move on.

TIP the Performers!! Even if it's just a dollar, I know it may come off weird that almost every show has a "Please tip us" segment but they (at most faires) literally work for tips. The Faire itself doesn't pay them to be there.

If you're camping for the weekend bring some fruits or veggies to snack on, you aren't going to find many inside the Faire.

Speaking of camping, you don't need to join a clan to have fun. Clans are just groups that put on different activities/parties for patrons. If you meet some people and hit it off and they invite you to join their clan, cool. But honestly it's p much just signing up to be involved with set up and planning w/o pay. Not necessary

All in all, have fun, consent is mandatory, and nothing feels better than an after Faire shower. ❤️

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith knows, truthfully and entirely objectively, that his life has improved since he started dating Lance. Obviously. There is no disputing this fact if nature. His attitude has mellowed, his days are brighter, his nights are even better, his crops are watered his skin is clear et cetera et cetera. (Literally, on that last one, since Lance is sneaky with his product).

…However.

There are setbacks.

Like right now, where he’s been pushed so far to the edge of the bed that he’s actually holding his breath to avoid being squished against that wall like a new coat of paint. So.

He loves his boyfriend. Seriously. He’s slept more in the months they’ve been seeing each other than he has in his entire life combined, actually. It’s insane. There’s something about Lance pressed up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs, nose barely peeking above his shoulder to let in some air (seriously how does he do that; Keith has watched him and he has, like, maybe one nostril available for oxygen intake. The rest of his face is smooshed against Keith’s upper arm and pec. And he’s got the blanket up to his ears, too. Does Lance not need to breathe for long periods of time? Like a dolphin? Keith will have to ask) that just makes sleeping actually relaxing, for once. Like maybe he doesn’t have to stay half awake, like maybe he can actually trust himself to be safe in his own bed. It’s an incredible feeling, to finally feel well-rested in the mornings.

He does. However. Feel the ittiest, tiniest bit like he’s sleeping with a corset on. And being hydraulic pressed into the corner of the room. If he has to pick something to be nitpicky about, he means.

“Lance, c’mon,” he mutters, exhaling finally. Lance, who is mostly asleep based on the growing puddle of drool Keith feels wetting his sleep shirt, takes the opportunity to squeeze tighter like a goddamn python. “Can you move over a little bit? I’m up against the wall, I got no room to breathe —”

The human corset suddenly lets up, and Keith can breathe again.

So he does.

Perhaps a touch dramatically, with the bug gasping inhale or whatever.

(Look, he’s not perfect. He’s quite comfortable blaming Shiro’s influence, actually.)

“Thank you,” he huffs. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the twinge in one of his ribs; tender from an injury he has yet to admit he has. (It’s fine. He checked. It’s barely even bruised mostly, he’s good. It’ll handle itself or become a Future Keith problem, so.) He curses under his breath as he stretches a bit, taking advantage of the space.

He frowns. “Wait, what?”

He sits up, confused as to why his spider monkey boyfriend is not in his immediate presence. It takes a second for his bleary eyes to adjust to the half-light of their bedroom, but eventually he manages and looks over and Lance is — Lance is on the goddamn floor. The blanket is with him. And four pillows.

“Lance.”

Keith bites his lip. This is either a bit or a very delicate situation, and if it’s the latter and he laughs then he’s very much in the doghouse, and for all his complaining he would much rather spend the night suffocating than alone. Much rather.

“Aw, Lance, come on.”

Unfortunately, his voice shakes, and he can’t quite tamp down his snorts and giggles, as much as he tries to muffle them.

Lance doesn’t speak, but Keith can almost physically taste his frown. His pout practically has its own atmosphere, it’s so potent.

“Hey.”

Keith gets to his knees, half-shuffling across the mattress. He leans over the edge, closer to Lance’s curled up form, and raises an eyebrow, amused. “Leandro. You are not being serious right now.”

The silence continues to grow. Keith can almost feel an actual chill, there’s so much iciness leaking from Lance right now.

(He also has the only blanket, but whatever. Tomato tomato.)

“Baby.”

“If you never want to sleep with me again that’s fine,” Lance says tersely. Keith rolls his eyes, head in his hands. “The floor is lovely. I’d rather be here than anywhere near your stinky mullet anyway.”

Keith sighs, long and heavy, steeling himself for the inevitable back pain he is going to have tomorrow morning. The things he does for love.

“You are the most dramatic man alive. Scoot over.”

Caught off guard, Lance uncurls, looking over at Keith in confusion.

Keith grins. “There are those pretty brown eyes.”

The pretty brown eyes in question are still squinted in suspicion, but Keith was expecting that. He moves as casually as he can manage, even trying his luck by humming something Lance was listening to earlier, picking up the edge of the blanket and sliding in behind his boyfriend, flat on the floor, arms winding around his waist and head bent at the junction of his shoulder. Lance is still tense, but allows Keith in his space, thankfully. Keith was half worried he’d stomp away to go sleep with Hunk.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to Lance’s neck and lingering there, making his boyfriend shiver as his lips tickle his skin. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Just feeling a little claustrophobic.”

Lance softens, but only barely. “You can tell me to back off, you know. I will.”

There’s still an undertone of hurt to his voice, a backing of insecurity. Keith tightens his grip, shaking his head.

“No. Don’t want that.”

Lance makes a frustrated noise. “Well, then what do you want, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

“You.” He traces an invisible line down the side of Lance’s neck with his mouth, kissing and biting slightly, relishing in every little twitch of Lance’s shoulders. “Duh.”

“No, not ‘duh’,” Lance argues, but his voice has gone weak. “You’re a pain in my ass. Do you want to be cuddled or not, Red?”

Bingo. Keith fights a smirk at the nickname, knowing he fails when Lance sighs, but the slide of his hands to rest on top of Keith’s bely his amusement, his fading irritation.

“Course I do,” Keith promises. His kisses the back of Lance’s neck again, but it’s softer this time; no underlying motives. An assurance, a promise. “I just. You know. Would also like twelve percent more space to inflate my lungs, if that’s okay.”

Lance snorts. Keith grins.

“You’re such a goober.”

“You’re the goober, actually. The pile of drool on my shoulder proves it.”

He feels more than sees Lance’s neck go red. Keith snickers. Lance hates when Keith brings up the drooling and for that he will literally never ever stop.

“I hope you wake up in agony.”

“Oh, I will, thanks to your hissy fit.”

Lance kicks his heel into Keith’s shin because he’s a shithead. Keith takes it without complaint because he’s the biggest whipped loser of all time and he’s well aware of it.

“We can go back to the bed, you know,” Lance offers eventually, although he makes no effort to move.

Keith yawns. “Nah.” He rests his head on the top of Lance’s spine, tangling their legs together. “I’m good where you are.”

———

based off this post

[the-fiction-witch]

Heart In My Hands

Media - The Artful Dodger Character - Jack Dawkins Couple - Jack X Reader Reader - Y/n (Hospital Secretary) Rating - Sweet Word Count - 2485

Warnings - Graphic Medical scenes / Victorian doctoring / mentions of Suicide and self-harm/

Y/n nodded as she sat on the spare empty table in the morgue, her lilac dress around her with a tight corset and large crinoline below, her boots swaying a little where her feet didn't touch the floor, she fixed her curls from her face a little adjusting the matching bow that sits in her hair, her eyes on the floor.

Jack looks down at Y/n with his hand on his forehead. "get off my table, I don't want your fancy dress ruining the furniture."

she nodded and sheepishly hopped off standing fiddling with her white cotton gloves,

Jack sighed, "I can tell you want something so out with it, you daft girl." As he spoke he began washing his hands and utensils in a small basin of water.

"Can I stay and watch?" She asked sheepishly,

"Only if you keep quiet so you don't distract me. And you're not allowed to touch the body or anything that can possibly be infected." Jack said in between washing his tools in a small basin of water

She nodded and stood close to the table, close enough to see by far enough not to be a risk of contamination. She watched as he brought his tools to the body and began his work, blood coating his hands as he cut through the body, Y/n stood and watched egarly with a smile

Jack looked up at Y/n as he started cutting. He smiled seeing her eagerness. "Don't forget. I said no talking unless you have an intelligent question that will further the science."

she nodded silently

Jack smiled as he began working. He made his way down the abdomen, cutting the skin open he reached into the body itself and began pulling out the internal organs, dropping them into a basin of water on the floor.

she looked at his work curiously and she spoke "Do you think bodies know what happens to them once they die I suppose of course they can't feel it but I wonder how long the nerves keep working to know what's happening,"

Jack let out a chuckle and smiled slightly. He liked that question.

"Honestly, I think it depends on several variables; the way they died, if they knew they were going to die or not and the cause of death. I don't believe the nerves are active long after someone expires."

"Hum... I'm sure of them do else why do bodies spasm or react? Bodies still bruise after death so one can assume at least something is still working internally"

"If you're speaking on a cellular level perhaps. But on a whole organism level, probably not. I've seen too many a body not do anything after death to believe that there is something truly still working once someone dies."

"I suppose so... People say if you are decapitated your mind is aware for a few seconds, at least while your brain is starved of blood and oxygen"

"Most certainly, but I wonder how long that lasts. Is it really that long or does it feel like it's longer because your brain is panicking and going through millions of possibilities as your organs begin to shut down?" he chuckled,

"When was the first time you saw a body?"

"When I was about your age. Maybe a bit younger. But I remember I was just starting out," he smiled, "What about you? When was your first time?"

"were they already dead? Or did you watch them die?"

"They were already dead. I was given the task of disposing of the body after performing an autopsy. But I think you're avoiding the question; my first time, and your first time.. come on now, let's not play games."

"... I was six" she answered

Jack raised his eyebrow slightly, waiting for a further explanation. For now, he decided to continue working,

"my father was looking after me one afternoon in his study, I was playing with my toys and he uhhh... He hung himself." She nodded sadly "I watched him die ... Saw the end in his eyes, watched his body hang until the maid came in"

"Oh-..oh... I-..." Jack froze for a minute, before he sighed, continuing with his work. He kept his eyes down as he worked, trying not to work through how such a thing would affect a child. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. Especially at such a young age.."

"It's alright, he wasn't a happy man. I suppose I... Found sollis in the morbid" she said still watching his work with fascination,

Jack gave a small nod, knowing what she was saying all too well. "As do I. I often wonder if my obsession for the morbid would exist as strong if I grew up in a more... Normal household."

"Perhaps, but those aren't the people we are" she smiled "... Do you have nurses do this for the female bodies?" She asked, "Or do you do that?"

Jack smiled as she changed the subject. "I'm the only one who touches them. I don't trust the Nurses with something as important as an autopsy."

she nodded "Are women and men really that different on the inside? Other than the reproductive?"

Jack thought for a moment, "Hm... I would say there are subtle differences in the internal structure. Women tend to have a wider pelvis to allow for childbirth, while men have a smaller pelvic area. Both internal female and male sexual organs tend to be shaped differently, however, the rest of the organs tend to be the same."

"hummm... I'd have imagined the ribs and chest to be slightly deformed... Given women have the additional weight of breasts"

Jack chuckled slightly as he nodded "You would think that, but the human body can easily adapt to handle the additional weight and size of the chest. Men, on the other hand, usually have larger lungs than women. Not by a tremendous amount, but enough to notice the difference."

"Oh, I thought men an women were far different" she giggled

"Oh really? You think so?" Jack chuckled and smiled at Y/n. "What gives you that idea?"

"I don’t know doctor’s always seem to have a harder time given women a diagnosis other then, loose weight, close your legs and pray."

Jack nodded. “That’s because most doctors are old pigs who have no idea how women work,”

"that's being a woman, unfortunately, medical men aren't always the most helpful"

"I can very well believe it. I've encountered quite a few of my fellow male doctors in the medical field who would be much better suited working on animals rather than humans. Thankfully, you landed yourself with me. And I'll be certain to never let you see another doctor so long as I can help it."

"thank you jack" she smiled "I wonder sometimes if sneed would be better on dogs then people"

Jack let out a hearty chuckle, he knew that feeling all too well, "Now that's certainly something I'd be more than willing to agree with. In fact, I'd go as far to say that Sneed would be better off as a dog himself."

"I think he'd like being a dog, he already humps everything that moves close enough to him and I wouldn't be surprised if I heard he was licking himself" she chuckled

Jack burst into a fit of laughter. "Oh christ no- you just had to go and make me imagine that! I really didn't need that mental image first thing in the morning!" he complained, "Sneed can't even properly diagnose a basic infection! How the hell he's still qualified to work in this hospital is beyond me.."

"Because he is friendly with Professor McGregor"

Jack rolled his eyes and groaned at the name. "McGregor... Damn that idiot. How he's still a professor, I'll never know. I'd be more than happy to do away with his liver."

"I think the poor liver could use a rest" she smiled "but that is the reason Prof is old and worn out, sneed is a suck-up. Those are the only reasons they are more in charge then you are"

Jack let out an irritated sigh, "Sneed is the type of suck-up that will do anything to get by in life. And McGregor is little more than a tired old fool who cares more about his reputation than his patients. I'm honestly shocked the place hasn't fallen down around them yet..."

"of course, it hasn't, your here"

Jack smiled at Y/n's compliment. "And that's the problem. I do all the actual saving of people, while they just sit up their arses collecting payment." he sighed, "But it's not always bad, I've got my job, and I'm fortunate enough to spend it with such pleasant company like yourself."

"awww" she giggled "if I had it my way I'd make you head surgeon"

Jack shrugged slightly as he laughed. "Ah.. if I had it my way, McGregors position would be mine. He's nothing more than a waste of space in the medical field. Though, I suppose it's only a matter of time before people realise he's not all that he's made out to be. Unfortunately, I don't think the day will come before his time does." he chuckled, "How about you? You got any ideas? Any particular dream job you'd like to have? Or are you alright just doing the secretary work here?"

"I'd like to be a doctor... Such is a dream unrealistic I know"

Jack let out a slight laugh. "Women can’t be doctors, or surgeons. Not my rules, society's rules. All thought I admit in another world… You seem to understand the human body quite well! And you have a kind, pleasant attitude that helps people feel calm. Not to mention a strong enough stomach to stand the sight of blood. You'd make a damn good doctor." he smiled, "But- Sometimes, I forget what century this is..."

"its alright, I don't mind I like helping with the paperwork" she smiled "speaking of which" she grabbed the folder and began doing all the paperwork for him noticing inquiries, weights and other such information happily,

Jack smiled as she went to work on the paperwork. He had a genuine smile on his face when he saw her enjoying something as simple as doing his paperwork. It gave him a warm feeling inside that someone else, even if they weren't a doctor, found the work fascinating. "You know, you're the best secretary anyone could ever ask for. The hospitals never had someone quite as good-looking as you either."

she giggled at his compliments

Jack smiled happily. Having her around made the work so much more enjoyable. Even doing something as mundane as paperwork was more fun, simply because he got to spend time with her. "You keep laughing at my compliments, one of these days you're gonna have me saying something quite embarrassing."

"like what?"

"Hm... Something along the lines of how absolutely angelic you look every time I see you..." Jack stopped working to look up and smile at Y/n. "How everytime I hear your laugh, it's impossible to keep myself from smiling..." He then thought for a second before he continued. "How I wish I saw you everyday, and I feel my heartbeat skip a beat upon sight of you."

she giggled again "If you're going to be giving me such juicy compliments doctor Dawkins you could at very least buy me dinner first" she teased as she finished with the paperwork and came to egarly watch him,

Jack laughed as Y/n came over to watch him finish his work. "My apologies my Lady, I should have realised how forward my statements were. Perhaps I should be a bit more discrete in the future, unless a certain fair lady is interested, of course."

"why? Is a certain doctor asking?" She raised her eyebrow

Jack laughed. "Perhaps he is... Would you consider accepting if he was?"

"she might consider accepting, if he was asking, I think he was asking she'd certainly be interested just depending on what exactly he was offering"

"Well, the Doctor would offer a wonderful night of courtship. Perhaps a dinner, and then maybe a stroll amongst the stars with a beautiful, wonderful and intelligent woman." Jack said with a smile as he finished detaching the heart. As he did, he gave the heart a firm squeeze to remove excess blood. The heart in his hands, he turned to Y/n and offered it out to her. "For you, my lady~"

“I can?”

“Go on,” he nodded,

She giggled so happily pulling off her gloves and taking the heart in her hands, looking it over and describing all the intricate anatomy names she looked as if he’d just handed her a bouquet of roses, Jack found it hard not to smile at her. But she handed it back knowing she’d be in trouble if someone found out,

"Ah, that's rather cruel of you, won't you even accept a heart from a handsome doctor such as myself?" Jack said with a chuckle, In his mind, this was perhaps the closest to giving his heart to Y/n that he could ever get. A somewhat morbid thought, yet not too unexpected for him.

"I would adore to accept... In concept doctor Dawkins however the physical heart may make a mess of my handbag" she giggled cleaning her hands off and slipping her gloves back on, "but if it's all the same to you I would like to accept your offer of a nice dinner and stroll in the stars if that is still available?"

"Well, I suppose that's a fair reason to reject my fine heart. I'd hate to make such a mess of your fine handbag." Jack smiled and laughed slightly as he gently put the heart back down. "In that case, my offer of a night of courtship is still very available. Might I ask, would you be free this coming evening?"

"I would be…"

"Perfect. I'll collect you at 7 this evening. We can skip straight to the main event with dinner, and enjoy the stars afterwards. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?" Jack asked, the happiness and excitement written all over his face,

"it sounds perfect" she smiled

"Fantastic! And if I'm not being too forward in my asking, would I be given access to an official kiss from you if the evening is to your liking?" Jack asked with a smile, slightly embarrassed to be asking such a thing. Yet, at the same time, slightly excited about the prospect of receiving a kiss from Y/n.

"I think it's possible you could get one this evening"

Jack grinned as he finished cleaning himself up. "Well, in that case, I shall eagerly await my evening of courtship and the fine kiss that shall come with it."

"I will too, well I'll see you later Doctor" she smiled taking the paperwork with her and giving him a little wave as she headed out of the morgue and up Into the hospital

Jack gave her a little bow as she waved goodbye, leaving a spring in his step and a smile on his face as he put his things away. He cleaned his working space for the next doctor that would be working there, before leaving to his office, excited for the upcoming evening.

[sungbeam]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧

prince!ji changmin x f!reader (slight juyeon x reader)

1.0k words, my emotional support royalty au, high-key historical au, lots of not-dialogue, literally i don't think swan song will ever fully see the light of day but i love it a little too much to keep her buried

a/n: this is serpent & dove's partner,, except i set the stage for a villain arc bc who doesn't love a villain arc

The moment Ji Changmin stopped wishing to be a part of the family was the one wherein you made your debut into society. There were rules to the royal court, rules that Changmin had long since been schooled in. There were boxes he was placed within, boundaries he was not meant to cross, but there were few invisible, unspoken hierarchies that were always enforced that he had to pick out on his own.

He was only eighteen when he found your familiar eyes, shining in glazed-over discomfort, as you curtsied low at the top of the stairs and made your descent. An official had announced your arrival at the door, and he already spied the dance card dangling from your wrist.

Unspoken Rule One: Bastard children never got first pick.

The main ballroom of the palace was decorated immaculately for this year's debutante ball. Heavy silks embroidered in fine, gold thread were draped from the crystalline window panes; the chandeliers glistened with beads of light like fiery embers; the dance floor was polished and his suit was tight. He couldn't remember tying his tie on so tightly, but the way you looked tonight made him want to break form and loosen the grip of his collar around his neck.

He had never seen you in such tightly laced garb, and he had never seen you so nervous. You, Yn Ln, beloved middle child of the phoenix-represented Ln family—the phoenix a symbol of how generations of your family long ago had risen from the ashes of destitution to the mighty lordship of its current day and age. Your good name automatically thrust you into the limelight, whether you liked it or not.

You were eighteen years old, same as Changmin. You had asked your handmaiden to lace your corset up a little tighter, opting for the one that was made specifically for occasions such as these. It had not been your choice to don the dark, blood red brocade for tonight's festivities—it had been your mother's. You hadn't realized your family even cared to show off their middle child, but you supposed if they could ship you off as quickly as possible, it would be one less daughter to pay attention to.

Unspoken Rule Two: Daughters never got to choose.

It was difficult to not meet his eyes—the pair that you recognized so easily from the academy. The pair you often found yourself staring into as they laughed, as they pondered, as they brooded. He was beautiful, the kind of strength that wasn't brutish, but softer. He was a snake amongst wolves, perhaps the predator that no one ever saw coming.

Your dance card was empty, but his name seared itself into each slot, stealing away each dance like he had stolen a bit of you after all this time. (Or maybe all of you. You wouldn't have minded if that were the case.)

It wouldn't have been appropriate if he left his place from the dais first. It definitely would not have been appropriate if he had left the dais before every other girl was introduced. The room was full of chaperones and young men eyeing their prospects as they filed in, one by one.

(A room of hungry wolves encasing the pack of sheep who had waltzed in, bedazzled and smiling.)

You knew the game though, and you figured two negatives would have to make a positive. Right? That was how it could work. That was the loophole you and Changmin had concocted all those late nights spent in the academy library, tucked away in the corner of the myths and legends aisle, huddled together, conspiring a way to come out of this alive.

Not just alive, but together.

Unspoken Rule Three: Watch out for the wolves.

You were already on your way toward his side of the dais. The half prince was beautiful, but he was only second in line. He had half the blood of royalty; how many would seek him out first?

And there was a spike of hope in your heart. It singed through your glazed expression and made the corners of your cherry-stained lips turn upward in that sickening feeling of hope.

Eyes pinned to the other, you could see the glee in his own expression. It was going to work. This would work how you'd planned, how you'd hoped, how you'd schemed and mapped. You two knew the food chain better than anyone else—it simply had to.

But the room fell quiet as a form stepped before you, blocking your view of the second prince. He was just as beautiful as his half brother, the gold crown seated upon his raven locks a beacon of pride and power. He had kind eyes, a pair you weren't as familiar with, but knew well enough. His suit was tailored perfectly to his body, his smile gracious and almost shy.

"Lady Yn," Crown Prince Juyeon said to you as you dropped into a curtsey and he, a bow, "may I have the honor of stealing your first dance?"

The room was silent. You swore your heart beat thundered against the golden walls of the ballroom.

You couldn't say no. Not to the crown prince. Not in front of everyone.

Perhaps there were things you and Changmin hadn't taken into account.

Unspoken Rule Four: The Crown Prince always gets what he wants.

By some miracle, you found your voice and fitted your quivering, gloved hand into his. "Of course, Your Royal Highness. It would be my honor."

And as Prince Juyeon led you to the polished marble dance floor, you stole a glance behind you at the dais. The second prince stood frozen on his platform, his form never having broken. But in the split second you looked back at him, you couldn't mistake the flash of a promise in those dark eyes you'd fallen so deeply into all these years.

It was a promise… at least, that was what you had thought, as you plastered a smile on your face and let Juyeon lead you through dance after dance. But you should have known better than to think so little of Ji Changmin.

a/n: me taking back my blog bc i can post what i want right :')

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @sodafy @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @justalildumpling @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @outrologist @vernonburger @maessseongs

[softcursechoso]

Memoirs from a Gilded Cage: CH. 9

Attack on Titan x Reader

Black!Reader Levi x Reader Erwin x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI 18+ ONLY //NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS

CH. 9 Warnings: Human trafficking, kidnapping, violence, and just overall not the most pleasant chapter in the world. Levi is going to lose his mind because of you istg!

Words: 8k+

FAR FROM HOME

The Eternal Thread : 12:00am : Mitras

You were going to do something stupid tonight.

The long mirror posted against your workshop wall reflected a woman at the end of her rope. A woman who has seen an unkind world and still decided enough just wasn’t enough.

A leg stretched out, bathed in flickering candlelight, a sheer stocking sliding over your skin. The bruises adorning your legs whisper of past hands gripping too tight, their shapes indistinct now—fading, or perhaps never deep enough to mark you permanently. Shadows of pain or ghosts of old wounds? It's hard to tell. 

Your waist is sculpted by the sewn-in corset of your dress, tight enough to force your breath shallow. Bare shoulders polished like carved mahogany, gleams as you shift, fingers gliding over the last ebony glove as you pull it into place.

Your dress is temptation stitched in silk, black satin against your skin. It clings, flowing like ink, shaping itself to you in ways that leave little to the imagination. The sweetheart neckline plunges, exposing the delicate lines of your collarbone, the daring swell of your chest. 

The sleeves barely rest on your shoulders, teasing the threat of slipping further. The corset constrains you, pressing deep into your ribs, commanding your posture.The slit—dangerously high on an already short dress—gives no illusion of modesty, parting like secrets meant to be unraveled.

You tilt your head, your gaze lingering in the mirror. Lipstick perfect, a dark red. Eyes lined, shadowed with mystery. Hair pinned up with a few curled tendrils left loose, a carefully crafted effortlessness. You look incredible. More than that—you look untouchable.

Your body suddenly goes rigid when a knock at your shop door splinters the silence. Shit.

You freeze, a cold prickle running down your spine, eyes darting toward the curtained front of the shop. No one should be here. Not now. Not when you're dressed like this—too dark, too tight, too knowing. 

You move quickly, stockinged feet soundless against the wooden floor as you slip toward the door, pressing your ear against it.

"I am sorry Miss Greville, but you are not permitted to enter the shop." The voice is firm, clipped. One of the MPs stationed outside.

"I can do whatever I want! This is my sister’s shop!" Ah yes, Tinsley.

Your jaw clenches. You hesitate only for a moment before your fingers move to the lock, unfastening it with a soft click. The door swings open, revealing her standing on the other side, breath uneven, eyes swollen with unshed tears. She’s a mess.

Her chestnut hair, always brushed to a perfect sheen, is tangled, frizzed at the ends. The bodice of her dress, a soft blue thing meant to drape gracefully, is wrinkled, as if she’s been gripping it in her fists. Her lips are pink and raw, bitten from nerves, and her hands tremble at her sides.

Her gaze locks onto you, and something inside her shatters. Her brows pinch, her lips part, but words don’t come. Her eyes, damp and pleading, flicker over your face, down to your dress. 

"How long are you going to shut me out?" She whispers, voice thick. "Months? Years? I miss you."

You stand in the doorway, unwilling to let her in. You had somewhere to be. You had something to do that she could never understand. 

Your throat tightens, but your voice remains steady. "Tinsley, it’s late."

"I don’t care.” She snaps, her lower lip trembling. "You cut me out and—where are you even going?" Her eyes drop, sweeping over you—over the stark black dress, the curve of your thigh peeking through the slit, the bruises your stockings don’t fully conceal.

You take a step back, fingers tightening around the door. "Stop coming here."

Tinsley flinches, her shoulders curling inward as if bracing against a blow. Your words hurt.

"I will come to you when I’m ready.” You continue, voice firm, though the edges of it threaten to fray. "I’m not ready."

She wipes at her eyes, nodding quickly, though it’s clear she doesn’t understand. "I love you.”

You inhale sharply. "Okay."

Then, before the moment can stretch any longer, before she can beg for something you cannot give, you close the door and lock it.

You press your forehead against the wood, breath uneven. Guilt scratches at the edges of your mind, but you push it away. You could open the door again, say something, offer a scrap of comfort—but you don’t. Instead, you let the silence thicken, settling into the spaces where words should have been. 

That was tough. That was really tough, but there is no time for feeling. You straighten. Exhale. There is work to be done. Tonight, you have a mission.

You walk back to your workshop desk and grab a cloak that is draped over your last commission.

The black fabric is heavy on your shoulders- swallowing your figure as you slip out into the underground. You take nothing with you—no weapons, no tools, not even a small knife. Tonight, you go as you are. Vulnerable. A lamb among wolves.

Backstreets : 12:54am : Underground

Levi told you that there are certain hours that are worse than others. Furlan told you that you shouldn’t be out during those hours… but oh how you’ve come to know those hours so well in your search. 

The underground is always filthy, always riddled with suffering, but here—in this part, this dark, rotting stretch of city—it festers with something worse. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and decay clings to the air, and the unpaved paths beneath your heels are slick with filth. 

Figures slink in and out of the alleys, draped in shadow, watching, waiting. The weight of their eyes clings to your skin like grease. You feel the moment you step into their domain, an unspoken shift, as if the predators have caught the scent of fresh prey.

You stop at a street corner, an unremarkable one, yet known to be a hub of filth. Women selling their bodies linger by crumbling walls, their eyes vacant, their bodies barely covered. A woman in nothing but a cloak leans against a post, her face dull with resignation as a man whispers something in her ear. She barely reacts when he tugs her forward. 

The others watch, glassy-eyed, their painted lips too red, their hands clutching at themselves as though trying to stay grounded. Further ahead, a group of men cluster together, low murmurs punctuated by sharp bursts of laughter. Every now and then, they glance over, eyes sharp, measuring. This is where you need to be.

You let the cloak fall. The cool air kisses your bare shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling at your feet. You stand there, letting them look. Letting them take in the dress that clings to your frame, the slit that offers glimpses of your upper thigh, and the deliberate sultriness in your gaze. You don’t need to speak.

They come to you, as expected. The first are bottom feeders—drunks, men who reek of sweat and desperation. They leer, they murmur filth into the air, but they have nothing to offer. You ignore them, gaze flicking past, waiting.

Then, the right ones appear. Two men. Taller, cleaner than the others, but their smiles are practiced, empty. One flashes a wad of bills, fanned out in his gloved hand. He cocks his head, an invitation, a test.

You don’t hesitate. You nod once and step forward. “I’ll have you know my rate is quite high.”

“We can pay it. C’mon.” One man speaks, his hand pressing against your lower back.

They lead you down an alley, and the second you’re out of sight, a rag presses over your mouth and nose. You didn’t expect it to happen so fast, or at all, rather. This wasn’t a part of the mission.

Panic slams through you. You gasp—a mistake. The scent is sharp, chemical, cloying. Your body betrays you instantly, your limbs turning to water, your vision smearing at the edges. Your thoughts scatter like sand in the wind.

Shit.

Darkness swallows you whole.

Unknown : ??? : Underground

When you wake, your body sways. Your wrists burn, bound tightly together. Your feet hurting from the heels you’ve been standing in. You blink against the thick darkness, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. There’s movement around you—soft sobbing, quiet breaths sucked through teeth. The scent of sweat, blood, and unwashed skin clings to the air.

You’re in a cage?

The space is tight, too tight. You shift, trying to turn, but you’re pressed shoulder to shoulder with others. Women. Some are whispering under their breath. Others are silent, eyes wide and glassy. A girl to your left sniffles, trying to muffle her cries. Her dress is torn, the thin fabric barely covering her bony shoulders. She’s young. Too young.

Could this be it? This has to be the trafficking ring you’d been looking for.

Your stomach twists. “What’s going on?” You whisper, your voice hoarse.

No one answers as footsteps sound beyond the bars. A low, oily voice murmurs something to a crowd—an audience? You tilt your head, listening. The words are drowned out by the sobbing, but you catch enough to know what’s happening.

An auction. Panic claws at your chest. This isn’t the trafficking ring you were looking for. This isn’t what you planned for at all. This is worse. Perhaps you made a grave mistake. 

Ever since you split with Erwin, you made it your mission to unearth the ring and find out about the Kuremi. Risking life and limb, you didn’t care so long as it would bring you closer to the answers you needed. You’d been eating the minimum amount to survive, and making stupid decisions, but this just might be the worst. The lack of sleep was clearly impairing your judgment.

The fabric is yanked away from the cage, exposing you to dim lantern light. You flinch at the sudden brightness, blinking rapidly. Beyond the bars, rows of men sit in the shadows, eyes gleaming with interest. Dozens of them. Their faces are indistinct in the gloom, but you see the way their heads tilt, their greedy eyes scanning over every inch of you and the others.

A hand seizes your wrist and yanks you forward as the cage door swings open. You and seven others are dragged out.

You stumble onto the stage, the ground uneven beneath your heels. A woman ahead of you trips and falls to her knees, but no one helps her. She lets out a broken sob as rough hands force her back to her feet. The line moves forward, methodical. You are third.

You stand in place, forced to face the audience. They gossip. Exchange glances. Money passes between fingers.

Your heart pounds. The walls are too close, the air thick with heat and anticipation. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know how to get out of this. This was a terrible idea. Fuck! You have to think!

The room is dim, but not dark enough to hide the gleam in the men’s eyes, the way they shift forward in their seats, their attention fixed on the row of women trembling before them.

The auction runner steps forward, spreading his arms wide, his voice curling through the stagnant air like an oily caress. “Gentlemen.” He purrs, “Feast your eyes on the finest stock the underground has to offer. Soft, delicate things, ripe for the taking. Weak. Vulnerable. Each one untouched and ready to be molded by a man for the first time.”

Your breath catches. Your head snaps toward him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

“How the fuck do you know that?” Your stomach knots. A horrible thought slithers into your mind, cold and suffocating. What happened while you were unconscious? “What did you do?!”

The crowd roars with approval. They revel in your reaction, in the way your body tenses, in the sudden, sharp rise of your breathing. 

The auction runner chuckles, shaking his head. “Look at this one,” he muses, motioning toward you. “Full of fight, isn’t she? But don’t be fooled, gentlemen. She was the easiest to take down. Didn’t even put up a struggle.”

A wave of laughter ripples through the room, coarse and hungry. They are enjoying this. Enjoying you.

Your nails dig into your palms. Fury trembles through you, but you force yourself still. You are on a stage, exposed, nothing more than entertainment to them. Every flinch, every sharp inhale, every flicker of emotion—they are drinking it in, savoring it like a fine wine.

The auction runner grins. “Seems we have a favorite. Perhaps we should start the bidding with you.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears as he steps toward you, tilting his head, considering. Then, with a slow, deliberate drawl, he announces, “A rare breed, gentlemen. A woman with brown skin. Exotic. Uncommon. Last time one like her hit the market was over twenty years ago.”

The breath leaves your lungs. The room fades into the background… He knows something.

The bids begin, fast and fevered, numbers climbing with each passing second. Voices merge into a tangled blur of greed and lust, but your eyes are locked on the auction runner, your mind racing.

“You know about the Kuremi.” The words are on your lips before you can stop them. “You know.”

The auction runner’s gaze snaps back to you, and then he laughs, delighted. “Oh, she’s getting upset! Do you see it, gentlemen? That spark in her eyes?” He leans in slightly, his smirk widening. “Careful, it won’t serve you here.”

The bids continue. Higher. Higher. Until one voice silences them all.

A number is spoken. A number so high it sucks the air from the room. The others fall silent, shifting in their seats, acknowledging defeat.

Your stomach twists as realization dawns. You are now his property. No. NO!

The auction runner grins. “And sold.”

Something inside you snaps. Without thinking, you lunge. The rope around your wrists jerks hard, nearly yanking you off your feet, but you drive forward anyway, feet scrambling for purchase. 

“Tell me what you know!” Your voice is raw, desperate. “Tell me what you know about the Kuremi! Tell me what you know about Abeni!”

You almost reach him—almost—but then the rope tightens, a brutal yank sending you crashing backward. The force knocks the breath from your lungs, your body slamming into something solid.

A hand grips the rope. Holds it firm. The man who bought you.

“No.” One word. Low. Final.

You twist, struggling against the restraint, against the inevitable. “Tell me!” You scream, voice breaking. “Tell me!”

The auction runner only smirks, watching as you thrash against the pull of your new owner, as you fight against the rope that now binds you in more ways than one.

The crowd murmurs, satisfied. The deal is done. Your world shifts, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. The grip on your rope tightens, and before you can react, the man yanks you forward. You stumble, forced into his chest, his breath hot against your ear.

"You belong to me now.” His voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers curl around your arm like iron, unyielding as he drags you away from the stage. 

Behind you, chairs scrape against the floor as several men stand, following in tow. They move as a unit, shadows stretching long under the dim glow of the overhead lanterns.

You twist your head back, eyes locked on the auction runner. He leans against the podium, grinning. Watching. Waiting. You commit him to memory. Brown hair and brown eyes. Thin. Scar under his left eye. 

Then the corridor swallows him whole, and he’s gone. Your pulse pounds in your ears. You need to think. You need to get out of this.

“Are you taking me to the surface?” You demand an answer, voice steady despite the chaos inside your chest.

The man barks out a laugh, sharp and bitter. "Ain’t nobody rich enough for that around here. Nah, but that’s why I bought you. Cause you're gonna make us a lot of money. Gonna turn you into a pretty little whore."

A cold wave of nausea crashes over you. You will not let this happen. You focus, waiting for an opening. Levi drilled this into you—always look for weaknesses. Look for patterns. 

His grip is strong, but there’s a shift, a brief moment where he adjusts. You feel it before you see it, the slight loosening of his hold as he reaches to readjust. That’s your chance.

You twist, sharp and sudden, and drive your knee up with everything you have. The impact is brutal. He lets out a strangled sound, staggering back, his grip instantly gone. You don’t hesitate. You run.

Chaos erupts behind you. Heavy footsteps, curses shouted. “She’s running—catch her!"

The underground is a maze of filth and shadow, but you don’t think. You just move, weaving through narrow alleys slick with grime. Your breath rasps in your throat, feet pounding against the dirt. They’re close. Too close.

Just as you were making headway, you reach a dead end. No. No, no, no—

You whirl around, fists clenching. If you can’t run, you fight. You plant your feet, chest heaving, eyes burning. You’re ready. Levi trained you for this. Maybe not with both hands bound, but still, you won’t go down easy.

You prepare yourself, but before you can make a move, a choked groan cuts through the alley.

One of the men staggers forward, eyes wide in shock. A dark shape stands behind him, small, cloaked. A flash of metal gleams in the dim light—then the man collapses to the ground, a knife buried in his back.

The cloaked figure moves fast, spinning low to sweep another man’s legs out from under him. He falls hard, and you waste no time—you lunge forward, stomping your heel down on his ribs. Your foot comes down so hard you can hear your own ankle crack upon impact. He gurgles, body jerking, then goes still.

Another man charges. The person sidesteps effortlessly, kicking him hard in the ribs. He stumbles back, and you drive your elbow into his face, feeling the crunch of bone. Blood splatters across the alley floor.

One left. He hesitates, eyes darting between you and the hooded person. He makes a choice—turns to run. This other person doesn’t let him.

They surge forward, leaping onto his back, blade flashing. He screams, but it’s too late. He’s already being brought down. You hear the sickening sound of his body hitting the ground, then silence.

You stand there, breathless, taking it all in.

The person turns to you, grabbing your bound wrists. A flick of the knife, and the rope falls away.

“Come on! I know a place where we can lay low.”

You don’t question it. You don’t have time to. You run. Sprinting, hand in hand, lungs burning as you weave through the underground.

Then, suddenly, the scenery changes. The filth, the overwhelming stench, the oppressive walls—everything feels familiar now. Too familiar.

Wait a minute. You know this place. The person drags you up a familiar flight of stairs, through a familiar door, into a dimly lit space that smells faintly of leather and bleach.

Levi and Furlan’s home.

Your knees buckle, exhaustion slamming into you all at once. You collapse onto the floor, gulping air, the adrenaline still roaring in your veins. The person flops down beside you, just as breathless.

You turn your head toward them, mind still spinning. “Who are you?” 

“Isabel Magnolia.” She grins wide with flushed cheeks.

You push yourself up from the floor with every muscle aching as you make your way to the couch. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but your mind races too fast to let you rest. Across from you, Isabel throws herself into a worn chair, her legs draped over the armrest, her wild red hair a mess pulled into two low pigtails.

She watches you carefully, then, with absolutely no hesitation, asks, “Are you from the surface?”

…

Your stomach twists. “No. Why?”

She snorts. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Even with you all beat up and ragged, you look more put together than anyone else down here.”

The bluntness of her words makes your breath hitch. You don’t know how to respond, so you don’t.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re her, right? The Formulator? You’re the one Levi and Furlan were talking about?”

Your pulse quickens. “Okay, so you do know Levi and Furlan? You didn’t just coincidentally run into a stranger’s house?”

She scoffs, throwing a hand up. “Hey, this is my home too!”

Your brows shoot up. “Since when?”

“Since they took me in. A few weeks ago.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A few weeks?

You inhale sharply, your body suddenly feeling twice as heavy. You got so lost chasing answers, so wrapped up in the search, that you lost time. Weeks.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “What did they say about me?”

Isabel leans forward a bit, “That you’re smart. That you don’t look like anyone else. That you’re better. That I’d know you when I saw you.”

You swallow hard. You can only imagine what it sounded like when they said that.

“What the hell were you even doing there?” You question.

She shrugs. “I was just passing through on my way back from the market when I saw you. I wouldn’t have jumped in if I wasn’t sure you were the one Levi and Furlan were talking about.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “They must hate me. I’ve been gone for so long.”

Isabel shakes her head. “They miss you. Somehow they managed to twist everyday conversations into a discussion about you. Hell, I missed you and I didn’t even know you!”

Despite everything, that makes you smile. A small, tired thing, but real. 

“Thanks for saving my ass, Isabel.”

She grins. “Anytime.”

You lean back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. You need rest, but you know you won’t find it here. Your mind won’t let you. Not when the auction runner knew about the Kuremi. He knew.

You stand, but the moment you shift your weight, a sharp pain shoots into your ankle. You stagger, a limp in your step.

Isabel’s eyes widen. “Whoa! You’re not leaving?!”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t. You’re hurt!” She stands quickly, reaching out and gripping your wrist. “Please… if you wanna pay me back for helping you, then stay here and get some rest.”

She’s right, and you know she’s right, but you can’t. You were so close.

You pull out of her grasp just as the front door swings open.You barely have time to turn before Isabel’s voice cuts through the room.

“Hey bro, look who I found!”

Levi and Furlan step inside, the air shifting instantly with their presence. Levi’s face, normally unreadable, betrays the slightest flicker of shock. His sharp eyes take you in, scanning, assessing, but it’s Furlan who reacts first—he has no poker face, never did.

“What happened to you?!” His voice is tight, demanding, concern bleeding into every word. “Where the hell have you been?!”

You force a small smile, lifting a hand dismissively. “I’m alright. I was just… away for a while. I got pretty sick.”

A blatant lie, but you say it so casually, as if the torn stockings, disheveled appearance, and the way you carry yourself like you’re bracing for something don’t completely contradict your words.

Then your gaze flickers to Levi. His expression hasn’t changed, but you can feel the weight of his silence. That oppressive, unrelenting stare.

“Hi, Levi.” You say, teasing, pretending.

He doesn’t answer. That silence thickens, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

Furlan exhales sharply. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.” You brush him off, shifting your weight slightly to hide the way your leg protests the movement. “Anyway, if it’s cool with you guys, I’m gonna go sleep in the back.”

You walk, controlling every movement, keeping your steps careful. You won’t limp. You can’t.

“Come here.” Levi’s voice is quiet but firm.

You pause briefly, feigning ignorance. “What?”

“Come here.” A beat of silence. “Now.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Isabel and Furlan exchange looks, an unspoken ‘oh shit’ passing between them. You ignore them. You ignore Levi. You turn and walk to the back room, closing the door behind you.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the bed, exhaustion creeping up your spine. You just need a second. Just one moment alone.

The door opens and you hastily turn around just as Levi steps inside. He shuts the door behind him with a calm, controlled movement, but his eyes—his eyes burn.

“You’re really gonna try to hide that from me?”

Your pulse quickens. “Hide what?”

His jaw clenches. “Where are they?”

Your stomach knots, but your expression remains smooth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Levi moves before you can react. He grabs you, firm but not harsh, turning you effortlessly so your back is to him. Before you can protest, before you can twist away, you feel it—the swift drag of your zipper, and the sudden rush of cool air as the fabric loosens from your body.

His hands yank the fabric open. You suck in a breath, hands flying to your chest to hold the dress up, but it doesn’t matter. Levi sees everything.

Bruises. Some fresh, others fading into sickly shades of green and yellow. Deep imprints of fingers along your ribs and your waist. Some marks too precise, too deliberate to be anything but forceful hands gripping you, pushing, restraining. 

The silence that follows is deafening. Levi doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just looks, and then, he does what you weren’t expecting. He reaches for you and turns you around to face him.

His hands—those hands, rough and calloused from years of fighting to survive—are devastatingly gentle as he pulls the gloves from your fingers. One by one. His touch lingers, ghosting over your knuckles as he reveals more of the damage. Rough rope marks etched into your wrists.

He moves lower, crouching, pushing the hem of your dress up just enough to see the bruises adorning your thighs. Your breath is uneven, shoulders locked, the back of your throat burning.

Levi is quiet. Too quiet. Then, his hands slide back to your waist, gripping—not hard, not forceful, but firm enough that you can feel the way his fingers tremble.

His voice, when it finally comes, is low, seething. “Where are they?”

You swallow, still facing away. “There’s no one... I… am just clumsy.”

“Bullshit.” He forces you to look at him, those sharp grey eyes burning into yours, demanding. “You’ve been gone for weeks without a word. Then you come back like this.” His fingers press against your jaw, keeping your eyes on him. “Bruises all over you, and this ridiculous fucking limp you probably didn’t think I noticed either.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’re gonna tell me everything.” He growls.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Fuck that.”

Levi shoves you down onto the bed, dropping to a squat before you. His hands rest on your thighs, his grip still firm. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let you hide, doesn’t let you escape.

“You’re gonna talk.” His voice is quieter now, more dangerous. “And I have all night.”

His presence is suffocating, his frustration radiating off him in waves, pressing down on you like a weight. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink, just stares at you like he’s trying to pull the answers straight from your soul.

“Tell me who.” His voice is lower now, but no less demanding. “I want names. I want descriptions. I want something.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Levi’s expression flickers, something unreadable beneath the fury. “What?”

You exhale, steady, detached. “It was my choice to go out. It was my choice to fight. You can’t control me.”

His hands clench into fists. “You’re not easy to look after, you know that? This isn’t a game, and it isn’t fun.” His voice is tight, every word laced with frustration. “You wanna throw your life away? Why?”

“My life is worth nothing! It’s not up to you to appraise me Levi!” Your voice rises, your emotions spilling over like floodwaters breaking through a dam. “If I died today, there would probably be a celebration! It’s my life! I get to live it however I want! I can take care of myself!”

“No!” His voice is sharp, final, slicing through yours like a dagger. “You aren’t cut from that cloth, so stop acting like you are!”

Silence crashes between you. The air crackles with tension, a thick, heavy thing that neither of you know how to dismantle. Levi exhales, slow, measured. His gaze never leaves yours.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know I knew.” His voice is quiet now, dangerously soft. “I know.”

Your stomach twists. “Knew what?”

“I knew from the first time I saw you that you had no business being anywhere down here… Guess I’m a selfish piece of shit too.”

You stiffen. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. He ignores the question completely, “Give me a name.”

“What did you mean?!”

“Give me a description.”

You grab his face, fingers curling against his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “Levi! What did you mean?! How are you selfish?! Tell me!”

“Who did this?”

“Levi!”

He just stares at you. Something flickers in his expression, something vulnerable, something raw, but he doesn’t let you in. Instead, his hands shift, fingers tightening against your thighs like something almost… possessive.

His voice is low, strained. “Why are you doing this?”

You don’t answer.

His grip tightens, just slightly. “Is this why you were trying so hard to leave early last time you were here? To throw away your life?”

You shake your head, voice small. “No.”

He searches your face. “Are you gonna talk to me?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Talk to me.” His voice is rough, edged with something desperate. “Why are you on this warpath? What the fuck has you so wound up that you’re throwing away your life with no regard? What is it?”

You can’t answer. Your throat closes, your vision blurs, and without a word, tears begin to spill down your cheeks.

Levi stills. You’ve never cried in front of him before. Not once, and though he doesn’t say it, you know—he hates this. Hates seeing you like this. You look so heartbreakingly beautiful in your sadness.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just watches, his grip on your thighs easing up, his fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away.

The words fall from your lips, barely a whisper. “I have no one.”

Levi exhales sharply, and for a moment, just a moment, his grip turns from possessive to something else entirely—something comforting, something anchoring—but the anger doesn’t leave his eyes. He isn’t letting this go.

Silence lingers between you, thick and charged, neither of you daring to move. Levi’s hands remain firm on your thighs, his touch an anchor, his breath heavy and steady. His eyes, sharp and unrelenting, scan your face, searching for answers you refuse to give.

Then, barely above a whisper, you ask, "Have you ever heard the name Kuremi?"

His brow furrows. "No. Is that who hurt you?"

You shake your head, removing your hands from his face. "No."

Levi doesn’t believe you. His hands shift again, firm, insistent. "Tell me the truth."

You hesitate, eyes flickering down before you murmur, "It’s just a name."

His jaw clenches, frustration mounting. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs your face, positioning it so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His fingers are warm against your skin, but his touch is unyielding.

"Who hurt you?" His voice is dangerously low, seething. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to kill everyone in the underground to find out?"

Your breath hitches. His words shouldn’t affect you the way they do, but they do. The sheer ferocity in them, the depth of his anger—it’s not just rage. It’s something else.

"Why, Levi?" You exhale shakily. "Do you really care that much?"

The question hangs between you, heavy and unspoken. Why does he care so much? Why does he look at you like that? Why does he always put himself in the way of your destruction, standing between you and the abyss like he can hold back the tide?

Levi scoffs, breaking eye contact as his hands lower to where they once were. "Don’t be stupid."

Denial. As expected.

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks away, jaw tight, his fingers twitching against your skin. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him avoid something, but this time, it feels different. This time, you wonder if he even understands what’s happening.

A new thought occurs to you. "How did Isabel know who I am?" Your voice is quieter now, almost curious. "What did you say about me?"

That makes him freeze. Now he’s the one avoiding.

"Tell me what you’re looking for." His voice is even, controlled. "You left home for four weeks on a mission to get yourself killed and—"

"Home?" You cut him off, something in his words catching you off guard. 

He pauses. "What?"

"You just said I left home." You watch him carefully. "Here."

It’s so quiet, the tension thickening around you like a storm. Levi doesn’t correct himself. He doesn’t deflect. He just stares at you, as if realizing what he said the same moment you did.

Something shifts inside you, something almost terrifying. Maybe what you’ve been searching for isn’t in the past. Maybe it’s not buried in lost histories or bloodstained memories. Maybe you’ve already found it.

Without thinking, you reach for him again, cupping his face with both hands, your touch softer this time. You rake your fingers through his hair, letting the strands slip between your fingers.

"You need a haircut.” You murmur, your voice barely above a breath.

Levi doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you touch him, his eyes dark, his breathing slow and measured.

Then, without warning, you grip the back of his neck, fingers curling into the base of his hair. You don’t know why. Maybe to test him. Maybe to feel him closer. Maybe because, for once, you don’t want to think—you just want to feel.

Your eyes flicker down, just for a second, just enough to notice the shape of his lips. Just enough to make your heart race.

You lean in. Just a hair.. Then—

The door flies open, and Isabel barges in. "Okay, that’s enough—whoa!" She stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide, lips parting in sheer disbelief.

You and Levi snap apart, but it’s too late. Isabel sees everything.

Your unzipped dress. Levi’s hands still lingering on you. The tension in the air, thick enough to choke on. The tears drying on your face.

Her lips curve into a slow, amused grin. "Whoops. Sorry! Carry on. I’m leaving."

Your face burns. "Wait, stop! It’s not what you think!" Your hands reach for your zipper, pulling it up as much as you can manage.

Isabel snickers. "I know what I saw."

You groan, shoving past her as you storm into the living room limping, but you can still hear her laughter following behind you. She’s enjoying this way too much.

Back in the room, Levi doesn’t move. He stays where he is, still by the bed, hands resting on his thighs now, staring at the floor like his entire world just tilted on its axis. Maybe he’s not as passive about this as he thought.

You walk out to the living room, still feeling the weight of Levi’s stare burning into your back. The moment you sink onto the couch, Furlan exhales, his usual easygoing smile settling onto his face.

"It’s good to have you back." There’s warmth in his voice. Familiarity. A steadiness you didn’t realize you needed. "Your ankle’s hurt."

You nod, leaning back into the cushions. "Yeah, a little. Guess I’ll have to stay here a while and regain my strength."

The words leave your lips without thought, but once they’re out there, you realize they carry more weight than intended. Staying. Not just resting. Staying. Maybe it’s just exhaustion, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but the idea doesn’t feel as foreign as it should.

Across the room, Isabel is strapping on her ODM gear, tightening the buckles with expert fingers.

You tilt your head. "Where are you going?"

She grins, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Training. I’m getting pretty good at it too!"

Your lips quirk up. "Wow, they’re teaching you to fly just like that, huh? I had to prove my worth by formulating heists before they even let me touch the gear."

Isabel winks. "Guess I’m just special."

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it.

Furlan walks over and takes a seat next to you. Without a word, he reaches for your ankle, lifting your foot into his lap and beginning to wrap it with careful precision. The first brush of pressure sends a sharp jolt of pain up your leg, and you shudder involuntarily.

Furlan’s voice drops lower. "We’re gonna find them. This won’t go unanswered for."

Your breath stills, eyes widening just slightly. There’s a quiet intensity to his words, a promise woven between them. For all of Furlan’s easy smiles and teasing nature, there’s a sharpness beneath it all, a steel edge that rarely surfaces. But it’s here now, clear as day.

You swallow. "Furlan…"

"We missed you." He continues, his touch never faltering as he wraps the bandage around your foot. "You’re our heist planner, but you’re also our friend. We care about you."

You exhale, tension unraveling slightly. "Thanks, Furlan."

You pull your leg back, but the moment you do, you realize something. You snort, shaking your head. "You wrapped this over my stockings."

Furlan pauses, then chuckles. "Well, shit. I’ll redo it after you change, then."

You laugh, and it’s easy, light, something that feels almost normal. Furlan grins, patting your knee before standing.

"Isabel, you ready?" He calls.

"Hell yeah.” She chirps, adjusting the last of her gear. Then she turns to the back room. "Levi! You coming, bro?"

Levi emerges from the back, his presence filling the space in an instant—but when he speaks, it isn’t to Isabel. It isn’t to Furlan. It’s to you.

"No." He moves toward the kitchen, pulling out a chair and sitting down, eyes never leaving yours. "You and Furlan go."

Something about the way he says it—low, steady, decided—sends a ripple down your spine. He doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t shift his gaze away, and then, after a breath of silence, he continues.

"I need a haircut."

Your heart skips a beat.

Furlan glances between you both, knowing something is in the air. He nods slowly, nudging Isabel toward the door. "Come on, Iz."

"But—"

"Come on." His voice leaves no room for argument.

Isabel glances at you, then at Levi, her lips twitching. "Alright, alright. Don’t have too much fun without us."

Almost too soon now- they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them.

You and Levi sit in the silence they leave behind, the air thick with something you can’t quite name. He’s still watching you, unwavering, expectant.

Your hands curl into your lap. "You need a haircut, huh?"

Levi nods once. "Yeah."

A small smile tugs at your lips, but you push it down, standing slowly and making your way toward him. The closer you get, the heavier the air feels. When you finally reach him, you hesitate for just a second before lifting your hands, threading your fingers into his hair.

His breath catches, barely audible, but you hear it.

You swallow, steadying yourself. "Alright, let’s fix this mess you left for me.”

The straight razor and scissors sit on the table beside Levi, waiting for you. He must’ve placed them there before calling you over, silently assuming you’d do this for him like you always had. There’s an ease in that assumption, a quiet understanding that neither of you ever voice.

The strands are thick and coarse, a little longer than usual. Your nails graze his scalp lightly, and you don’t miss the way his shoulders relax beneath your touch.

You pick up the razor, pressing your other hand to the top of his head as you begin shaping his hairline, just as you’ve done many times before. The scrape of the blade against his skin is smooth, almost effortless.

“So.” You start, focusing on the first precise stroke, “Where did you find Isabel?”

Levi’s voice is steady, even as you tilt his head slightly to the side. “She found us.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “She’s got fire. I like her. She’ll certainly shake things up around here.”

Levi scoffs, but there’s something almost amused in the sound. “Not more than you.”

That makes you pause for half a second, but you push past it, continuing your work.

His eyes drop to your leg as you shift your stance. “You need to get off that foot.”

You wave him off. “I’m fine.”

Just as you pull the razor away, your ankle wobbles. The pain flares, and before you can catch yourself, you stumble forward—right into Levi’s lap.

His arms come up instantly, catching you. One hand grips your waist, the other bracing against your thigh to steady you. His touch is firm, grounding, and far too warm.

“You need to stop being so damn stubborn and listen sometimes.”

You sigh, trying to push yourself up, but he doesn’t let you. His grip tightens just enough to keep you still.

“I never had anyone to count on,” you admit, voice quieter now. “So it’s hard asking for help, or accepting it.” You glance at him. “You should know that better than anyone.”

You shift again, intending to move, but his arms don’t budge.

“Don’t keep putting pressure on your ankle. You need to stay put.”

You huff a soft laugh. “In your lap?”

His gaze is flat. “Why are you turning this into a thing?”

Heat floods your face. “I’m not! I just…” Words fail you, so you clear your throat and focus back on his hair.

His head tilts slightly under your touch as you move the scissors through the strands, trimming carefully. The closeness should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels… normal. Like this is how it’s always been.

After a long moment, Levi speaks again. “You need to tell me what you’re searching for.”

You hesitate, “Levi…”

“You need to tell me.” He speaks again, firmer this time. “So we can put this shit to rest.”

You shake your head. “Let it go.”

Levi’s hand moves. He grabs your wrist, his grip steady, unwavering.

“Are you going to let it go?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

His fingers tighten just slightly. “Are you going to let it go?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

Levi exhales sharply through his nose. “Then neither can I.”

The weight of his words sinks into your bones, pressing deep, undeniable. The silence stretches between you. Then, finally, Levi releases your wrist.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with you.” Levi mutters, shaking his head.

You smirk. “Probably let me finish your haircut.”

He exhales sharply, but it’s not really annoyance. More like reluctant acceptance.

You continue trimming, the gentle snip of the scissors filling the quiet. Your fingers move carefully, shaping the cut, smoothing the strands between your fingertips. Levi’s breathing is slow and steady, his hands still resting on your sides.

You focus on his hair, swallowing past the sudden tightness in your throat. “Almost done.”

Levi hums, but doesn’t move.

You take your time, careful with every movement, and when you finally pull back, setting the scissors down, your fingers linger at the nape of his neck for just a moment. Levi doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you.

You tilt your head, examining your work before grinning. “There he is. The man that’ll have all the ladies swooning.”

Levi scoffs, rolling his eyes, but you don’t miss the faint dusting of pink at the tops of his ears. It’s barely there, but you catch it.

You smirk, brushing the loose hairs off his shoulders, then move to get up. Before you can, his hands settle back on your waist, holding you in place.

“You don’t listen.” He grumbles

You blink at him innocently, lips curving into something playful. “If you want to put your hands on me, Levi, just say that.”

His expression doesn’t change. His grip doesn’t loosen. He speaks in a flat tone. “I want to put my hands on you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

Before you can process the shift in atmosphere, Levi stands, lifting you in his arms. Your hands instinctively grasp at his shoulders, heart stuttering against your ribs.

“Levi—”

He ignores you, carrying you through the dimly lit space and toward the back room. The motion is fluid, deliberate, like he’s done this a hundred times in his head, but really, he only did it once. He pushes the door open with his foot and strides inside, setting you down onto his bed.

You look up at him, still slightly stunned. “What about the hair? Don’t you want me to clean it up?”

Levi looks down at you, “You’re not gonna get it all up. No.”

Your lips part, offended. “Levi, are we really still lying about this? You love my cleaning.”

He exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “It’s not the worst.”

“Levi, please.” You draw out his name, playful, teasing. “You love my cleaning.”

He just stares at you. For a long, weighted moment, neither of you speak. Then, without a word, he turns to walk away.

Panic flutters in your chest. “Wait!”

Levi stops in the doorway, glancing back. “What?”

You hesitate, pulse hammering. “Come here.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “What?”

You exhale, a little exasperated. “Stop, Levi. You’re making it less sweet when you drag it out like this.”

He walks back over and leans down at your side. His steel-gray eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity.

“What do you want, brat?”

You  wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. His body tenses, just for a second, before relaxing slightly. He doesn’t pull away.

You press your face into the curve of his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I left. I just don’t know how to depend on anyone else. I thought of you guys every day… I thought of you every day.”

His fingers twitch against the fabric of his shirt. His breath is slow, measured.

“Please don’t leave yet.” You tighten your hold. “Not until I’ve fallen asleep.”

For a long moment, Levi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he pulls you away and lies you down before he sits down at the edge of the bed.

You weren’t sure why you asked him to stay, or perhaps you were sure and you just didn’t want to accept the reason. There was a lot weighing on your mind right now. You had a lead, but you knew it would be hard to chase. Levi, Furlan, and now Isabel weren’t going to let you throw yourself back into danger so easily. 

You had a sneaking suspicion that Levi was only letting the topic of who hurt you go in the interest of not stressing you out further, but if you knew him, you knew he’d find them. They would pay.

Proceeding from here would be hard. Look for the man with the scar, or accept the past as something you’ll never truly know? You’d have to choose soon.