#but also. the fact that he smells like wind and salt air and something a lil citrusy? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 months ago

Note

you wrote a fanfic the other day about Sebastian gaining some weight but I’d love to see a fanfic where MC gains some weight + Sebastian’s reassurance <3

Pool Side | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Anon! I want to apologize for the very long wait (like... two months...) for this fic! It has been a WIP since you submitted this request but the story took on a life of its own and it took a hot minute for me to finish. I hope it was worth the wait!

Also I promised some more fluff/smut on the blog so enjoy everyone💚

Words: ~16,100

Tags: Smut, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Sized MC, No Y/N, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Actually Unrequited Love, Romance

Beta: @newdreamlove95 💚

The coastline stretched before you, the sea a glimmering expanse of blue beneath the midday sun. White limestone cliffs loomed in the distance, dramatic and weathered by time, framing the golden sand of Durdle Door Beach. It was the kind of place people romanticized—secluded, picturesque, the perfect setting for a group of old friends to escape their busy lives for a single, carefree afternoon.

Except, you hadn’t felt carefree all day.

The sound of crashing waves filled the spaces between laughter, between playful shouts and splashes as your friends waded deeper into the water. The air smelled of sea salt and sunscreen, the sand warm and fine beneath your towel. It should have felt perfect. But as you sat beneath the wide shade of your umbrella, the book in your hands barely touched, all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

Time had shaped all of you in its own way—careers, travels, lessons learned, heartbreaks and triumphs, all of it leaving its mark. Garreth had finally cut his hair, and his once-boyish face was now set with sharper features. Imelda had somehow managed to look even more athletic than she had in school, toned and lean, her features even more fierce. Natty had grown taller, even more poised, carrying herself with quiet confidence. Even Ominis, who you’d always considered the most put-together of the group, had softened somewhat, the weight of his family name no longer pressing so heavily on his shoulders.

And Sebastian—He wasn’t the same as he had been at eighteen, either.

You let your gaze drift toward him, tracking him where he stood near the water’s edge, talking with Ominis. His once-boyish face had sharpened, the angles of his jawline more pronounced, the shadow of scruff darkening his face where smooth skin had once been. Even his curls had changed—longer now, though the wind still toyed with them the same way it always had.

And his body—

He had always been strong, lean from Quidditch and dueling, but now he had filled out, broader in the shoulders, thicker in the arms and chest. Not as sharply cut as he had been at eighteen, no longer carved from restless youth and constant training, but something better—something balanced, something solid—not chiseled, not sculpted, just strong, in a way that felt effortless. Comfortable.

Yet while everyone had changed, you had changed the most.

You adjusted the loose cover-up draped over your shoulders, tugging it down to make sure it hid as much of you as possible. Not that anyone in this group would say anything—but that didn’t mean they hadn’t noticed. Because people always noticed. In fact, people commented. Not cruelly, not always, but enough. Enough that when you saw someone again for the first time in years, you had learned to brace yourself, waiting for the inevitable remark, whether it was an aunt’s offhanded, Oh, you were always such a slip of a thing before! or the faux-concerned, Are you taking care of yourself?

The world never let you forget that you used to be different, better.

At least, that’s how it felt.

You had been confident in your teenage years, running through the halls of Hogwarts with reckless energy, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted, always ready to challenge someone in a duel or throw yourself into something new without hesitation. Back then, your body had never been something you thought about—it had just been yours.

You weren’t sure when that had changed.

Somewhere along the way, your body had shifted, weight settling onto you in ways you couldn’t ignore, in ways other people refused to ignore. It didn’t matter that you were still you, still clever and kind and capable—it was as if the world had collectively decided that none of that mattered as much as the shape of you.

It wasn’t fair, but fairness had never been a rule the world followed. So even though your friends never said anything, you knew they had noticed. How could they not?

The weight of your thoughts pressed down heavier than the sun, hotter than the sand beneath your towel.

You felt guilty.

This weekend had been planned for months—a rare break in everyone’s busy schedules, a chance to reconnect without the distractions of work, responsibilities, or the sheer exhaustion of adulthood. It had taken forever to arrange, largely because of them.

Imelda and Natty were impossible to pin down.

Imelda, who had thrown herself headfirst into professional Quidditch after Hogwarts, had spent the last several years building a name for herself as one of the fiercest Beaters in the league.

And Natty—Natty had never stayed still. She had left the Ministry years ago for international work, teaching and training young witches and wizards abroad. If she wasn’t in Africa, she was in Asia, and if she wasn’t in Asia, she was in Australia.

Getting both of them in the same place at the same time, on holiday no less, had been a miracle.

You should have been thrilled. You were thrilled.

And yet all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

You had tried to prepare. You had tried.

Dieting. Exercising. Starving yourself. Hyping yourself up by buying a new bikini, thinking that maybe—maybe—if it was flattering enough, if you just forced yourself into the right mindset, you’d be okay.

But stepping into it today had made you feel sick.

You had stood in front of the mirror in the beach house bathroom that morning, stomach churning, as you studied the reflection that didn’t match the version of yourself in your memories.

You had stared at your body, turning slightly, tugging at the waistband of the bottoms, at the straps over your shoulders. No matter how you adjusted them, you still looked like this.

So, instead of running into the water, instead of being the girl you wanted to be, the girl used to be, you had thrown on your cover-up and settled under the umbrella, staying there like an anchor while the others ran free.

You watched as Imelda and Poppy tossed a beach ball back and forth, their laughter carrying over the sound of the waves. Imelda, ever the athlete, barely had to move to intercept each pass, her sharp reflexes making it look effortless. Poppy, for all her gentleness, was surprisingly competitive, her playful smirk clear even from where you sat under the umbrella.

A little farther out, Natty floated on her back, arms stretched, face tilted toward the sky. She looked serene, perfectly at ease in the water, her dark braids fanning out around her like a halo.

A little closer to shore, Garreth waded through the shallows, carrying a handful of bottles, the brown glass glinting in the sunlight. He trudged toward Ominis and Sebastian, where they stood in the the surf, the waves lapping lazily at their calves.

Sebastian popped off the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips without a care, his other hand raking through his hair. The sunlight made the water droplets on his skin glisten, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his arms, the long stretch of his back where his swim trunks sat low on his hips. You hated how easy it was to look at him, how easy it had always been.

You wrenched your gaze away, but you heard Garreth open his own bottle with a sharp hiss before sighing dramatically.

“Merlin’s balls,” he laughed. “I forgot to tell you. I finally took Eloise out last weekend.”

Sebastian, already a few swallows into his drink, raised a brow. “That sounds promising. Do tell.”

"It went brilliantly," Garreth continued. "Dinner, drinks, and by the end of the night—" He took a swig of his beer, then grinned wolfishly. "Let’s just say I made quite the impression."

"Spare us the details, Weasley," Ominis huffed, tipping his head back.

"Oh, come on, mate. Don’t pretend you’re not interested."

"I assure you, I am not."

Garreth rolled his eyes before continuing anyway. "She’s gorgeous. You know, tall, really fit, amazing legs. I mean she plays for the Falcons, and bloody hell, you can tell." He whistled low, shaking his head in admiration.

Sebastian made a knowing sound, half a chuckle, half a sigh. “Of course. Tall, leggy, tiny waist. Garreth Weasley’s classic type.”

“Right, well, can you blame me? She's something else,” Garreth pointed at him with his bottle.

Sebastian hummed appreciatively. “I get it. Hard to argue with a body like that.”

Garreth nodded firmly. “Of course you get it, you're a man of taste.”

Your grip on your book tightened, the pages bending beneath your fingers. Of course, Sebastian understood. Of course, he got it.

Because women like that were meant to be wanted.

Women like Poppy, who was soft in the way that was delicate, the kind of pretty that made people want to protect her.

Women like Natty, who carried herself with effortless grace, whose body was carved from strength and discipline.

Women like Imelda, who was lean, fit, sharp-edged and powerful.

Women, apparently, like Eloise, whose body was a gift, something to be admired, appreciated, worshiped.

It made sense. Of course it made sense. But it didn’t stop the ache that settled deep in your ribs, the quiet, sinking certainty that you would never be the kind of woman men spoke about like that.

And then—

“Well,” Ominis drawled, tipping his bottle toward Garreth, “not all of us are so visually inclined, I suppose.”

Garreth snorted. “Are you calling me shallow?”

Sebastian let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Knowing what you like isn’t shallow.”

“Perhaps,” Ominis allowed, tilting his head. “But I still think I have better taste.”

Garreth groaned. “Here we go.”

Ominis smirked, lazy and self-assured. “Forgive me for thinking there’s more to a woman than her legs, Garreth.”

Sebastian snorted. “Alright, we get it, you’re enlightened.”

Ominis only hummed, amused. “It’s just that I, personally, prefer someone with a bit of substance—quite literally.” He tapped his own ribs lightly with a knowing smirk. “I’ve already got enough bone for the both of us. A bit of cushion is good for a man.”

You froze.

Ominis' words hung in the air, settling between the easy laughter and the rhythmic pull of the tide.

On one hand, it was almost comforting in a way, hearing Ominis brush aside such narrow ideals. At least someone—someone you respected, someone you trusted—didn’t think a woman’s worth was measured by how well she fit into a neat little mold.

But at the same time his words didn’t fix anything. Not really. Because it wasn’t him you needed reassurance from.

It was Sebastian.

Garreth laughed, raising his bottle. “Well, cheers to that, then,” he said, clearly unbothered. “Honestly, better for both of us. I’d rather not compete with you, mate. If I had to go up against you and your good looks? I’d be doomed.”

Ominis rolled his eyes but clinked his bottle against Garreth’s all the same.

Sebastian made a sound—low, amused, noncommittal.

And that was it.

No teasing rebuttal. No agreement, but no disagreement either. Just a simple, easy acknowledgment that meant nothing.

Or maybe it meant everything.

Because Sebastian had spoken up earlier, when he’d defended Garreth’s tastes. But now? Now, he said nothing.

He didn’t joke with Ominis. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree. He just let the conversation move on, unbothered, unthinking.

And that was your answer. The truth you had known somewhere deep down but had tried so hard to ignore.

Sebastian got it. Sebastian agreed. Because of course he did. Because why wouldn’t he?

Hard to argue with a body like that.

A sudden burst of splashing pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked up just in time to see Natty emerging from the water, droplets rolling down her sun-warmed skin as she pushed her braids back from her face. She was beaming, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever, and you felt a twinge of guilt when your first instinct was to shrink further into the shade.

She cupped her hands around her mouth, calling toward the shore. "I am going for ice cream. Who’s coming?"

The response was instant.

“Ooh, absolutely,” Poppy chirped, catching the beach ball Imelda had just tossed her before jogging toward Natty.

“I could go for something,” Imelda agreed, squeezing the seawater from her ponytail. “Haven’t had a proper cone in ages.”

Sebastian tipped his beer back for a final sip, then turned to Ominis. "You coming?"

Ominis scoffed. "Do you even have to ask?"

You didn’t have time to react before the whole group was moving, heading toward the shore in a mess of dripping bodies and sun-warmed skin, shaking the saltwater from their limbs as they made their way toward you.

"That book must be fascinating if you’re still at it," Garreth teased as he approached your umbrella.

You forced a smile, gripping the novel a little tighter. "Riveting."

Sebastian was right behind him, running a hand through his damp curls as he reached for the towel he’d left beside his bag. "What’s it about?"

You hesitated. You had no idea. You hadn’t read a single word in—how long had it even been?

"It's romance-mystery-crossover," you lied offhandedly, hoping the vague genre mashup would be enough to satisfy him.

Sebastian gave you a slow, amused look, clearly unconvinced. "Sounds made up."

"Of course it is, it's a fiction novel, Sebastian," you countered, flipping the book closed and setting it aside, hoping the conversation would move on.

It did.

Garreth reached for his t-shirt, shaking off the sand before pulling it over his head. "You going to join us in the water after we get ice cream?"

You hesitated.

The question was casual, easy, but you could feel the weight of expectation behind it. Not just from Garreth, but from the others too. Poppy was already looking at you with hopeful anticipation, Natty giving you a small, encouraging nod.

They wanted you to say yes.

And for a second, you wanted to say it too. To be the girl you used to be, the one who wouldn’t have thought twice before running headfirst into the waves, salt-stung and laughing, sand stuck to her legs and hair damp with seawater.

But that wasn’t you anymore.

So you mustered up a small, apologetic smile and said, “Maybe later.”

Garreth groaned. “Oh, come on. You said that last time."

But before he could complain further, Natty had already tossed on her sunhat and pulled her dress over her swimsuit, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. She didn’t waste time waiting for further debate.

"Come on," she called over her shoulder, already walking down the beach toward the path leading up to the ice cream stand. "Before the ice cream all melts."

That was enough to get the others moving.

Poppy hurried after her, still wringing the seawater from the ends of her hair, Imelda not far behind. Garreth quickly followed, dragging Ominis along with him, still grumbling about how one day you’d actually keep your word and join them in the water.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

You could have followed. You should have followed. But you didn’t.

You stayed put beneath the shade of your umbrella, hands clenched in your lap, your book abandoned beside you.

Because you didn’t need ice cream. You certainly didn’t need the extra sugar, nor the extra calories.

Then a shadow fell over you. You knew who it was before you even looked up.

Sebastian.

His presence was unmistakable—always had been. Something about him was too big, too bold, to ignore.

For a few beats, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there. And then—

"You’re not coming?"

His voice was casual, but there was something beneath it. Something pointed.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes fixed on the page in front of you as if that would be enough to make him move on. "I’m not really in the mood for ice cream."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave. Didn’t let the conversation drop like you needed him to.

"You were in the mood for it last summer," he pointed out. "And the summer before that. And the one before that. And before that."

"Well, people change, Sebastian."

You hoped that would be enough. That he’d just let it go. But you’d been friends with Sebastian Sallow for over a decade, and Sebastian Sallow never let anything go. Not when it came to you. He would poke and prod, just like he always did, the way he had when you were fifteen, sixteen, eighteen—always tugging at you, always unraveling you.

You heard a heavy sigh, followed by the soft sound of shifting sand as he sat down beside you, uninvited but entirely unsurprising.

His skin was warm from the sun, his shoulders still glistening from the water. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close, the scent of salt and sun-bleached fabric clinging to him as he leaned back on his hands, his gaze now trained fully on you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, brows pulling together slightly, head tilting the way it always did when he was trying to figure something out.

"Are you okay?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Sebastian hummed, tilting his head toward the horizon, pretending—pretending—like he wasn’t watching you carefully, like he wasn’t studying you the way he always did when he knew you were lying.

"You’ve been avoiding the water all day," he mused. "Didn’t eat much at lunch." He nodded toward your book. "And I’d bet my wand you haven’t actually read a single page of that."

You gritted your teeth. "What’s your point?"

Sebastian turned his head then, looking at you fully. "My point is that you’re clearly not okay," he said, voice steady, measured.

"Sebastian," you sighed, voice tired, "just drop it."

For a second, he actually looked like he might. But then his gaze flickered, his expression shifting with realization.

"Is it because of what Garreth said? I know how much you hate when guys objectify—"

“No.” The word left you quickly, too quickly, your chest lurching at the assumption—not because it was wrong, but because it was almost right.

Because Garreth’s words did matter. Just not in the way Sebastian thought.

He assumed you were bothered on principle, that this was about your usual distaste for men reducing women to their bodies. Because that was who you were to him—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never one to let careless words slide.

And in a way, it felt good that he saw you like that. It meant he wasn’t thinking about your body. It meant that, in Sebastian’s mind, at least, you weren’t standing on the outside of their conversation, trying to pretend the words didn’t sting.

That was… a relief.

But it didn’t loosen the tight, twisting knot in your stomach, because even though Sebastian hadn’t thought of it that way—you had.

And it wasn’t about Garreth having a type. It wasn’t even about Eloise specifically. You didn’t care who Garreth found attractive—everyone had their preferences.

It was Sebastian. Because he had agreed with Garreth.

And it was stupid, really, that it should hurt at all. You had no claim to Sebastian. No right to expect him to think of you that way. He had never given you any reason to believe he did. The only person who had spent the last ten years hopelessly in love with an idea—with him—was you.

But it still hurt.

"I'm sure you overheard him," Sebastian continued, "I know you like to eavesdrop," he added teasingly.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, please. I wasn’t eavesdropping. You lot were talking loud enough for the entire beach to hear."

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh, but it lacked any real amusement. “Fair enough. But for the record, I don’t think Garreth meant anything by what he said.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I know that.”

And you did know. Garreth didn't have a single mean-spirited bone in his body.

Sebastian was still watching you carefully. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong."

“Right,” he said, stretching the word out and leaning back on his hands. “So you’re sitting here, sulking under this umbrella, avoiding the water, avoiding ice cream, barely speaking to anyone—all because nothing is wrong?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Sebastian—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the book, your nails pressing into the cover. “You are wrong.”

Sebastian let out a dry, knowing laugh. “Yeah, no, see—that’s the thing about lying. You’re shit at it. Always have been.”

Your jaw clenched. “I swear to Merlin—”

“What?” He turned to you fully, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll hex me? Go on, then. Should be entertaining for the rest of the beach.”

You exhaled harshly, fingers flexing against the cover of your book. “Look, Sebastian, it—” You shook your head, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sebastian made a sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "You’re not even arguing properly.”

That made you glance at him, brow furrowing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian gave you a pointed look. “It means when you actually don’t care about something, you normally fight back with something biting, something clever. You roll your eyes, you call me an idiot, you tell me to piss off.” His gaze flickered over your face, sharp and assessing. “You’re not doing that now.”

Your stomach twisted. Damn him. Damn him for knowing you this well.

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head. "Just tell me the truth."

You clenched your jaw, looking out at the waves instead of at him. "Sebastian—"

"No, really." His voice was steady, firm. "What’s the point of this? Of going around in circles when we both know I won’t let up?" He gave you a pointed look, eyes sharp. "You’re wasting your breath trying to lie to me. I see right through it, and you know I do. I’ve got a decade of experience, love."

His voice was light, teasing, but you could hear the weight beneath it. The concern. The care.

And maybe that was what did it. Maybe that was what made something in you snap.

Because you were so tired. Tired of pretending, of swallowing things down, of trying to act like it didn’t hurt.

So you turned to him, something bitter curling in your chest.

“Sebastian, you know why I don’t want to go in the water. Why I don’t want to eat in front of everyone. Why I haven’t taken off my cover-up. Why I don’t want ice cream.”

Your breath was heavy, uneven, your fingers curling into the fabric draped over your shoulders.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So you shook your head, voice quieter but no less raw.

"You know." Your chest tightened. "And I know that you know, because you have eyes."

Sebastian just stared at you. It seemed, for once, you had managed to stun him into silence. A difficult feat. And yet, here you were.

The weight of his gaze pressed into you like an iron brand, unrelenting, burning. His lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Hurt. Frustration. Anger.

“That’s what this is about?” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “That’s what it’s been about this whole time?”

And when he said this whole time, you knew he didn’t just mean today. He meant the past few years.

The slow retreat. The way you had pulled away, little by little, until the girl he had grown up with—the one who had been fearless, the one who had laughed loudly and took up space without hesitation—had hidden herself away.

His jaw clenched.

“Who?” His voice was rough, barely more than a growl. “Who made you feel like this?”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Who?” You shook your head, gripping the edge of your towel like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Everyone, Sebastian.” Your voice wavered, bitter and exhausted. “The whole fucking world.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his whole body tense like he was barely holding something back. And then his voice came low, simmering with something dangerous.

“Just give me names.”

You let out a shaky laugh, running a hand over your face. “And what, exactly, are you going to do?”

Sebastian’s jaw was tight, his entire body radiating tension. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, voice clipped. “But I’d very much like the opportunity to find out.”

Your stomach twisted, a mess of emotions you didn’t have the energy to untangle. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “It’s not just one person, Sebastian. It’s in the looks, the comments, the offhand remarks. It’s in the way people notice, the way they always notice, the way they feel entitled to remind you, like maybe you hadn’t already noticed yourself.” Your breath hitched, throat closing up. “It’s in the way people talk about women like me—if they even bother talking about us at all.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, dragging it down to his mouth like he needed to physically stop himself from doing something. "Merlin, you—why have you never said anything?"

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. "And say what, exactly?" Your voice wavered, edged with exhaustion and bitterness. "That every time I see someone after a long time, I can feel them sizing me up, silently comparing me to who I used to be? That I can’t eat in front of people without obsessing over every bite?" A humorless scoff escaped you. "Or maybe I should’ve told you that whenever people talk about a ‘real woman,’ it never seems to include someone like me—because to them, we’re always just a consolation prize?"

Sebastian stood abruptly, sending a small spray of sand scattering as he pushed to his feet. The suddenness of it startled you, your breath still uneven in your chest, your body tense from the weight of the conversation that had just unraveled between you.

"Come on."

"...What?"

He rolled his eyes, but there was something determined in his stance, something resolute in the way he held his hand out to you.

"Don’t ask questions. Just get up."

You hesitated, glancing from his open palm to his face—his stubborn, determined face, the one you knew far too well. The one that meant arguing would be pointless.

Still, you narrowed your eyes, skepticism thick in your voice. "Sebastian—"

He exhaled sharply, already exasperated, and before you could pull away, he reached down, grasping your wrist with a careful but firm grip. His fingers were warm, rough from years of dueling, calloused in that way you knew too well.

"Just come with me," he murmured, voice softer now, quieter.

You let out a sharp breath but after a long, weighted pause—you let him pull you to your feet.

Sebastian's grip remained steady as he led you away—away from the crashing waves, away from the shade of your umbrella, away from the book you had never actually been reading. Away from the water that had once felt like freedom but now felt like something else entirely.

Instead, he walked you back toward the beach house your group had rented, his pace unrelenting.

You followed reluctantly, the damp sand clinging to your feet as the distant sounds of laughter and crashing waves softened behind you, replaced by the rustling of palm fronds and the creak of wooden steps as the two of you moved past the deck.

"Seriously—what are we doing?"

"Patience."

You scowled. "You’re not exactly known for patience."

"Yeah, well, I’m trying something new," he muttered.

The two of you rounded the deck, past the side gate, until you stepped onto the lush grass of the backyard to where the pool remained untouched.

Because why would anyone use the pool when the ocean was right there? When the horizon stretched endlessly, inviting and vast?

But Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to the edge, dropping his towel onto a chair before turning back to you and he reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Your brain barely had time to catch up before he pulled the fabric over his head, revealing his sun-warmed skin, broad shoulders, and sun kissed freckles.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

"...What are you doing?"

"Getting in the pool."

"Why?"

Sebastian shot you a flat look. "Because you won’t go in the ocean. And if you don’t want to swim in front of the whole world—fine. But you’re not allowed to hide from me."

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. "Sebastian—"

"You love swimming." His said, low and steady, like he was stating an irrefutable truth. "I know you do. And back here, it's just me and you."

You swallowed, your throat tightening.

"Sebastian, it’s not that simple—"

"Why not?"

You inhaled sharply, feeling the words clog in your throat. Because I don’t want you to look at me like everyone else does.

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to keep your gaze locked on his. "Because it just isn’t."

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was barely holding something back.

"That’s not an answer."

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "It’s the only one I’ve got."

For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes dark, searching, unreadable. Then, before you could react, before you could argue or stop him, he stepped closer, reaching for your wrist again.

"Could you, for once in your life, not argue with me?"

He said it with his usual teasing tone, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You sighed.

"Fine."

Sebastian blinked, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to agree.

You barely expected it yourself.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence between you stretching taut.

Then slowly, reluctantly, he let go before finally turning toward the pool and lowering himself into it. The water lapped around his waist as he submerged himself, stretching his arms out with a satisfied sigh.

"The temperature is perfect," he announced. "Trust me, you’re going to love it."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, stomach churning as you reached for the tie at your waist.

This was a mistake.

Your fingers fumbled with the knot, hesitating. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You regretted this already. The bikini—the one you had somehow convinced yourself was a good idea when you bought it—was bright fucking yellow.

Unmissable. Unavoidable. A beacon of self-inflicted torment.

What the hell had you been thinking?

You should have picked something darker, something less obnoxious, something that wouldn’t make you feel like every single part of you was on display.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, floating lazily on his back, watching you. "You’re thinking too hard again."

You clenched your jaw. Your fingers curled around the fabric, tight, hesitant. This was stupid. This was so, so stupid.

But he was watching you. Not impatiently. Not expectantly.

Just waiting.

And that was the only reason you finally, finally pulled at the knot.

The cover-up slipped from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. Immediately, your stomach flipped, your arms twitching with the immediate urge to cover yourself, to retreat, to run—

But then, slowly, deliberately, Sebastian let his feet drop beneath him, standing fully in the water. His gaze dragged over you. Slow. Lingering.

"Sebastian—"

"Yellow."

"What?"

His lips curled slightly, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Your swimsuit. It’s yellow."

Your face burned. "No shit."

Sebastian hummed, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. "It suits you."

Your breath caught.

"Are you coming in or what?" he murmured.

Your throat felt tight.

"Yes."

You forced your legs to move, stepping toward the pool’s edge as if you were approaching a cliff, bracing for the drop.

Every sensation was amplified—the way your thighs brushed together, the curve of your stomach, the stretch marks etched across it. The way your skin dimpled, the way your body moved, the way there was no concealing any of it.

Sebastian was still watching. You felt the weight of his gaze, and it took everything in you not to cross your arms over yourself as you stepped onto the first stair.

The cool water lapped at your ankles. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move faster, descending step by step, letting the water claim you inch by inch.

By the time it reached your waist, you exhaled, relief flooding through you.

Safe. At least partially.

Sebastian had shifted slightly, leaning back against the edge of the pool, elbows braced along the tiled rim.

"See?" he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "Not so bad, is it?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the water instead of the fact that you were sitting in a bright fucking yellow bikini with Sebastian watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Easy for you to say," you muttered. "You’re not the one out here feeling like a goddamn highlighter."

Sebastian’s laugh was quiet, warm. "I don’t know," he mused. "I think you make a pretty good highlighter."

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. "Shut up."

"I’m serious."

"You’re messing with me," you muttered, dragging your fingers through the water, watching as the ripples lapped against his arm.

"I’m not," he said, and something about the quiet certainty in his voice made you hesitate.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your gaze to his.

The teasing was gone. His expression was steady, unreadable, but there was something beneath it—something weighty, something real.

Heat crept up your neck, prickling despite the cool water surrounding you. The moment felt too heavy, too close, pressing in on you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you did what you always did when you felt yourself slipping—deflected.

"Stop looking at me like that," you scoffed.

Sebastian didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady, focused in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then, finally, he asked, “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

“About... feeling like a consolation prize?”

Your stomach lurched. “Sebastian—”

“Did you mean it?”

You let out a breath, gaze flicking away as you trailed your fingertips absently through the water. “It’s not exactly something I pulled out of thin air.”

He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening where his arms braced along the pool's edge.

“So that’s a yes."

You glanced back at him, at the tight set of his jaw, at the way his fingers flexed against the tiles, like he was reining something in.

“Why does it matter?” you asked.

Sebastian let out a short, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair before tipping his head back against the pool's rim. “Because it’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

You blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

Sebastian huffed, shaking his head, his eyes sliding back to yours, darker now. “I mean, do you honestly think no one looks at you like... like you're all they bloody want?”

You frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Sebastian—”

“I’m serious.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “You think no one’s wanted you? No one’s looked at you and thought about what it’d be like to have you under them, or against them, or—”

“Sebastian!” Your face burned, heat spreading like wildfire from your chest to the very tips of your ears.

It wasn’t like you and Sebastian had never talked about sex before—you’d been best friends for over ten years. You’d sat beside him while he’d swapped crude jokes with Garreth, rolled your eyes at his commentary when Imelda complained about whatever hopeless bloke she was entertaining that week, even endured drunken late-night conversations about past flings and failed dates when the two of you had stayed out too long at the pub.

But never—not once—had you talked about it so blatantly.

Because discussing sex in general was one thing. Listening to Sebastian drunkenly mock some disastrous one-night stand was one thing. But this—this was him, talking about you, saying your name in the same breath as under them, against them—

The thought too much, too impossible, too close to something you’d spent the last decade trying to bury so deep it could never surface.

It was unbearable. Unthinkable. Because you knew if you let yourself really hear him, if you let yourself linger on those words, on that voice murmuring them so low and rough, then you would—

You would implode.

So instead, you reacted, your body moving on instinct, on sheer mortified desperation.

Your hand shot forward, cutting through the water as you splashed hard in his direction, your heart slamming against your ribs as you tried to drown out the image of Sebastian's mouth, the sound of his voice, the way he had said it—

The water hit him square in the face, droplets clinging to his dark hair, his skin glistening beneath the late afternoon sun.

Sebastian blinked, expression shifting from intense to something unreadable as he wiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“What the hell was that?”

Your breath came out shaky, your skin too hot, your arms twitching with the urge to cover yourself, to disappear.

“You can’t—you can’t just say shit like that!” you managed, your voice bordering on frantic, your pulse hammering so violently you thought it might shake you apart.

Sebastian’s brows lifted, his face still dripping. “Why not?”

“Because!"

“Look, ’m just saying,” he said, voice rougher now, lower, “that you might want to reconsider your stance.”

Your mouth opened, then closed, because Sebastian wasn't done.

“I hear the things guys say about you.” His gaze flickered over your face, then lower—just for a moment, just enough to make your stomach flip. “I hear the things they want to say to you all the fucking time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like you were sinking despite being fully buoyant in the water.

“...What are you talking about?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. "At work. When we go out. The pubs, the shops, wherever we are. Doesn’t matter." His gaze flickered over you, something simmering behind it. "I hear it."

Your pulse spiked.

“The only reason you don’t hear the shit they say about you is either because they know better,” he said, voice almost bitter. “Because they know you’d hex them into next week if they ever let you hear it. Or—”

Sebastian let out another low laugh, shaking his head.

“Because I scare them off.”

“You... what?”

Sebastian gave you a look, like it was obvious. “I scare them off.”

You just stared at him.

“You think it’s a coincidence no one approaches you when we go out?”

You felt your breath falter, your hands balling into fists at your side. "You’re making that up."

"I promise you," he asked, tipping his head slightly. " I’m not."

You swallowed thickly, your pulse hammering. “That can't be true—”

Sebastian’s jaw ticked. "I know it for a fact. And I can tell you exactly what they say, if you really want to know.”

You clenched your jaw, pressing your lips together, but it didn’t matter—because Sebastian kept going.

“They talk about your ass, how it moves when you walk, how they’d kill to get their hands on it, the kind marks they'd leave if they got the chance.”

You felt burning heat creep up your spine.

“They talk about your tits,” he went on, his eyes flickering over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “How full they are, how they sit just right, how fucking soft they look, how they’d kill to watch them move if you rode them."

His voice dipped lower, rougher. “They talk about the way your stomach curves when you sit, how they know you’d feel so fucking good under their hands, under their weight.” His jaw ticked, his fists tightening until his knuckles went white. “How they’d bury their face between your legs and press their hands against your waist and feel all of you.”

You felt your pulse hammering, your entire body caught somewhere between stunned disbelief and mortification.

“And your mouth,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Merlin, they talk about your mouth—that sharp fucking wit of yours that makes them either want to win you or get on their knees for you.”

You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat. Your arms twitched with the immediate, desperate urge to cover yourself, to run, to deny, deny, deny—

“I know the world is fucked,” he admitted. “And it sure as hell isn’t fair to women like you. But just because you’re not plastered across a fucking Quidditch magazine doesn’t mean you’re not wanted.” His voice was softer now, but no less intense. “Doesn’t mean men don’t look at you and think about fucking you senseless."

Your breath came out uneven, your heart hammering against your ribs as Sebastian’s words settled around you like something heavy, something undeniable.

But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You refused to believe it.

You shook your head, forcing your voice to come out.

“You’re just—” You exhaled sharply. “You’re just trying to make a point.”

“A point?”

“Yes,” you insisted shakily. “Because you’re frustrated with me, and you hate when I don’t believe you, so you’re just—” You shook your head, your throat tightening. “You’re making a point!"

Sebastian’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You really think I’d make all this up?”

You swallowed thickly, your stomach twisting into itself. “Okay, maybe you’re not making it up entirely,” you admitted, voice quieter now, unsure, searching. “Maybe they do say those things, but that doesn’t mean I’m what they want.”

Sebastian frowned, his brows drawing together like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing this.

“I’m what they go for when what they really want isn’t available,” you pressed, voice bitter, thick with something sharp and worn down. “I’m the one they settle for.”

Sebastian stilled. The air changed. His expression darkened, a muscle jumping in his jaw as something sharp flashed behind his eyes. Then he moved—

Closer. Slow. Deliberate.

The water shifted around you, rippling, the cool contrast of it doing nothing to temper the heat pressing into the space between you, heat that came from him.

He loomed, his shadow blocking out the sun, his presence so much heavier now.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low, tight. “You want to argue? Let's argue."

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, intent, his focus sharp, almost cutting. “If that were true,” he continued, voice rough, firm, “if guys were only settling for you, then why have I spent years scaring them off?”

“You—” You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding, forcing yourself to lift your chin, to meet his stare head-on. “Because you’re... territorial.”

Sebastian snorted, something dark and frustrated flickering across his face. “Why do you think that is?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” you shot back, shaking your head, like that explained everything. “Because you're you!”

Sebastian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “If you really think that’s all it is,” he muttered, voice thick with exasperation, “that it's because I'm your friend, then you’re fucking delusional.”

Your stomach flipped, something deep in your ribs twisting, recoiling.

“Then maybe it’s because you don’t trust them,” you argued, voice more desperate now, more pleading. “Men can be pricks, Sebastian, you know that.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, they can,” he agreed, his voice rougher now. “But that’s not why.”

“Sebastian—”

“You really think I’d waste my time running off blokes if I thought they weren’t serious?” His voice was incredulous now, like he was talking to someone being insufferable. “For Merlin's sake, I know the things they say about you, and I know they fucking mean it because I’ve said the same shit!”

The world tilted. Your heart stopped. Something in your chest lurched, your breath coming out too shallow, too thin, like your lungs had forgotten how to work, like your ribs had locked up, trapping something inside of you that was too big, too impossible to comprehend.

Sebastian just looked at you. Unwavering. Unshaken. Like he hadn’t just ripped open the very fabric of your reality and upended a decade’s worth of carefully constructed walls, of every defense mechanism you had ever built to keep this exact thing from happening.

“No.”

The word was instant, instinctive, ripped from you like it had been lodged in your throat, an immediate act of defense, of self-preservation.

Sebastian’s brows furrowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching slightly.

“No?” he repeated, his voice edged with something that almost sounded offended.

Your head shook before you could even stop it, panic rising fast, too fast, crashing through you like a wave you hadn’t braced for.

“No,” you repeated, voice higher, tighter, desperate. “That’s not true, it can't be true, you—”

Sebastian let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring slightly as he shook his head. Then he laughed—a short, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes, a huff of sheer disbelief as stared down at you.

“Do you really think I would say this if it weren’t true?”

His voice was low, unwavering—something dangerous simmering beneath the surface, something unyielding, something that said enough.

You could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists beneath the water, in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his throat bobbed like he was forcing the words out, pushing past something that had been buried for too long.

“You’re just—” You swallowed. “You’re just saying that—”

"—No. I have always wanted you."

Sebastian’s voice was rough, edged with something aching, something raw, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth, like he couldn’t believe you were making him say this.

"For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, "I was in love with you at sixteen, and I have been every damn day since.”

Your breath came out uneven, barely a whisper. “Sebastian—”

"I don’t know where you got it in your head that you’re supposed to look like you did when we were kids, but yeah," His jaw clenched. "We’ve changed. And I, as you so aptly pointed out, have eyes—so yeah, you’re right." His brown eyes flickered over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I do see it. I know you don’t weigh 130 fucking pounds anymore," he continued, voice rougher now, firmer. "And I am fucking thrilled."

You stiffened. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs had shrunk around your lungs.

"Do you want to know why?" His voice dropped lower, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

Your mouth was too dry to answer, but it didn’t matter. Because he kept going.

"Because every single thing you seem to hate about yourself ruins me," he bit out, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was physically restraining himself. "You have no fucking idea how many nights I’ve spent thinking about this," he admitted, voice rough. "Thinking about you."

You were so hot now it felt like you were burning alive, fire coursing through your veins and settling low in your stomach, thick and dangerous.

“I’ve thought about your thighs around my waist.” Sebastian's voice was lower now, almost reverent. “How you’d taste when I spread them apart. How you’d feel pressed against me.”

Your legs clenched instinctively beneath the water.

“I’ve thought about your ass in my hands.” Sebastian shifted, his brown eyes flickering lower, dark and intense. “How it’d feel to have you in my lap, to make you ride me until you forget your own fucking name.”

“And your tits.” He licked his lips, tiling his head back slightly. “They fucking kill me. I mean, god, you were pretty before, but now? Now, they’re full and heavy and fucking perfect, and all I’ve ever wanted is to get my mouth on them."

Your breath came out shaky, your arms twitching like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Merlin, I have spent years trying to behave,” His voice turned almost gritted, like the words were physically pulling something out of him. Hhe muttered, his voice lower now, darker. “But you—fuck, you have no idea how hard it is when you’re standing here looking like this—”

His gaze dragged over you, hungry, slow, like he was devouring every inch of exposed skin, every soft curve, every part of you, like he had spent years looking and wanting, and now that the words were out in the open, he refused to hold back.

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher. “I’ve really fucking tried to keep this in. To pretend I don’t notice, to keep my mouth shut, to respect that you don’t see me that way, that you don’t want me that way.”

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, dark and certain. “But now I find out that you won’t even step in the water because you think you don’t look good enough?” His voice was sharper now, like the words were physically pulled out of him. “That you think you need to hide?! When you look this fucking good?! It's a crime."

The world wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

Not when Sebastian was standing there, saying these things. Not when the same voice you had spent years aching over, pining for, was suddenly confessing all the things you had only ever dared to dream about in your weakest, most hopeless moments.

It was impossible. It was wrong. Not because you didn’t want it to be true, but because it couldn’t be. Because you had spent years overhearing men talk about other women like this.

Women they wanted. Women who fit the mold of desirable, women they admired, lusted after, fantasized about.

You had listened to Garreth wax poetic about Quidditch players, about girls with long legs and sharp features. You had heard Imelda talk about the men who trailed after her, about how they couldn’t help themselves, about how they looked at her like she was something worth having.

But never you. Never you.

So hearing it now—like this, in Sebastian’s voice, in Sebastian’s gaze, in the way his words hit you like a blow straight to the chest—

You felt dizzy, lightheaded, the words pressing against you, into you, wrapping around your ribs, curling low in your stomach, twisting and knotting and refusing to let go.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his voice hoarse, desperate in a way you had never heard before. “Say something,” he muttered, “Please."

You couldn’t. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your lungs squeezing tight as your mind raced, as your body fought to catch up to what was happening.

How could you accept that the same boy who had haunted your every dream, every stupid little fantasy, every sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling with want pressed into your bones— How could you accept that he had been living through the same thing?

Sebastian let out another low, frustrated breath.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice gritted, dark. “Let me make this absolutely clear.”

Then, suddenly, he moved, fast. Aand deliberate.

The water swelled around you as he closed the distance in an instant, surging forward with a force that sent ripples crashing against your skin. Before you could react, his hands were on you—gripping your waist, anchoring you in place. His fingers pressed firm and unyielding against the soft curve of your sides, holding you steady, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you.

Every inch of him was flush against you—solid, warm, inescapable. You could feel the tension in his body, the quiet strength beneath the water, the way his fingers dug in, pressing, gripping—possessive in a way that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Sebastian’s breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling hard against yours. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but gravel and heat.

“You feel that?”

"Feel wha—oh."

Oh.

Heat flooded your face, your pulse hammering, your skin burning. Because fuck, he was hard. Right there—there—pressed against your stomach, undeniable proof that every word he had just said wasn’t just frustration, wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment reassurance, wasn’t just a desperate attempt to make you see.

It was real.

It was so fucking real.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, strained. “That.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Your thoughts tangled, scrambled, lost somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, deeper—something that made your fingers twitch against his shoulders, your breath come quicker, your body suddenly hyperaware of every single point where you touched.

But then he went rigid. And suddenly—too suddenly—his hands dropped from your waist.

The moment he stepped back, the absence of him was like a shock to your system, your body instantly missing the heat, the weight, the certainty of him pressed against you.

Sebastian ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, his jaw clenching.

"I—fuck. I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Sebastian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, but it sounded frustrated, almost self-loathing, his expression twisting like he was kicking himself for losing control.

“That was—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head again. “That was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Your pulse pounded, your skin still burning where he had touched you, still hyperaware of every place your bodies had been pressed together.

He was still so close. You could still feel the ghost of him. But Sebastian wouldn’t look at you.

His brown eyes flickered away, somewhere over your shoulder, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you again but was physically forcing himself not to.

“I know you don’t feel the same,” he said, his voice gritted, like he was forcing the words out despite the fact that they physically hurt him. “I know you never have.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, but he kept going.

“I mean, how could you?” His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. “It’s been ten years, for fuck’s sake. You’ve never—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t expect you to just, just change your mind.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your mind was reeling. Because what the fuck was he talking about?

You didn’t feel the same? You had never felt the same?

It was so absurd, so absolutely mad, that you actually laughed—a short, startled sound of pure disbelief, because he could not be serious.

Sebastian’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing, his entire body going tense. "What?"

You shook your head, still breathless, still dizzy, heat and disbelief and something else—something sharp—twisting in your chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you demanded, voice thin, incredulous. “You think I don’t want you back?!”

Sebastian stiffened then rolled his eyes, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were even trying to argue this. “Oh, come on.”

“No—no, you come on,” you shot back, your hands lifting out of the water, gesturing sharply. “Do you hear yourself right now? Do you actually believe that? You think I—” You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Merlin’s sake, Sebastian, are you insane?”

Sebastian’s nostrils flared, frustration flashing across his face. “I don’t know, am I? Because for years, you—”

“For years, I have been in love with you, you dolt,” you snapped, cutting him off.

The words rang between you, loud and final.

Sebastian froze. His breath stopped. His brown eyes went wide.

For a long, weighted beat, neither of you moved. The only sound was the water lapping gently around you, the distant crash of the waves against the shore, the sharp thud of your pulse in your ears.

Sebastian’s mouth parted slightly, his breath coming out uneven. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse. “...are you serious?”

With a surge of boldness that felt almost foreign, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. Your hands found his waist, fingers curling tight, anchoring him in place as if daring him to move, to run, to deny what was right in front of him.

You tilted your chin up, locking onto his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“Sebastian, for ten fucking years, I have been in love with you.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in, grasping, clinging, and Sebastian let out a low, desperate sound against your lips. His grip shifted, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing against your bare skin, holding you there, anchoring you to him.

And the other—fuck.

His fingers skimmed down your hip, tracing the soft curve of your side before sliding lower, gripping your ass with a reverence that made your stomach flip. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of you beneath his hands. Like he had dreamed of this—fantasized about this—but never allowed himself to take it.

A quiet, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, and the moment it reached him, Sebastian groaned into your mouth. His hands tightened, his hold possessive, his body pressing against yours, solid and burning and real. You could feel everything—the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his body, the tension coiling beneath every touch, every breath.

He was shaking. Like he was barely holding himself together. Like he was one second away from losing control.

And honestly—

So were you.

Your fingers slid into his wet hair, tangling, tugging just slightly, and Sebastian moaned. His grip flexed, his breath hitched—and then he moved.

In one swift motion, his hands pressed against the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly as he backed you against the edge of the pool, pinning you there, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild as he hovered over you.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.

Those dark, hungry brown eyes locked onto yours, burning with something thick and dangerous, something that sent heat licking up your spine and pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers flexed against your skin.

“Do you want to get out of this bloody pool?”

Your breath hitched. The weight of the question slammed into you, wrapping tight around your ribs and squeezing. Because this wasn’t about getting out of the water. This was about what came next.

Sebastian knew exactly what he was asking. And, Merlin help you, you knew exactly what you were answering.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering, fingers twitching against the bare skin of his shoulders.

“Yes,” you murmured.

Sebastian inhaled sharply. His grip tightened. And then he was lifting you, strong hands braced beneath your thighs, guiding you up onto the ledge. The water sluiced off your skin, the cool air shocking against the heat burning through you.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling, heart slamming against your ribs.

He stayed in the water, hands still on you, grip firm, unwavering.

His gaze roamed.

You knew exactly what he saw.

Your thighs, still slick from the water, parted where he had positioned you. Droplets clung to the soft curve of your stomach, catching in the dimming sunlight, tracing slow, deliberate paths down to the plush flesh of your hips, slipping lower—between your legs. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the thin, taut fabric of your bikini stretching over the swell of your breasts, highlighting every dip, every line, every part of you he had spent years trying not to look at.

His hands left your thighs for only a second. Just long enough for him to hoist himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles flexing, skin dripping, water cascading down his chest and stomach—catching on the waistband of his swim trunks, pooling at his feet.

And fuck, he was beautiful.

You barely had time to process before he was reaching for you again—one hand extended, palm open, waiting.

You placed your hand in his and then he pulled. Not gentle. Not soft. Claiming.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled forward, but before you could find your footing, his grip shifted, and before you could think, before you could question, he was dragging you across the deck—his grip firm, his pace unforgiving. Like he had already decided. Like nothing—not a single fucking thing—was going to get in his way.

Your heart pounded as he led you straight to the lounge chairs, his breathing heavy, uneven.

Your thighs hit the edge of the lounge, and suddenly, there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere but down.

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse hammered. Because—fuck—this was happening.

You sank onto the chair. Sebastian followed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No pause to let you catch up.

He just moved.

Climbing over you. Caging you in. Settling between your legs, his hands braced on either side of you, thighs pressing against yours—the weight of him hovering just above, heavy, consuming.

Dripping water.

Dripping heat.

Dripping desperation.

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your parted lips, your heaving chest, your bare stomach, the mess of your thighs spread open beneath him, the fabric of your bikini clinging to wet skin.

"Tell me you want this." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, his fingers pressing into your waist, grounding himself in you. "Because if you don’t, if I’m wrong, I need to fucking stop before I—"

"You’re not wrong," you interrupted, breathless. "You have never been more right about anything in your entire life."

Sebastian huffed a laugh, and in the next breath, his lips crashed against yours, claiming, taking, devouring. It was rough, messy, all instinct. All heat.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers flying up to his hair, tangling in the damp curls, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more. Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, shifting his weight, pressing against you, forcing you to sink further into the lounge chair.

His hands were everywhere, hot and demanding, tracing the dips and curves of your body like he was mapping them out after years of pretending they weren’t his to touch. His fingers pressed into your waist, sliding over the soft curve of your stomach, his grip firm, reverent, like he needed to feel every inch of you beneath him.

“God,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, strained. “You feel so fucking good.”

You let out a quiet, desperate sound, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging slightly, and Sebastian growled, low and wrecked, pressing his hips harder against you, grinding down just enough to let you feel exactly what you were doing to him.

Your head tipped back, a gasp breaking free, and Sebastian wasted no time, his lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, hot and wet.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, voice dark. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your stomach clenched, your entire body burning, too hot, too much, and you didn’t even realize you were saying his name until his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your ear and you whimpered it, breathless and wanting.

Sebastian groaned, his hands flying to your thighs, gripping tight, spreading them wider beneath him, pressing himself between them, flush against you. His lips dragged lower, down the slope of your shoulder, his hands skimming higher, fingers teasing at the strings of your bikini top.

"Please," he muttered, voice thick, unsteady. "Let me see you."

You nodded.

Sebastian sat back on his knees. His breath came out heavy, uneven, as his eyes dragged over you—taking in the way you looked beneath him, sprawled out, wet, wanting.

His jaw tensed, and then slowly, carefully, his fingers found the ties of your bikini top.

Your breath hitched as he tugged at the strings, the knot loosening, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly for a moment before slipping, before baring you completely to him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his throat working, his hands freezing where they had been resting against your ribs.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked.

And—Merlin help you—the way he looked at you was like you were something to be worshiped. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you were here, that you were his.

His hands twitched.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like the words had been ripped straight from his chest.

Heat flooded your face, your entire body burning beneath his gaze. “Sebastian—”

But then his hands were on you, and you couldn’t breathe.

Fingertips, warm and reverent, traced over the breadth of newly exposed skin, slow, unhurried. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, featherlight, teasing, making your breath stutter, making heat coil low in your stomach, before he pressed more insistently, fingers disappearing into the plushness of your breasts.

Sebastian exhaled hard, his pupils blown wide, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he was barely holding himself back.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You’re so soft."

Sebastian cursed again, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper, rougher, his hips pressing into yours, his hands gripping, exploring, memorizing.

Your mind was spinning, your pulse erratic, heat licking at every inch of your body, and fuck, this was happening. This was really happening.

Sebastian’s hands trailed lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, gripping them tight before sliding to the ties of your bottoms. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled at them, loosening the fabric with each tug.

They clung stubbornly to your skin for a second before he slid it away, baring you completely beneath him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

His eyes traced the soft curve of your stomach, the way the dimming sunlight caught the droplets still clinging to your skin, rolling in slow, lazy paths over your navel, down to the plushness of your hips, the swell of your thighs, settling lower, lower—

His throat bobbed, a sharp inhale shuddering through him as his gaze caught between your legs, at the glistening wet heat of you, already slick, already open for him.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, thick with want. His grip on your thighs flexed, his fingers pressing into soft flesh, kneading, his eyes locked onto you, staring like he was witnessing something divine.

Then, finally, finally, he tilted his head up, his brown eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

"Whose fault is that?" you murmured, gazing up at his though half-lidded eyes.

Sebastian let out a low, strangled sound—somewhere between a groan and a curse—his grip sliding up to your hips, tightening, his fingers flexing against soft flesh like he was grounding himself, steadying himself.

"Mine," he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent. "All mine."

And then he moved lower.

His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, his breath hot against your damp skin. His hands, one on your hip, one on your breast, pressed, kneading, gripping, holding you in place as he trailed his mouth along the sensitive skin.

Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching at your sides, instinct begging you to reach for him, to pull him closer, to demand more.

Sebastian hummed against your thigh, slow and pleased, his lips curling against your skin. “You’ve always had such a sharp mouth,” he murmured, voice like gravel, teasing. “But now? Now, you’re going to be too busy moaning my name to run that pretty mouth.”

And before you could even react, before you could do anything but shudder beneath him, Sebastian’s mouth was on you.

A sharp, breathless sound broke from your lips as his tongue pressed against the slick heat of you, slow and thorough, licking through your folds like he wanted to savor you, consume you.

Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, his fingers digging into your thighs as he buried himself between them, licking, sucking, devouring like he was a man starved—like he had been waiting for this for years.

Your fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more.

He shuddered, his tongue flicking against your clit, slow and deliberate, before dragging lower, teasing and pressing inside.

A whimper spilled from your lips, your thighs twitching around his head, your entire body trembling at the heat of him, of what he was doing to you.

“You taste so fucking good.” Sebastian muttered, his fingers flexing, holding you open for him, his mouth moving with precision, slow and intentional, like he was mapping you out, memorizing every reaction, every sound, every tiny movement that told him exactly what you liked.

Your hips bucked, your fingers tightening in his curls, and Sebastian let out a sound that was nothing short of filthy, his grip on your thighs tightening before his tongue stroked, pressed, teased—

"Look at you," he rasped, voice thick with something dark, something possessive, something hungry. "Falling apart for me already, hm?"

You let out a desperate, broken sound, your body aching for more, for him, and Sebastian just smirked, grinned, before plunging his fingers inside you, insistent and deep.

Your body jolted, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, the feeling of him inside you. Sebastian groaned at the reaction, his fingers flexing, curling, teasing—spreading you open in the most devastating way.

His mouth was back on you in an instant, tongue flicking over your clit, slow and purposeful, as his fingers worked inside you, stroking, coaxing, ruining.

Your head tipped back, pleasure surging through you, sharp and overwhelming, And this time—

You did moan his name.

Again.

And again.

And then—

“Let me fuck you,” he rasped.

Your breath hitched.

“Wha—”

Sebastian’s grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Answer me,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, more desperate. “Before I forget how to be a gentleman and do it anyway."

You huffed, a flicker of defiance sparking through the haze of pleasure. "How demanding of you," you murmured.

Sebastian's grip flexed against your thighs, his fingers still buried inside you, his mouth hovering just above where you needed him most. His jaw tensed, his pupils dark and blown, his expression twisted with want, with something near desperation.

"Answer me," he repeated, his voice thick with warning as his fingers curled inside you, imploring you to respond.

But you just smirked, still gasping, still wrecked, but unwilling to give in that easily. Sebastian wanted an answer? He could wait.

Your fingers twitched against his shoulders before you moved, pushing yourself up. Sebastian’s gaze flickered up to yours, pupils blown, his lips still slick with you, his hands flexing against your thighs like he knew what you were doing—like he knew you were about to make him suffer.

Good.

You reached for him, your fingers curling around his biceps, pushing him back, and Sebastian let you, let you take, let you flip the balance of control.

Your hands trailed lower, down his chest, his stomach, and then your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid, his jaw tight, his hands twitching where they still braced against your thighs.

You smirked, slow and deliberate, tilting your head as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s wrong?” you murmured. “You were so talkative a second ago.”

Sebastian let out a breath that was more growl than exhale, his head tipping forward slightly, his entire body coiled like he was barely holding himself back.

Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his trunks, teasing the band, pulling just slightly.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

Sebastian stared at you, eyes dark, lips parted, his hands clenching, flexing, aching to touch, to take. Then, without breaking your gaze, he reached down, fingers curling over yours, helping you undo the ties.

Your breath caught when the fabric slid down, when his cock sprang free, hard and thick, flushed and leaking, heavy against his stomach, every inch of him aching, straining.

"Like what you see?" he asked, voice smug despite the raw edge of need in it.

Yes.

You swallowed hard.

"I'm deciding," you managed to shoot back.

Sebastian barked out a laugh—short, strained—before he caught your chin between his slick fingers, tilting your face up, forcing your eyes back to his. "Fucking tease," he muttered.

You arched a brow, smirking, and without breaking eye contact, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed over the flushed, aching tip of him, barely there, just enough to make his entire body shudder, to make him suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

His cock twitched against your mouth, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and you—slowly, deliberately—dragged your tongue across it.

Sebastian jerked, his grip tightening on your chin, his breath stuttering, a low, guttural groan escaping him.

You hummed, pleased with his reaction, with the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, with the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding on.

But you didn’t take him fully. Not yet.

You let your lips trail down his length, your tongue flicking out just enough to taste him, to tease him, your hands smoothing over his thighs, slow, measured, unrushed.

Sebastian groaned, low and dangerous, his grip tangling in your hair, tugging and demanding, his body vibrating with restraint, with the barely leashed need to take control, to take you.

“Enough,” he ground out, his voice a raw, strained command. “Either stop teasing, or I’ll fuck your mouth like I know you want me to.”

Heat flooded your stomach, your entire body pulsing at the sheer dominance in his tone, at the way he looked at you like he was losing his mind, like he was aching to wreck you.

You pulled back just enough to make him groan in frustration, enough to make his fingers flex against your scalp, enough to make his cock twitch in anticipation.

Then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s the rush?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, filled with challenge. “I thought you wanted to be a gentleman.”

Sebastian snapped.

A growl rumbled from deep in his chest, his grip shifting as he pushed you back onto the lounge chair, his body pressing against yours, hot and unyielding.

“You really want to test me right now?” he muttered, his voice dark, dangerous, his cock pressing hard and heavy against your stomach.

“Maybe."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head, a rough, strained chuckle escaping him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his grip shifting to your thighs, spreading you open for him again, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be, where you wanted him to be.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark and searing, one last time.

“You’re done teasing,” he rasped, voice raw as he pressed the thick, aching length of himself more firmly against your stomach, teasing, taunting. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You grinned, fingers curling into the damp mess of his hair, tugging him down to kiss you. His groan vibrated against your lips, his hands clenching against your thighs as you deepened it, licking into his mouth, tasting the desperation there.

And then, you shifted beneath him, twisting, arching—attempting to flip yourself over, to press your chest to the lounge, to give him the perfect view of your ass as you braced yourself on your forearms.

But before you could turn completely, Sebastian’s hands flew to your waist, stopping you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering through the haze of heat as you turned to look at him, your breath coming in short pants. “Sebastian—”

He shook his head, softly, slowly, like he wasn’t rejecting you—like he was pleading with you.

“No, don't,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but suddenly softer.

Your brow furrowed, eyes searching his. "Don’t?"

Sebastian's lips curved into a small, strained smile, one hand reaching to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

"As much as I love your ass," he admitted, his jaw tightening as his gaze dipped, sweeping over the soft curves of your body—lingering, wanting. "And as much as I’d love to see it against my hips, to watch myself sink into you, to see the way your back arches, to hold onto these soft, perfect fucking hips and bury myself so deep—”

His voice broke, his breath coming out sharp, shuddering.

“That's not what I want, not for our first time.”

Your stomach flipped, something warm and devastatingly tender blooming in your chest, twisting around your ribs.

Sebastian sighed, his grip on your face tightening just slightly, his gaze flickering back up to yours, something raw, vulnerable shining behind the wrecked hunger in his eyes.

“The first time,” he murmured, voice rough, stripped down, honest. “I want to see you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to watch you come.” His lips ghosted over yours, featherlight, reverent. “Want to see every expression, every little fucking reaction. All of you.”

You swallowed, your breath still unsteady, your body still burning, aching—but the heat had shifted, changed.

This wasn’t just need. It was something more.

His lips brushed over yours, featherlight, his hands framing your jaw like you were something fragile, something precious. "Is that okay?"

Your fingers curled around his wrists, your pulse hammering beneath his touch.

You nodded.

Sebastian exhaled, a breath that felt like it had been trapped inside him for years. Then, so softly—so reverently—he kissed you.

Not like before.

Not feverish. Not desperate. Not a frantic chase of pleasure.

This was different.

This was tender. This was worship.

“I love you,” he said against your lips.

Your hands slid up to his face, cupping his jaw. "I love you too."

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound breathless, almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite process that this was real. That after everything, after years of tension and stolen glances, after all the pushing and pulling, you were here, beneath him, wrapped up in him, saying the words he'd never let himself hope to hear.

His lips found yours again—slow, unhurried, savoring—before he finally shifted, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be. Where you wanted him to be.

He teased, barely pressing into you, the slick heat of your body driving him to the edge of his restraint. His breath fanned against your lips, uneven, ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark, devouring, and his voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"Tell me if—if I need to stop."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter, your own lips parting as you whispered, "I will."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip tightening at your waist, anchoring himself to you.

"Keep your eyes on me," he murmured, fingers flexing against your skin, voice rough, edged with something deeper than desire. "I want to see everything."

A shudder ran through you, your breath catching, your pulse hammering beneath the weight of him, the weight of this moment.

Because this wasn’t just need.

This wasn’t just giving in to years of tension.

This was love. A love that burned. That consumed. That settled into your bones and refused to let go.

Then, with a slow, steady roll of his hips, he pushed inside.

Your breath caught, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as he stretched you open, filling you completely, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, until you could feel him in every part of you, until there was nothing between you.

Sebastian shuddered, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice trembling with the weight of his own need. "You—God, you feel unreal."

You clung to him, your hands grasping blindly at his shoulders, his back, needing something to hold onto, needing to ground yourself as pleasure crashed over you in waves, hot and overwhelming.

And Sebastian—God, Sebastian—

His head dipped, his lips brushing against your jaw, the column of your throat, breathing you in, his hands roaming and greedy, mapping every curve, every dip, every soft, yielding part of you like he was memorizing you, like he wanted to brand this moment into his soul.

“Move,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your nails scraping against his skin. “Sebastian—please—"

He didn’t make you wait.

A ragged groan tore from his lips as his hips pulled back, slow and deliberate, before thrusting forward again, deeper, dragging another gasp from your throat as he filled you again and again, his movements measured but devastating.

His lips found yours, desperate, consuming, claiming, swallowing every sound that escaped you, every broken moan, every whispered plea.

And he was watching—just like he said he would.

His gaze flickered over your face, drinking in every expression, every quiver of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, memorizing you.

"You’re so fucking beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, his hands gliding up your sides, over your ribs and gripping at your breasts.

You whimpered, your body arching into him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he kept moving, slow and deep, dragging out every inch of pleasure, unraveling you entirely.

Heat curled low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, every shift of his hips, every roll, every stroke against the most sensitive parts of you sending you hurtling closer to the edge.

"Oh god," you moaned, head falling back, tension coiling tighter as he stroked the bundle of nerves inside you, the one that made you see stars, the one that made your entire body tighten around him.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, filthy sound, his hands flexing against your waist, like he was barely holding himself back, like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling too soon—because he wanted to watch you come first.

He moved faster now. Rougher, deeper, every thrust dragging a desperate, broken moans from your lips, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you, sharp and electric, ready to snap.

"Sebastian," you whimpered, your fingers fisting in his curls, your head tilting back, your body begging for release, needing it.

"I've got you," he murmured, breathless, his lips brushing against yours, his movements never faltering, never slowing. His forehead pressed against yours, his voice a ragged whisper. "Let go. Come all over my cock—let me feel it."

And fuck—you did.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding and all-consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs, the world narrowing to just him, just this, just the way he held you, the way he filled you, the way he worshipped every sound you made.

Sebastian followed you over the edge, his body jerking, his thrusts turning erratic and desperate as he groaned, his fingers digging into your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until he was buried impossibly deep, spilling inside you, hot and thick and completely undone.

You felt utterly spent, boneless beneath him, warmth pooling in every inch of your body, but you welcomed his weight, the way he sank into you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was always meant to be.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your chests rising and falling in tandem, your heartbeats thrumming in sync, a quiet, unspoken connection settling between you.

Sebastian finally let out a slow, shaky breath, his lips pressing against your temple, lingering there for a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then, his fingers—still gripping your waist—softened, smoothing over your skin in slow, lazy strokes.

"Holy shit," he murmured, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "That was—"

"Perfect," you finished for him, your voice still breathless, still heavy with everything this was, everything it meant.

Sebastian's lips curled upwards, nudging his nose against yours, his breaths still uneven. "Yeah," he murmured. "Perfect."

You smiled, cupping his jaw and tugging him down for another slow, lingering kiss—one that wasn’t filled with hunger or urgency, but something deeper. Sebastian melted into you, sighing against your lips.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "You're so fucking beautiful, I'll remind you until the day I die."

You swallowed, your thumb brushing over his cheek as you pulled back, dazed, overwhelmed, utterly wrecked by the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, something cherished, something he had never once doubted wanting.

“You really believe that?”

Sebastian let out a soft, breathy chuckle against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours, his hands still tracing over your body.

"I don't believe it, I know it," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips. "You’re the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Another kiss.

"Perfect, really."

Another.

"Always have been."

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisting, something thick and overwhelming settling in your throat. Because God, you had spent so long believing you weren’t enough—so long shrinking yourself, making yourself smaller, convincing yourself that someone like him could never want you like this.

But he did.

He always had.

And now, with his body wrapped around yours, with the heat of him still lingering between your thighs, with the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—it was undeniable.

It had always been you.

A shaky breath left your lips, and you smiled—small, but real—your fingers tracing over the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the tension there, feeling the way he was holding himself together, barely, just for you.

"I love you," you whispered, and God, it felt good to say it again. To let it out. To give it weight. "I will for the rest of my life—" your thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, and you grinned, "and after that too. I'll fucking haunt you, Sebastian Sallow."

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him, and his head dropped, his forehead pressing against yours. "Good," he murmured, his voice warm and teasing but full of something deeper, something raw. "Because you're mine. Completely stuck with me."

You huffed a quiet laugh, fingers threading through his curls, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

"Obviously," you mused, voice still breathless. "I can feel you dripping down my thighs right now."

Sebastian groaned, deep and wrecked, his grip on you tightening like he physically couldn't handle what you'd just said. His forehead still rested against yours, but you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his fingers flexed against your hips, like he was resisting the urge to do something about it.

"Fuck," he muttered, and his breath was hot against your lips, his nose brushing yours. "Don't say shit like that unless you're ready for round two."

You smirked, utterly sated, utterly pleased with yourself, your body still thrumming with euphoria. Your hands trailed lazily down his back.

"Who said I wasn't?"

He groaned, half in frustration, half in amusement, and buried his face against the crook of your neck. "You have no idea how badly I want to," he admitted, voice muffled against you, breath hot and uneven. "But I’m pretty sure I have nothing left to give you."

You giggled, running your fingers through his sweat-damp curls, tugging lightly just to feel him groan.

"Nothing?" you teased.

"Love," he mumbled. "I think I came enough for three sessions in one. My soul left my fucking body at some point."

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh. "Sebastian Sallow, surrendering? What in Merlin's name am I hearing right now?"

He groaned again, lifting his head to glare at you—though the effect was utterly ruined by the small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not surrendering," he argued. "I'm just acknowledging that I may need to recover before you completely break me."

You laughed outright this time, the sound bright and breathless, warmth blooming in your chest at the sheer wreckage of him.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Give me, like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."

"You might as well use that time wisely, then," you mused, voice teasing, but laced with something softer, something full.

Sebastian hummed against your skin, pressing a lazy, absentminded kiss to your collarbone. "Mmm, and how’s that?"

You smirked. "By cleaning me up. Preferably with your tongue.”

A low, wrecked sound rumbled from his chest, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and suddenly his grip on your waist tightened.

"You're killing me," he muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

You grinned. "Am I?"

Sebastian lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils still blown wide, his expression caught somewhere between utterly ruined and utterly obsessed with you.

"You are," he admitted, voice rough, hoarse, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip. "Because now I have to."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Oh? Have to?"

His lips curved into a smirk, dark and lazy. "You asked me to," he murmured, voice dipping into something dangerous, something possessive. "And I'm a very considerate boyfriend."

You arched a brow, amusement flickering in your expression as you lifted your head slightly to meet his gaze.

"Boyfriend?" you mused, voice teasing, but beneath it was something softer, something real. "When did that happen?"

Sebastian blinked, then scoffed, like you had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"Merlin’s balls, woman," he muttered, shaking his head as he let his weight settle more firmly against you. "You just let me fuck you into a patio chair, told me you’d haunt me, that you've loved me since we were sixteen, and now you’re questioning whether I’m your boyfriend?"

You grinned. "Well," you drawled, tilting your head, feigning deep thought. "You never asked."

Sebastian groaned, dropping his forehead onto your chest like he physically couldn’t handle you right now. "Unbelievable."

"You’re the one making assumptions," you teased.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze again, and there was something fond in his expression, something soft beneath all that exhaustion and wreckage.

"Alright," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "Be my fucking girlfriend."

You huffed out a laugh, amused, delighted. "Wow, so romantic."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. "Please be my fucking girlfriend," he corrected, smirking as he trailed a hand down your thigh, fingers teasing, possessive. "Though, given the fact that I've also loved you for a decade, and the fact that I’m about to devour you, I’d say the answer’s pretty obvious."

Your breath hitched slightly, your amusement shifting into something warmer, something deeper, something that curled low in your stomach.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy.

"Hmm," you hummed, running your fingers down his back, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, enjoying the way he shuddered beneath your touch. "I don’t know..."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, his smirk turning wicked, dangerous. "You don’t know?" he echoed, voice dipping low, teasing, edged with something predatory.

You grinned, thoroughly pleased with yourself, fingers still lazily tracing patterns down his back. "Mmm. Maybe you should convince me."

A deep, wrecked groan rumbled from his chest, and his grip on your thigh tightened. "You really don’t know when to quit, do you?"

You shivered beneath him, your breath catching, anticipation coiling in your stomach. You opened your mouth—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tease him further—

A sharp click rang through the air, the unmistakable sound of the gate latch unlatching.

Sebastian froze.

You froze.

Then—

"OH MY GOD."

You barely had time to process before a chorus of voices erupted from behind you, overlapping in shock, amusement, and sheer disbelief.

"Finally!"

“Sweet Merlin—”

"No fucking WAY."

"I cannot bloody believe this!"

Sebastian flinched, his entire body going rigid, his head snapping up so fast you thought he might injure himself.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat as you followed his gaze toward the entrance of the secluded deck—where your friends stood, frozen, their expressions ranging from amusement to absolute agony.

Poppy had both hands clapped over her mouth, her wide eyes darting everywhere but you. Natty looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or leave the country. Garreth, the absolute menace, was grinning like he'd just won the lottery, nudging Imelda—who was looking at the two of you like she was seconds away from hexing you both for subjecting her to this.

And then—

"Thank fucking Merlin I'm blind," Ominis declared, his expression nothing short of relieved, even as his face twisted in mild disgust. "This was the single greatest blessing Salazar ever granted me."

Sebastian dropped his head onto your shoulder, his damp hair sticking to your skin. His breath hitched—somewhere between a groan and barely-contained laughter—as you immediately scrambled to cup your breasts with frantic desperation.

Mercifully, blessedly, he was still positioned between your legs, hiding the most damning evidence from your group of unwitting, horrified spectators.

"Fuck," he laughed, voice wrecked, his arms tightening around your waist. "This is so much worse than getting caught by a professor at Hogwarts."

You let out a strangled, humiliated sound. "Sebastian, please, we need to get a towel or—!"

Garreth howled with laughter, his voice ringing loud and delighted over the deck. "We left you alone for an hour," he crowed, "and you two finally decided to stop pining and start—”

"SHUT UP," you and Sebastian both shouted at the exact same time.

Poppy let out a giggle from somewhere behind Garreth, and you could practically hear the barely-concealed amusement in Natty's voice when she muttered, "It's about bloody time."

Imelda groaned. “I just—why here?” She gestured toward the deck, still looking like she wanted to bleach her eyes. “This is communal property!”

“Technically,” Sebastian muttered against your thigh, “we were here first.”

“Oh, so that makes it better?” Imelda practically screeched.

You groaned, feeling the heat of absolute mortification creeping up your neck.

Ominis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care how inevitable it was,” he said, voice utterly flat. “I do care that I now have to suffer through knowing where it happened.”

Poppy giggled behind her hands. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ominis.”

“You try sharing a living space with Sebastian after this,” he deadpanned.

Sebastian grunted, finally sitting up, his broad frame still angled protectively in front of you, shielding as much of you as he could manage. His hair was a disheveled mess, his expression caught somewhere between resigned acceptance and unapologetic defiance—like a man who had been caught red-handed but had absolutely no regrets.

“Well,” he exhaled, his arm still braced protectively in front of you, still shielding as much of you as he possibly could. “Guess we’re not keeping this a secret anymore.”

Natty snorted, crossing her arms, her smirk barely contained. “You two thought this was a secret?”

Poppy giggled from behind her hands, her eyes still squeezed shut like she wasn’t quite brave enough to risk seeing something scarring. “We’ve known for years.”

Garreth grinned like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. “I knew you two were in love, but this—” He gestured wildly to the deck, to the situation, to Sebastian still bracing himself between your legs like a human barricade. “This is beyond what I could have ever imagined.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Alright, that's enough commentary from the peanut gallery.”

Imelda scoffed. “Peanut gallery? We walked in on this absolute nightmare! You don’t get to act like we’re the ones inconveniencing you.”

“I do, actually,” Sebastian quipped, deadpan. “You’re the ones interrupting our afterglow.”

Natty’s voice was full of strained patience, but there was no hiding her mirth. "Alright, alright, everyone, let’s give them some space before they die of embarrassment."

"Bit late for that," you muttered under your breath.

There was a collective shuffle of movement, a few muffled laughs, and one last dramatic sigh from Garreth before the door clicked shut behind them. Silence settled over the space, thick and still buzzing with lingering mortification.

Sebastian snorted. "You think they’re ever gonna drop this?"

"Absolutely not," you muttered, knowing full well that the moment you and Sebastian emerged from this, you would never hear the end of it.

And yet—

Somewhere beneath the mortification, beneath the utter embarrassment, there was something else.

Something warm. Something real.

Something that felt like forever.

Sebastian shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes still twinkling with amusement, but soft, fond, full of something deeper than just humor.

"You still gonna haunt me?" he murmured, smirking.

You huffed a laugh, still hiding against his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the bare skin there.

"Now more than ever, Sallow."

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 8 months ago

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What do you think each of the crowd would smell like? Not to be creepy, I just want to smell like Inej Ghafa

Interesting question; I’m afraid that Inej canonically smells of nothing according to Kaz, except for during the bathroom scene when he says that she smells of the hotel soap she just used. Nina does say when on parem that the table where she healed Inej’s stab wound smells of her but it’s strongly implied that the parem gives her the ability to distinguish the scent of one person’s blood from another and it’s the leftover blood she can still smell even after the table has been cleaned and know that it was Inej’s blood.

Nina canonically smells of the perfume that’s used to falsely scent the White Rose’s flower arrangements at the start of Six of Crows, according to Matthias, and later on the Ferolind during the journey to Fjerda smells of the toffees she stashed and has been eating.

During Crooked Kingdom, Nina and Jesper (and Kuwei, if you’d like to include him) canonically smell of coffee because they’re wearing it all the time like perfume to hide from the possibility that the Kerghud soldiers can smell the difference between Grisha and otkazats’ya

That’s all the canon mentions of people’s scents that I can recall off the top of my head, but if anyone remembers any others let me know, and as for headcanons:

Wylan probably spends most of the books smelling of the chemicals he uses in his explosives, Kaz claims that the scent of smoke can cling to people’s shirt cuffs and I expect that would ring true for Wylan. Pre and post canon he probably smells of fancy soap and, if it exists in the Grishaverse, nice curl cream or other products that he uses on his hair, but even if that does exist in the Grishaverse I very much doubt he had access to it during canon.

Jesper most likely often smells of smoke and gunpowder, pre and maybe during canon he probably often had the smell of alcohol on his clothes as well, and perhaps post canon fancy soap and the tinge of engine oil.

The Barrel may smell terrible but that doesn’t mean Kaz has to reduce himself to it and he most definitely won’t; he probably smells of soap and leather most of the time, plus he clearly puts a lot of effort into his suits so you may be able to smell whatever they’ve been so well washed in. Also quite possibly blood. I’m now thinking maybe he would deliberately choose scentless soaps because I read a book where lingering perfume was recognised at a crime scene and he would want to avoid anything that might be recognisable.

We know for a fact that Hellgate was a disgusting smelling place with poor access to hygiene and clean water, but after he was freed I imagine Matthias became hyper aware of cleanliness because of this limited access to hygiene products and kept himself very neat and clean. He probably smells of soap most of the time. Pre canon I imagine there were pretty strict hygiene and general cleanliness rules for the Drüskelle so again he probably smelt quite clean, but also had something of the rugged air and cold Northern winds about him. He also may have had the scent of some kind of shampoo since he had very long hair that the smell would remain clinging to, but I expect that whatever he used was standardised amongst the Drüskelle.

At home Inej probably smelled of spices and perfumes and chalk, and at the Menagerie she probably smelled of cheap, overpoweringly strong perfume. It’s a combination of both of these factors that make me think she was actively choosing to avoid scent during the duology, hence Kaz saying “she didn’t even have a scent”, and choosing scentless soaps. Post canon she probably smells of salt and the sea most of the time, and would maybe pick up a scented soap every now again to practice testing her limits and branching out since we know she actively pushes herself with some of the smaller things like this that she finds difficult

Honestly I’m not sure if i have any particular headcanons about Nina, though I think she would avoid rose-scented perfume post canon

Thanks for the ask! This was pretty fun to think about <33

This has been another episode of DK Finally Gets It Together And Answers Her Asks Because It’s About Damn Time (Working Title), thank you for joining me, if you’d like to see the rest of the series you can find it in the tags or if that isn’t working (again 🤦‍♀️) then in my pinned post <3

#dk’s grishaverse asks answered #dk finally gets it together and answers her asks because it’s about damn time #crooked kingdom #six of crows #grishaverse #leigh bardugo #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #nina zenik #matthias helvar #kanej #helnik #wesper

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landwriter · 1 year ago

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Hi, hello,

I'd like to hear something about the skin wip

Hi, hello! Skin is my actual Lighthouse AU after someone sent me this super funny ask registering their displeasure with my choice of fandom for the Seventies SF AU, named Lighthouses. I'm very easily encouraged. Even when being discouraged for something I'm not actually doing. I laughed about doing one and then went and wrote in Untitled 1:

Lighthouse Keeper AU - Hob is lighthouse keeper, Dream is human or else eldritch sea creature - or SEEMS human but is a selkie/changeling who will return? Either star-crossed romance or like, gothic romance - lots of gay sex and desire and the sea, old-timey language, lanterns, etc, wailing wind, Forbidden Acts Isolation, alienation from other men, being Slightly Off, loneliness, exploring where you shouldn’t Hob fucks selkie who is also Dream?? Why would Dream be lighthouse keeper? Maybe he murders them but like, Hob found his skin or something and he has to pretend to be a human lighthouse keeper Hob finding journal entries suggesting imminent and terrifying demise of former keepers, can link them to Dream in some way

I also wrote 'all dialogue should be in iambic pentameter' but we'll pretend I didn't.

What can I say about it? I think it can be best described by the fact I scrolled through the WIP as it is now, a collection of scraps and research curios and a couple half-written scenes, and came across:

Beware the shore on haar and hoolan night, beware the sea of star-lost whalers’ plight

Which I have no, and I mean NO recollection of writing, but has no results when I google it. That's sort of the energy I want for the whole thing. Gothic horror fever dream. Claustrophobia and a locked-room mystery. Men driven to terror and mad loneliness and violence. Letters that arrive too late. Thievery and suspicion and revenge. Greed and possession. Becoming/loving the monstrous.

Some of the notes I evidently left myself that don't read as unhinged at allllll under the cut, if you want to read more about it still:

Smalls lighthouse - great oak stilts slime!!! rocks!! smoking! salt water wind, stabbing kind of rain, the way wind buffets first and moisture on it secondary, white waves, seabirds hanging in the air like mobile above a crib, carving with a knife, bleeding - nicking finger, dream looking over as he sucks it - is whittling the selkie/monster form alcohol maybe something weird where dream refuses alcohol and hob finds out something wrong with their water supply - dream is just drinking saltwater hob giving season of the mists style toast sailors have used tobacco pouches made from sealskin ‘where did you put my skin? where did you put my skin?’ bonding over lost sons hob sends pigeon or message otherwise thanking for relief, noting supply shortage, or smthn. days later gets message back being like, no relief sent. protean forms - changing easily - from god proteus - a protean selkie?? Fiddler's Green is an after-life where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire. In 19th-century English maritime folklore, it was a kind of after-life for sailors who had served at least fifty years at sea. important that lighthouse is decaying, used to be nice, now is not gothic theme of ascent/descent with ladder images of death etc claustrophobic, sunless environment, action at night or in fog - no sun imagination over reason

I've never done gothic before and I'm super excited to explore it with this story! I'm going for something like, old and musty smelling, sort of The Terror, lighthouse-edition, except with less death and more monster-fucking. A sluttier The Lighthouse (2019).

#disclaimer i have seen NONE of the terror #just read some very good fanfic for it #i think my great joy in this one will be the lurid indulgent ATMOSPHERE of it all #and the fussiest joy in trying to get an ear for the language of it #asks #wip title ask game #skin #lighthouse au #my process #my very normal process

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virtualcarrot · 5 months ago

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[KKIR] Pen on paper - part 7

[Ao3] [Part 6 on tumblr]

Over the last month of the course, a bout of profound homesickness strikes Iruka again. He’s tired of the constant mist seeping through his clothes. He's tired of the verticality, tired of the blocked horizon. He's even tired of the sea salt in the air. He yearns for the smell of bark and leaves and sun-warmed grass.

He hasn't gotten a reply to his most recent letters to Kakashi and Naruto, either. Kaya keeps giving him increasingly amused looks whenever he drops by for news only to slump away in disappointment.

“What's eating you?” Nobuko asks, sidling to his side.

He holds back for all of two seconds, and short-lived ones at that.

“I miss home.”

“Home, hm?”

“Don't start.”

She cups a hand against the wind and snaps her lighter. Her cigarette doesn’t keep her from giving a soft scoff.

They’re nearing the peak of Spring here, which would make for a lovely spectacle if not for the fact Kiri’s vegetation is mostly moss. It’s a stark contrast to the height of Konoha’s bloom, whose many flowers should soon start to shrivel in announcement of the nearing summer. In this season, the slightest breeze will cast dried up petals around the village over there. Back when he was a teacher, Iruka used to sweep a full dustpan of them every early morning that he aired out the classroom.

It’s been a while since he’s spent May away from his parents’ grave.

He shakes his head and forces a smile. “I’m distracted. Sorry.”

Nobuko flicks away a clump of ash.

“For what? Don’t take everything so seriously. Anyway, what’s your preferred flavor of cake?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, pricked with suspicion.

She sucks in smoke like her lungs can’t go without. “Made you think of something else, didn’t it?” It leaves her mouth in billowy threads while she speaks. “So. What is it?”

He narrows his eyes at her. She doesn’t provide any more insight.

“I don’t know, strawberry?”

“Uh,” is all she says in response.

Iruka spends the following weeks in a state of high alert but the days come and go without any ambush and he settles down.

In truth, he has better things to worry about. Masato has eased up on the snide little comments but he’s also increased the feedback. It’s not nice, it’s never kind, but it’s exacting and pertinent and has tripled Iruka’s workload. Brushing up on his theory the night before the VP exam two years ago doesn’t compare; he hasn’t crammed this much since he first prepared for the teaching exam at the Academy ages ago. Even Ryo’s eyes have started going crossed from their sessions in the library, where Toru and Nobuko now claim old age and leave them to their late devices.

Mariko, the librarian, has pityingly granted them an exception to the ban on drinks on site, provided their desk’s not carrying any of the books under her care. They make an unconscionable use of it.

She kicks them out at closing time.

On the last week-end of May, Iruka goes on a hunt for his last missing souvenirs. He’s already gone through a few places over his stay but there are still a few people left to check off his list that he'd like to get done with.

The apothecary greets him with now familiar curtness, although this time it’s followed by mild disappointment to learn of the soon-to-be departure of a regular client.

“Got what you came for, I suppose,” he mutters, whole face scrunched up as he gathers Iruka’s purchases.

As an olive branch, Iruka offers the account of his hurdle with the chakra-numbing balm, which seems to fully break the ice. The old man lets out a delighted cackle and proceeds to ring up the sale through a long string of chuckles. By the time he’s done, he’s still hiccuping. He walks Iruka to the exit with a hand to his back and an additional assortment of incense sticks. On the house.

He’s alright, Iruka thinks, a bit wistful to realize it's the last time he'll experience this particular brand of surliness.

Akitaro and a few others find him in the streets just as he’s about to make his way back. Somehow, Iruka fails to argue his way out and gets dragged away on a few more errands. He’s rarely been this aggressively socialized with.

When they finally make their way back to the hostel at the end of the afternoon, their wallets are much lighter. Iruka’s already planning the seal he’ll have to use to pack. Summoning spaces are not his specialty but he should be able to manage.

They step into the hostel to the sight of a single crooked Happy Birthday banner. Kyoko tries to walk right out but Akitaro blocks the way, while Kousuke looks cautiously hopeful he might be included in the lot.

“Gemini season,” Nobuko mutters to Iruka.

“Right. Thanks for the heads up,” he whispers back, dry as the desert.

She snorts. “I gave you one. Learn to read between the lines.”

Kaya jumps out from behind the counter before Iruka figures out a retort. “Thank the gods that you guys are back! I didn’t know what to do about the cakes!”

Sure enough, as they relocate to the common room, they find that the heat has started softening the abundant buttercream on display on the central table. A bunch of lumpy birthday candles are lit and blown somewhat perfunctorily, then slices are cut to be passed around on the hostel’s bland tableware.

As far as red berries cakes go, this one is both lacking in fruit and cloyingly sweet. It’s also such a kind gesture that Iruka can’t find it in himself to mind. Going by Kousuke’s delight, Iruka assumes this one was picked according to both their tastes. Kyoko has been sticking to the dark chocolate alternative. Iruka considers having a taste of it too, out of curiosity. There’s more than enough to go around.

“Here,” Kaya says, dropping a parcel right by his elbow. It reads: ‘please, do not deliver until the 26th’. “Do you know how hard it was to wait for today to give it to you?”

“My birthday’s tomorrow,” Iruka says inanely.

“Keep it for tomorrow, then,” she retorts, already moving on to Kyoko and Kousuke.

While Kousuke hoots in greeting, Kyoko sinks in her seat like she’s attempting to melt away from the whole fuss. Both of them open their mail right then and there, though, so Iruka does too.

He finds letters, cards, birthday wishes from all over Konoha, from Teuchi and Ayame, to Kotetsu and Izumo, to Konohamaru, Udon and Moegi, and Hiroaki and the teachers at the Academy. Even his colleagues from the mission and report desks sent word. Naruto’s enclosed a new drawing from Boruto, along with a family picture. Hinata’s belly has grown noticeably in Iruka’s absence, an observation that brings a tight pang to his chest. His eyes threaten to blur on their greetings and well-wishes.

There’s a package at the bottom of the parcel.

The gift wrap gives easily, revealing a seamless wooden case. It opens on a pillow of silk and a gorgeous calligraphy set, the likes of which Iruka’s only ever seen under glass display. Even without touching it, he can hear the gentle, barely there whisper of passive chakra from the inkstick.

He finds Kakashi’s message folded on the bright-dark inkstone.

Dear Iruka-sensei,

I understand you’re too modest to indulge but I’m differently inclined. If you must really look for a reason to accept this gift, take it as an investment in the future of Konoha. But also know that it’s deserved. Happy birthday.

I hope to hear from you in person soon,

Kakashi.

Ryo picks that moment to set a pristinely wrapped furoshiki on the table and Iruka has to lay his forearm across his eyes to hide. Somebody cheers--he thinks it’s Akitaro--starting a chain of other cheers and awws.

He grins between the tears.

For their last day, Masato gives them free rein to create and test their seals. They spend the morning designing concepts and shouting ideas over the tables. Masato even deigns to walk around the room and share pertinent advice.

Somewhere around mid afternoon, he makes them retreat to the furthest desks. He disengages the most reactive defenses of the room, pushes his desk to clear space on the dais, and starts calling them up one by one to take up the stage.

Akitaro locks a tiny paper crane in a summoning space. It takes him a few tries before he gets it back, along with a little tweak to the left leg of a kanji, but the fact he successfully set up a pocket dimension with a simple three-nodes earns him a grunt of approval.

Kyoko summons an unimpressive puddle with a very impressive use of a notebook-torn sheet and a commonplace pen.

The sight of Kousuke’s final seal has Masato rolling his eyes and grabbing a fresh brush of chakra ink. He still gives the go ahead. Sure enough, Kousuke brings forth such an unstable cloud of sandstorm that Masato has to disrupt the seal with the slash of a line before it swallows the whole room. Far from contrite, Kousuke looks smug for the next hour or so.

All of their teeth crunch on grains of sand for the next hour or so.

After him, Yumi, Shigeyasu, Tetsu, Yoko and Hiromi all present their work with varying degrees of success until, finally, they reach Iruka's group.

They all turn to Ryo.

“Well, go on,” Nobuko says.

Ryo sets nir jaw and climbs onstage.

The seal ne lays down is a variation on nir miserable attempt from weeks before, this time drawn on strong chakra paper and with the appropriate ink. It's been edited with additional factors and improved following Masato's begrudging feedback and nir own research. This time again, ne pricks nir finger on a kunai.

An ice phoenix soars over them, gleaming and majestic, to the slow, otherworldly beat of crystal wings. Its multifaceted feathers shine like diamonds catching light. The beak opens on a silent eagle cry.

It goes as far as the first row of tables before it starts suddenly melting. Masato dispels it so it doesn't drench the room.

“Impressive,” he says with no inflection. “You used Tora to give it life, correct?”

“I… Yes. And, uh, a lightning trigger.”

Masato swats the air. “Irrelevant. The problem is in the wording. Your Tiger is too strong, it takes over Bird and Dog. Next time, empower them. And leash the Tiger. Next!”

Next is Iruka's seal, which makes Masato scoff.

“I'm not testing that. Any volunteers?”

Unexpectedly, there is. Toru gets up with a placid smile and joins them on the dais, considering the scroll Iruka’s placed between them on the floor.

“Do I stand in the middle?”

The middle is the culminating intersection of a wide amount of nodal links, each sewing in and out of the eight Yin releases arranged on a circle around it. Three successive curves of text enclose the result, adding a Konohan flourish to the Kiri style seal.

“No need,” Iruka replies off-handedly, making the hand signs for a fire release.

The chains of the binding seal jump to Toru, loop around his ankles and drag him right over the scroll and to the center of it.

“Uh,” Toru says, unperturbed through sheer intellectual curiosity.

He tries to move and finds that the trap will only allow a vague shift of his feet. He looks at the seal under him and inspects it more closely, turning awkwardly to get a better look at the writing behind.

Iruka and Masato approach.

“Is it holding?” Iruka asks, frowning in concern.

“It'd seem so,” Toru replies.

“If you'll allow me,” Masato starts saying, before turning his brush around and pushing Toru with the tip of the handle. Toru’s feet don't budge. “Hm.”

Together, Masato and Iruka circle the seal, looking for a weakness.

“What about here?” Masato asks, pointing the handle at a space in the links of two Ying seals to the Northwest. He draws a path in the air until the first line of text, weaving between the characters until he reaches the second, and then third line, all the way out of the labyrinth of ideograms. “Try it.”

The seal casts discontent ripples at the prod of Toru’s chakra. Iruka feels the heaving of disturbed power, then it stops. Much worse, what follows is the subtle, methodical levering of a layer of chakra, and then another, until Toru shifts like he’s slipping through the cracks in a rock. He shuffles sideways in tiny, unhurried steps, not even breathing hard by the time he gets all the way out.

Masato purses his lips and darts a dismissive look at the Konohan lines of sealing.

“Interesting. But you rely too much on failsafes.” He gestures to the central circle of Yin release nodes. “You need to build up your core. The links are unstable. Next!”

Before anyone else can stand, Toru draws a scroll out of his pocket and summons a smokescreen to hide behind. It's nothing showy, nothing impressive, but unlike a common hand jutsu it's self-sustained until the ink runs out of power. Nifty.

Masato seems to agree because he gives a little nod. Toru dissipates the smoke and, when Nobuko doesn’t show any interest in moving from her seat, another student takes her slot.

Back at the table, Iruka gives her a curious look.

She shrugs. “Not one for showmanship, me.”

Ryo stares up at her with wide, shiny eyes. “Come on, show us.”

“You think I don't know what you're doing, there?” she says with a sniff, but when the last student’s done with their demonstration she stomps up to the dais with her bag.

She pulls three blank sheets of chakra paper and two small hourglasses that she sets on Masato's desk, and holds out a hand for his brush. He gives it up with a surprising lack of argument.

With it, she traces the sign of a Tora release that she ties up on itself with a single thread. The process gets repeated on each sheet until she's left with three seemingly identical seals.

She slaps them side by side on the floor and points at each in succession, staring at the audience. “Instant, thirty, sixty. Can you get the hourglasses?”

Masato moves to the desk, hands at the ready over them. She triggers the seals.

The first pops in a flash of short-lived fire. They wait. Right around the last grains of sand of the smallest hourglass, the second seal bursts into similar flames. Thirty seconds later, so does the third.

“How did she time these, they were the same seals, weren't they the same seals?” Ryo whispers while Iruka nods quickly in agreement.

Nobuko finishes the demonstration with an ironic little bow, picks up her things and moves back to her seat.

“That was so cool,” Ryo tells her in all earnestness.

Nobuko gives a one-shouldered shrug. Underneath her pout, though, Iruka catches the spark of self-conscious self-satisfaction. That makes him smile.

At the end of the session, Eri walks in. She gives a short speech about nurturing inter-village community ties and common history, that she wraps up with thanks for their presence. Masato follows that with a similar sentiment. He doesn't even sound as insincere as Iruka would have thought, especially for a man seemingly holding a grudge over the defection of Iruka’s ancestors.

Eri then announces a farewell party at the hostel, where they all flock together the moment they’re done packing their brushes and papers.

Kaya’s only just finished setting up the dining room when they arrive, platters of catering food overflowing with fried shrimp, crab claws, marinated fish filets and grilled cuttlefish. Side dishes are on offer too, filled with wakame and rice and potato salad and a lighter broth to cleanse the palate. Further down, golden dorayaki, thin slices of fresh mangos and purin are already on display for dessert. Iruka knows for a fact that the hostel hasn’t seen food this enticing in at least three months.

In spite of all that, the main aftertaste of the evening remains bittersweet.

They part in small groups over the following days. Akitaro gives every single one of them a wide-encompassing hug with the full range of his considerable frame. Much more reserved, Kyoko sticks to curt nods and handshakes of acknowledgement. Ryo cries nir little heart out in a way such that Nobuko has to avert her eyes before she gets started too. Even Kaya looks glum to see them go.

Iruka doesn’t bother hiding his own grief, just accepts the touches and pats with wet cheeks and a grin until he feels his smile crack under the focus of Toru’s gaze. Then Toru gives him a gentle, grandfatherly hug, and Iruka holds him back like he wishes he could still hold his father, his mother and Hiruzen, tight and close and so terribly fond, because he misses them all so much and he already misses Toru and Ryo and Nobuko.

He apologizes sheepishly afterwards and Nobuko sends him one of those scathing, terrifyingly pointed little jabs of hers over it. In for a penny, in for a pound: he hugs her too, just for that.

“Send me any of your fancy new jutsu formulae, alright? So I can sell them in my shop,” she tells them once he releases her.

They promise to stay in touch.

Yumi announces she’s staying longer to make use of Kiri’s library, so Iruka leaves without her. He and some of the students going the same direction join a caravan, that swells and thins over the stopovers.

At the crossroads between Konoha and Iwa, Iruka's the one who breaks away. This time, Ryo manages to contain nir tears, but only barely. Iruka ruffles nir hair as goodbye and shoulders his bag.

He finishes the trip alone.

It's the early afternoon when Iruka reaches Konoha. Summer’s just around the corner and the air’s warm and humid. At this time of day, the gates sit wide open in welcome, with only a few sentries to watch over them. They stand a bored, sluggish vigil, slumped against the wall.

One of the guards perks up at Iruka's approach.

“Is that--Oi, Iruka-sensei! Welcome back!” he shouts, waving his arms in wide arches over his head to draw Iruka's attention.

Iruka recognizes him as one of his former students, from Konohamaru's year.

He breaks into a smile. “Ah, Takehiko! It's good to see you!”

The other guard gives Iruka a simpler nod in greeting, which he answers with one of his own.

Invigorated by the new arrival, Takehiko all but hops in place until Iruka gets within talking distance, at which point he lets loose a barrage of questions about the trip. Iruka answers a few, if only for the sake of dispelling the worst of the misconceptions Takehiko’s operating under--not everybody in Kirigakure has shark teeth, for starters, no, Iruka wasn't made to eat live octopi, and the mist isn't, in fact, stained blood-red.

But he's tired, sweaty and sticky and bug-bitten, and his feet hurt and his back aches for a proper mattress, so he excuses himself with promises to share more at a later date and doesn't linger.

The streets of Konoha feel familiar in a distant way, a layer of nostalgia blurring the lines of his recollection. He hasn't even been gone for four months, but enough details have changed, little things he wouldn't have thought twice had he been present for the fact, that his mind does double takes as he walks by. The unsteady balcony on Mill Street has gotten some repairs. The fishmonger’s front got a fresh new coat of paint. A block from there, the thrift shop Iruka used to get clothes from as a teen stands closed for renovations.

Familiar faces greet him, which he greets back.

The key to his apartment slots in like he was never gone. The door unlocks like an old friend. And then he's home.

Someone must have aired it before his arrival because there's almost no must in the air, just the familiar scent, as unique as a person's, that marks a place. It's the smell of the walls, of the varnished floorboards, the angle at which the sun hits the shutters, and, still lingering, of traces of his own, in this place that hasn't seen enough others to erase it.

In the kitchen, he finds an assortment of freshly bought cans of yakitori, oden and curry--Izumo--and a cheap pack of various instant noodles--Kotetsu. Iruka’s not hungry yet, but he can just imagine the argument that took place between the two over the selection. It makes him smile.

He freshens up in the shower, enjoys the luxury of slipping into clean clothes straight from his dresser.

Somewhere past four in the afternoon, he finally crashes in his own bed.

#naruto #kakairu #kkir #umino iruka #hatake kakashi #my scrawl #fic : naruto

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muiitoloko · 2 months ago

Text

His American Thief

Summary: He crossed the ocean for a fresh start; she never expected to be hunted like prey. But in Judge Turpin’s bed, the line between punishment and pleasure disappears.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, smut, smut, SMUT, Obsession.

Author's Notes: I had this fanfic abandoned in my drafts, and I finally thought about continuing it after seeing a Turpin edit on TikTok, but I got lazy to finish it 😅 But I hope you like it!

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

The wooden planks of the dock groaned beneath Judge Richard Turpin’s polished boots as he stepped off the gangway, the salty air of the American coast stinging his nostrils after the long, grueling voyage across the Atlantic. The ship creaked behind him, a lumbering beast of salt and rot that had carried him from London to this strange, burgeoning land. He grimaced as the wind tousled his cloak, his hazel eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat.

It had been an exhausting journey—sleepless nights in cramped quarters, the endless stench of unwashed men and seawater, the constant sway of the ocean gnawing at his already frayed patience. What Turpin desired most in that moment was not justice, not power, but simply rest. A real bed. A warm meal. Silence.

And tomorrow, he would begin his search.

That was the reason for this journey, after all. Not business. Not politics. A wife. A proper woman of fertile stock and silent obedience, with hips strong enough to bear sons and lips soft enough to soothe the ache of his long-neglected loins. Someone to replace the disaster that had been Joanna—ungrateful wretch. He clenched his jaw at the thought, forcing her name out of his mind like a foul taste.

He did not come all this way to dwell on past betrayals. He came to begin again.

Beadle Bamford, ever the loyal hound, was already shouting orders to the porters, his voice grating as he supervised the unloading of Turpin’s large mahogany trunk. The Beadle’s cheeks were flushed from exertion, his coat damp from the sea mist. He barked at a young porter fumbling with the latch.

“Mind that chest, you halfwit! That’s Lord Turpin’s robes—worth more than your life!”

Turpin ignored the commotion, slipping a gloved hand inside his coat to check the weight of his coin purse. Still full. Good. Bribes would need to be made. Connections established. American girls were wild, it was said—spirited, unbroken. He’d seen a few already on the docks. Peach-cheeked and wide-eyed, coarse in manner but supple in form. And here, unlike London, his name meant nothing. He was not a judge here. Not yet. But with the right marriage, the right alliance… he could be anything.

“Your Lordship,” Beadle called breathlessly, gesturing to the black carriage now waiting at the curb. “All is arranged. The driver will take you to the Franklin Hotel. I’ve ensured it is the finest room they offer.”

Turpin nodded once, stepping into the carriage with the ease of a man accustomed to obedience. The interior was tight and smelled faintly of leather and pipe smoke. He settled into the cushioned seat, stretching his legs and exhaling deeply as Beadle heaved the trunk onto the back and climbed up beside the driver.

The wheels groaned as the carriage lurched into motion, jolting through the uneven streets of this new world. Turpin peered through the window at the sights: low buildings, signs in crude paint, men in dusty coats shouting from sidewalks. It was a place still rough around the edges, untamed—but not without potential. In fact, it stirred something in him.

He leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes, his mind drifting to tomorrow. To the women he would meet. The soft gasp of a virgin bride on her wedding night. The way her thighs might tremble beneath his hands as he undressed her, layer by layer, while she whispered in that unfamiliar accent, “Yes, my lord.”

His cock stirred at the thought, the tightness in his breeches suddenly unbearable. He shifted slightly, lips curling into a small, wicked smile.

He would make her kneel—on her wedding night, bare and shivering between the bedposts of some grand chamber he’d claimed as his own. Her lips would be cherry-red, trembling as she looked up at him, waiting for his permission just to touch him.

And when she finally opened her mouth, he would slide his cock past those perfect lips with a growl, one hand in her hair, the other tightening at the nape of her neck until she gagged around him. “That’s it, pet,” he would mutter, his voice thick with cruelty and lust. “Learn your place.”

He imagined bending her over the mattress, her wrists tied in silk, her bare arse high and reddened from his belt. She would weep, of course—all first-time brides did—but she would moan too. They always did. His fingers would dig into her hips, bruising the soft flesh as he claimed her slowly, inch by inch, until she sobbed his name into the pillows and begged him not to stop.

Turpin’s fingers brushed the front of his breeches, the pressure there now maddening. Tomorrow. He would find her tomorrow.

For now, he endured the carriage ride with a dark grin, watching the world pass by through the fogged glass, his thoughts stained with silk corsets, parted thighs, and the sound of breathless, obedient whimpers under his hand.

America would give him what England had taken.

And she would be beautiful. And young. And his.

The carriage wheels had scarcely come to a halt before Judge Turpin reached for the door, the sigh that escaped his lips carrying the weight of the long voyage and longer years. The Franklin Hotel loomed ahead—a grand enough structure by colonial standards, though still far from the decadence of London’s elite. Beadle was already clambering down from the driver’s perch when the door swung open.

But the judge never had the chance to set his boot to the cobblestone.

Something—or rather someone—collided with him.

A small, swift body cloaked in a coarse, hooded garment slammed into his chest with surprising force, staggering him back half a step. “Pardon me, sir,” came a meek, almost whispering voice—lilting—before the figure ducked around him and vanished into the bustle of the street.

Turpin blinked, lips curling into a scowl. “Watch where you—”

Then he paused. His hand moved instinctively to the inside of his coat. His coin purse was gone.

“Stop!” he roared, his baritone voice cracking like a whip through the air. “Thief! Stop that whelp!”

The figure was already a blur in the crowd, weaving expertly between carts and passersby.

“Beadle!” Turpin bellowed, already lurching into pursuit. “I’ve been robbed!”

Beadle didn’t hesitate. The man threw down his top hat and gave chase with surprising agility for someone of his girth, the tails of his coat flapping behind him like pennants of war.

But Turpin was ahead, fury lending speed to his long limbs, exhaustion cast aside like a forgotten robe. He hated thieves. Hated the way they slithered unseen through the cracks of honest society, mocking order and justice with nimble fingers and clever lies. But this thief was different—fast, too fast, darting like a feral cat through narrow alleys and winding turns, clearly familiar with the streets of this savage American port.

The judge pressed forward, panting, sweat darkening the collar of his cloak. The thief vaulted over a barrel, ducked beneath a clothesline, leapt with animal grace onto a low wall. Turpin followed, teeth clenched, boots skidding on the uneven stones. He nearly had him just as the thief scrambled up a brick wall to escape.

With a grunt, Turpin lunged and seized the hem of the cloak. The thief kicked back viciously, catching him in the chest and knocking the air from his lungs. He fell to the dirt with a growl of rage, the hood tearing away in his fist.

And then—he saw her.

She turned at the top of the wall, crouched like a wild thing, her chest heaving from exertion. Sunlight framed her figure in gold, her hair a tousled mess tumbling down her back, strands of it clinging to flushed cheeks. Her face—by God, her face—was exquisite, all full lips and defiant eyes, a curve of smirk tugging at her mouth that sent a bolt of something feral straight to his cock.

Not a boy.

A woman.

And not just any woman—a vision. Filthy, brash, disobedient. Magnificent.

“Well then,” she said, her voice low and smoky with amusement, “you’re faster than I’d have guessed… for an old man.”

Turpin sat there in the dirt, dazed, breathless. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak—could only gape at her, disarmed entirely.

The woman shook his coin purse at him with a mocking grin, then brought it to her lips and kissed it with exaggerated flair. “Thanks for the donation, my lord,” she cooed, then blew him a kiss. “I’ll spend it well.”

And just like that, she vanished over the edge, leaving only the sound of her laughter ringing down the alley. Turpin remained on the ground, his fists clenched in the dust, the hood still crumpled in his hand.

Beadle caught up moments later, wheezing, his boots slapping loudly against the stones. “Did you get ‘im, your lordship?!”

Turpin didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His cock was painfully hard beneath his breeches, throbbing with the memory of her voice, her smirk, the sight of her small, dirt-smudged hand wrapped around his coin purse like she owned it—and him. That little vixen, dressed like a boy, grinning at him from atop a wall like some seductive, uncatchable sprite.

He had never felt anything like it. Not even with Joanna.

“You... you saw her, didn’t you?” he finally said, his baritone hoarse, distant.

“Her, sir?” Beadle blinked. “It was a woman?”

Turpin turned to him slowly, his hazel eyes dark and wide with something dangerous. “No,” he muttered. “It was the woman.”

Beadle opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

Turpin rose slowly, brushing off his cloak without care. His mind spun with images—her flushed cheeks, the flex of her thighs as she climbed, the wicked glint in her eyes. The way her filthy little fingers had plucked him clean. The sheer arrogance of her.

God, he wanted her.

Not just to catch her. Not to punish her.

He wanted to break her.

To drag her by the hair into a bath, strip her of those filthy rags, and press her down into the steaming water while she writhed beneath him. He’d make her beg. Moan. Weep.

He imagined her mouth, pink and perfect, wrapped around his cock—his cock, no longer aching but buried deep down her throat while she clawed at his thighs for breath. He’d make her sleep on his floor like a mongrel until she earned her place in his bed. He’d tie her down each night and thrust until she cried out in pleasure and rage alike.

“Find out who she is,” Turpin said suddenly, turning to Beadle with a terrifying calmness. “Use the money. Use whatever it takes. Find her.”

Beadle swallowed. “Of course, your lordship.”

Turpin stared at the place where she had stood, his heart still pounding in his ears.

She would be his. Not by courtship. Not by consent.

He would take her.

And one day soon, that same filthy little mouth that had mocked him would whimper his name in the dark.

“My lord,” she would cry, bound to his bed. “Please, my lord, I can’t take anymore.”

And he would only laugh. “You should have thought of that before you took what was mine.”

The streets of New York were loud, teeming with life and filth, the kind of chaos that made your blood hum with the thrill of being alive. You moved like you belonged to it—quick, lithe, unnoticed except by those who made the mistake of trying to stop you. None of them had succeeded. Not today.

Your heart still thundered from the chase, your breath beginning to even as you ducked into the narrow alley that led toward home—if you could call it that. A creaky, one-room garret above a chandler’s shop, the windows drafty, the roof half-collapsed in the back corner. But it was yours, and it was hidden.

The stolen coin purse was still tucked tight to your chest, warm from the heat of your skin beneath the tattered linen of your blouse. You adjusted it carefully, then slipped it back into your satchel and rejoined the main road, strolling now with the easy confidence of someone who no longer feared the growl of an empty belly.

A bakery cart caught your eye—just a crooked old man with flour on his nose and three loaves left in his basket. You paused, rummaged through the coin purse, and flipped him a small copper without a word. He gave you a nod, pressing a warm loaf into your hands.

You bit into it before you’d taken three steps, tearing at the crust with your teeth like a starved animal. It was still soft inside, still steaming. The taste of real bread—not moldy, not stolen, not weeks old—made your eyes flutter shut for a moment. Your stomach grumbled in delight as you chewed, licking the crumbs from your fingers. Victory tasted like yeast and flour and warmth.

The garret was five streets over and two buildings down, reached by a precarious iron fire escape you climbed like a cat. Once inside, you bolted the door, threw off the cloak you’d worn for the theft, and dropped to your knees beside the small cot to finally examine the prize.

You opened the coin purse and spilled its contents onto the threadbare blanket. A clink. Then another. Then a small, glittering avalanche.

You grinned.

Silver and gold mixed together like fallen stars, far more than you’d dared hope. Dozens of coins—too many to count at a glance, and each one gleamed with the soft weight of luxury. Whoever that man was—the one with the sharp baritone voice and the furious glare—he had been rich. English, judging by his clothes. Important, maybe. But that wasn’t your concern.

You could finally eat properly. Sleep in a real bed. Rent a room for a week, maybe even a month. A bath—God, you’d kill for a proper bath. You could still feel the man’s eyes on you from earlier, that silent fury, but it was long gone now. You had won. And tomorrow, you’d look like a new woman.

You shoved a handful of coins back into the purse, enough for today and tomorrow, and hid the rest under the floorboard. Then you stood, pulling off the threadbare shirt you wore as a disguise and tossing it aside. You padded barefoot across the creaky floor, already thinking through your next steps.

A bathhouse. The one near the port, where they heated the water with coal and didn’t ask too many questions. You’d buy a bottle of oil, maybe even a bit of perfumed soap. Your body was sore from running, from the constant cold. You couldn’t wait to sink into steaming water and scrub until your skin was pink and new again.

You paused before the cracked mirror above the washbasin, brushing the tangles from your hair with your fingers. A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, studying your reflection.

Not bad, you thought. Not bad at all. Especially once I’ve had a bath.

You turned away, laughter bubbling in your chest as you dug through your sack for your one good dress—the dark blue one with the mended hem. Maybe, if you had enough left over after food and lodging, you’d visit that secondhand shop on Mulberry Street and see about buying a new frock. One with real lace at the collar. Maybe even gloves.

Maybe, just maybe, you could become someone else for a little while.

Some proper young lady in a new dress, smelling like lavender oil, with clean nails and shoes that matched.

You curled up on your cot with the last of the bread in your lap, a coin in your hand, and a grin on your face.

You’d won today.

You had no idea that a man with a hooked nose, hazel eyes, and a voice like the devil’s own growl was already tearing through the city for you. No idea that he had whispered your face into the dark of his pillow. That he’d ordered a bath drawn in the grandest suite of the Franklin Hotel—just in case he brought you back broken and shivering tonight.

No. For now, you only knew warmth. Victory.

And the promise of hot water.

The tick of the brass clock on the mantel had become a torment. Turpin sat stiffly in the high-backed chair of his hotel suite, his gloved hands clenched around the arms, his jaw locked so tight it ached. The curtains were drawn, the fire had long since burned to embers, and Beadle Bamford stood in the center of the room, sweating in his cravat, shifting from foot to foot like a boy caught stealing sweets.

Turpin’s hazel eyes, cold and sharp, bored into him. “Two days,” he said softly. Too softly. That low baritone of his always dropped just before he struck. “And still nothing.”

Beadle cleared his throat. “We’ve hired a dozen men, my lord. Local lads who know the streets, the alleys. I’ve paid tavern keepers, informants, whores—anyone who might’ve seen a young woman matching the description.”

“And what is that description?” Turpin growled, rising from his chair like a storm cloud. “Did you tell them she was small and fast and cunning? That she smelled of smoke and salt and sin? That her voice was low—almost sultry—for a gutter rat?” He took a step closer, looming over his lackey. “Did you tell them her mouth curled up when she mocked me? That her hair glinted like gold in the sun and her legs—God help me—those legs moved like a thief’s and a dancer’s all in one?”

Beadle flinched. “Y-yes, my lord. I told them all of it. But this city—it’s a maze. She could be anywhere. They say she’s clever. Changes her clothing. Disguises herself like a boy one day, a washerwoman the next—”

Turpin slammed his fist onto the table, sending a silver inkpot clattering to the floor. “Then find her! Find her!”

Beadle gave a hasty bow and backed out, his apologies muttered into his waistcoat. The door shut. The room was quiet again.

Turpin exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest heaving beneath his silk cravat. His fists trembled at his sides. The fire in his veins would not cool. Not until he had her. Not until he broke her.

He stalked to the tall bed at the center of the chamber, yanking off his coat, his boots, the suffocating layers of civilized restraint. He sank into the mattress like a man possessed.

And he was.

He lay on his back, breathing hard, his breeches tight and aching from two days of unsatisfied need. His hand slid over the front, cupping the hardness beneath the cloth. He was thick and pulsing already, the memory of you vivid and hot in his mind.

“Where are you, filthy little thief…” he muttered to the ceiling, his voice rough with lust and rage. “You dared to touch me… to take from me…”

His hand moved, stroking the length of his cock through the fabric, hips jerking up for more pressure. He closed his eyes. He didn’t see the hotel room. He saw you.

You—perched atop that wall like a cat in heat, your chest rising and falling with breathless laughter, your lips parted just enough to promise sin. Your cheeks were smudged with grime, your hair wild. That kiss you blew him had lingered in his mind like a fever.

He imagined dragging you down from that wall by the hair. Imagined your filthy little mouth gasping as he pinned you against the cobblestones.

“On your knees,” he growled aloud, voice thick with pleasure. “Open your mouth like a good whore…”

His hand slipped into his breeches now, wrapping around the thick length of himself. He hissed between his teeth, pumping slow and rough, imagining your tongue flicking over the head of his cock as you glared up at him with defiant eyes.

“You’d choke on it,” he whispered, hips jerking harder. “But I’d hold you there. Feel your throat tighten. Feel you gag on me.”

He grunted, his other hand gripping the sheets. His cock throbbed under his touch, and he imagined flipping you over—your hands bound behind your back, your thighs spread, your arse bare and marked red from the belt he’d used to teach you manners.

“I’d fuck you until you cried,” he snarled. “Until you begged for mercy with tears on your cheeks and my seed dripping down your legs.”

He was close. The image of you—tamed, ruined, moaning his name in that broken, breathless voice—pushed him to the edge. His teeth clenched as his hips bucked into his fist, the sensation blinding.

With a guttural groan, Turpin came, his cock pulsing hot into his hand, his whole body jerking with the force of it. He collapsed back against the pillows, panting, flushed, sweat on his brow.

His eyes fluttered open, staring into the darkness.

You were still gone. But not for long.

He licked his lips slowly, tasting the echo of your imagined cries. “Soon,” he whispered, voice still ragged. “You’ll kneel for me in truth, little thief. And I will fuck the wild out of you.” His cock twitched again, already hardening.

And Judge Richard Turpin, filthy with need, lay in the dark, touching himself once more.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin

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ducknotinarow · 11 months ago

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07 Rasey - "Just say it!" - Topic: Regret

| My muse struggles with the truth...Send "Just say it!" And my muse will confess to something they don't really talk about.Bonus: specify a specific topic and that's what they will talk about!

The sound of the ocean waves was like white noise to Raphael’s ears as he was half hang over the old rusted metal railing from the dock. Eyes resting over where the waves had meet the sandy shores. Every so often he see something wash up from the water and get trapped in the side left to rest in it’s new home. A shell, a crab and bits of trash of course. Got love New York he guessed. Raphael partly wondered if he stayed here long enough maybe he would find a glass bottle with a message inside it. Like he always saw on TV growing up. It's funny how the mind wonders he things as that reminded him back when he was a kid how he wanted nothing more than to find a message in a bottle. Thinking he might come across one in the channels that run through out the sewer system.

So he would try and look for them for hours sometimes even. Always thinking if he found one it would be some kind of map that would take him some one of a kind treasure. Why he sometimes stole Don's mermaid doll and nearly threw her into the water once. Insisting she would swim and find them one of those bottles in the water. Clearly that was why pirates looked for mermaids after all. As one can assume Don? Of course wouldn't like that. And as they went back and forth on this Raph holding the doll just out from his twin brothers reach. It was only a matter time till someone stepped in. It wasn't Splinter though. It was of course, Leo.

Who stepped in and put a stop to everything getting the doll back to Don well scolding Raph despite them being the same age. That how it always went. Like Leo saw himself as above the rest of them. And yeah it got under Raphael's shell a lot even as they got older through the years. Not that Raphael held on to that anymore at least. With everything settling back down. Stoned warriors going back to rest New York was peaceful again. All the ruckus was enough to even make the usual street punks to go into hiding. Wouldn't last long but also meant Raphael had nothing to hit. Left to just watch that water and let his mind wonder. over being back home with his family finally happily reunited now that Leo was back.

So everything should go back to how it was before right? Leo was home so all their issues and problems should be over. It might sound like he was still upset with Leo. He wasn't nah he got a lot of that out when they fought. He just didn't quit feel like he should be there at the party they were holding to better welcome Leo back home. Easily sneaking out unnoticed. Well almost.

Casey seemed to find him, It was easy to pick up the sound of Casey's steps. It was a sound the turtle worked so hard learn in the first place. Slightly heavy since unlike them Casey was taught to keep his steps quite. And also due to the muscle mass they had to carry, of course there was also the fact his step was a bit clumsy on top of good thing they had a sense of balance Raphael thought as he only moved over to the left somewhat so to make space for Casey to join him. Lowering his head to rest on his arms focusing one the way the wind carried the smell of salt in to the air and particles of mist splashed against his scales. Their conversation wasn't much just a few words here and there. Casey doing what he always has done checking on Raphael. Sure he had always done that they were friends after all but it felt like he shouldn't have to anymore all things considered after all.

"Needed air." Raphael answers, Casey didn't ask but he could tell they wanted to 'what you doin'? why ain't ya wit' your bros.' Something like that. " 'm glad he's back but jus' need a second I guess." Part of him did feel enough to be annoyed that the second Leo was back, suddenly everything was fine again. Just made Raphael feel Leo really never should have left in the first place. He flicked off old peeling paint from the railing into the water when Casey spoke up asking if he was still upset with Leo.

"Nah." Cause he really wasn't. "He jus' my scapegoat if anything.” Least he had this back talking to Casey was a comfort he never knew till he no longer had it that is, he first felt it when they were talking on the roof. After Casey made it known he knew he was going around as the Knightwatcher. Raph ended up passing out on the roof next to Casey, Suddenly struck with the comfort he had been missing so much. He still missed it despite Casey being right beside him. Well cause the talks when dating were a bit different, It came with more affection, that was barren now.

“Didja follow me?” Raph asks, Casey didn’t need to follow he could find Raph no matter what he always knew where he was most likely to go after all. Casey still seeming to be fishing around in Raph’s mind for what was up with him. Maybe Raph was just suddenly hit with a million regrets. After all Raph had been a real ass with well everyone after Leo stopped writing to them. Raph mulled it over letting the sound of ocean waves crashing into to the sand sort of ground him for a moment. Raph has kind of always been a touch of a ass to his brothers. Yeah maybe he could stand to be a bit better to them but even as kids they always in the end sorted things out. “Nah none with any of them.” Raphael confesses, watching the water for a bit longer. He knows why suddenly, why he came here. Why Casey always gave him a comfort. The long blue hair and those deep pools of ocean blue they called eyes.

“Just say it!”

Casey never was one to let things go easy was he? Raphael turned his head so to rest his cheek to his arm, the tails of his mask slipping over his shoulder to freely flow in the air as he fixed his gaze on Casey. He felt guilt and remorse of course but mostly? “Dumping you. Only one I got.”

#muse| hamato raphael #madamkezzie #aflockoffeathers #[ if you jumped off a bridge its only cause i did first -aflockoffeathers]#[07 verse]#just say it meme #ic reply #meme answer #meme reply #stay queued

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ladyreapermc · 4 years ago

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Fic: Closing Time (Johnny Utah x fem!reader)

Summary: You work at a clothing store, you get a last minute customer at closing time and sexy tims happen.

Pairing: Johnny Utah x fem!reader

Author’s Notes: So I’m slowly getting back to writing. I’m not gonna say I’m fully back just yet, but for this week at least, there will be content! Huge thanks to @toomanystoriessolittletime and @meetmeinthematinee for being cheerleaders and giving me early feedback on this!

Wordcount: 3125

Warnings: smut. oral sex (F! receiving); dirty talk; unprotected sex with strangers (don’t do this kids!); sex in inappropriate places.

Most days you quite enjoyed it when there was barely any movement at the store. It gave you the opportunity of just being by yourself, reading a book, or enjoying some music or studying for college, things that you didn’t always have the privacy of doing at your dorm because your roommate seemed to always be around. Even during the summer and what was up with that? Didn’t she have better things to do?

She wasn’t like you, who actually had to work to put yourself through college and took some extra jobs during the summer so you could have some savings for the following term when all you managed to get were part-time jobs that you had fit in between classes and paid shit.

Fortunately, at the shop, you had some peace and time for yourself. It was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall sort of place around Venice Beach where tourists could get some shirts and other knickknacks to take back home and locals surfers could find cheap clothing and supplies for a day out on the beach. Most days, you worked from 9-5 and after your shift, you could head to the beach, spread your towel on the sand and enjoy the gorgeous Californian sunset. However, as the summer winded out and the fall winds blew the scalding hot weather into simmering heat, your boss let you close a little early, especially on Tuesdays, when most tourists had already headed home and the new arrivals hadn’t landed yet so there were barely any customers around.

Your plan today had been to finish your reading for class and start the new crime thriller you picked up at the used books store on your way to work. Except, today you were just too restless to focus. You must have reread the same paragraph of your textbook twenty times before you gave up and set it aside, giving the other book a go, but it was just as unsuccessful at holding your attention.

So instead, you moved around the cramped space, adjusting the decoration items, dusting off shelves, and refolding every single shirt in the display until it was perfectly symmetrical while you willed time to move faster so you could end this day. Maybe it was the heatwave that had made an appearance turning the air in the shop stifling and all you had to help you was an old and slow fan that made more noise than blow air. The A/C was busted and your boss still hadn’t called someone to fix it.

Another possibility was the fact that you had to keep the glass doors opened to help circulate a little air and every time any kind of wind blew or someone walked in, it brought with them the crisp smell of salt and sand that always made you ache for the ocean and fight against the temptation of just abandoning everything and heading for the beach so you could cool off taking a dip in the deliciously cold water. Either way, you kept checking the slow ticking of the clock hands, counting the seconds before you could turn the closed sign.

When the minute hand finally hit twelve, you let out a cheer, jumping off your stool and taking a step towards the door. You always locked the doors first to discourage most last-minute walk-ins while you closed the register, put away the money in the back office safe, and slipped out of the store through the back door, taking any garbage with you to throw in the dumpster outside.

Before you could move from behind the counter, a man stepped into the store and you groaned low in your throat. Of-fucking-course! It was like they stood in wait to come in at the precise moment you were about to head out.

“Hey, you’re still open, right?” He asked, pushing the overgrown dark hair back from his forehead and offering you an unsure smile. You felt the urge to lie and say that no, you were closed and he should come back tomorrow.

“Yeah, sure.” You said instead placing your best and most fake seller’s smile. “Feel free to look around and let me know if you need help.”

“Thanks!” He replied, flashing a wider smile that showed a small dimple, before moving towards the shirts in the display while you made your way to the main entrance, flipped the sign, and locked the door to bar any other walk-ins.

You hung back while the guy browsed the options, taking a moment to assess him. He didn’t look like a tourist, but also not fully like a local. Most Californian guys that you knew had the most horrifying hair cuts or bleach jobs you had ever seen and that was not the case for the man in front of you.

His hair was dark brown, a little shaggy from too much exposure to sun and salt and it flopped a little over his forehead, just above his eyes. He wore a grey cropped t-shirt that had definitely seen better days and struggled to contain his broad shoulders, showing a peek of toned abs. His jeans were ridiculously tight and hung low on his slender hips, the light-wash of the denim accentuating the perfect bubble butt and for the love of God, you needed to get laid. Badly.

“Excuse me,” he called, startling you and you prayed he hadn’t noticed the way you were checking his ass just now. “Do you have this one in black?”

“Yeah, sure.” You moved towards the drawers. “What’s your usual size? Medium or large?”

“I think large should be good,” he replied and when you turned around with the requested shirt, he was just standing there, barechested, his top hanging from his shoulder and you hoped your gasp wasn’t as loud as it sounded in your head.

“Here you go,” you croaked, offering him the shirt. “We do have a fitting room…” you gestured towards the small cubicle to the rear of the store.

“Oh right!” He glanced over as he pulled the shirt on. “Do you mind if I try them out here, though?”

“Not at all,” you forced your voice to sound somewhat normal.

“Awesome!”

Damn! He wasn’t just fucking hot. He was also cute, the wide grin he just flashed giving him a boyish look that was only enhanced by the almond-shaped chocolate-colored eyes. Biting your lip, you watched as he turned side to side in front of the mirror, checking himself out.

“It think is a little too big,” he said, meeting your gaze. “What do you think?”

“Well…” you cleared your throat and moved closer so you could look at him through the mirror. “If you want it more fitted, then yeah, probably a smaller size would be best. Want me to get it?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Once again, by the time you turned back to him, he was shirtless, the garment he had just tried neatly folded and resting on the shelf as he took a look at some other shirts, his attention snapping at you when he noticed you coming closer to hand him the new shirt, giving you a glimpse of a pale, sunken scar running down his abs that stopped just above his belly button and that drew attention to the small trail of fine dark hairs that disappeared under the waist of his jeans and holy shit! He was bare beneath those jeans.

“Bike accident,” he commented as he took the shirt that you offered and you met his eyes in confusion.

“What?” You asked, mouth suddenly dry.

“The scar,” he clarified, putting on the shirt and his lips were tilted into a slight smirk. “That was what you were staring at, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, feeling your face burning. “I’ll just head to the register and give you some privacy.”

I don’t mind,” he shrugged, turning to the mirror. “This is better. What do you think?” He turned towards you, giving you a full view of the cotton fabric covering his muscles, looking almost as if painted on him.

“Sure...” you swallowed hard, trying not to stare. “If you prefer it more fitted...”

“I do,” pulling the shirt off and once again giving you the glorious view of his torso. “I’ll take it.”

You took the shirt to the register and he followed, pausing only to pick up his own, which he had discarded on a nearby hanger. You were expecting him to put it back on, but he just threw it over his shoulder, reaching for his wallet as you registered the sale and tried not to stare.

“Is that the only camera you have around here?” He asked, gesturing to a point above your left and you glanced at the object before nodding, exchanging the money he gave you for the paper bag with his purchase.

“Yeah, why?”

“So basically...” he started, taking a step to the side, closer to the fitting room. “I’m completely out of sight over here?”

“Basically, yeah,” you frowned a little, stepping away from the counter. “Why? Are you planning to rob the place? Because let me tell you, there’s not much worth...” You trailed off with a surprised squeak as he tugged on your hand, pulling you over to the blindspot and nearly pressed against his strong chest.

“Because honestly, I never really gave a fuck about the shirt. I just thought you were beautiful and wanted to ask your number when I walked in, but you looked kind pissed so I got cold feet,” he confessed with a rueful smile.

“So you decided to just get mostly naked in front of me?” You snorted, shaking your head and he shrugged.

“Needed to make sure you might be interested and considering the way you were eyeing me earlier, it looked like you saw something you liked.”

“You’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you?” You arched an eyebrow at him, not ready to concede just yet. Even if the heat of his body and the smell of sea breeze whiffing off his skin were driving you crazy.

“Only when I’m right,” he flashed you a lopsided smirk and just waited, gazing into your eyes, making it clear that the next step was yours.

Part of you screamed that it was crazy to even consider hooking up with a guy that just walked into your store, no matter how hot he was, but it had been a ridiculously long time since you last had sex and he was so fucking hot, the scent of his golden skin intoxicating and his heat was making you dizzy with want as you looked him up and down, noticing the volume pressing against the denim of his pants.

“We might not have cameras, but the windows are see-through, so get your ass to the fitting room while I finish closing up.”

He flashed a victorious smirk and nodded, heading towards the back while you rushed through the steps of securing the store before joining him.

Your heart was pounding with anticipation as you made your way towards the back, pushing away the curtain that blocked the small space of the fitting room and finding him perched on the low stool that you kept there so customers could put down their things, facing the full-length mirror, legs spread, jeans undone, revealing the bush of dark hairs surrounding his long and thick cock.

You nearly whimpered at the sight, your center pulsing in want as you leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he run his left hand up and down his shaft, head tilted back, breathing hard, eyes hooded. He was such a beautiful and debauched sight that you felt the urge to photograph him, capture that sensuality.

“Are you just gonna stand there and watch?” He asked, eyes meeting yours through the reflective surface.

“You seemed to be doing fine on your own,” you teased stepping into the tight space, fingers itching to touch all that glorious skin.

“I did not just spend most of my afternoon at the corner diner, drinking burned coffee just to jerk off in front of you,” he declared, standing up and turning your way.

“Ohhh, so this was premeditated?” You asked, kicking off your sneakers as he reached for you and you stumbled against his chest.

“A little bit, yeah,” he admitted, large hand hot against your hips and you wanted to feel it against your flesh. “You probably don’t remember, but I was here last week and you had to bend over to get something from one of the lower drawers...” he let out a soft groan, hands moving to your ass and squeezing lightly. “Fuck! I don’t think I ever popped a boner so fast in my life. I had to get out.”

You vaguely remembered that. There was so much coming and going in this place, it was hard to keep track of faces, but customers just taking off after asking to see something usually caused an impression. If you weren’t about to get fucked after six months, you would be more pissed.

“So you decided to come back when I was alone and seduce me?” you asked, running your hands over his chest and abs, scratching it slightly and goosebumps rose in his skin as he hissed.

“Yeah,” he spoke in a low voice as his hands move to the button of your jeans. “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he slid your fly down and your breath caught in your throat. “I thought about bending you over that counter and fucking you until you’re screaming.” His fingers skimmed over your cunt, just a soft touch, but you gasped and arched your hips forward, holding onto his arms to steady yourself. “I thought about it eating your pussy and your ass until you’re begging me to fuck you.”

Those words were whispered right against your ear, before he changed your positions, crowding you against the mirror and pushing your jeans down to your thighs before he once against skimmed his fingers over covered sex, making you ache for him.

“What do you think about that?” He asked, lips brushing your cheek in an almost chaste kiss, completely opposed to the lewdness of his hand exploring your cunt. “Do you want it?”

“If you’re as good with your tongue at eating pussy like you are at talking dirty, then I maybe I do,” you declared, tired of his teasing and you felt his smirk as he gracefully slid to his knees in front of you.

You didn’t manage to get another word out before he shoved your panties down to join your jeans and his lips firmly connected to your clit. He gave it a sharp suck and you groaned, burying your fingers into his hair to keep yourself on your feet as your brain short-circuited and your knees turned to jelly.

He was very good at eating you out, especially because he was very attentive to every sound you made, every tightening of your grip on his hair, and roll of your hips to nudge him into going faster or slower, harder or softer... It wasn’t long before he reached that perfect alternation of fast flickering against your clit and slower and broad strokes of his tongue over your entrance and lips, a combination that drove you crazy.

You were whimpering and moaning, legs quaking with the alternating urge to close them around his face to keep him trapped there pleasuring you forever or spreading them wider so he could have more space to work, but the edges of your jeans were digging into the lower part of your knees, signaling you that that was as far as they could go.

As if reading your thoughts or maybe he just realized he would need more room, he shoved your pants down and helped you to kick them off so you could be completely free of the garment. And didn’t you two looked like a mismatched pair, with you standing there wearing only your top while he knelt in front of you, his jeans still on.

Once your pants were off, he hooked your right thigh over his shoulder, pressing his mouth even harder against your cunt, flickering his tongue over your clit before dipping it in between your lips, gathering the juices soaking your sex like a starved man.

“Fuck! I’m so close...” you hissed, rolling your hips, seeking more because that tight knot deep inside you was about to snap and from the way you ached and shuddered, your muscles tensing, you knew it would be a hard one.

“Yeah?” He mumbled against your core, his breath against your overheated skin making you shiver as he pushed two fingers inside you. “Gonna cum all over my mouth?”

He pistoled his fingers in and out at a fast pace, crooking inwards with every down motion, his tongue matching his rhythm against your clit and it was that made you snap as you bit down on your fist to stop yourself from shouting as your body was flooded with pleasure and all you knew was the unbelievable bliss that surrounded you. Stars bust behind your closed lids, the air came out of your lungs in short gushes as you fought hard not to slide down to the ground because your legs felt like jelly.

“Ok?” he asked, making you finally snap your eyes open to look at him.

He was sitting on his heels, face still glistening with your orgasm, his lips swollen and red from the abuse. His cock was rock hard, red, and leaking and you really wanted to return the favor.

“Way better than ok,” you replied with a gasp. “My turn?” To your surprise, he shook his head and got to his feet.

“Tonight, the only place I’m cumming is in that pussy,” he announced against your ear and shivered with anticipation. “So let’s get out of this fucking store and go to my place?”

“Fuck yes!” you grinned breathlessly at him as you reached for your jeans and he buttoned his over his hard cock and that couldn’t be comfortable.

“I’m Johnny, by the way,” he said. “Johnny Utah. Just in case you want to know what to shout when I fuck your brains out later.”

You rolled your eyes at his cheeky smirk and moved closer to him, once fully clothed, the only evidence of your recent climax was the sweat cooling on your skin and the stupid grin that refused to leave your face.

“I think I like you more when your mouth is busy with something other than talking,” you declared and before Johnny could manage a reply, you silenced him with a kiss, tasting yourself in his tongue.

xxx

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#johnny utah x reader #johnny utah x you #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #point break fanfic #fanfic

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pixiemage · 3 years ago

Text

Through a Crack in the Void

Part 10 / ??? [ Previous | Next ] [ Chapter List ]

[The feeling of freedom isn't something that can be defined simply. It's a culmination of little things. It's being able to fly without restraint, or eating quality food, or feeling the sun at your back, or watching the moon rise on a clear night...or being treated with kindness that doesn't feel like a trap.]

{This story can also be found on Archive of our Own}

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was something indescribably freeing about being airborne - truly airborne - for the first time in years. Grian had rarely been allowed to fly while with them, and even when he had it was…different. Flying in the void was worlds apart from flying in the overworld. Literally. There were almost no air currents, the air was stale and thin, and really, when no matter how far he flew he would always end up right back where he started whether it was his intention or not, flying had lost so much of its draw over the decade or so Grian had been trapped there. The frenzied flight he had taken during his escape - the first time in a long time Grian hadn’t felt the pull of their magic keeping him chained to their corner of the realm, an opportunity he knew he might not get again - was the most work he had put his wings through in years. The fact that he had only been using a third of his wing power (a third of his wings) surely didn’t help. It was no wonder he had been so sore and so exhausted the second he had landed at Hermitcraft’s spawn.

But now - oh, now–

Grian pushed his wings a little harder than they were probably ready for, but he didn’t care. He rose to build height, passed it, glided just above the clouds for a few beats of his heart - then with a slow, deep breath and a smile of absolute bliss, he tucked his wings tightly against his back and dove. Wind whipped past him, the chill of the high altitude nipping at his skin. The smell of sea salt began to reach him the lower he dropped, crisp air flowing between his feathers, and with the warmth of the sun at his back he had never felt more free.

Mumbo’s starter island grew larger below him, and from a distance Grian could see its occupant standing on the shore with his face turned skyward, a hand above his eyes to try and block the sun. Grian was sure he was giving Mumbo a heart attack with the ever-increasing speed of his dive, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was having the time of his life and he wasn’t about to give it up. Below him the churning blue of the sea grew closer and closer, Mumbo’s expression growing clearer and more strained the nearer Grian got. He waited until the very last second before letting his wings unfurl to catch himself, the air buffeting against his feathers with a snap as he curved them expertly to control his swooping turn, muscle memory guiding him despite years without proper practice. He pulled up just before he hit the ocean and flew level with the crashing waves and he couldn’t really help himself when he reached out with one hand to trail his fingers through the cool water below him.

Water. Fresh water. Another thing the overworld had that the void had lacked. He loved it.

Grian banked left toward Mumbo’s island, smirking cheekily as he made a direct beeline for the mustached man standing on the beach. Mumbo seemed to register what Grian was doing a moment too late, because by the time he was reeling back from the water’s edge Grian was already swooping to a sudden stop directly in front of him and assaulting him with a flurry of wing-powered wind. Grian tumbled onto the sand in a barely-controlled roll, flopping onto his back at Mumbo’s feet and grinning up at him with an absolute windswept joy illuminating his face.

“Void I’ve missed that,” he sighed, grinning like a loon and letting his wings sift against the sand. (He would need to preen again after this, he knew it, but that was a problem for Tonight Grian. Or maybe even Tomorrow Grian.) Above him, Mumbo was attempting to fix his hair that Grian had messed up, chuckling all the while at his friend’s antics.

“I can tell,” he commented, his mustache twitching upward with his smile. “Just don’t push yourself too far, yeah? I know False gave you the okay to fly, but–”

“Mumbo, Mumbo,” Grian rolled his eyes, sitting up and shaking some of the sand from his feathers. “Keep your mustache on, I’m fine. Honestly, you’d think I was made of glass the way you go about fretting sometimes.”

“Because I know you, Grian, and I know you have a bad habit of not knowing your own limits.”

Grian scoffed at that, but he took Mumbo’s proffered hand nonetheless. Once he was on his feet again he tossled a hand through his hair to try and fix some of the windswept mess it had become, shaking sand from the back as he did so.

“Nonsense, I know my limits just fine,” he said, brushing past Mumbo and letting one of his wings thwack him in the face. (He pointedly ignored Mumbo’s protests at having to fix his hair again.) When Grian spun around to face the disgruntled redstoner, there was a cheeky grin lighting up his face, brilliant and teasing despite the red of the burns still marring his features. He folded his hands behind his back and leaned forward, tilting his head mockingly. “C’mon Mum-bo, quit being a mother hen. Don’t you trust me?”

“Frankly, mate, I think that’s a complicated question when it’s you we’re talking about,” Mumbo huffed, and Grian let out a bright cackle of laughter that made Mumbo’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“I’d be offended but I think that might be the smart answer.”

“I’ve seen your pranks, Grian. It’s definitely the smart answer.”

Grian’s smile flickered slightly at the mention of pranks, but the moment was so brief he was sure Mumbo had missed it. It was a good day. He could dwell on painful memories another time, when he wasn’t still reveling in his first flight in the sunlight in years. He brushed the looming shadow of a distant thought aside.

“Who’d you say was coming by today?” he asked instead, turning away from Mumbo and traipsing off across the tiny island toward the lone oak tree left growing in the grass. He leapt for a low branch, his wings giving him that last boost he needed to reach it, and he was walking his feet up the trunk when he finally heard Mumbo’s footsteps approaching him.

“Er…Cleo and Bdubs,” Mumbo said. “You haven’t met them yet. I’m a bit surprised Bdubs is coming, actually.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I didn’t think he was on the new server just yet. He left middle of last season to deal with some personal stuff, and last I heard he wouldn’t be back for a while longer.” With a sniff and a shrug, Mumbo came to a stop beneath the tree and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Anyway. Bdubs said Xisuma asked them for some clothes for you, since you don’t have any spares with you. They should be here soon.”

Grian, who had finally managed to swing himself up to straddle the branch he’d been clinging to, leaned forward to lay on his chest along the branch. His wings hung down on either side of him and he tried to use the tips of his primaries to mess up Mumbo’s hair for the third time in as many minutes. Mumbo simply stepped beyond his reach with a sly smirk, much to Grian’s disappointment.

“Some clothes?” he repeated. They were bringing him clothes? It was such a small gesture, but something about it gave him a sort of warm-fuzzy feeling in his chest. “Why?”

“Because people need clothes, Grian,” Mumbo rolled his eyes. “And no offense, but the purple pajamas you showed up in are looking a little rough, and the shirt Iskall gifted you is decidedly not your size.”

…he had a point. The oversized green shirt was comfortable and it didn’t irritate the remaining bandages still wrapped around Grian’s chest, but he’d had to tuck it into his pants to keep the overly long garment from getting in the way. Not to mention - Grian glanced down at his hanging legs, at the gilded purple fabric of his trousers - a part of him had been itching to get rid of the clothes the Watchers had given him since day two. The only thing that held him back was the fact that he had nothing else to wear in their stead.

Only now, that might not be the case.

“...what are they like?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and looking down at Mumbo again.

“What, Cleo and Bdubs?”

“Yeah.” Grian sat up and perched on the branch beneath him on the balls of his feet, slowly standing until he could reach another branch. He carefully worked his way up and around the tree, his wings helping to balance him and Mumbo following him around the trunk from below as he talked.

“Well - hm. Bdubs is very high-energy. He’s an excellent builder too, something you’d appreciate I’m sure.” There was a knowing tone to his words. “He’s a bit chaotic and he makes everything into a much bigger deal than it ever has to be. Honestly, I think you’d get along fairly well.”

“You say that - ngh–” Grian pulled himself up onto another branch with a grunt of effort, then straddled it so he could look down through the leaves at the redstoner still on the ground. “You say that about every Hermit.”

“Well–” Mumbo spluttered, “–well to be fair, the ones you’ve met have all been people you would get along with! That’s not my fault!”

“Is there anyone you think I’d butt heads with?” Grian chuckled.

“Er…” Mumbo seemed to ponder this, his gaze dropping for a second or two before he searched for Grian again among the leaves. “Maybe Doc? Though that’s the case for anyone who meets him at first. He’s an acquired taste. Joe’s a bit of an odd bird as well, but he’s friendly enough that you’d be fine. Keralis perhaps? I’m not sure. He’s either your friend or your enemy, but his ‘enemies’ are often treated with a playful sort of competition rather than actual disdain, so…”

“So what you’re saying is, the Hermits are all amazing people and you’re all a big happy family and they’ll all accept me with open arms?”

Grian heard a distant snort of laughter from his friend.

“Well yes, actually, that sounds about right.”

Grian gaped at him.

“Wh–...I was joking!”

“Well I’m not!”

Climbing back to his feet again, Grian rolled his eyes.

“I still feel like you’re exaggerating, but sure, if you say so.” He sidestepped around the trunk to an adjacent branch, his wings pulled tight to his back so they wouldn’t catch on anything. “What about Cleo?” he called down. “What’s she like?”

“Oh, Cleo’s a wildcard,” Mumbo said immediately, pulling a surprised laugh from the avian far above him. “She’s blunt and she’s opinionated, but she’s also the kind of person who’ll stick by you forever once you’re friends with her. She’s got a dry sense of humor. She’s creative too. You should see the outfits and puppets and dolls she makes. The things she can do with a needle and thread–” Mumbo let out a low whistle, one that barely reached Grian’s ears from where he was now perched near the very top of the tree.

As if only now realizing how high Grian had gotten, Mumbo took a few steps back from the tree with a hand above his eyes to block the sun, letting out an exasperated huff at the sight before him.

“Mate, you’re mad, you know that?” he called up to Grian, who was now standing on his newfound perch, one hand gripping a smaller branch above him as he leaned out away from the trunk. He grinned, cheeky and mischievous - and then he let go. “GRIAN!”

Grian shoved away from the tree, away from the mess of branches and leaves he would rather avoid becoming entangled in, and let his wings carry him in lazy circles as he descended. He alighted on the ground with an innocent smile on his face, biting back a laugh at the long-suffering expression on Mumbo’s face.

“What? Is there a problem?”

“I take it back,” Mumbo muttered. “You’re not mad. You’re a menace.”

“Aww, you say such sweet things,” Grian cooed, finally breaking into a laugh when Mumbo threw his hands in the air in defeat.

“LAND HO!”

Both of them turned toward the call of a new voice. There was a boat approaching the shore from the direction of the mainland, two occupants sitting inside it. Cleo and Bdubs, Grian assumed. The boat hadn’t even reached land yet when one of the two - a dark-haired player in a plain white long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans - leapt out into the shallow water, splashing through calf-deep waves to the front of the boat to pull the second player ashore.

“Bdubs, we could have just paddled the last few feet,” the woman in the boat told him with a sigh, but all the same she took his offered hand with a small smile of thanks and let him help her step down onto the sand.

This, Grian realized by process of elimination, must be Cleo. The one thing Mumbo hadn’t mentioned earlier was the fact that she also seemed to be a zombie or zombie hybrid of some kind, her skin pale and green-tinged and stitches visible here and there. Her dark blue blouse was about as ragged as one would expect from someone who was undead, but based on the near-perfect condition of her shorts and socks and shoes, Grian supposed it was a stylistic choice more than anything.

“Well yeah, we could’ve,” Bdubs was saying now, “but I wanted to be a gentleman.”

“I wasn’t aware gentlemen came in such small packages.” Mumbo piped up, waving with one hand in greeting when they turned his way.

Bdubs immediately went red-faced and started spluttering, much to Cleo’s and Mumbo’s obvious amusement.

“Very freaking funny!” he spat out finally. “Says the guy who’s a freaking skyscraper! I’m a perfectly average height, thank you very much!”

“You know, he’s got a point Mumbo,” Grian mused, turning to give Mumbo a dramatic and thoughtful once-over. “Are you sure you’re not part enderman somewhere in there?”

“Er–” Mumbo blinked, slightly taken aback by the one-eighty Grian had delivered, and down by the shore Cleo bit back a burst of laughter.

“Goodness me,” she sighed, amusement in her words. “We’ve been here for less than a minute, and already you’ve begun insulting each other. This is going excellently.”

“Is this normal for Hermitcraft?” Grian asked her as she and Bdubs abandoned their boat in favor of joining the island’s residents near the tree.

“Well, it’s normal for Bdubs,” she told him, lowering her voice conspiratorily and leaning closer to Grian. (He did his best not to shy away from the sudden proximity.) “Etho started making jokes about his height while they were part of the nHo last season, and at this point the gag has kind of stuck.” She gave Bdubs an obvious calculating stare over her shoulder. “I’ll admit, it’s not exactly unfounded, but–”

“I’M NOT SHORT!” Bdubs blustered, his fists clenched at his sides. “I’m taller ‘n Impulse and Joe! And Wels too, as a matter of fact!”

“Mmm, I dunno…” Cleo squinted at him, sizing him up. “I spend a lot of time around Joe, and I reckon he’s still got you by a few inches. And if you’re not taller than him, you’re definitely not taller than Wels.”

“CLEO!”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re definitely taller than Grian,” Mumbo put in, and Grian laughed.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” he agreed, smirking. “I’m perfectly gremlin-sized and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You guys are the worst,” Bdubs grumbled, shoving up his shirt sleeves and refusing to look at any of them.

“Alright, alright, we’ll lay off.” Cleo nudged his shoulder lightly. “Mumbo brought it up. If you need to blame someone, blame him.”

At that, Mumbo had the decency to look sheepish and apologetic. He rubbed the back of his neck with a weak smile.

“That’s true actually, I did. This is the first time I’ve seen you in months and that’s what I decided to start with. Apologies for that.”

Bdubs rolled his eyes, still looking a bit miffed, but when he glanced in Mumbo’s direction there was a sparkle of mirth in his eyes.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, smiling softly. “It’s good to see you guys again. I’m not actually staying for long, sad to say. I’m still dealin’ with some stuff back home, but Xisuma caught me at a good time and I wanted an excuse to come say hi.” His expression lit up and he finally let his focus fall on Grian. “Oh! Right! You’re the new Hermit, aren’t you?”

“Er - I dunno about ‘Hermit’ just yet,” Grian shrugged, his wings shifting against his back. “But I’m certainly new around here. I’m Grian.”

Grian held out a hand after a moment of internal hesitation and Bdubs was quick to take it, his handshake as energetic as the rest of him.

“Nice to meetcha Grian! Name’s B-double-O, though most folks just call me Bdubs. Welcome to Hermitcraft!”

It was so enthusiastic and genuine, so full of a friendly and eager excitement at the prospect of a new neighbor, and Grian felt a grin split his face completely unbidden. Maybe Mumbo hadn’t been exaggerating after all. Maybe the Hermits really were just one big (slightly insane) happy family.

“Not to cut this introduction short,” Cleo interrupted, squinting skyward, “but would you mind if we move this indoors? If you recall, the sun doesn’t exactly agree with me, and I’d rather not burn through my fire res any faster than I have to this early in the season.”

“Oh, right!” Mumbo jolted, immediately starting toward his little starter house and gesturing for them to follow. “Sorry, should’ve thought of that sooner. Come on in! It’s not much yet, but lord knows we’re all just starting out right now.”

Cleo snorted.

“Oh, come off it Mumbo, you know full well you’ve probably got the best starter base of the lot right now. You had Scar helping you on day one and we all know what he’s like.”

“Wait, Scar helped you?” Bdubs asked as Mumbo held the front door open for all three of them. “Is he living here too?”

“Nah, just me and Mumbo.” Grian grinned and dropped down onto one of the two chairs in the room, straddling it backward and letting his wings droop a bit behind him. He would never admit it to Mumbo, but maybe he had pushed himself a little far during his flight this morning, and his muscles were protesting it ever-so-slightly. “See, ol’ Mumbo Jumbolio here chose to take in an injured bird right off the bat, and Xisuma decided we weren’t allowed to hunker down in a dirt hut on our first night like the rest of the plebeians on the server.”

“Ohhh…” A look of understanding crossed Bdubs’ face and he looked to Mumbo, who had just closed the front door with a soft click. “Dadmin mode?”

“Dadmin mode,” Mumbo agreed. He shrugged, as if to say ‘What can you do?’ Bdubs nodded sagely.

“I think he’s still in it, seeing as he was askin’ for spare clothes.” At those words, Bdubs summoned a bright blue shulker box from his inventory, one that had Grian perking up. The moment it was placed down Bdubs was crouched beside it, opening it and rifling through its contents. “I only brought a couple of things from my home server but surely something’ll fit. If not, Cleo can fix ‘em up for ya.” He withdrew a few folded stacks of clothes, some basic pants and shirts and a jacket or two. As he started separating them out Grian found himself leaving his chair behind, gravitating toward the folded fabrics and crouching near Bdubs.

“...you brought all of this for me?”

The question left him before he could really stop it, the soft astonishment in his voice far too audible to his own ears. Bdubs stilled and looked up at him, a few different expressions flitting behind his eyes before a softer version of his bombastic grin appeared on his face.

“‘Course I did. It’s not like I’m usin’ all this right now. If someone else needs it, why wouldn’t I help out?”

Grian let out a breath, his eyes raking over the…the gifts that Bdubs had brought to his door. It wasn’t exactly a foreign concept so much as an unpracticed one, something he had gotten so used to going without that the sudden shift back to normal player practices was almost jarring. The same had happened almost a week ago, the first time Grian had tasted food that wasn’t made up of magic and void particles, and then later that same night when he watched the moon rise in the star-strewn sky through the fencepost-windows of the bedroom. All things that he had experienced before, all things that were familiar, but all things that he had been away from for so long that being reintroduced to them felt like brand new experiences for the first moment or two. It was like his first taste of true freedom all over again.

Grian’s eyes danced over the fabrics and colors and materials before his eyes fell on something still sitting in the bottom of the shulker box, left behind while Bdubs went through clothes.

“What about those?” he asked, nodding toward the black sneakers. Bdubs followed his gaze.

“Oh! Yeah, Etho bought me those last season to replace mine that got all messed up in the jungle, but they’re a bit too small. I never got around to returning ‘em. I didn’t know if they’d fit you or not, but I figured I might as well bring ‘em.”

Grian reached into the shulker and withdrew the shoes, turning them over in his hands. They looked like they might fit. He sincerely hoped they would.

“So whaddaya say?” Bdubs asked, and Grian looked up to see a bright smile on the other player’s face. “D’you wanna try some stuff on?”

“Is it fashion show time?” Cleo piped up from where she and Mumbo had been chatting in the corner. “Oh, please tell me it is.”

Grian glanced between them, their excitement infectious, and he grinned right back.

“Let’s do this.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[A/N: Bdubs and Cleo! Ayo! So, while writing this, I learned that Bdubs (the creator, not the character) actually took a break from Hermitcraft that started in Season 5 and ended partway through Season 6. I just about had a literal slams-head-on-desk moment when I realized it, because I'd already written Bdubs into a previous scene with Xisuma messaging him, so I didn't want to CHANGE it. Sooo we get this instead! A visit from a wayward Hermit! I know the real-life reason Bdubs had to take a break, but I don't know if he gave a "canon" reason his character was gone, so I'm being purposefully vague about it here. Fill in the blanks on your own if you'd like. ;) REGARDLESS, I had a ton of fun writing him, and in writing Cleo I realized I will one day get the chance to write her interacting with Joe...and oh I can NOT wait for that!

We see also tiny glimpses of how Grian is handling his newfound freedom in this chapter. It's something that has bugged me in certain Watcher!Grian fics before, where he has just escaped from this place devoid of life and humanity and yet he returns to being a player as though he never left. But there's a level of adaption and transition that would happen, right? So we're seeing some of that here. Other than that...I wonder if anyone can guess what might be coming up in the next chapter? I didn't exactly hint at it, but it's something a little iconic, so I'm curious if anyone will think of it before I've written it...?]

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#Hermitcraft #Hermitcraft FanFic #Watcher!Grian #Grian #Winged!Grian #Through a Crack in the Void #Hermitcraft Season 6 #Pixiemage Writes #Bdubs #Zombie Cleo

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link4eva · 4 years ago

Text

Kiro’s Mind’s Quest: Infatuation Play Translation Part 2 [CN]

Hey! Here’s Part 2 of Infatuation Play. Here is Part 1 if you haven’t read it yet.

Enjoy~ 💛

*Spoilers for future content below!*

[Chapter 4]

MC: It seems I’ve put too much salt in the seasoning….

MC: If it’s salty…. add more water!

Kiro: Haha.

Kiro was amused by what I said, and he shook off a piece of beef and tasted it.

Kiro: Good to eat!

Kiro also gave me a piece, the evening light leaked in from the window, reflecting a small layer of fluff on his face.

In the steam, the spicy and delicious smell seemed to dispel the previously unremarkable smell in the house.

I took a sip of soda and brought up the topic from before. *Changed some wording*

MC: By the way, in addition to encountering the big challenge of an actor’s career, filming NG….

MC: Is there anything else that left an impression on you?

Kiro looked down and thought about it seriously.

Kiro: Does scaring a crying kid count?

MC: Of course!

Kiro smiled when he saw the eagerness on my face to hear the story.

Kiro: This scene is also related to entering the character state.

Kiro: In order to maintain this state, I kept myself bored in the hotel room for a long time….

Kiro: Probably because of my routine, no one reminded me.

Kiro: Later, I didn’t know the exact time anymore. When I came out, I felt that I had been in the dark for a long time.

Kiro: I realized that I was a bit too immersed, so I went to buy a bottle of soda to take a break.

Kiro: Then I met a kid in the crew…. I didn’t do anything, he just saw me and then cried.

Kiro’s voice was very low, and the hot pot gurgled.

I think of Kiro’s immersive performance on the screen, and then I dig a little deeper into what he said just now-- *Changed some wording*

It was as if he had a bitter fruit in his heart, and he desperately wanted to hide it from me. The more bitter it was, the stronger the taste.

In the end, the fruit still found its way into my heart.

I sniffed and couldn’t help joking.

MC: From another perspective, that kid got to watch a scene for free.

Kiro raised his eyes, and I continued with a smile.

MC: I want to watch the exclusive performance of the big star Kiro too!

MC: Thinking about it this way, I feel a little jealous.

I took his hand and his fingertips quivered slightly.

Kiro: Don’t you think I’m not doing well enough? As a professional actor, I shouldn’t be in this situation.

I shook my head.

MC: Remember, you asked me before if there was anything interesting about this business trip.

MC: In fact, in the city where I was on business, there would be lively gatherings at night on the street next to the hotel.

MC: Looking down from the balcony, there are clusters of lights, and everyone sits on the steps and chats casually.

MC: When I saw it, I was thinking, “I must bring Kiro here next time. He will love the sparkling cider here.”

I looked at Kiro brightly. He seemed to be imagining the scene I described with slight waves in his eyes.

MC: I want to share with you all the good and bad, brilliant and lonely times.

MC: You can be imperfect, you can have lonely and dark moments because I will be with you.

MC: We share each other’s lives. No matter what life it is, as long as we experience it together, it is enough.

Those blue eyes staring at me seemed to be lit by some kind of warm light for a moment, filled with soft emotions.

I paused and asked him softly.

MC: I remember that every time you acted in a play, you would bid farewell to them at the end.

MC: You said that you were lucky to participate in a period of their lives and experienced their emotions.

MC: So in the end, you have to bid farewell to the partners you have been working with….

MC: Looking forward to another time and space, they will continue their lives.

MC: Did you say goodbye this time?

Kiro looked at me and suddenly reached out and wiped the oil stains on my lips.

The boiling of the hot pot sounded and there seemed to be some fragments of emotions in his eyes that had melted silently.

He paused, turned his head and raised the bear cup on the table. He raised it in the air, the emotions in his eyes were clear and calm.

Kiro: Americano is still too bitter, I prefer to drink soda.

Kiro: The hot pot made by Miss Chips is delicious. As long as you are with her, even the little things like walking your dog to the supermarket are worth remembering.

His gaze flickered over the neatly coded script on the sofa, and there was a sense of relief in his voice.

Kiro: What you didn’t find, I did.

Kiro: In the time and space I don’t know, you will definitely find what you want, and come back to shine on the stage again.

Kiro: Now, it’s time to say goodbye to you.

The starry sky is gentle, and the steam from the hot pot rises, almost like a response. The wind blows the curtains and the room is full of starlight. *Changed some wording*

We are both covered.

(Cut to the living room)

MC: What’s going on with Cello lately? She seems to be more irritable.

MC: Not only did she knock over the sunflower vase in the living room, but also bit her tail….

I pet Cello who was being held in Kiro’s arms and spoke tentatively.

It is said that the mood of pets will be influenced by the owner. Is Cello….?

Kiro looked away with a guilty conscience.

Kiro: Maybe it’s because the season makes everyone more irritable.

Kiro: [coughs] Just leave her be, save the sunflower first.

He found a new vase in the cabinet and handed it to me. I trimmed the sunflower’s branched and leaves that had been bitten by Cello.

Kiro sat cross-legged across from me and stared at me without blinking. I was a little embarrassed to be stared at.

MC: What are you looking at?

Kiro tilted his head at me and his blond hair swayed slightly. It was obviously a naughty action, but the smile in his eyes was very gentle.

Kiro: Of course I was looking at Miss Chips.

Kiro: Looking at your actions, expressions, the flower in your hand, and….

Kiro’s tone was stretched out and I followed his gaze to see the light-coloured hairband on the side of my head.

The soft end of the hairband slid down my neck and onto my skin.

MC: KI-RO!

I blushed for a moment and when I was hurriedly trying to retie my hairband, my hand was suddenly grabbed.

I looked up and under the frivolity of the sun, I didn’t know when Kiro got so close to me that I could see the creases on his lips.

His gaze fell on the end of my hair. He tucked the hairband lightly and winked at me.

Kiro: Miss Chips, let me help you.

Without waiting for my answer, he took a strand of my hair and maneuvered his hands dexterously, rubbing my earlobes with his fingertips which caused a burst of scorching heat.

The hairband is like a streamer that can be held in his hand, and he is the creator of beauty.

The mood is changing silently at this moment as we stay so close. *Changed some wording*

No matter how difficult the moments we encounter are, they will definitely be healed in the accompanying time.

After a while, Kiro held my face and looked at it with satisfaction.

Kiro: That’s it.

I reached up to touch the hairband and couldn’t help but smile. *Changed some wording*

MC: You even tied a small bow!

Kiro: Of course, this is the exclusive mark of Kiro.

Kiro picked up the end of the hairband and looked down at me tenderly. His blue eyes were like a vast and boundless sea and I willingly indulged in it.

(Cut to morning)

The morning light was in the room and the sound of the phone vibrating awakened me from my sleep. I picked up the phone and pressed the answer button.

MC: Kiki? What’s wrong?

Kiki: Boss, the project you flew abroad to talk about has passed!

Kiki: Anna received the letter of intent last night, and the person in charge there said that he hoped the date of the contract signing could be confirmed today.

Kiki: Where are you now? Come and visit the company!

MC: Okay, I’ll be there.

I hung up and turned my head, Kiro’s sleeping face came into view.

He seems to be having a good sleep and his lips are slightly upturned, he looks particularly meek. *Changed some wording*

MC: ….

It looks like he is still a little sick. *Changed some wording*

The lack of sleep made my brain work a little slow, so I shook my head in an attempt to wake myself up a bit.

Just as I was hesitating whether to go, Kiro woke up with a hint of sleepiness in his eyes. He was startled when he saw my neatly dressed look.

Kiro: [cute sleepy voice] Is something happening at the company?

(If you pick “No”)

Seeing Kiro’s still pale cheeks, I shook my head and smiled at him.

MC: Nothing, I was just talking to Kiki.

But Kiro looked at me and suddenly smiled.

Kiro: Miss Chips, you should go do more important things first.

Kiro: I will wait here for you to come back.

Seeing him look at me quietly, I nodded gently.

(If you pick “yes”)

I was conflicted for a moment and then nodded honestly.

MC: There is a little situation that needs to be dealt with, but….

Before I finished speaking, I saw Kiro stretch out lazily with a slight smile in his tone.

Kiro: I will wait for your return.

He looked no different from what I was familiar with. I hesitated for a moment and finally nodded gently.

[Memory Silhouette]

MC: Hahahahahaha! This episode is so funny!

I laughed so much that my cheeks hurt and I had to lean against Kiro’s arms. He opened his arms and caged me in them.

Kiro: Is the way I eat mustard so funny?

I lifted my head and looked at him as he asked me.

The sun was shining on us warmly through the French windows, Kiro’s milk fragrance also wrapped around the tip of my nose. I couldn’t help but squeeze his cheek with my hand.

MC: No, but I like it.

MC: Didn’t someone say that if there is a person who can keep you smiling, then he must be an important presence in your life.

MC: You make me laugh without even thinking about it, your existence turns cloudy days into sunny ones. *Changed some wording*

As if he had accepted my theory, Kiro no longer struggled with his expression about the variety show, so he clicked the button to continue playing.

Kiro: Okay, I agree with Miss Chips.

This variety show has Kiro as a guest appearance. When he participated in the show, he had not yet joined the cast to make a movie. The show was as bright as a little sun.

In the space between the advertisements, I quickly glanced sideways at the person next to me.

Over the past few days, I can feel his gradual relaxation.

It’s not that I’m always vigilant, telling myself that I have to be happy in front of him, but because when I’m with him, I can relax and smile.

I liked this relaxed and soft Kiro.

MC: But speaking of it, in this variety show, I see you in a way that I don’t usually see.

MC: Planting seedlings, bargaining with the owner of a small shop, and making mosquitos nests by yourself.

MC: So Kiro turned out to be a secret master of life?

MC: So when I was making homemade cranberry cupcakes, a certain superstar asked me to teach him how to beat the egg yolks?

After being questioned, Kiro gave a cheeky “um”.

Kiro: That’s because, in the cast, I need to play the image of SuperHero. This is my job.

Kiro: But in front of Miss Chips, I can be willful and not so perfect, can’t I? *Changed some wording*

He looked at me with a smile in his eyes, like an afternoon orange soda full of refreshing taste.

MC: You said that…. I can’t refute it.

Although I said that, I couldn’t help but laugh.

MC: But two people mixing the egg yolk batter together is always more interesting than doing it alone.

There was constant laughter on screen. I looked at Kiro who was always smiling on the screen and couldn’t help but lean into his arms.

His chin rested on my shoulder from behind and his warm breath brushed my neck.

It’s always a good time to need each other and be together. *Changed some wording*

MC: Next time, teach me how to make a mosquito net.

MC: Maybe in the future when we go on a trip, it will be useful.

Kiro: Okay, let’s make a big and beautiful mosquito net.

MC: Huh? Why does it have to be so big?

Kiro: It can be used as an open-air tent. If you watch the stars at night, you don’t have to worry about being bitten by bugs.

I couldn’t help being amused by Kiro’s serious tone.

MC: Okay, let’s do it together.

Time is moving slowly and quietly, walking forward with a lazy pace. The lazy rest is close to the not-so-perfect Kiro.

Put together a cupcake with a honey-flavoured centre. *Changed some wording*

[Chapter 5]

When I had walked halfway towards the company, I decided to pull out my phone and call Kiki.

MC: Kiki, there are some things on my end that I can’t get away from. You can help me with the people from the other company and change the meeting to a virtual one.

MC: The contract has been sorted out, I will send it to them later. You are responsible for monitoring the online meeting.

Kiki: Mhhm, okay. Sounds good, boss.

After temporarily solving the company’s problems, I returned to Kiro’s house.

In order to avoid disturbing Kiro, who might still be asleep, I opened the door very quietly.

But when I entered through the door, I saw Kiro sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back facing me.

Kiro: Cello, don’t move.

A cat’s tail came out from his side, swinging back and forth uncomfortably, but was caught by Kiro in the next second.

Kiro: A few days ago, I didn’t play with you, which made you unhappy with me.

He was talking to himself, then sighed slightly.

Kiro: From now on I will play with you every day, but you are not allowed to bite your tail.

Kiro: If you bite your tail bald again, I will confiscate your dried fish!

Hearing what he said, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Kiro turned around when he heard the sound and when I saw Cello resting in his arms, I opened my eyes wide.

MC: You made a small flower for her bald spot.

A small flower made of pink wool is tied around Cello’s tail, which was probably taken from Kiro’s clothes. It covered most of the bald spot.

Kiro: Miss Chips, why are you back so soon?

Kiro was a little taken back, but because of my presence, there was an unconcealed smile in his eyes.

As I walked to Kiro’s side, I creased my eyes and opened my mouth.

MC: Because the witty Miss Chips changed the meeting to an online one, if it is synchronized with the time abroad, it will not start until the evening.

Kiro touched his chin thoughtfully.

Kiro: In other words, before the meeting, you still have a lot of time alone with me.

MC: You can think of it like that.

Suddenly I saw the familiar sly smile in his eyes. I was stunned for a second as I realized something and then took a step back cautiously.

Kiro smiled innocently and brilliantly.

Kiro: Miss Chips can’t run away, you came back to me by “getting caught” by my net. *Changed some wording*

In the next second, he hugged my waist and his presence hit me overwhelmingly.

Cello jumped to the ground, licked her paws, and curiously tilted her head to look at everything in front of her.

Kiro led me to the sofa where I sat in his arms, my heartbeat still a little fast.

Kiro chuckled.

Kiro: Why does Miss Chips look like as if I’m going to do something bad?

His palm touched my bare back, arousing a shudder.

He looked down at me, but there was nothing else in his eyes other than like.

I think of his unusual moments these past few days and my heart can’t help but feel moved.

The next second, I reached out and hooked my arms around Kiro’s neck. Kiro looked at me in a daze.

MC: Kiro, all the things that happen to you, I want to be the first person to share them with you.

I paused.

MC: Just as happiness and sadness are all the flavours of life we must experience;

MC: I want to be together in those bleak moments that must be experienced.

MC: Because--friction generates heat.

MC: So next time if you feel empty, let me stay with you.

MC: Let me fill your time.

Kiro’s eyes seemed to have a small sparkle of light in them after hearing my words.

After a while, I was pulled by Kiro and fell back into his arms.

Following his movements, my bag fell to the ground and a clear sound rang out. Kiro turned his head and glanced, leaning over and picking up a lipstick.

I reached out to take the lipstick, but Kiro grabbed my wrist.

He looked at me and suddenly put some on his lips slowly.

In the small and charming space, all his movements seemed to be slow and carefully planned, which made me suddenly think of the fragments I saw in the lens.

Kiro: While eating hot pot, Miss Chips said that she regretted not being able to see my exclusive performance.

He paused for a moment and gave a grin.

Kiro: Well now you can.

He raised his hand and the hot red in his palm brushed my hair and then letting it fall onto my back, bringing the smell of spices.

It’s like a light kiss.

I stiffened for a moment, only to feel that the spot touched by him was burning like fire, making me want to get closer.

MC: Kiro….

I muttered Kiro’s name softly. As if receiving some kind of response, he suddenly took my hand.

Then he lowered his head slightly and pressed his warm lips to my wrist.

Kiro: I’m here.

There was a warm touch from his skin and Kiro’s lips were still pressed against my wrist, but he lifted his eyes to look at me.

I blushed suddenly and wanted to lower my head and look away. The next second, I was firmly grasped with his other hand.

He held my hand and guided my fingertips past his lips.

His look was seductive, like a fairy falling into the world, unknowingly attracting me.

But perhaps, he knew it.

Kiro: Now I am sure that you have filled the most precious time in my world.

His blue eyes are as gentle as the sea and there is only a small me inside of them.

He looked at me and got closer, hot breath fell on the side of my neck accompanied by a soft voice.

Kiro: In fact, there have always been many temptations and difficulties on the way to becoming an actor.

Kiro: It’s a small boat called “Kiro”, sailing on the waves of the world. He often encounters danger, gets injured, and breaks.

The soft touch lingers from the side of my neck to my earlobe, and the breathy whispers fall on my ears very affectionately.

Kiro: But this one person, she found the boat on the boundless sea and repaired his damages.

Kiro: She then stayed on the boat and sailed the world with him to see glaciers and lakes.

Kiro: This person is called Miss Chips, and she is-- the beacon that guides me through the world.

His voice is like falling petals; quiet and soft with the ultimate sincerity. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: In the play, Kiro’s emotions belong to the stage.

Kiro: But Kiro outside the play, his world, everything about him belongs to you.

The scorching temperature left my neck and he looked at me earnestly with undisguised emotions in his eyes, like the surging ocean tides.

I couldn’t help but hug his neck back.

MC: Kiro, you made me the best Miss Chips in the world.

MC: Let’s go to farther places together, see glacial lakes, and sail the world together….

MC: Nothing can make me leave your side.

The sunflower grows enthusiastically and his golden hair is soft and brilliant. The world is flourishing and beautiful, just like himself.

If I were Kiro’s beacon for sailing the world, then let me be that tower that illuminates him.

Because-- he is also the most indispensable part of my world.

End

#mlqc #mlqc spoilers #mr love queens choice #mr love #mr love game #mr love dream date #mldd #mr love kiro #mlqc kiro #mldd kiro #周棋洛 #date translation #IM SO PROUD OF MC!!

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wintersongstress · 4 years ago

Note

Can I request a head canon for Arthur please?

With: 🌸💟

Of course! I did add a little bit of smut to this. I hope you like it! ♥

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Prompt: romantic headcanons

Tags: fluff, mild/implicit smut

♡ — If Arthur is sweet on you, being the focus of his kindness and attention is endearing and impossible to resist. What begins as timid flirting between you blossoms into an inevitable relationship, and every chance he has to put a smile on your face, he takes.

♡ — In the beginning he indulges in doting on you. Showing you his affection starts as small gifts—wildflowers tucked behind your ear, drawings left in your coat pocket, chocolate bars in your saddlebag—until your little fling evolves into something more.

♡ — On the days you are too exhausted or in a bad mood, Arthur will do your camp chores for you without asking. He brushes down your horse and will take you into town for dinner, helping you onto and off your mount—fully knowing you can manage by yourself—and holding the door open for you as well.

♡ — If men at the bar ogle you, Arthur is quick to put a stop to it. Not in a manner that is possessive or predicated on jealousy, but as response to demanding you be treated respectfully. He is not beyond squaring up to a rowdy cowhand, though, and will throw punches if his words are ineffective. Afterwards, when you kiss his cheek in gratitude and stroke your thumb across his hand tenderly, his coarse demeanor dissolves in a blush.

♡ — Speaking of physical touches, it takes Arthur time to warm up to receiving them. He tends not to focus on what he wants and puts others’ needs above his. Undoing his old habit of self-deprecation requires pulling out the roots of turmoil in his past, which will be heart-achingly painful, but it opens a new doorway of intimacy and leads him to be more amorous with you than before.

♡ — Soft and full of disbelief, your first kiss together is the product of a thousand dreams of doing so, with none of them able to compare. The way he melts into you, breathes in deep and pulls you in close by the hips leaves you breathless and dazed with bliss. At the perfect warmth of his embrace, you sigh and hold onto his jacket, the fur of his coat collar soft as a lamb’s ear to the touch. Upon departure he thumbs your chin, and those eyes of his open; soft as September skies, swaying with green, clouded with blue, dilating at the sight of you. In that moment, without him having to say it, you know how beautiful you are to him.

♡ — Arthur loves spending time with you. He makes good company on walks and likes to join you for mid-afternoon naps beneath the shade of an oak tree. Lying with his head in your lap, an hour can pass without a word as he sketches the landscape in his journal. You are more than happy to relax with a book, running your fingers through his hair until the heat of the day abates. Watching sunsets together also becomes a favorite pastime. He hugs you from behind and kisses your temple all the while, content to stay that way until long after the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

♡ — When he has to spend the day away working he makes sure to make it up to you, regardless of the reassurance of your understanding. He brings you coffee in bed, traces his knuckles along your cheek and kisses the tip of your nose to wake you. The sight of his handsome face and the longing in his expression is one you are loathe to see go, but you cup his stubbled cheek and needlessly remind him to be careful.

♡ — During his travels, Arthur comes across countless secluded and tranquil spots in nature. Creeks winding within aspen groves, meadows of wildflowers, hillsides patched with poppies and daisies, ponds ringed with water lilies and surveilled by herons—he finds so many places he wants to share with you.

♡ — Once in a while you get the chance to spend the night with him away from camp, having each other all to yourselves. Arthur will bring you to one of the placid places he has found: a lake nestled deep within a forest of silver spruces, where the cool waters glimmer with moonlit ripples and stars salt the clear sky. He builds a fire and pitches his tent, your bedrolls unfurled beside each other. Dinner consists of seasoned game meat and canned goods, and afterwards you share a bottle of gin to unwind. Childhood stories and your joining laughter fills the night, and before long you wheedle Arthur into dancing with you on the lakeshore.

♡ — With all that troubles him, the simple comfort of holding you in his arms and swaying to the tune of the nightfall chorus of wind and still waters sinks him into the deepest state of peace he has ever known. Closing his eyes, smelling the pine needles and the enchanting perfume of your skin, an overwhelming wish fills him to never leave—to take you away from the life you both lead. As he clenches his hands in your clothes and lays his cheek upon your head, he hopes you feel the same. By the sigh you hum against his chest, and the way you snuggle closer to him, his doubts vanish. The stars glisten in your eyes when he holds your head in his hands and you await the three words on his tongue. But you say them first.

♡ — He says your name in the gentlest way, and nothing else. What begins as sweet and reverent transforms into heated and hurried as you kiss, an urgent need swelling between you as you shuffle inside the tent. Always so gentle, Arthur’s hands are delicate as he lays you down, drifting over you as dreamily as the clouds in a silent summer heaven. Warm against your throat, his mouth seeks the fact of your pulse and presses against it indulgently, your sighs spurring him to venture farther. Downwards from your collarbone he trails, lips and touch, to the opening of your blouse, undoing the buttons with deft fingers. The dividing of your thighs around his hips lures his hands to your waist and brings his darkened eyes to yours, silently asking if you wanted him, this—truly.

♡ — All it takes is a nod. He thumbs the line of your smile, a tacit and an infinite implication of his gratitude, and descends, his mouth warm against the parting between your breasts. In the night your arms wrap tight around him, and all of the spaces between you fit together and fall into place harmoniously, like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. Surrounding you, completing you, at the height of it all he tells you how beautiful of a dream you are to him and you are lost. The way he looks at you, sees you, feels like no one ever has before him.

♡ — In the morning he wakes before you to the peace of birdsong and a turquoise sky. Lying beside you, he admires the softness of your sleeping figure, embedding the image of you in his memory. He leaves you to your rest and fishes for trout. The humming of a familiar tune and the stirring smell of breakfast in a pan draws you from your dreams, flitting your eyes open to the sight of Arthur squatting by the fire in his undershirt, his suspenders dangling. The shadows of the treetops fall over him and waver in the wind, the sunlight catching the glint of gold in his hair. Pine and wood smoke hangs in the air, and the surface of the lake ripples with the splashes of fish and a gliding string of ducks. What makes the picture perfect to you is Arthur, his posture relaxed and at ease. Never before had his face looked so young and carefree.

♡ — When you emerge from the tent flaps in his shirt, he greets you with a smile, handing you a plate and gesturing to the coffee. But you stoop down and tip his chin, melding your mouths in a long, lingering kiss lush with affection and ripe with a promise. His lashes blink at you dazedly as you pull away with a smirk, asking if he slept well. His response pulls your heartstrings tenderly, because as few as the words were, you knew how infinitely much they implied.

♡ — “I can’t tell which part of the night was the dream.”

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan headcanons #asks #animnerd #*my writing #WAS THIS OKAY? I DON'T EVEN KNOW #anyways thank you for the request-i really hope this is coherent 😅#AND I'M ALSO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG!

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sumsebien · 4 years ago

Text

by design pt.1//Prince Friedrich

prologue // series masterlist

summary: the journey from london to sanssouci is long. what will y/n and friedrich do with all this free time?

word count: 3.4k

warnings: none

a/n: hello i am sorry for being so late with this one. the next ones will also be a little further apart than you’ve come to expect from my last series but i think this quality-wise will be improved (hopefully)

The carriage was spacious enough so that Friedrich could sit without bumping his knees against whoever sat in front of him. Right now, that was you. Heinrich was next to Friedrich, briefing him about the itinerary for the day. And Friedrich tried to pay attention. He really did but his eyes kept landing on you every couple of seconds.

You sat quietly. Your face turned away from them as you gazed out of the windows. But then, he heard the faintest of sniffles. He turned to Heinrich. His valet stopped talking.

And then, he heard it again. This time, Heinrich heard it as well, laying the map down in his lap. Their eyes directed towards you.

You were crying.

The two men gave each other a look.

Friedrich hadn’t a clue what to do. He could not recall the last time he had had to comfort someone in distress. He figured it was because a Prince was not the most ideal person for people to confide in.

Heinrich, on the other hand, had three little sisters. Therefore, he was way more knowledgeable. He nudged the Prince’s shoulder, tipping his head towards your figure and mouthed ‘Do something!’

Friedrich shrugged. ‘What?’

‘Just do something!’

The silent conversation and stern looks Heinrich threw him forced a few words out of his mouth. All of them formed without any forethought. “My lady, would you like a handkerchief?”

His voice startled you. You quickly wiped the back of your hand under your eyes and shook your head. “I’m alright. Just something in my eyes,” you said, a weak smile on your face.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, a little bit too quickly for someone who was actually telling the truth. “It’s just been a long day. That’s all.”

You thought they didn’t notice or perhaps at the least would ignore it if they did. You obviously thought wrong. How you wish you could swing the window open and flap away.

It was a completely normal thing that all girls must go through at one point. You should be thinking of yourself as lucky even. The ladies of the ton would happily die to be you right now, moving to Prussia with your husband, the Prince. That was what you kept telling yourself.

Tears began to prick at your eyes again as you thought about a life that was foreign in every sense of the word.

Maybe life in London was not all that bad. Sure there was a certain face you had to keep up at all times but at least there was your best friend Olivia. You never thought you could ever miss the horrible balls and tea parties, the cruel gossip and the contemptuous looks. But as London disappeared behind you, the thought of never returning frightened you.

You inhaled a shallow breath, afraid of alarming the Prince and his valet. They probably thought you weak and pitiful now.

“Shall I get you a blanket? We still have quite the journey,” said the Prince.

You shook your head, not even dreaming of requesting anything from him. “I will just admire the countryside for now. Don’t worry about me.”

You promised yourself that you would stay awake. One of the things your mother managed to say to you in the carriage ride to the abbey was to not fall asleep as “it might put your husband off” in her exact words. She always made it a point to tell you just how ungraceful you looked when you were sleeping. And perhaps you should take her advice. The last thing you would want is for your husband to find you ungraceful just after your wedding ceremony.

Of course, not long after that, you fell asleep.

When you woke up, everything was pitch black. The last thing you remembered was trying to keep your eyes open. But the repetitive sights and the quiet droning of the Prince’s valet made it too difficult to resist giving in to the heaviness weighing on your eyelids.

As you blinked and regained your vision, you noticed that you were alone in the carriage. The blinds had been drawn on all windows. You felt yourself panic. Was something wrong? Where was everyone?

As you began to think up millions of ways the trip could have gone wrong, the possibility of a raid came up.

You drew a shaky breath and moved. That was when you realized that you had someone’s coat covering you this whole time. You held it up to the little sliver of light peaking through the curtains and recognized the navy blue color. It was the Prince’s.

Just as you were holding the coat, the door was opened. You nearly froze when you saw Heinrich on the other side.

“Your Highness,” he bowed, “you’re awake.”

The title threw you in a bit of a loop in your drowsy state. It took you a moment longer to realize that he was referring to you. It was going to take a while to adjust.

You masked the initial shock by clearing your throat. “Yes. What time is it?”

“It’s 9 pm, ma’am. Would you like to board the ship now?”

You nodded, picking up your skirt and making your way down the steps. He took the coat for you and held your hand to help you.

“You should wear this, your Highness. It’s a little bit cold.”

The night breeze sent goosebumps up your arms and you carefully draped his coat back on, now noticing the citrusy scent clinging onto it. You held onto the lapels of the coat and followed Heinrich.

The sailing ship was anchored just by the dock, a couple of steps away from where the carriages stopped. It was an absolute beast with towering sails for wings, a strong body made of wood and a long pointy bow spirit as a fearsome horn. The sails flapped in the wind, wanting to stretch free of its frames and fly off into the night sky.

As you and Heinrich made your way up the stairs to the main deck, you could hear the commotion happening before you could see it. Thumping footsteps, shouts and grunts as the crew got ready to set sail.

They did not care that you were here and you liked that. Being invisible was nice. Heinrich, however, did not enjoy it as much. He seemed a bit anxious to have you witness all of this and quickly led you away from all the noises down one flight of stairs. You could still hear heavy footsteps but they were muffled, less prominent than before now that you were one floor below.

The air heavy with moisture and salt filled your lungs as you made your way down a lengthy and narrow hallway. Not too far away stood two ladies. Heinrich confirmed that it was in fact your room.

“These are your lady’s maids-Lea and Ilse. Should you need anything, they shall help you.”The girls curtsied at the sight of you and each nodded at the mention of their names.

You studied their faces, trying to cling to certain features so that you would not forget their names. Both of them had perfectly combed blonde hair, although instead of just a simple bun, Ilse’s hairdo was a little more intricate with the way she wrapped her hair. Lea was a little taller and seemed a little tougher than Ilse with her strong eyebrows and tall gait. Ilse, on the other hand, was bright-eyed and more youthful, reminding you of Olivia.

“Thank you, Heinrich.”

He nodded and bowed his head. But before he could walk away, you called him, prompting him to spin around again.

“May I ask where the Prince is?”

“His Royal Highness is speaking to the captain of the ship, ma’am. Should you like me to call for him?”

You shook your head firmly. “No, thank you.”

When he was out of sight, you suddenly remembered you were still wearing the Prince’s coat. But he had gone too far for you to call him back again now.

You sighed quietly, turning to face the door. Reaching out your hand, you were just about grab the doorknob but found that Lea was already there too.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” you held your hands up to your chest, allowing her to open the door.

“It’s alright, your Highness,” she said with a smile.

You took a moment to admire the room before you. Almost everything was made from walnut wood-the walls, the floors, the furniture, covering the whole room in a rich chocolate brown color. The candles washed the room in a soft orange glow, accentuating the warm earthy tones and setting a completely different mood from the shivering wet deck.

You wandered inside, running your hand along the wall panels, delighting in the little crevices on the surface.

“I hope you don’t mind. We’ve drawn you a bath, your Highness,” Ilse said.

You shook your head. “No, of course not. Thank you.”

“Would you like us to assist you with your dress, ma’am?”

You shook your head. “I shall be quite fine. You can take your break now, ladies.”

You expected the two of them to leave right away. After all, it had been a very lengthy day and even though you intended on getting to know the both of them, now was simply not the time for sharing childhood tales. But they lingered on by the door, prompting a “Yes?” from you.

“Would you like supper brought to you, ma’am?” Lea asked.

“I can do that?”

Both of them nodded, probably finding you the oddest lady they had ever served.

“Well, if it is not too much trouble, I’d love it.”

The girls curtsied and left the room.

Now completely alone, you let out a long, tired sigh. It was a terrible habit of yours and you were well aware. You always thought too much whenever amd wherever you could, especially when you were left on your own. Your mind instantly ran over every little detail, picking out anything that might have left a bad impression on your new husband and staff members.

There were simply too many.

With a sigh, you shrugged the coat off of your shoulders, carefully placing it on the bed. If you must admit, you missed the comforting weight of it on your shoulders and the faint smell of orange and cinnamon. You then thought of him. The Prince.

For reasons unknown, you felt intimidated by him. So far he had been nothing but kind and he had done nothing that could warrant such a feeling.

Something inside you just wished you would not disappoint him like you did your parents. It was difficult because you had no idea what his expectations were of you. All you knew was that Miss Bridgerton was who he really wanted. And if that was the goal, you found yourself far from ever reaching it. You might have been born into a higher born family but you lacked the charm that she had. She was always the older ladies’ favorite when they were small. Even now, she had the favor of everyone she met.

You prepared different conversational topics for when he would come into the room eventually. There was nothing less attractive than a tone-deaf lady and you made sure political icebreakers were left far far away for the night. Maybe you could talk about the weather or music. They seemed to be perfectly proper matters of discussion for a lady. Far better than overly formal issues currently happening.

The bath you took wasn’t as relaxing as you had hoped for. Not even the slight sear of the water and the faint lavender scent could rid your mind of thoughts. You decided not to sit for long, your legs growing a bit restless in the water. Just as you finished tying your dress robes, you heard a knock and a voice from behind the door.

“Your Highness! We’ve brought you supper!”

“Yes. Come in!” you called.

At the sound of approval, your maids brought in a tray with silver dish covers on top. They opened the covers for you, revealing a piece of steaming roasted salmon and pudding. You then realized that you were starving. The piece of bread you managed to shove into your mouth earlier today was definitely long gone.

“Would you like some wine, your Highness?” Lea asked.

You shook your head. All you wanted was to sit down and eat everything. And as helpful as they had been, their questions at this moment was not. “No thank you. This shall be perfect.”

“Should we bring you more food?” Ilse added.

“No. I am happy with this. Thank you.”

They finally left. But you had barely sit down when there came another knock on the door. You groaned to yourself. Again?

“What?” you poked your head out, expecting your maids and more questions. But the last time you saw them they didn’t wear blue and there were certainly two of them.

Oh crap.

It was the Prince of Prussia.

Blush crept onto your cheeks as you became aware of your curtness. “Your Highness!”

He had his brows raised at the curious sight of you poking only your head out, leaning against the door rather inelegantly. He stepped away almost immediately. “Oh, am I interrupting you? I apologize-“

“No! I apologize, your Highness. Would-would you like to come in?” You stood up straight, opening the door a little wider. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, wishing to break free from your ribcage.

He shook his head. “I am just here to ask you if everything was alright.”

He didn’t want to come in?

“I am alright. Thank you for asking, your Highness.”

He cleared his voice. “Good. Well, it’s been a long day for you. You should get some rest. There will be a lot more traveling for tomorrow.”

“Oh thank you. So should you. Oh-and before I forget.”

You disappeared into the room. In the meantime, Friedrich managed to catch a quick glimpse of your room. He had assigned the largest one to you, his was half the size. But it did not matter where he was. After all, he wanted the best for his bride, no matter who she was.

You appeared again moments later, thanking him for lending the coat to you. He held his coat in the crook of his elbow. “Good night.”

You leaned against the door, your back landing on the surface with a dull thump. You were relieved that he didn’t come in because you were not ready at all. Yet, you could not help but feel the clouds of dread forming over you. Was he being thoughtful or did he want nothing to do with you?

...

The next morning when Lea and Ilse came into the room, you could practically hear their thoughts.

Lea was a bit better at hiding her surprise while Ilse had to look away, turning to the curtains for an escape. As they got you ready, they distracted you with their millions of questions about what you would like for your hair, your dress and your food. But what all three of you were thinking about was the reason why you were alone on your wedding night.

“Do you know where the Prince is?” you asked, finally tired of dancing around the topic.

Ilse gasped, no longer brushing your hair. “Your Highness, was he not here?”

“Ilse, I mean no offense but you are a terrible liar.”

Your comment made Lea choke back a laugh. Meanwhile, Ilse’s face grew bright red as she began to comb your hair again, laughing quietly. “I apologize, your Highness. I just cannot see why he wasn’t here with you. You’re beautiful!”

“Well, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“I don’t think that is the case, your Highness. Maybe you just don’t know each other,” Lea added, putting on a diamond necklace for you. “You still have plenty of time for that until you arrive at the palace.”

Perhaps she was right. But whether right or wrong, you felt some weight lifted off your shoulders. You felt that way with Olivia too, back in London. It gave us great comfort to know that at the very least you and your lady’s maids would get along perfectly fine.

“Will you two be with me then?”

“Of course!” Ilse assured you, placing the comb down, happy with how your hair looked. “Right, Lea?”

“Yes and there will be another lady too. Your chief of staff.”

You had finished getting ready but your appearance was the last thing on your mind right now. You turned in your chair, curious as to how the Prussian court worked. “Oh?”

Ilse was more than glad to pass around the gossip. “Rumors have it that the King had someone in mind for you. But we left before he made the decision. I bet Heinrich knows.”

...

It was definitely not a good time to ask questions.

When you and your maids got off of the ship onto French soil by noon, there were new carriages that awaited you. Just as you were marveling at the beautiful paintings on the side of the carriages and the gold ornate trims on the wheels, your attention was quickly drawn to the people standing next to the largest carriage at the front.

It was the Prince and Heinrich.

They were in quite a heated discussion when they noticed you looking and promptly paused their conversation.

“Your Highness,” Heinrich bowed.

You looked between the two of them, sensing the tension but did not dare ask for the reason. The Prince offered his hand and helped you into the carriage wordlessly.

Outside of the window, Heinrich got on horse, charging away before your carriage even began to move. It was awfully curious.

“Did you sleep well?”

You tore your eyes away from the window, deciding to focus on him instead. Inside of the carriage, the Prince was a completely different person than he was a mere second ago. He was sighing, his brows knitted, his hands waving about as he spoke to his valet about very important matters surely. But now, he had a friendly grin on his lips, his gaze soft as he engaged in small talk with you.

“Yes. Thank you for asking, your Highness.”

That made him laugh. You did not know just what it was that he should be laughing about though. “You know, you do not have to call me that.”

“I-I don’t?”

He shook his head. “Call me Friedrich. We are husband and wife, after all.”

You nodded. “Well, then, please call me Y/N.”

“We have a deal.”

Silence fell on the two of you after that.

Friedrich looked out of the window, observing the French countryside in the distance, the sound of waves crashing ashore was mere memories now.

You had always been a little impatient in these awkward pauses, never quite sure what to do. You had been rehearsing for this moment in the bathroom yesterday. But perhaps going by a first-name basis gave you the boost of confidence you needed to be the one to break the silence, without the help of scripted conversations.

“Is Heinrich not joining us?”

Friedrich shook his head. “He will meet us at the train station. There was just a little something that needed to be checked.”

As soon as he said it, he regretted it.

“Is there anything wrong?”

“Just a mix-up with the train schedules. No need to worry though. We will just have to switch the rooms around a bit.”

That was a lie. And you’d find out the truth eventually when you got to the train station. Heinrich seemed pale as a ghost when he saw you and Friedrich emerge from the carriages, rushing towards the both of you. He did not seem to mind that you were there to listen, frantically speaking. “Your Highness, the state train is not coming.”

“When did this happen?”

“I just checked. Apparently, they cancelled it from Potsdam.”

You had no idea what was happening but from the sigh leaving Friedrich’s lips you knew it was not good news at all.

“So we’ll take the standard then?”

“I am afraid so, sir.”

It was exactly what he had feared.

His father was mad and now that they were about to enter Prussia, there was no escaping his wrath. Friedrich did not mind, in particular. He was quite used to his father’s tantrums by now.

Whenever his father lost, he would make sure no one could win.

When Friedrich made the decision to marry you in England, he had prepared himself to face the King once they arrived at the Berlin Palace. He just felt bad for you having to get the wrong end of the stick because of him.

“I apologize,” he said, “I am afraid there is no other way.”

You waved your hand. “It is fine. I don’t think it is a big deal at all. I shall be good with anything.”

“Heinrich, see to it that you book her highness the room. I’ll sit where ever.”

You held up your hand. “Wait, excuse me?”

“There is only one room on the standard train, ma’am.”

“I-I will sit with my maids. I can’t-”

Heinrich looked to the Prince who was looking at you, his lips parted.

He shook his head furiously. “You are the Princess of Prussia. I will not allow you to sit in the back.”

There was only one solution.

Simple and straightforward to all of your current troubles. Friedrich did not want to suggest, he knew you were forced into this mess as much as he was. He was not going to make you do anything. And he was quite ready to sit with his staff, giving you your privacy when out of the blue...

“Then-then we’ll share the room.”

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mightymorphingayagenda · 4 years ago

Note

cant wait for lethal combination chapter 5! and loved the holiday nessian fic you wrote!

then you shan’t have to wait! and thank you so much, nonnie. the fic they’re talking about and all previous chapters of lethal combo can be found here, x

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

Nesta kept her gaze on the wall of oak opposite her.

“Is this the part where I tell you to get on your knees for me?” She asked.

Humourless.

And she could practically feel the feral rage radiating from him. Bleeding through the grate to her left like he were trying to smoke her out.

“This is the part where you-“

“Shhh.”

A lean shadow, a head of auburn hair, muted in the darkness like the decayed verdure of autumn, barely distinguishable through the latticed window no bigger than her hand.

She’d made Eris wait almost a day.

In Nesta’s experience teenage girls understood psychological warfare better than any CIA types she’d met. And rule one in the handbook was never call him back right away.

Eris might as well have been a cute boy from home room, the advice stood fast.

She’d also chosen the time and place for their meeting, giving no concessions in authority. Picking the church as unlike her he’d inherited both the egregious wealth of his family and their faith. Irish Catholic. Meaning he’d find himself here every Sunday evening regardless, and providing not only the guise of normality, but the cosy anonymity of a confessional.

The only people who did secrecy better than assassins, were the Catholics.

It was perfect really, the perfect plan. Undistracted Nesta had been able to work it out pretty quickly after Cassian had left. Leaving her all those hours between four in the morning and her meeting the following evening with nothing to do but hate him.

Avoiding returning to the bed he’d screwed her in. Glaring at his jacket which still hung beside her front door over a bottle of vodka.

It was a blow to her pride to be sure. The closest thing to rejection she’d ever received from a man. Whatsmore, some gooey part of her she’d pushed down had been upset.

Too worked up to sleep she’d spent hours tucked into her armchair and entertaining plucking his teeth from his mouth like the petals of a rose. He loves me, he loves me not. Because worse than revealing himself to be a complete ass as most men did, Cassian had done so subsequent to fucking her better than she could have dreamed. And she’d had that dream. Multiple times.

Wet dreams that couldn’t hold a candle to the way he’d had her dripping down to her knees, begging for his cock, trembling on legs he’d thrown over his shoulder to lick out her cunt like it was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. The man had spoilt her rotten.

Nesta knew she probably shouldn’t have been thinking about sex in a church. Her mother was likely burning with a fury hotter than the flames that surrounded her down below, but she couldn’t help it. Because while she hated the sinner- ever bronze buffed, tattooed inch of him - god did she love the sin.

“The adult is going to talk,” she said quietly. “If you want to throw a tantrum you can do it on your own time because as of this moment, I’m officially off the clock.”

Eris’ silence said he knew better than to interrupt her. Perhaps he was smarter than she was about to give him credit for.

“In fact I stopped working for you as of the moment you chose to question my methods and profess concerns that I may have jeopardised our venture because I lack the professionalism to keep my legs shut,” she said.

“So if you want Helion Day neutralised, you’re going to have to find someone else to do the job. Though I seriously doubt you’ll be able to.”

Cue phase two of the plan.

Because she may have hated Cassian, but she wanted the monopoly on causing him emotional anguish.

Like hell some other pro was going to put a bullet between Helion’s eyes and devastate his bodyguard. Making that man cry was Nesta’s prerogative.

“I have made it clear to anyone in my field you might attempt to solicit that you are a impertinent, trust fund brat, who insists on micromanaging the work of other’s despite your incompetence in an attempt to feel important beyond the breeding mummy lied and told you made you special.”

“I wasn’t aware you also specialised in character assassination.”

Eris’ voice was charred with a sweetness like wealth; earthy and rich it reminded Nesta of muscovado sugar.

He was right. She was being unprofessional. But she was tired and hungover and out of a gorgeous lay so fuck him.

“My specialities are no longer any of your business, Mr Vanserra,” she replied. “My displeasure however, should be of great concern to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I wouldn’t do you the courtesy of warning you if I intended to kill you.”

Eris said nothing.

“You can consider it incentive if it helps you sleep at night though,” Nesta continued. “To do as you’re told.”

She gave him strict instructions. Wait five minutes then leave. Never contact me. Forget we were ever in correspondence in the first place.

“Murder is cheap, Mr Vanserra. You don’t want to learn the cost of disobeying me. It’s not the kind of thing daddy’s wallet can cover.”

She emerged from the confessional, slim shades obscuring her eyes and the deep bruises beneath. Her heels clipping against the stone floor as she made her way toward the station of votive candles at the back of the church.

Each glowing stick a prayer for a lost loved one. Matches and and a few unlit offerings still available.

She lit herself a cigarette on a flame.

And Nesta couldn’t have missed the fresco above those colossal doors of oak and rustic gold flake even through the plumes of smoke that curled upwards as she stalked lazily down the isle: a depiction of the Heavenly Father himself.

She didn’t bother flicking a glance behind her to the confessional.

Who’s your daddy, now?

She’d collapsed face down into already rumpled sheets.

They’d smelled like sex and heaven and she’d smelt like cigarettes and a church and that was all she knew before the exhaustion caught up with her, the world went black, and she was waking up in exactly the same position . Vex’s fluffy tail swishing against her ear. The tickling sensation plucking her from the bliss of pure nothingness.

Nesta groaned a little as she rolled over and pulled herself to sit up. Pleased to find she’d had the energy to take off her clothes. Unlike her makeup.

“Damn it,” she hissed as she saw the smudged mascara on the pillow.

Not that the sheets didn’t need washing anyway…

“Ugh,” she huffed, dropping flat onto her back again.

She’d been awake less then seven seconds and a man had already ruined her day. Just thinking about him…

“Ugh,” she said again, louder. Like she was angry with the ceiling for not acknowledging her the first time.

Vex meowed, his little head nudging at her bare arm. As though he were trying to coax her bra strap back up to a respectable position on her shoulder.

“Hi, baby,” she grumbled, picking him up for a cuddle. “You hungry?”

He meowed again.

Padding down to the kitchen she’d made them both breakfast (technically lunch, she’d slept in till almost one) and carrying her plate of fruit back upstairs to draw a bubble bath he winded between her ankles, catching her attention as he hissed at something in the living room.

“What?” she inquired, looking down at him before tilting her head to follow his own.

Cassian’s jacket.

Uhg.

Now she was thinking about him again.

Childish, dumb, insecure little prick. How he’d had the fucking nerve to call her a coward was truly a mystery.

He was so crippled by that fear of not being good enough he’d immediately presumed she wanted rid of him. Lashing out defensively- God he was infuriating.

She looked back to Vex who was now staring up at her. “If that thing somehow ends up on the floor,” she said, “you have permission to piss on it”.

He purred.

Vex truly was the only boy worth his salt. Something he proved yet again in hopping atop her bathroom counter and guarding her like a fluffy little gargoyle as she sank into the bath. Opening m the window to let out the smoke of her cigarette so as not to bother him. The sound of rain slipping something comforting through the January chill, twirls of smoke and steam visible in fatigued plumes.

Another lethal habit she’d picked up from Aunt Ripleigh.

The thought gave her an unpleasant feeling in her heart. Like a worm writhing in the rotted meat of an apple.

Ripleigh wasn’t actually her aunt. But Nesta avoided her much like she did the rest of her family and that was what really counted. Besides, spilling blood together arguably made for a closer bond than just sharing it.

Like Nesta said, not really her aunt.

Aunt Ripleigh – initials AR, an homage to the assassin’s preferred weapon the AR-47, American hybrid of the Russian Автома́т Кала́шников, A.K.A the AK-47.

Some mothers left their little girls pearls, or scrapbooks packed with baby pictures and the lingering scent of their perfume. Angelina Archeron had left her’s a Mafia assassin’s cell number.

Of course Nesta hadn’t known that.

Not until she’d found herself with her hands caked in something dark and sticky, her boyfriend’s skin stuffed beneath the lip of her nails and a taste in her mouth like hot rust.

She’d been seventeen the first time she’d killed a man.

Not a man. A boy.

A few months her senior, Thomas been a child just like her.

Her first crush. Her first boyfriend, her first love, and her first.

Nesta had known Thomas was using her for sex. Just as she’d been using him for his money, and wasn’t that what love was? Finding the gratification of your needs in someone else? In Thomas’s case he’d needed to get his dick wet. In Nesta’s…it was more than embarrassing but half the time all she’d needed was a hot meal.

She couldn’t count the number of times she’d called him in the dead of the night to hook up in his Porsche so she could sleep there instead of at home, where the windows screamed freezing air from their shattered mouths and the electricity bill was rarely paid.

But one night Nesta hadn’t felt like earning his kindness. And so he hadn’t offered it.

Instead he’d held her wrists, ripped at her shirt, forced his hands into her jeans. Pushed up against the bonnet of that Porsche by a lake in woods she’d torn through his face, her nails splitting through the waterline beneath his eyes as she’d kicked and screamed, blood pouring, his hand on her neck, throwing her head against the wing mirror. Heat spilling heavy down her jaw and neck from somewhere which had smelt like lose change.

She remembers blood in her eyes and the taste of soft, smooth skin and a kind of rubbery strength between her teeth as she’d bit down hard until something had popped or burst or split with a squirt or a tear. She remembers spitting out whatever of Thomas’s ear she’d torn off between her teeth and something swinging into her lower ribs so hard one broke. She remembers the sounds that had been both of them and then at some point just her.

Her screaming.

Her sticky, disgusting face, stinging with every horribly wet sob and shriek. The shrieks that hadn’t choked to shaky breaths until she’d pulled herself to sit back against the wheel of the car. Clutching at her ribs which had only hurt so much worse when she’d thrown up right next to her boyfriend’s body. What looked like a pint of blood glowing in the dust. His face…his head.

It’d looked like a Halloween prop. Like dark jam. Like a brutalised seventeen year old dead in the dirt.

And sometime after noticing one of his teeth in the dust, Nesta had realised how fucked she was.

It wasn’t much of an achievement when you considered Grafton, Vermont had a population short of seven-hundred: but the Mandrays had been quite possibly the most well connected and well off people in its less than seven-hundred square miles. And despite keeping Nesta’s name out of their sneering mouths through referring to her almost exclusively as “that white-trash bitch”, that population short of seven hundred didn’t give a shit about her.

Didn’t give a shit she’d been top of her class with a place at Georgetown. Because Nesta could never have afforded to accept it.

And it certainly didn’t matter she was a pageant queen when everyone knew the petty cash prizes were the only thing that paid the rent on their shitty one bedroom. Especially with things barely breaking even. In spite of Feyre’s making use of their father’s rifle and sourcing for the butcher any chance she could.

A too skinny child in the woods with a gun and blood in her braids.

Nesta’s efforts to keep food on the table had always seemed to pale in comparison to that. But she’d never felt bad about it. Wouldn’t bother hating herself when everybody else was already doing that for her.

Nesta Archeron was the cheap fuck that nice Mandray boy was messing around with. The gold digger with the dead commie mom and daddy issues.

No one would have ever believed he’d tried to rape her.

And she’d had no money for a decent lawyer- she hadn’t even had anyone to call. Not her dad, not a fourteen-year old Feyre nor Elain, sixteen and the last person she’d ever want wrapped up in something like this.

Nesta had been desperate and vulnerable and jaded for as long as she could remember but she’d never felt as terrified and broken as she had in that moment. Crying alone and hugging herself tightly, she’d just wanted her mom. As cold and neglectful and dead as the woman was.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь”

Her mother’s last words.

Ten numbers.

Nesta had somehow gotten to her feet, only realising Thomas had broken a few of her fingers when she’d tried opening the car door. All but collapsing inside once she’d managed as she’d fumbled for her phone.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь” she’d repeated to herself, voice hoarse and wet and cracking as she’d dialled.

Ten numbers. Ten numbers. Ten numbers.

Like a phone number.

No doubt concussed Nesta had deemed it logical enough. Her mother’s dying breath a kind of atonement for leaving her children with nothing in the whole word but a father that could watch his girls starve and go into the woods with his hunting rifle and whore themselves out like they meant nothing.

A life-line in the deep waters opaque with clouds of blood.

“Здравствуйте.”

Those three syllables had been like a punch to the gut.

Nesta had made a noise that might have sounded like “mom?” or the creaking of a damn as it ached under duress. She’d obviously known it wasn’t her mother, but she hadn’t heard a woman speak Russia since- hadn’t heard Russian at all in years.

“Who is this?”

Trying to pull herself together Nesta had taken a breath that had rattled, dripping wet and slightly wheezing. Everything was going to be okay. She’d been right. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Of all the phone numbers in the world what was the likelihood that the voice on the end of this one spoke her mother’s native tongue?

“I’m- I’m Angelina Archeron daughter. She gave me this number I don’t know what to do I-”

The specifics aren’t as clear after that. Like a jigsaw left out in the rain or soaked in fresh hot blood, the pieces, the details, they’d melted to mush.

A mess she’d held in her hands and wondered what the fuck to do with.

What do you do with a dead body and the knew found knowledge your mother was a boyevik for the Russian Mafia? What do you do with her retirement package which contained nothing but the contact for an assassin working for the New York arm.

Nesta had only known what she wasn’t going to do.

Go down for murder.

Aunt Ripleigh had told her what to do over the phone, instructing her on how to deal with her injuries and Thomas’ pulp of a body. How to explain the state of her face and ribs and fingers and head. What to do with his car and how to speak and sit and and react when then police came asking questions about Thomas’ disappearance. How to get away with it.

Nesta had followed each direction flawlessly. Consoled in finally having a definitive plan. Even a plan that started with “buy meat cleaver, trash bag, battery powered blender and bucket, with cash from dead boyfriend’s wallet.” Even a plan that got progressively worse from that point on.

Filleting chunks of a body that had once been inside her. Hauling a trash bag of boyfriend smoothie to the river with broken fingers. The thick slop sinking almost immediately just as Aunt Ripleigh had said it would. Before she’d told Nesta to burn the bones and roast marshmallows over them.

“If it had not been you it would have been next girl,” Ripleigh had said. “And she might not have had your fight.”

“You mean she might not have been disturbed enough to kill her boyfriend?”

“Killer instincts, Anastasia. Is not disturbed, is talent,” Aunt Ripleigh had said. “Cannot be taught but what can be taught you learn quick. No whining. Like very good puppy with very sharp teeth.”

��Woof,” Nesta had said dryly.

“Stray puppy though, no? Is why you have no manners.”

“You offering to adopt me?”

“I have pet already. And my husband is funnier than you.”

Nesta’s compromised rib had punished her for finding that funny.

“But you ever want job, you call me.”

Needless to say that was not the last time she’d called Aunt Ripleigh.

Three weeks later and four months shy of getting her high school diploma Nesta had turned eighteen and moved to New York in order to “pursue modelling”.

In reality she was doing coffee runs with a dash more arsenic than normal and luring prosecutors to hotel rooms they’d never leave. A personal assistant of sorts to Aunt Ripleigh.

She had kept the mafia, the Bratva, at an arms length whenever she’d been able. Paying off the shitty house she’d left her sisters in with one less mouth to feed and not wanting their address in any files accessible to people with skill sets like her’s.

And while working with Ripleigh had been a mortiferous riot, two gals shattering the glass ceiling in their industry and slitting throats with the shards; Nesta had developed expensive taste from the fringes of high criminal society. She’d cared less about the art of killing than she had about the art she could hang up in a penthouse apartment if she were in private practice. Her lust for comfort winning out after two years or so at which point she’d gone freelance. Assisting in a few heists before getting in with a crowd of Nazi hunters for a bit, all the while keeping in touch with her mentor.

Until Feyre had moved to the city.

Then she’d given up on the more dangerous antics, selling out for safer and even more lucrative bets like CEOs and cutting ties with Aunt Ripleigh. Terrified if not a little paranoid of something happening to her sister. Which had been shit. Because Nesta hadn’t had any other friends. Like, at all.

At eighteen Feyre was still as bitter and proud as she’d been when Nesta had left. As Nesta herself still was.

Elain had tried bridging her sisters’ relationship once she’d moved to New York but she’d had better success career-wise. Working at a florists before eventually graduating to a self employed wedding planner.

Nesta had kept her thoughts on the psychological tells of a girl jilted at the alter becoming a wedding planner to herself. Mostly because Elain was always brining her cake samples she’d stolen and Nesta wasn’t going to sabotage her supply of free cake.

Feyre on the other hand had gone about far less conventional means of making a living. The child was a force to be reckoned with if for nothing but her resourcefulness and almost objectionable will to survive. Fiercely independent and clumsily capable she’d taken a crack at everything while selling her art on the side. It was a piece she’d modelled for that had delivered her to true economic grandeur however.

Well, “modelled” maybe wasn’t the word. Her sister had essentially been used as a human stamp. Her naked body detailed with intricately painted swirls then pressed to canvas.

The work had been showcased somewhere high brow and had caught the eye of one Mr Rhysand Velaris, thirty-one and the sole inheritor of his late father’s worldly possessions. Among which were several millions of dollars.

Half of which now belonged to her sister thanks to a very reckless prenup on his part.

Though Nesta had briefly wondered if he’d spent at least that on the engagement ring. A glittering iceberg that seemed to only glare brighter next to the stark black band tattooed just beneath it, a matching tattoo on Rhysand’s own ring finger. Because of course they’d eloped in Paris and gotten tattoos instead of wedding rings.

If Nesta had been closer to her baby sister she imagined she might have felt betrayed on some level. But as things were, Nesta wasn’t entirely sure she would have received an invite even if they’d had a traditional wedding, planned to perfection by Elain.

It was probably the worst part of her job. The distance she had to put between herself and everyone she had the potential to care about. A distance she could never close even if she decided to retire right this minute because the damage had already been done. Nesta had become a liability to their safety the minute she’d moved here and started in this line of work.

She took another chocolate from the box she’d snatched from downstairs on second thought. Her supply already dwindling thanks to the rather depression freight train of thought she’d embarked on.

That and the fact they were really very good.

Cassian may have been a prick, but she couldn’t deny he had great taste.

In chocolate, and women, she thought smugly. Sinking deeper into the basin.

A heat flushed up her neck that had nothing to do with the bath as she unwillingly remembered how he’d softly coaxed one of these lovely little parcels between her full lips. The drunk hunger in his deep brown eyes and what he’d done next, snapping her lace thong between his teeth-

Her music stopped. Only to be replaced by a buzzing thrum of her phone.

Leaning forward Nesta checked the caller ID before swiping across the screen to accept the call and sinking back to her earlier position.

“I’m not in the mood,” she hummed dismissively, head tipped back against the lip of the tub and eyes closing. She’d known this was coming, better to get it over with.

“When I supply you with handsome, rich, and eligible men, I do not expect you to break them!” Feyre castigated through the phone, and anyone might guess she were the elder sibling.

Feyre indeed thought herself wiser and more worldly than both Nesta and Elain, and getting married hadn’t helped diminish her false sense of maturity. Thrusting her character into some weird sarcastic seriousness that mirrored her husband’s demeanour perfectly. It made Nesta cringe so thoroughly she was mildly concerned about getting wrinkles.

“And I thought we’d grown out of sharing toys, but it seems both our expectations were thwarted.”

“Humans aren’t toys!” Feyre reminded her. Not that Nesta didn’t already know that. No vibrator had never made her cum as hard as Cassian had.

“And if you resented me setting you up with Cassian then why did you fuck him ?” Feyre asked. And she said fuck as though it were synonymous to stab or poison.

“Was it to punish me? Because if so you did a spectacular job. He’s crazier about you than ever and won’t stop moping. The second-hand embarrassment is painful enough without the added agony of how annoying it is.”

If he likes me so much why was he so eager to assume the worst of me? Nesta thought spitefully.

It didn’t matter that she technically was lying to him. He didn’t know that.

“You told me to give him a chance.”

“And you couldn’t have decided you didn’t like him before having sex with him?”

Nesta wasn’t surprised Feyre had taken Cassian’s version of things at face value.

Her husband’s family were unimpeachably wonderful in her eyes. Meanwhile Nesta remained just another reminder of a time Feyre couldn’t have afforded the plane ticket to get to New York, let alone a town house on the upper east side. A cold bitch who hadn’t begged to join the weird cult that was the Velaris family and their innermost circle when Feyre had married Rhysand last year.

“Oh I’d already worked out he was an ass by that point but I thought he could at least make up for putting me through the date. Not much going on in that head but he quite clearly had it all going on-

“Ew ew ew!” Feyre interrupted. “One, I need this conversation to steer clear of anything anatomical, and two, do you have to be so horrible?”

“You’re the one pimping out your friends, I just took you up on the offer.”

“Ever heard of the third date rule?”

“Didn’t you marry Rhysand on the third date?”

Feyre sighed.

“Cassian’s a good guy, Nes. It takes a lot to come out the other side of what he’s been through a good man and he deserves the world so-”

“So why did you send him my way?”

Nesta knew what Feyre thought of her. And if she hadn’t then this conversation would have made it very clear.

“Because Nesta! You’re twenty-four and already a crazy cat lady! I’m sorry I tried to save you from dying alone and having Vex eat your corpse.”

Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Have you ever considered I choose to be alone because I like it?” She asked.

Feyre sighed again, but it was softer this time, sad more than exasperated.

“You’re not alone, Nesta,” she said. “You’re lonely.”

It was annoying enough that she was right, she didn’t have to be so pretentious about it aswell.

“I’m fine,” Nesta said.

“You sound just like Cassian,” Feyre grumbled.

“Well I’ve been smoking.”

“I’ll be sure to put how funny you were on your headstone when those things kill you.”

“I’m racing Rhysand to the grave, he has more cigars than I do shoes.”

“He only smokes them on special occasions.”

“And how do you know this isn’t a celebratory cigarette on account of you calling me?”

“Because instead of saying hi you said I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh so you did hear me?”

“I hear you, Nesta,” Feyre conceded, disappointment weighing on her words. “Loud and clear. Have a good week.”

She hung up.

“You too,” Nesta said into the silence.

When the silence replied she sank beneath the water. As though she hoped it might act as the cushioned walls of a padded cell meant to protect those who posed a danger to themselves.

It didn’t. And that unpleasant ache didn’t go away. It never did.

Worse than the dull pounding in her ears and tightness in her chest as she held her breath.

But it would be nothing compared to the devastation of seeing Feyre or Elain hurt. The tender ache of keeping them at arms length, knowing they were at least there to brush her fingers against, was worth avoiding spending the rest of her life reaching for someone taken from her.

Perhaps that was also why she’d wanted so fiercely to dislike Cassian.

Nesta re-emerged with a gasp, her chest on fire.

What an unpleasant notion, she thought, running her fingers through her wet hair and sinking back as she took a slower breath. That she’d been looking for a reason to dislike him even after overcoming the minor detail she was going to kill his friend and client. An excuse to throw in the towel as soon as she could. Because it was just easier.

Easier than accepting she was fundamentally terrified of keeping him around.

Easier than keeping him around and seeing him get hurt.

Fuck.

Her being mad at him had been a cop out.

Because yes he’d been a petty, insecure idiot; but hadn’t she told him she was going to fuck and chuck him? Hadn’t she been at typically fast to get in a fight with him? Substantiating his insecurities.

Nesta might have been furious at his calling her a coward, but he hadn’t actually been wrong.

She’d let some subliminal fear convince her to sabotage things.

A subliminal and blissfully irrational fear she realised because, Cassian, a monument of pure muscle, could definitely look after himself. He’d been marine corps for Christ’s sake. Not to mention she’d seen him take down Helion enough times in the ring while still working for Eris and the fact the man literally specialised in keeping people safe for a living!

Nesta felt a weird and almost unfamiliar lightness in her shoulders. It felt a little like hope. Which was also terrifying.

But she wasn’t going to the let the fear control her this time.

—

Cassian had ignored her calls.

All three.

Which was fine because she’d been stalking him for the past month. She knew exactly where he’d be that evening and doing things in person meant she could kill him if he kept up the asshole routine.

Nesta’s platform stiletto boots clipped against the laminate flooring as she emerged from the elevator. Stalking lazily through the top floor of the Illyria building.

Even if she killed Cassian he was going to die happy. She looked good enough to eat. Thick hair fastened back into a high ponytail, the details of her face were subject to full attention. Her eyes appearing almost wider and lashes lavished with a black like her jet thigh-highs and tied coat. Plump lips softly lined and shaded, she looked drop dead fucking gorgeous.

Though it was what she was wearing under her fastened coat that was the real killer.

Nesta didn’t uncross her ankles from where they’d flicked over one another as she let herself lean against the doorframe of Cassian’s office.

It was wide open. No privacy needed when everyone else had gone home around four hours ago. The night detail on Helion allowing Cassian time to catch up on work as he had every night and well into the morning for the past month.

“All work and no play?”

Cassian looked up from his desk.

“I can fix that,” she said.

He’d never looked more handsome.

Hair bundled into a dark band, his shirt cuffed at his forearms and a bit of scruff marring his chiselled jaw. A pair of slim reading glasses were pushed up his slightly imperfect nose and it was such a turn on Nesta was glad she was leaning against something.

He looked a little exhausted in a kind of brooding and adorable way.

It gave her this awful pining to massage those sculpted shoulders as he let loose a deep, tired sigh, arms folding across that powerful chest causing his white shirt to hiss as he leaned back into his chair. It was a fucking massive bit of furniture. But then it had to be to accommodate him.

“What are you doing here?”

Rude.

Nesta pushed off the doorframe and into his office.

“You ignored my calls,” she said by way of explanation. Making her way to the bookcase and running her fingers across a row of spines. It was mostly files, but she noticed a few novels as well.

“You kicked me out of your bed at three in the morning.”

She turned to find him watching her.

His words were dismissive and effortlessly confrontational as usual. But there was an edge to his voice. And it wasn’t arousal. Even if his gaze caught on her boots and lingering there for longer than he’d probably care to admit.

Nesta leaned back against the bookshelf, inspecting her manicure with an eye roll.

“You’re still upset about that?”

“Not at all,” he said with a smirk. Reclining back against the chair a little further, hips rolling and arms casually folding. Too casually. The dangerous grace of it speaking to the emotion that no doubt roiled beneath his bronze skin. Belied by that bullshit cockiness which grated her to the bone. “It seems I dodged a bullet.”

“Oh really?”

“The whole hot but mean cliché is one thing, but crazy hookup who stalks me-“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneered.

She’d seen hints of this before. The rugged and crude act meant to cover up the insecurity she’d also been treated to.

“Oh I’m sorry. I forgot you can’t ever admit what it is you want.”

“You don’t have a clue what I want.”

“I have several, Nesta.” He looked her up and down pointedly.

The way he said her name. Even like this it made her weak in the knees while her fingers itched to choke him.

It was all very conflicting.

“Oddly confident in your last performance for someone so insecure,” she quipped lazily.

Cassian rose his brows with a mean a laugh.

“What do I have to be insecure about?” He said. “I didn’t hide behind a half-ass lie to throw someone out of my bed. And I’m pretty sure even your neighbours can attest to how good of a time I gave you,” he smirked again. “You’re not a good enough liar for the way you moaned my name to have been an act.”

The white hot fist in her stomach folded in on itself as it melted to a stickiness despite the misguided insult. She certainly hadn’t been putting it on Saturday. Every sound he’d drawn from her dripping with sincerity. Every moan and whimper well deserved.

“You’re right,” she said.

Cassian blinked.

Nesta prowled toward him and hummed, “those, four, orgasms, were about as fake as my emergency.”

The sultry softness to her voice thickened to something less affected at those last words.

Cassian scoffed. Though there was something withdrawn and careful to him that hadn’t been there a second ago. Like a snake recoiling in case it needed to strike. “Your emergency, of course. Which was?”

“Nothing to do with you.”

He shook his head, laughing bitterly.

“Seriously, Nesta? You’ve had two days to come up with something now.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Nesta slipped atop the corner of the desk, perching there with her long legs crossed over one another. The blade of a stiletto heel close enough to brush up his calf if she wanted to make him shiver.

But she didn’t. She just wanted him to listen. To understand what she was saying so she didn’t have to say anything more because for fucks sake he was the one who’d acted up and yet she was here putting her pride on the line again.

“It had nothing, to do with you,” she said slowly.

A weighted silence settled like snow between them.

Until Cassian took a blow torch to it.

“Shit.”

His head fell into those large hands.

“Shiiiiiiiit,” he cursed again. “Oh god, how badly have I fucked up?” He groaned, looking up. So humbled and distraught it was almost comical.

“Irredeemably.” Her eyes flirted with the notion of a little smile even if her mouth remained unquirked as she propped her hands against the desk behind her and leaned into them to more comfortably watch him suffer.

“I’d beg you not to tease me but honestly I think it’s the least I deserve- fuck.”

“Like me teasing you isn’t the highlight of your day.” She rolled her eyes.

Cassian laughed, pained and almost sheepish, which shouldn’t have been hot but god it made her blush.

Keep your cool goddamn it. She wanted a little more bang for her buck where grovelling was concerned before she let on how eager she was for things to get back on track.

“Want to flat out abuse me and make it the highlight of my year?”

She was struggling to keep the smile off her face even as she said, “I’m not in the habit of rewarding bad behaviour. You’re a man, you get enough of that already.”

“Nesta,” he took his glasses off, setting them down on the desk beside her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I’m, really, really fucking sorry I’m an idiot.”

Nesta slid of the desk.

“Go on,” she instructed.

“A moron a fool a stupid, stupid son of a bitch.”

Taking a step forward she was stood between his thighs. Picking up his glasses and pushing them back on his nose. Missing the sight of this hulking, powerhouse of a man in spectacles.

“I’m sorry.” Cassian was looking up at her with those big brown eyes, and the bastard actually leaned into her palm.

“Oh for fucks sake how did anyone discipline you as a child with those damn puppy-dog eyes?” She growled softly, furious.

“They didn’t to be honest,” he admitted with a breathy laugh.

“I can tell.”

She slid her hands to his shoulders, fingers curling soft and possessive over the stacked muscle and palms pressed to his upper chest, stepping tighter into him.

“I guess I’ll just have to do it.”

Cassian swallowed.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he tried. Intoxicatingly deep, trying to maintain that arrogant and playful edge in a way that made his words all the hotter. The simmering ache he attempted to push down all but throbbing in his voice.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she returned, brows arched. Battling a smirk off her face.

“Can I ask you to do something for me, then?”

“If you say please.”

“Please don’t screw around with me.”

Nesta faltered.

Those warm hands came to rest on her lower back, long fingers curling slightly into the fabric and coaxing her that last bit closer so that her thighs brushed against the edge of his chair and her stomach was brushing up against his.

“I’m really into you,” he admitted. “You’re smart and you’re beautiful, and at first I thought the whole hard to get thing was an act but woman you are genuinely hard to get and it is, so sexy. But whatever it is that’s holding you back, that made you wait a week to call me, that made you claim all you wanted was a hook up; I’m clearly not cut out to compete,” he confessed. “It got in my head, and that’s on me and me lashing out at you the other night that’s on me too and I’m so, so sorry Nesta. I need to know where I stand with you though. I need to know if you’re actually interested in me. Because I like you. But I’m too old for games.”

The silence was so thick she could have cut through it with a knife.

Nesta’s hands fell from his chest slowly.

“That’s good,” she assured him at last. “Because I’m not a toy.”

She brought her fingers to the belt of her coat and pulled slow and deliberate.

Black glazed her figure with a gorgeous intimacy. The dress hugging at what little it concealed with perfection enough to make up for its lake of mercy. Long legs sheathed in those thigh-high boots, the item was short enough that a decent length of her thighs could be seen. Interrupted at the last possible moment by sleek jet as though she’d been dipped in oil of purest night.

Cassian’s eyes blew out to sticky treacle behind those glasses.

“I’m human, Cass,” she hummed, tossing her coat onto the desk behind her as she spoke. “Which means I make mistakes.” He swallowed as she sighed softly, her cleavage swelling a little with the motion. “And that I have needs. Needs you can be the one to fulfill or not.”

She slipped into his lap, straddling him, knees bent either side of his thighs. The corded strength of which pressed painfully and exhilaratingly apparent against the soft seam of her inner thighs and she was genuinely suffering from some kind of contact high. Every inch of him seizing up subtly, deliciously taught at her touch in an effort not to respond and yet it only revealed just how much she affected him.

“Nesta-“

“Shhhhhh,” she interrupted. Hands cupping that ruggedly handsome face and titling it back to tuck her’s against him slowly. “But I want it to be you,” she purred against his jaw, tracing her nose up the stubbled curve. “Let me show you how bad.”

“Someone could come back-“

“I don’t care,” Nesta murmured against his mouth. “I want you.”

His eyes fluttered shut. And she felt his cock stir in those immaculately tailored slacks.

“Nesta-”

She could feel every muscle that licked up his stomach tremble with a drawn out contraction as she said it again, her hands slipping down to his broad shoulders.

“I want you,” she purred again.

He might have tried to breath. And it might have rubbed up something uncomfortably nice in her lower tummy.

“Say it,” she whispered, tilting her face so that the tip of her nose brushed up the side of his. Her breath hot on his stubbled Cupid’s bow and hands running down the solid power of his upper body, burning up through his shirt. “Say it, Cassian.”

His brown eyes like cognac and magnolia were hooded behind his glasses as he conceded.

“You want me,” he breathed.

She grazed her mouth against his. Lips parted suggestively and an almost silent, utterly cruel noise escaping her.

The length of his thick cock pressed up against the seam of her plush sex as he grew to full, hard attention in his slacks. Warm and thrilling even through her panties and their open mouths melted into one another hot and heavy, tongues caressing as his large hands came to her knees and smoothed up her bare thighs covetously.

“Fuck,” he groaned lazily as her hips began rolling deeply into him, and her hands slid under his shirt. Fingers splayed, she snaked up the cobbled muscle of his stomach, the flesh burnished and warm beneath her touch. His shirt riding up to reveal the gutter of his hips, gruesomely toned and dusted with hair.

“This is…such a…” he breathed, between the perfect and yearning motions of their jaws, a hand smoothing up her waist in a way that made her shiver.

“Dream come true?” She hummed, kissing him wanton and unhurried. Dangerously close to becoming a brainless mess with the way his cock rubbed up her core.

His groan melted to a laugh or maybe it was the other way round.

“Yes,” he admitted breathlessly. “And a bad, bad…idea.”

“Well you’ve been a bad, bad boy, Cassian,” she whispered filthily against his ear, before capturing the lobe between her teeth softly.

She sucked and nibbled oh so gently and he expelled a breath so gravelly and masculine it twisted the hungry knot in her core tighter.

“Nesta…we-fuck you’re good at that…” he groaned lethargically . “Sweetheart, we can’t…”

“Why not,” she coed quietly, the sound airy and affectedly filthy.

“We’re…” he choked as he took in the sight of her cleavage, pushed intimately to his chest and escaping the neckline of her dress like a plume of toothpaste squeezed from the tube. “Fucking hell Nesta we’re in my office.”

“And I’m saying you could be in me.”

She rocked her hips against him with a particularly cruel slant.

The groan that escaped him made something flip in her stomach, tossing about whatever sweet, impossible to describe feeling rushed there at the same time at the way his head fell back against the chair as she worked him over. The hot friction that rubbed against her sensitive core the cherry on top of the sweet, creamy, decadent sundae.

“Besides,” she moaned, breathless and sultry. Teeth plunging softly into her plump bottom lip as she continued rolling her hips. Hands rubbing over his shoulders and providing her leverage. “You’re the boss.”

“I think we both know…that I’m not the boss…right now…” he groaned. Almost pained.

“Your cock a little much for those slacks?” She hummed, faux sympathy dripping through her mocking pout.

“I thought you liked a tight fit,” she teased, still pouting but eyes smokey. Her toes curling in her boots as her fingers began work on pulling his shirt apart.

The buttons popped undone with a sensual and pining tempo and she was moaning quietly into his mouth as she explored the panes and ripples of that powerful upper body. More than thorough in her hands-on assessment.

Cassian’s own hands were keeping just as busy, massaging and kneading her ass indulgently before smoothing over her rolling hips and eventually coming to her lower back. His thumbs pressing to the small of her back either side of her spine and it made something tight inside her swoon. The touch so hot and the memory it conjured so good. His big hands on her as he fucked her from behind.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned deeply, as she began rocking into him tighter, hotter. The impression of his cock lined up just right with her aching core.

“Hey, baby,” She purred, drunk on the friction that made her whole body throb and hum with pleasure and the tip of her nose brushing the side of his. Hands snaking from his exposed chest to either side of his face and capturing his bruised mouth with her own. Chewing on his bottom lip obscenely, the friction beginning to push her over edge.

“Fuck you’re incredible,” he groaned huskily once she let up. Kissing back decadently. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed almost mindlessly. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nesta.”

“You wanna show me how sorry you are?” she purred, sultry and low, mouth parting, forehead still pressed to his and eyes fluttering open to hold his own.

Cassian nodded, dumb and silent and eager and Jesus it turned her on.

“Yeah? You wanna make me cum?” She hummed.

“Yes, yes, please.”

“Touch me, Cassian,” she whispered against his open mouth. “Make it up to me, make me feel good.”

Cassian’s hands slid back to her ass and she moaned into the kiss he captured her lips in as he lifted her with a sensual squeeze, wrapping her long legs tightly round the tapered cut of his waist as he stood.

The surface of the desk was beneath her before she could work out which way was up and his touch smoothed down her legs to her knees before she could take a a breath in reprieve from kissing him. Her legs splitting either side of his broad hips and his erection, tucked to the side in his slacks and thick and heavy and hard, pushed against the inner seam of her thigh as he pulled that band from her hair.

“I’m gonna make these gorgeous legs tremble for me,” he pledged against the her jaw, kissing and nipping his way down to where her pulse throbbed for him as he a hand through the loose locks.

And he began suckling at that sensitive spot just as a calloused hand slipped between her thighs.

“Mmmmm,” Nesta moaned smugly, gripping at his biceps still sheathed in the sleeves of his shirt as Cassian’s thumb ran up the seam of her dripping cunt through her panties. The lace a flimsy veil between her swollen clit and his hot touch.

“Fuck I’ve missed you,” he moaned into her neck, her head rolling back as he snapped her panties and began stroking his fingers through her soft folds possessively. “Missed those little sounds and your mouth and this pretty neck and perfect pussy.”

“Then cut out the all bark no bite bullshit and prove it,” she breathed.

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured thickly, the pad of his thumb coming to her clit and she moaned as he circled the sensitive bundle of nerves expertly. Her nails pressing into his shoulders, a few through the hiss of his shirt but the others carving crescents into the bronze muscle and tattoos like the meat of an apple.

His forefinger began teasing at her tight entrance and Nesta’s breath caught.

“Tease me and you’ll fucking regret it,” she warned thickly, and he pushed the digit inside.

The intrusion was far from the thick, eight inches she craved, but when he curled his finger against a sensitive, swollen spot deep inside her Nesta keened aloud.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Cassian breathed, husky and bestial as he crooked his finger inside her over and over.

“More,” she demanded.

It probably wasn’t clear if she was demanding more dirty praise or physical attention but Cassian was a good boy and covered all his bases. A second finger pushing inside her that second.

She gasped as the snug walls of her cunt stretched to accommodate the two of them as he waxed lyrical about how hard her moaning got him. Their foreheads level and those deep brown eyes lathering her with his earnest attention.

“You’re dripping down my knuckles like a fucking peach,” Cassian told her as he thrust inside her over and over, the only thing more obscene than her facial expression and the breathless sounds she was making being the quite, wet noises his fingers illicited.

He hadn’t let up on her clit, and at the exact moment he decided to start curling those two fingers together, he increased the speed and pressure with which he rubbed at her most responsive spot with his thumb.

“Cassian,” Nesta moaned, her fingers running up the nape of his neck and delving into his hair, still pulled into that bun.

“That’s it, that’s so fucking hot, baby, I want your cum dripping down my wrist,” he growled softly. Her nails sliding down his scalp.

“You’re so fucking needy,” she got out, which only served to utterly delight him. His thumb working at her from an oh so subtly more intense angle that had a familiar buzzing low inside her threatening to pluck her apart at the seams.

“Oh my god fuck,” she moaned. “Uhhu, that’s it, just like that oh my god.”

“You gonna cum, Nesta? You gonna cum on my desk- Jesus I’m gonna be thinking about you moaning, long legs spread for me while you moan so fucking dirty for my fingers every time I’m sat at this fucking desk now, you know that?”

His words sent her over the edge.

Silently she threw her head back as her orgasm licked up every frayed nerve in her body. It was hard. And Cassian kept on working those thick fingers inside her and over her sensitive clit throughout.

Fucking her dirty and skilled. Prolonging her twitching and bone melting pleasure.

Until she was snaking her hands from where they’d wound through his fastened hair, and pushing him off her at the shoulders. Falling back on her forearms with a shaky exhale, thighs still trembling subtly.

Cassian smirked. And brought his fingers to his mouth. Licking up the length of the calloused, sticky digits. Eyes on her’s from behind those obnoxiously sexy reading glasses she had half a mind to slap off his face.

“You taste even better than I remember,” he purred.

“Then get on your knees.”

Her voice was shaky but he didn’t even throw her another of those antagonistic and gorgeous smirks, just sank down. All six foot whatever, two hundred and something ridiculous pounds of muscle. Knelt on the floor between her legs.

“Is initiative encouraged of am I to be strictly obedient?” There was that smirk.

“You can use your brain,” she permitted. Still out of it. But still dying for him to touch her again. “If only because I need to be convinced you have one.”

His chuckle felt like fucking heaven between her thighs. His stubbled jaw rubbing up against her aching cunt as he kissed her like he meant it. Open mouthed and his tongue then slipping out to lavish her dripping slit before he began playing with her clit with the tip.

Nesta moaned, chewing down on her lip once she located the dignity to quieten down so she could keep it that way.

Her previous orgasm should have taken the edge off, but it had only reminded her already whetted appetite what there was to gorge on. Leaving her pining for more and disastrously sensitive.

“Mmmm,” Cassian moaned deeply- though honestly it was closer to a growl which was hot- and brought those large hands to her thighs. Holding her open for him stoking the bruise-blue flame that writhed in her core and allowing him better access to her pussy.

“Oh god right there,” Nesta keened. His nose brushing up against her clit as he licked up her snug entrance, teasing his tongue inside.

He threw her legs over his stacked shoulders and obeyed, working his tongue inside her with shameful enthusiasm only emphasised by the noises he was making. Seriously he was putting her to shame.

In fact if she hadn’t been rapidly approaching another orgasm she might have thought he was have more fun than her.

Hands no longer occupied with gripping her black-clad thighs they came to her hips and waist. Coaxing her to slant forward at an angle that granted him an even more advantageous angle from which to eat her out.

She moaned, manicured nails almost clawing into his desk behind her. “Mhmm mhmm uh,” she gasped sharply at the sudden relocation of his tongue. Cassian capturing her clit in his mouth and sucking on the sensitive bud as he flicked his tongue up and down.

“Fuck, yes yes yes yes,” she was utterly breathless. “Oh god, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” she whined.

Cassian fucking groaned and it was like he’d pulled at the knot in her stomach with his teeth.

The muscles in her lower stomach twitching as she came, the cushiony walls of her cunt pulsing tight and the only thing grounding her to reality.

Though she was just lucid enough to know Cassian was lapping up the nectar between her legs with audible and pleased snarls of pure, masculine satisfaction.

Nesta couldn’t say how long it took her to stop seizing, just that she was completely drunk on pleasure by the time her body allowed her to at least try and think. She failed completely. Wasted on her orgasm, on Cassian.

“Come ‘ere,” she said, breathless and doped up. Eyes barely fluttering open, heavy lidded and probably glazing over with unabashed appreciation as Cassian did as he was told. Rising to stand before her, thick arms winding round her waist snuggly and pulling her to him tight.

His sheathed erection pushed to her sticky inner thigh and his powerful upper body, chiselled and broad and comforting, warm and hard and dusted with dark hair, pushed to her’s.

His sharp jaw, like her thighs, was slightly sticky, and his mouth looked even more abused than it from the attention of her teeth. But the best part- better than his mid-sex blush or the way he was breathing all deep and powerful and hungry for her, were his glasses. They were slightly fogged up at the edges.

“Apology accepted?” He asked huskily, like he was already sure of the answer. Like he didn’t care because no matter what she said he was going to have her screaming for him till they were both sick of each other.

“Apology accepted,” Nesta confirmed. Splayed hands smoothing up his broad chest as she captured his lips in a wanton kiss.

“That still leaves your punishment though,” she whispered.

Cassian’s dark brows had barely risen before she’d pushed him back and he was falling into the chair again. Breathing deep and thrumming with a desire that destabilised him as he watched her slip a stiletto heel beneath her panties on the floor and flick them up into her hand. Prowling toward him and climbing into his lap. Hoping it wasn’t obvious that her legs felt like liquid.

“Hold these,” she demanded, feeding the bundle of lace into his mouth, his groan muffled by the fabric and her hands making quick and embarrassingly eager work of removing his unfastened shirt. All but tearing it off his sculpted arms that must have been as thick as her thighs- his body was ridiculous.

She griped his wrists before he could start doing something like feeling her up and brought them behind his head. Elbows out and biceps flexed, his hands meeting in the middle at the nape of his neck.

Cassian kissed and nipped at her fingers as she plucked her panties from his mouth with one hand, holding his wrists with the other.

He licked at his lips as though chasing the taste of her lingerie, eyes on her’s from behind his glasses.

She wasn’t gentle knotting the lace round his wrists.

“Oh,” he grinned, trying to move his arms.

He couldn’t of course, the physics working against him and rendering it so his only way out would be pulling until the lace snapped for a second time this evening. Still, it was a fucking gorgeous sight watching him try. Biceps and broad chest flexing.

Tied up and at her mercy she was dripping wet for him and slipped her tongue into his mouth as a little reward for how fucking hot he looked like this. Kissing him obscene and wet.

“Safe word?” She murmured into his mouth.

“Harder,” Cassian grinned. No doubt referencing her answer to the very same question the other night.

Nesta bit his bottom lip, puncturing the bruised cushion subtly and she tasted blood on her teeth and his tongue.

“Safe word,” she insisted once more against his lips, fingers winding through his hair with a drawn out and yearning pull.

“Amren,” he groaned`. Then added, “don’t ask.”

“Yeah we’re done talking,” she informed him dismissively. Unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops of his slacks with a swift tug.

Cassian’s hips jumped beneath her and she unfastened the button slung low on his hips, pulling the zip of his fly down. Parted lips close to brushing.

“Down boy,” she purred.

“Bit late for that,” he breathed raggedly, jaw feathering as she slid her hand into his boxers.

“God you’re adorable,” Nesta pouted, freeing his thick cock. Obnoxiously engorged and a dribble of pearlescence spilling from the uncut tip.

“Now be a good boy and don’t you dare cum until I say,” she warned.

And sank down on thick inch after inch of his hot, rigid shaft.

Nesta couldn’t help the arch that slipped through her spine as he filled her up, the stretch so acute it had her eyes rolling back with a flutter of her thick lashes.

“Oh my god,” she moaned breathlessly, hands splayed against his powerful chest. Thighs straddling his, her walls hugged him vice like and- Jesus, he rubbed up that deep spot inside her perfectly.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned beneath her. “You’re so… fucking tight.”

Nesta rolled her head to the side in tandem with her hips, growing accustomed to the sheer size of him and eliciting a raw sound from the man before she removed his reading glasses. Fitting them over the bridge of her own petite nose.

“No backseat driving now, sweetheart,” she purred a little shakily.

She rose onto her knees only to sink back down again with a filthy twist of her hips. Repeating the motion again and again. Gliding up and down his cock with a tight and slippery friction that had her stomach flexing and his gaze heavy lidded. Encouraging, low noises escaping from deep in his chest that she wanted to bottle up and get drunk on.

“Uhh,” she keened, dirty and blissful, hands on his stacked shoulders. “Uhhu.”

“Oh fuck,” Cassian breathed huskily. “Mmhhm…that’s it…fucking ride me baby”

Nesta felt a familiar heat fan at her core as she drank him up. Every perfect, delicious inch there for her to use.

“Cassian,” she moaned. The sound tasting like sex in her mouth.

She fluttered around him again on an upwards twist of her hips, his cock pushing in and out of her snug cherry with a delicious wet sound. Just audible above her filthy moans.

Riding him was like sucking on a hard candy, that intense sweetness at the centre burning ever closer. And he kept running that damn mouth. Gravelly and deep, lavishing her body with sickly sweet and dirty compliments.

“Fuck that’s it gorgeous, just like that sweet thing fucking hell you’re fucking perfect.”

Powerful and dripping with raw fucking desire his body rolled upwards into her, slick with sweat and chiselled sinew. His cock burying deeper inside her. The sounds he was making just to top it off causing a tight fuzziness to tremble in her upper thighs.

“Oh my god,” Nesta moaned, hands coming to his face and lips brushing his as so she moaned a hot, “I’m gonna cum,” into his mouth.

Cassian groaned. Kissing her hard and deep.

“Cassian,” she keened.

She began bouncing deeper in his lap. Up and down up and down. His cock thrusting inside her hard and rubbing at her g spot just right while her clit grazed the coarse hair at his rugged hips. There was a bead of sweat gliding down the chiselled muscle that carved his broad torso, washboard abs flexing as he resisted release and Nesta felt the pressure between her thighs reach a fever pitch.

Grunting he bucked violently beneath her once, twice, and she was undone.

Nesta might have made a noise this time. Airy and hot and open mouthed against his neck as she buried her hands into his hair.

He was so tense beneath her, like pure marble soaked in the heat of the sun. Trying not spill inside her as her walls flexed with every hot wave of pleasure.

And once it passed his breathing was as ragged as her own.

“You did so good,” Nesta whispered at last against his ear. Voice wrecked like she were experiencing a sugar crash. Nibbling at the lobe. Tasting salt on her lips and eyes fluttering shut at the heady scent of his aftershave.

“Does that mean I get a reward?” he managed.

“Something like that,” she hummed, repositioning herself so that her back was to his chest.

“Nesta please. Just untie me, sweetheart,” Cassian whispered against her ear. Voice trembling like he’d shot up something good.

Nesta only chuckled, head knocked back so she could hold his eyes as she rolled her hips. Teasing, tormenting.

“The second you get your hands on these,” she brought her hands to her tits, giving them a soft squeeze and biting her lip, “you’ll be cumming and out of commission.”

Cassian growled, watching her feel herself up as she rolled her hips in leisurely circles. Sensual and dirty. The length of his hard shaft, thick and velvet smooth beneath her.

“Fuck,” he moaned huskily. Nose buried at her throat and lips working against her pulse point with the assistance of his tongue and teeth. Just as slow and through as her hips.

She gasped softly, grinding deeper.

“You know how good I can make it for you,” he purred.

“Mmmm,” she moaned quietly in agreement.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Cassian.”

“You make my name sound so sexy,” he grazed his stubbled jaw against the bruise he’d worked into her throat, the sensitive skin blushing warm at the contact as he moved his mouth to another location and started kissing and nibbling there. “Untie me, baby, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Nesta smiled.

“Or I could keep you tied up and just take it.”

Cassian growled against her neck as she tilted her hips forward allowing his cock to spring up, and sank down on him again.

She moaned, loud and keening. Hands snaking through his hair behind her as she rocked herself up and down slowly. There wasn’t a lot of friction, but for now it was enough just to revel in how good Cassian’s cock felt. That last orgasm having finally takes the edge off.

“Fuck that’s it grind for me,” he moaned. His breath was hot against her neck and she could feel his heart beat. Feel every deep sound reverberate through his chest as she moved.

His cock rubbed up against her g spot, colours and stars bleeding behind her eyes like fireworks.

“Cassian,” she whimpered lowly.

It was so good.

Hands fumbling distractedly she brought her fingers to untie him. And he deemed it all the permission he needed. Tearing himself free with a growl. Capturing her mouth in a slow and wanton kiss as those big hands came to rove her body, taking his time to pull her apart.

His touch hot and calloused, Nesta moaned into his mouth as he ran up her stomach, her hips, her thighs, her tits. Massaging and glazing every inch of her with a rough heat that made her feel like she was going to explode. Her body a champagne flute dangerously close to shattering at the frequency of his hot groans and growls.

“Right there, oh right fucking there baby,” She moaned quietly against his lips, one of his hands rubbing her hip and guiding her motions while the other palmed at her breast.

“Yeah? You like that?” He dipped his head to pull down the straps of her bra and dress down with his teeth until her cleavage spilt from the cups. Pebbled nipples tight and rosy in the dim light, peaking over the balcony of her bra.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured against her throat, exploiting the sensitive spot as he made his way back up to her face and watched her plump tits sway. A hand running from her hip down her thigh and back up again to slip between her legs to stroke her clit.

Nesta whined softly.

“Cassian…more…”

She kissed him sluggish and distracted. The two of them humming and moaning every so often until he started caressing her clit tighter and her sounds grew more frantic.

“Fuck uhhu, uhhu just like that,” she panted quietly into his mouth. “Oh god uhh, uhhh more…more…more more Cassian fuck me.”

She was on her feet before she could complain that his hands were no longer between her thighs. Pushed up against the edge of his desk, hands falling splayed against the surface to stop herself falling across the wood and legs split apart.

“Oh!”

“Good girl,” he grunted deeply. “Moan for me.”

His calloused fingers came to her clit, coaxing her closer to the edge as the other gripped her hip.

“That’s it, that’s my girl such a good girl baby.”

Mouth caught open as though on a fish hook Nesta started seeing black splodges, the puddles flaring in her vision on every one of his thrusts. Deep and dirty and filling her till she was so impossibly full she spilt over.

“Fuck fuck just like that oh my god you’re so fucking tight, cum on my cock, cum on my cock, uh, uh, uh.”

Cassian finished inside her with a guttural sound as she came. Pumping her full one last time with a brutal snap of his hips.

She was vaguely aware of his ragged breathing against her ear. Somewhat sure her forearms had fallen flat against his desk and her head hung forward. Hair falling over her face and back arched as her tight sex twitched and fluttered around him.

Coming back to her senses took longer than she’d ever admit.

“Is that cctv?” Nesta asked eventually, head tipped back and resting on his shoulder. Eyes flicking in gesture to the tiny little camera in the opposite corner of the ceiling.

“Don’t worry,” Cassian breathed. “It’s switched off.”

She turned her gaze to him.

“Shame.”

He let out an exhausted and reverent sound that might have been a laugh. And just as exhausted, once he’d pulled out, he fell back into the chair behind him. Trousers pulled back up but unbuttoned.

Nesta followed in fatigued suit, working her dress back down over her hips and sinking to the floor, back against the desk. She probably shouldn’t have worn black… but the impending bill and judgement from her dry cleaner would be worth it.

“Friday night. Pick me up at eight,” she breathed.

Cassian grinned.

“You like Italian?”

Nesta rolled her eyes from behind the reading glasses askew on her nose, but nodded none the less. She was sort of screwed if she didn’t. Cassian’s adopted family were Italian on his father’s side. The cuisine was going to be pretty commonplace if they kept seeing each other she imagined.

“What are you thinking about?” He hummed, watching her.

Nesta smiled. Then crawled toward him across the floor. “How I still have that table cloth you call a dinner jacket at my place.”

“Was that plan b?” He laughed, snaking an arm round her waist as she climbed into his lap. “Hold my jacket hostage till I agreed to go out with you again?”

“No,” she glared at him softly, nestling into the crease of his shoulder. “Though I had thought about wearing it tonight. Just your jacket and a pair of heels.”

Cassian licked his lips as though contemplating the sight and liking what he imagined very much. “Next time,” he hummed distractedly. Less promise more pleading. “This was…,” his free hand roved down her side, the black fabric glued to her figure. “And these…,” his touch made her melt as he ran down her thigh and platform boot, her legs flicked over one another.

“Lethal,” he whispered.

Nesta scoffed. “You’re telling me. My toes are killing me.”

Cassian hummed sympathetically, fitting a heel in his hand and guiding the shoe off her foot. Nesta groaned softly and he did the same with the other boot.

“That bad?” He chuckled, starting to massage her.

“Worth it though,” she sighed, nuzzling into his shoulder.

Cassian held the door open for Nesta to emerge out onto the street first. The cool night air whipping lazily at her hair.

Their second date had been incredible.

He’d taken her to Gnocco in the East Village. Proper Italian food, fairy lights, and intimate little corners perfect for flirting over too many glasses of wine and playing footsie beneath the table. Not to mention casual enough to see Nesta Archeron fitted out in heels, a snug black top, and a jaw dropping pair of jeans.

Tactically quiet and effortlessly biting as ever, she’d been armed with passionate reviews on the podcasts she’d listened to or books she’d read that week. Asking him about his own week and listening thoughtfully in a way that had probably made him blush.

If it hadn’t, then the way she’d licked at the creamy vanilla gelato on her dessert spoon definitely had.

Cassian was far too tempted to slip his hand into the back pocket of her dark skinny jeans as he emerged after her, but he felt Nesta probably wasn’t one for PDA. Or more accurately, public groping. And he was determined to be on his best behaviour this evening. Determined to make her forget all about how shit-awfully he’d handled last Saturday.

Not that he hadn’t given her a thorough apology.

Consistency was key however, and there would be no lapse in his conduct any time soon when it came to Nesta. He’d lucked out so fucking hard in getting a second chance when he hadn’t even deserved the first with a woman like her. Clever and beautiful and passionate and god he had it bad.

Had been thinking about her all week. Their date the only thing getting him through the late nights that were pretty much killing him at this point and the days spent arguing with Helion.

Cassian had worked out who’d put a hit on his friend. And why.

The contracts Helion was in the midst of signing were of a more personal nature that he’d originally let on. His will to be precise. In which it was detailed that upon his death, the pharmaceutical powerhouse that was Day Inc. should be handed over to Saoirse Vanserra.

The married woman Helion had gone and fallen in love with twenty odd years ago. The mother of his child.

Not that Helion had been aware of the that little detail until recently. Terminally ill, Saoirse hadn’t wanted the secret buried with her, and had gotten in touch with her old flame to tell him her youngest was his.

Despite being well into his fifties, Helion behaved like a twenty-something at the best of times. But learning he had a son that actually was twenty-something had thrust him into a panicked play at accountability. Saoirse was going to die, and soon, but Helion would still have a piece of her, a piece of the both of them despite the estrangement that had haunted their relationship since the start. A piece he’d do every and anything in his power to do right by.

Which meant Lucien would inherit his father’s company when the time came.

But removing Saoirse from his will…it felt like signing her death warrant. At least that’s what he’d told Cassian. That it it felt like he was giving up on her.

Cassian wished Helion could process everything in as much time as it took him. But time was a luxury not even the multi-millionaire could afford. Not with Saoirse’s eldest, Eris, trying to take him out before the will could be changed.

As things stood, Eris was set to inherit anything of his mother’s- a compromise reached between Saoirse and her cunt of a husband who’d wanted everything in his name. The Vanserra court its own savage little patriarchy of snakes and vipers, meaning as long as Beron was around, what belonged to his sons, belonged to him.

Still, Eris was the undisputed second in command and Beron wasn’t getting any younger. If he could take Helion out before any changes were made to the CEOs will, and if Saoirse’s doctors were to be believed, Day would practically be his by the end of the year.

Maybe sooner. If Beron beat his cancer ridden wife to death upon learning she’d been left Helion Day’s company and why.

He doubted anyone would put it past the bastard.

“Hey,” Nesta’s voice tugged at his attention as they turned off tenth. “Where’d you go?”

Cassian snaked his arm around her small waist, pulling her against him. “Just thinking,” he said. And as hard as he tried to push those thoughts away, something of them lingered in his voice.

She raised a neat eyebrow. That little beauty spot above the arch lifting with it and the one beneath the corner of her plump bottom lip quirking just barely.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Tucking her tighter to his side as he looked down at her. “That’s because the only thing I ever think about is you. And when I’m with you, I don’t have to do that, do I?”

Her blush was so utterly adorable it made him want to kiss her senseless.

“How do you do that?” Those eyes like the smoke of ice narrowed in sincere curiosity. It was a little terrifying. Which off course only made him like her more.

“What? Make you blush like a-”

“No,” she interrupted him with an embarrassed and chiding laugh, pushing at his chest slightly. “Say things, just say them- like the only thing that matters is that you mean them?”

Cassian smiled. “Not everything has to be done strategically, Nesta.”

“Says the military man.”

“And wouldn’t you say that makes me qualified to- okay fine, roll your eyes at me. Jokes on you because it’s actually very sexy when you do that so.”

Nesta laughed, her head falling to rest below his chest as they walked.

“Fortunate you say something to make me roll my eyes every five seconds then,” she hummed.

“And that I know just how to make those eyes roll back,” he purred lowly in response with a roguish grin, rubbing his thumb against where her coat lay over her stomach.

“Oh and you’re telling me this whole conversation wasn’t strategically constructed so you could use that line?” Nesta looked up at him.

“Sweetheart, when are you going to accept that I’m just incredibly smooth?” He grinned. “Besides, that wasn’t a line.”

“That was so a line!”

“You’d know if I was giving you a line.”

“Go on then. Give me your best line,” she challenged. Stopping dead and turning on him with her arms folded. Cassian didn’t let his arm slip from around her waist though. Kept it right where it was as he brought his free hand to tuck a lock of chocolatey hair behind her ear. Inspiration striking him.

“Are you a box of chocolates?” he asked, gravelly and suggestive. “Because I’d love to take your top off.”

Nesta really had the loveliest laugh in the world.

“That’s awful!” She put her hands firm against his chest. “How did you ever get laid before I took pity on you?”

“Um I’m gorgeous and rich,” he reminded her, both arms now caging her in.

“What a coincidence,” Nesta purred, their noses tucked against one another just barely thanks to his date’s shoes. No doubt expensive as they were tall.

“No coincidences here, sweetheart. This is all fate.”

“I’m deliberately not rolling my eyes just to spite you for saying something so cliché and dumb,” she murmured.

“Fine then. Fate and your meddling sister,” he admitted.

“Let’s not talk about my little sister right now,” Nesta’s hands snaked up to toy with the lapels of his coat.

“What would you rather we talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk at all,” she whispered. And pulled him down lazily to meet her mouth.

Cassian moulded his lips to the perfect pressure of her own. Hard and soft, her mouth like velvet and her body pressing into his tight and loose in all the right places.

Kissing Nesta was like brushing you fingers against the glacial softness of snow like flakes of glass. Irresistible and inevitable. Burning so soft at first before the sensation grew unbearably tender and acute. It reminded you that you were alive.

The movements of their mouths grew hotter, no less lethargic, but simply heavier. Like they had all the time in the world and planned to exploit every second.

So much for not into PDA, Cassian thought, as she coaxed his mouth open further with her tongue, his own slowly swiping to meet it. And he did slip his hand into her back pocket then, giving her a fond and pining squeeze which pulled her tighter into him.

The pads of her thumbs brushed at either side of his jaw as she arched a little, those perfect tits pushed against his upper body and he dug his fingers a little more possessively into the fabric of her coat. Bunching at her waist beneath his calloused touch.

Nesta sighed sweetly into him-

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cassian swore. Tame Impala playing from his pocket.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who likes your attention,” Nesta laughed quietly, hands smoothing back to her sides politely. The little menace. Her effortless composure all the more devastating with her mouth kissed cherry-red and pupils blown wide as saucers.

He fished out his phone, and declined the call.

“Well you’re the only one getting it.”

She rose her brows as though she were impressed, winding her arms back around his neck.

“For a man who hates games you have game, Velaris.”

“Would you feel less wooed if I told it you was just Rhysand?” He admitted. Rejecting his busybody brother’s phone call a far less bold gesture than if it had been work.

Nesta’s little smile was like molten satin.

“That makes it even better,” she kissed him again.

Cassian kissed her back through his laugh, dipping her back slightly for a more indulgent angle, her arms lacing tighter around him to hold herself up. Like he’d let her fall.

Nesta was the one laughing now and it tasted like gelato and champagne and sunrises. He nipped at her lip as he pulled her back up with him snuggly, and she brought her hand to cup the side of his face, the other at his tapered waist.

“I should get going,” she hummed distractedly, hand gliding up his body like she didn’t even realise.

Her tongue caressed his slowly before he was muttering against her, “probably”, chasing the plush heat of her mouth.

They didn’t stop. Not even as Nesta was murmuring a disjointed, “heighten the…suspense…keep you…wanting and all that.”

“I’m already losing interest,” he purred gruffly, their jaws knocking intimately as the kiss became hotter and fitful, short breaths and hungry mouths. Her nails scraping softly up the nape of his neck and through his hair.

“And you’re looking for it in my back pocket, is that it?” She whispered, and Cassian gave her ass a firm squeeze as either confirmation or reprimand.

She bit his bottom lip, the nip of her pearly teeth giving way to a sensual sort of chewing that made his eyes roll back behind closed lids and his large hands wound through her hair to guid her head back so he could take charge. Kissing her slow once again but dirtier, thorough and wanton and Nesta keened almost silently.

“Found it,” Cassian said thickly into her mouth.

“Want your prize?” She whispered breathlessly.

“Yes please.”

Nesta slid her hand between them. Fingers brushing his belt, then lower-

Cassian couldn’t tell if he was relieved or devastated when she slipped her way inside his pocket and plucked free his phone.

She withdrew just barely from the kiss, switched it on and turned the screen to him. The device unlocked as both his hands tucked into her pockets and her manicured thumbs were tapping away.

Cassian brushed at the curved beam of her high cheekbone with his nose, trying to see what she was up to.

“What are you doing?”

“Callander says you’re free Friday. Or it did. Now it says you have a date.” She nestled herself back into him tightly, tucking the device back into his pocket, exploiting that teasing proximity to something else entirely and driving him crazy as she grazed his mouth with her own.

“Congratulations.”

Cassian grinned.

“Tha- wait just to be clear the date is with you, right?”

“Yes, Cassian, the date is with me,” she chuckled. “And I can’t wait,” her humming melted to something wordless and heavy as he kissed her again.

Slow and explicit he stroked his tongue inside and he swore he felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheek.

“Cassian,” she breathed almost silently and it burnt his lungs like freezing air.

“Can I take you home?” Cassian whispered.

“May I take you home,” Nesta corrected between the sinful caress of their lips.

“Please do.”

She was kissing the smirk off his face like she could taste how snug he was and wanted a piece of it for herself. Like she were working at a marshmallow or strawberry lathered with thick chocolate from a hot fountain of the stuff.

“Maybe you are smooth,” she whispered and it only inflated Cassian’s self satisfaction. “But we both know I like it rough.” Ouch. “Just like we both know you’re way too exhausted to have your way with me.”

He pulled back abruptly.

But his mouth had barely opened to argue when she gave him a definitive “don’t”. It was little bit arousing. “You said yourself how late you’ve been working. Have you slept at all this week?”

For all her icy glares and hellish attitude, at her core, Nesta was kind. She cared despite her pretences to the contrary and it meant she noticed things. Like how despite his lively grins, Cassian was out for the fucking count.

“That’s what I thought. You can screw me when I know you won’t pass out before making it to third base.”

“The only one who’d be passing out is you once I’m through fu-”

“Save that thought for a night you have the energy to see it through,” she said.

“But I-”

A quirk of her neat brows shut him up.

He growled a bitter but accepting sound. She was right, of course she was right, because she was Nesta and a Nesta was always right.

“Friday,” he promised. “I’m gonna cook for you, something fucking romantic.”

“More romantic than that sentence?”

“Look I may not be Keats but I know my way round a stove, so hold all sarcastic comments until I’ve fed you.”

“I’ll try, but I know for a fact you’re going to make that very hard.”

“How have you already failed?”

“Shut up,” Nesta laughed.

“You have the sexiest fucking laugh.”

“So you’ve said,” she blushed.

“And I’ll keep saying it if every time I do you blush like that.”

“Like I’m embarrassed for you?” she countered with an arched brow and a cruel twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re so mean,” he grinned.

They made their way to the curb and hailed down a car on twelf.

“Want me to ride with you back to your apartment?” he said, opening the back door of a yellow cab that had pulled up for her.

“That’s sweet, but trust me, I can take care of myself,” she promised.

“Text me when you get home safe and sound just to spite me then,” he said from the opposite side of the door.

“I will. But you better not be awake to read it,” She gave him a lingering kiss before gracefully tucking herself inside.

“Night, gorgeous,” he winked, and shut the door.

Her ride had just turned onto fourteenth when Cassian decided against hailing his own despite the cold. It was only fifteen or so minutes on foot, and he could probably do with cooling down.

Though even if he had to trek through tundra to get home he suspected he’d still find himself burning up under a cold shower in an attempt not to jack off to the thought of Nesta like a fourteen year old.

Stuffing his already slightly numb hands into his pockets he began walking, his fingers brushing against his phone. He should probably call Rhys back.

The phone rang for a moment before his brother picked up.

“Did you decline my call?”

“Yup.”

“Bastard.”

“I’m sure Feyre will kiss your bruised ego better,” Cassian grinned as he walked. “Along with something else so long as she doesn’t hear you’ve been calling me names,” he added slyly.

“Are you threatening to tell on me to my wife?” Rhysand asked, a little wound up by the allusion to Feyre’s kissing certain places even if he hid it behind an unimpressed drawl.

“Are you pretending the thought doesn’t have you quaking in your givenchy loafers?”

“On the topic of not upsetting Feyre, she’s demanding a family dinner.”

He laughed deeply at Rhysand’s avoiding the question.

“That why you’re calling?”

“Partly,” Rhys said. “Work’s been…She wants to be around family right now,” he said with an all too familiar casualness. “You free?”

“For Feyre?” Cassian said without hesitation. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He would just have to pull an all nighter on the Monday.

“Thank you. And also fuck you for implying if it was for me you wouldn’t be,” his brother said.

“Well you called me just as Nesta was about to slip her tongue down my throat so-”

“Nesta?” Rhys interrupted. “I thought that was over?”

Shit.

In all the carnage that had been the last week he hadn’t bothered letting his family know he and Nesta were back on. The woman was a touchy subject and he hadn’t had the energy or balls to get into it.

While Rhys had been able to excuse Elain’s inactivity when the Archerons had been at their financial lowest, he’d never managed to extend that same courtesy to Nesta. Maybe it was because the first time they’d met she’d called him a cradle snatching whore. Regardless, Rhysand pretty much hated the woman’s guts, meanwhile his wife was desperately trying to lure her into the inner circle of the Velaris family.

Cassian may have been able to bench a number higher than his IQ but he wasn’t dumb. He’d clocked on to the fact his sister-in-law was using him as Nesta bait. In all honesty he was loving it. Nothing made him happier than helping out his family, and if that meant taking out an intelligent, passionate, stunning young woman, then really it was a double-win.

Taking a second to grind his jaw softly he was reminded to tread carefully. Not something he generally excelled at, but for the sake of his brother he could try.

“I know you’re not her biggest fan,” he said. “But Feyre forgave her years ago for bailing-”

“Well Feyre’s a better person than I am.”

“I’ll say. She set me up with a smoking hot model, meanwhile you’re trynna cock block me,” he tried.

“You can put your dick wherever you want, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I guess not,” he ground out. Itching to hit something at the implication Nesta was just “somewhere to put his dick”.

“Cassian if you want to date a biblical plague in human form knock yourself out, seriously, god knows Feyre will be thrilled. And Azriel, your moping-”

“I don’t mope,” Cassian interjected.

“Fine, your stropping-”

“Fuck off.”

Rhys’ laugh was about smug as the bastard’s crooning voice.

“Mor’s gonna kill you by the way. You put a two grand dent in her wine collection over a woman you took back the next week.”

Cassian groaned, wiping a hand over his face. The only thing worse than the hangover he’d had Monday morning would be Morrigan’s laying into him on this.

“Don’t you dare tell her,” he warned.

“Fine but you’ll have to do it before next Sunday, you’re bringing Nesta.”

“Hang on a minute-”

“Feyre wants a family dinner and if you and Nesta are back on that means she’s coming,” Rhys said.

“Boy you are asking a lot of me here,” Cassian sighed dramatically. “I mean I can think of a few ways to persuade her but most of them are illegal in a lot of countries,” he grinned.

“I don’t care if you have to roofie her and strap her to the hood of your car, just make sure she’s there.”

“Alright, alright Don.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rhys growled irritably to Cassian’s delight.

“What else were you calling about then?” He smirked. “You said dinner was only part of it.”

“I wanted to ask how things were going with Helion,” his brother said. “Any update?”

Cassian sighed heavily.

“This a secure line?”

“Always”.

“The hit’s Eris,” he said. “Apparently Saoirse does pretty well for herself if Helion kicks it and it’s looking like she won’t last the year. When she goes Eris takes the lot so he’s trying to take Helion out before he can change his will.”

“That little bitch,” Rhys interrupted.

“I’m not done. Guess who Helion might be transferring that inheritance to?”

“Is Azriel going to finally have the funds to build that sex dungeon?”

“Not quite,” Cassian said. “The money’s going to Lucien.”

“Lucien?”

“Turns out the kid’s his.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Seems obvious in hindsight to be honest.”

Rhys was silent on the other end for a moment as he evidently thought through matter.

“You said might, is he waiting on a paternity test or something?”

Cassian winced. “No. No he’s dragging his feet about changing the will altogether.”

“Why the fuck is he doing that there’s a bullet with his name on it!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cassian hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “I’m the one whose gonna have to jump in front of that bullet if he doesn’t get his ass in gear. But he…he’s losing the love of his life, Rhys. I’m trynna cut him a little slack-”

“Slack Eris is going to have someone strangle him with.”

“I’m handling it,” Cassian promised.

Rhys went silent again.

“We could always just kill Eris.”

Cassian would have laughed at the unrestrained glee in his brother’s voice if the suggestion hadn’t been so tempting.

“No you can’t,” he reminded him, ascending the steps to his front door.

“Sorry, sorry, you probably want plausible deniability and all that- which is a shitty reason to leave a family business-”

“What are you talking about? I left because I don’t like any of you.”

“Dick.”

“See it’s that kind of thing that made for a hostile work environment I really couldn’t foresee a future working under,” he grinned, unlocking the door.

“You taught me words far more creative than that growing up, monte de merda-”

“Desenmerda-te, and don’t cuss at me in Portuguese carcamano.”

“I’m fucking Persian!”

“Tell that to your pale ass like unbaked garlic bread, minchia,” Cassian retorted in Italian as he tossed his keys onto the skirting board and shrugged off his coat.

“A fanabla!”

“Love you too, tell Feyre I said hi.”

“See you and Nesta on Sunday, I’ll text you timings.”

“No shop talk okay, she still doesn’t know anything about-”

“I know, I know, it’s not me you have to worry about. Feyre keeps asking me to hire her.”

“As what? Has Cosa Nostra began dabbling in the modelling industry under your direction, baby brother?”

“If I said yes would you come back to us?”

“I’m a one woman man, Rhys.”

“Jesus, it’s been less than a month.”

“At which point you and Feyre were engaged.”

“Nesta’s no Feyre.”

Yeah, Nesta has enough wit about her to know you can’t go round offering Mafia jobs like candy, he thought to himself.

“Whatever man, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

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