#but burning and yearning muddles us all

[viric-dreams]

Grand Geode, 1883. Lieutenant Roberts sees a familiar face. Or at least something wearing that face.

There’s a storm coming. Heat and humidity hang in the air, adding strain to each breath. Sweat pools at the back of Roberts’ neck, the droplets sliding down the curve of his spine beneath his uniform. He does his best to ignore the discomfort, gripping the folder in his hands yet tighter as he follows a familiar set of turns down the hall to the Commodore’s office.

In a previous life, he may have regarded his current position as gruntwork–dull, administrative minutia, a world away from any action on the Zee, but in moments like these he finds he doesn’t mind. Any moment now, the heat will break, and the Zee will roil under a torrent of foetid-smelling rain, befouled by the Wax Wind. He does not envy the men on their ships when the storm inevitably hits. Carrying documents up the chain is fine by him, if it means stable stone under his dry feet, and a bed that does not sway with the tides. 

He turns the corner, and before his hand can even touch the office door, Roberts feels the sudden charge in the air, white-hot and electric, and the hairs on his arms stand on end. The sensation calls back to something familiar, half-forgotten in the back of his mind. He wonders if he should leave, perhaps come back later. But before he has time to properly question it, the Commodore’s voice rings out through the door, as if able to sense his presence through the thick wood.

“Who’s there?” 

“It’s Lieutenant Roberts, sir,” he says. 

The Commodore is silent for a beat, then answers softly, as if forgetting the heavy door between them.

“Elias, why don’t you come in.” 

It’s not framed as a question. And so he does.

The Commodore sits at his desk, in the exact position where Roberts has seen him hundreds of times before. But this time is different. This time, he has a visitor. Radiant. That’s the only way he can think of to describe her. A singular point in the centre of the room, the axis around which so many golden threads warp and turn. She does not look happy to see them. In fact, she doesn’t look much of anything, and he struggles to make out her features through the brilliant haze she emanates. 

“Elias, you remember June, don’t you?” There’s a placidness to the Commodore’s voice that he so rarely hears. The man has not taken his eyes off of June since Roberts had entered the room, and he can hardly do so himself. 

Indeed he remembers her. If he squints into that light he can even make out her features, unchanged from when he’d last seen her, nearly two decades prior. He feels warm. Not the muggy heat smothering Zelo’s Town, but a glow, spreading from within his chest out into his limbs. 

“Of course,” he says. How could he forget?

June does not greet him. She does not take her eyes off of the serene face of the Commodore. When her mouth opens, the sound that comes out is otherworldly, timbres not possible on human vocal chords. The sound reverberates through Roberts’ body, like the bass tones of chugging machinery.

It was something of importance. He’s sure of it. She wouldn’t be here, speaking to him, to them, to the Commodore, were it not. A Zee captain will return, and when they do, the Admiralty will be ready. She leaves her instructions. Her voice is so warm, all-encompassing, a rumbling static beating a tune against his eardrums. He will complete the Work. Whatever it is she needs, he will do. They will do. 

He tells her this. At least, he thinks he does. Whether or not he speaks the words out loud she must know this of him. Her eyes are on the Commodore, whose head nods in a slow daze. Of course they can manage. He’ll personally ensure they have the supplies they need. More heat. Pride, this time, that they can do what she requests of them. 

And then she turns to him, golden eyes boring directly through him, setting him alight. Her lips open to speak and–

He comes to at a raucous peel of thunder. June is long gone, and he shivers at the unexpected cold left by her absence, despite the muggy air. Yet despite the chill of her absence, he feels… calm. A slow satisfaction at having done… something right. At least, he feels so. Something worthwhile. 

It’s only several minutes later, when he stands under the building’s awning, the rhythm of rain pounding a frenetic drumbeat into the steel roof, that he realises he’s still clutching the missive meant for the Commodore.

[mosaickiwi]

Fall Unto Me (epilogue hehe)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Demon!Ren and Angel!Angel my otp!!! I think saying I won't write anymore compels me to write more somehow................... sowwee I just keep lying :3c

cw// religious themes

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Moonlight gleamed on the gentle waves pushing back and forth to meet the shore. You sat at the water’s edge with your lover, legs curled under you to lean against his side, your fingers drawing shapes in the wet sand that only lived a few fleeting seconds, then washed away in the water's wake. 

The blue eyed demon kept an arm around you for warmth. You still felt cold, sometimes even during the day. It bothered him more than you. Ren silently watched you etch shapes, though they didn't pay as much attention as usual. He was lost in thought.

Almost a year had gone by since the dreaded night that wouldn't leave their mind in peace, when heaven had burned away all you’d ever known without a care for the loneliness you felt afterwards. A nightmare that was sure to stain decades of eternity with you. Centuries past his own damned fall from heaven's gate, they still found a way to punish him.

Your heart healed quickly with his doting and comfort, but the physical scars remained. Each morning was a glimpse of heaven and hell. He was always awake before you, but to ever leave your side would pain them like nothing else. So he waited. You'd open your eyes, smile at him as if he was the paradise you'd treasured dearly—how could you still choose to grace a monster like them with your sacred beauty? Your presence? Your love?—then crawl from the sheets to stretch and start your day. 

The two jagged streaks of seared flesh on your back greeted him like a cruelly blinding sunrise. He could only wonder where everything went wrong.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen so soon. Your fated fallen angel had already waited millennia to meet you again, and he was intent on waiting infinitely more until you were ready. Because they knew you’d eventually come to desire him, to yearn for their embrace above all others. But you’d fallen—both in love and divinity—faster than he dared to wish for. Nevermind a thousand years, you were taken with him in barely a day, even if it took you much longer to realize the gaze you set upon him in the setting sun was more than just curiosity. 

It must have been destiny’s twisted attempt at design. He didn’t expect you that day in heaven’s library, but they were meant to belong to you from the moment— 

“Ren,” you spoke as softly as the ocean’s gentle breeze. Still, they heard you loud and clear through the muddled sea of their mind. You were the only being who could ever pull him ashore. Or astray. 

“Yes, little angel?” he answered. The nickname burned in his heart to use now, but the way your eyes glittered with love like the moon and stars above when they said it… he yearned for that happiness to last as long as it could.

“Did I spell it right?” He cast his gaze to where you pointed. Just out of the crawling reach of lapping waves, you’d written something in the starlit sand.

They’d written your name thousands, maybe even millions of times over and over to keep him sane enough to find his only solace in you. Seeing it here, finally in your own handwriting was something else entirely. He’d commit it to memory.

“Exactly right,” Ren smiled down at your handiwork and leaned over to write the three letters of his name under yours. They were all he could remember of the real name heaven had stolen away. Though it’d been so long that he wasn’t even sure if they were correct.

You stared for a moment, then drummed your fingers on your thigh. “Your real one was certainly longer than this,” you muttered to yourself. 

Your companion absently nodded, those innocent words haunting him with another memory. He’d spilled his heart out months ago in a moment of weakness, one morning when the sight of your scars broke him. About the real first time you met, his own fall from grace, his sinful intentions to take you with him some day. Everything that he feared would make you hate him. It was a way to punish himself further. Heaven’s permanent reminder wasn’t enough—but you forgave everything with ease like the angel you truly were. 

I’d go through it all again if it meant you’d be mine, you told him. As if it was a simple choice. You were more upset to hear that you couldn’t call his true name. That worthless excuse of a god had made a mistake to let you go—one Ren would never even think to make.

The demon had developed an odd habit of brooding. You kissed his cheek to get his attention, one hand lacing through theirs. “Ren, there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t we go swim? Or take a walk?”

He meant to answer, but a harsh shiver suddenly tore through your body. You felt cold again, even to him. A lance of pain from his own ill fated guilt, and he carefully stood, lifting you into his ink-stained arms. “Let’s go home.” You were clearly about to frown, and he had to correct himself. “Little angel, let’s go home.”

Not even the moon could outshine the immediate smile you brightened his world with.

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch4

chapter 4: regurgitation

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 4, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-3, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, violence, and gore; animal death; smoking, addiction. (justification for these two narrative choices in the endnotes)

Sometimes, the mirror looks at you first. 

Your mistakes and your crimes haunt you at every turn, inhabiting the shadows behind your back and the reflection before your eyes until all you can hear is gunfire and all you can see is blood dripping down your skin. Your knuckles ache in remembrance, your finger refuses to stop twitching. You flinch at every minute noise, stiffen at every passing shadow. Sure, you passed your psychological evaluation. Sure, you’ve returned to teaching and fieldwork. And you’re okay. 

Sure.

Despite everything that has happened to you recently, it’s both grounding and disturbing to remember that the world hasn’t really changed in your absence. There are still too many criminals to catch, and not enough people fighting to find them. There will always be corpses. You will always be left to handle the aftermath. How many people have to be killed before a murderer reaches the desk of Jack Crawford? You find yourself going to the Bureau’s library during the majority of your time between lessons, desperate for answers to the questions that have remained unsolved. Is there truly a way to prevent criminals from becoming criminals in the first place? How many strings have to snap for a person to consider killing another? ( Not very many, Clark Ingram leers in your ear.)

Your attitude towards criminality has changed in the time you’ve spent at the FBI. Before, you were optimistic—perhaps a little naive. Not only did you believe that every person had the potential to change, but you wholeheartedly believed that they wanted to change. You’ve met too many killers now to be so deluded, to think that they would choose mercy over malice when given the option. You’ve been burned before—put aside your misgivings, suppressed any reasonable doubt in the face of a charming smile and glittering eyes. You don’t intend to let anything like that happen again. 

If only intention caved so easily. In all reality, it could very well happen again. You know damn well you’re not exactly in the safest state of mind at the present moment. Dueling desires for solitude and company wage war in your mind, making your actions puzzling at best and contradictory at worst. You’re losing your self-concept, blurring your own visage until you’re a muddled mess of darkness and inexplicable spots of color. 

In the past, when you felt untethered, you’d submerge yourself in work. That’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed. When you don’t have the answers, when you can’t quite silence the self-deprecating commentary constantly playing in your mind, you turn to paperwork and cold cases. You rifle through photographs of gruesome murder scenes that look achingly familiar. You find yourself committing particularly difficult cases to memory, if only to keep your mind busy.

Cold cases aren’t your priority, however. After all, you’re a field agent. The majority of your work is focused on the murderers that still roam the streets—the ones that leave behind victims gasping for breath and puddles of crimson. There is no shortage of cruel acts to keep you occupied, as you track down killers of all walks of life. 

And you have some close calls. After your muted conversation with Jack in the hospital all those months ago, you take extra caution and care when you’re in the field. But you’re still human. You get scratches and scrapes, bruises and the occasional graze of a bullet. Thankfully, you don’t sustain an injury serious enough to warrant a hospital visit, but your wounds are still prominent enough to leave marks on your body and draw your attention in the mirror. 

As time passes, the scars you acquire set into your skin, and you realize that the pain you once felt is never far. Your body is slowly growing into a tapestry of marks, littered with remnants of unspeakable cruelty. Each scar is a reminder that you survived another monster, and the thought brings you equal gratitude and guilt. On good days, the marks are badges of honor; on bad days, they send you spiraling as you question why you were chosen to survive.

Crime never rests, and neither do you. Your sleep continues to be positively awful, as you’re plagued with nightmares. Abel Gideon smiles as he sinks a knife between your ribs; Frederick Chilton towers over you with a gleaming eye; Clark Ingram shoves you into a horse’s womb, next to its still beating heart and warm organs; Franklyn Froideveaux sits in your office, asking you why you sentenced him to his death. Abigail Hobbs chokes on her own blood as her throat is sliced; Peter Bernardone is strangled to death with a lead rope.

The worst of your nightmares doesn’t feature any of these people. Instead, you’re seated in the chair in Hannibal’s office. The clock ticks on the wall. Your leg bounces restlessly. Hannibal appears to be writing or sketching something on his notepad. He makes no acknowledgement of your presence.

You soon grow accustomed to falling entirely silent in that office chair, to inhaling and exhaling quietly, to not making a single movement or sound. You are delivered to this nightmare three times. It shouldn’t scare you. Yet there is something in the air of that office, some unspoken tension and anticipation that sends sweat rolling down your neck and forces you to wake in your bedroom with panting breaths. Each time you wake, your abdomen burns and the scar on your face stings. 

You don’t tell anyone about this recurring nightmare. As you take on another case, the subject of your nightmares becomes the killer you’re searching for and the victims she’s already left behind. And, slowly but surely, you begin to forget that suffocating silence. 

Months later, though, when an uneasy sleep returns you to Hannibal’s office once more, you aren’t prepared. You sit on the chair and take a deep breath. Hannibal’s pencil—which hasn’t ever stopped skittering and gliding across the paper—stills at the noise. His head slowly rises until he’s looking at you, and suddenly everything around you seems inconsequential. You feel like the breath has been ripped right from your chest. His gaze steadily rips you apart, layer by layer. 

When you wake, you can’t fall asleep again. You spend the rest of the night and early morning trying to rid yourself of the feeling of eyes on you. Sometimes, when you blink, you can see Hannibal in your entryway. (Sometimes, when you blink, you see him standing next to you as you look over a victim’s body, humming in disinterest.) 

You’ve been trying to bury your memories of the past, but they aren’t quite as far away as you’d like. Hannibal Lecter still has a tight grip on your waking mind. You are unable to forget him. (“I want you to know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me.”) 

As it turns out, no one is keen to forget Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper still dominates the news and the papers. The public is fascinated with Hannibal, with the skilled surgeon-psychiatrist with no obvious indicators of insanity and a rather steep kill count. Even though Hannibal is imprisoned, his name doesn’t seem to leave the mouths of FBI trainees talking amongst themselves or news anchors reporting on crimes. Nearly everyone is fascinated, intrigued by the story of Hannibal Lecter. There are a few exceptions, fortunately. Namely, Jack Crawford, Beverly, and Alana are the few people who treat you as they always do. 

Still, you’re close to a breaking point. All the attention on the Chesapeake Ripper is making it utterly impossible to forget him. You want to move on more than anything, but everyone around you is constantly reminding you of the fear, betrayal, remorse, anger, and helplessness that clung to you after Hannibal stabbed you and nearly left you to die in his office. You’re forced to relive the worst night of your life again and again and again. 

You don’t have patience for people who just want information from you. So when you see Freddie Lounds waiting for you as you exit a crime scene one afternoon, you’re extremely apprehensive. As you walk to your car, you find yourself unwittingly getting closer to Freddie in the process. You’re waiting for her to start asking you about the crime scene or the Chesapeake Ripper. Instead, Freddie simply nods at you. You blink at her, before hesitantly nodding back. 

From then on, Freddie seems to make a habit of breaking your expectations. Like right now, for instance. You’re leaving another crime scene, another corpse, when you see Freddie sitting on the steps of a nearby building, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She beckons you closer and, after a moment’s consideration, you settle on the stairs next to her. Freddie wordlessly holds out her carton of cigarettes. You regard it with a mix of emotions. You know you shouldn’t take her up on the offer, know damn well that the last thing you need in your life is addiction. 

But there’s a small voice in the back of your mind, whispering to you that the cigarettes will offer you a safety that you can’t get anywhere else. It’s growing louder and louder, amplified as it echoes in the empty chamber of your mind palace. You take a deep breath. What more do you have to lose?

“No time like the present,” you eventually acquiesce with a grimace, before grabbing a cigarette. Somewhere, somehow, this feels like the point of no return. You’ve crossed a line that there can be no coming back from. 

“Yeah,” Freddie responds eloquently, immune to your internal crisis. She reaches out to light your cigarette. You stare at the smoke emanating from it. Truthfully, you’ve never smoked before. You watch Freddie and try to emulate her movements, taking a deep breath before pressing the cigarette to your lips and inhaling. Immediately, you’re coughing. It takes you several seconds to regain your breath, and Freddie is absolutely no help—instead laughing maniacally at your suffering. 

“How have you been?” You ask, once Freddie has stopped laughing at your pain. “How are things with TattleCrime?”

“Boring, now that Lecter’s behind bars,” Freddie remarks. You choke on a laugh at her macabre honesty. And, in typical Freddie fashion, she entirely dodges the question directed towards her. She must be doing alright, you think, if she’s sitting out here peacefully. 

“I bet,” you grimace. TattleCrime’s entire brand relies on criminality. For a while there, Hannibal was dominating the front page. There’s clearly less source material now that he’s in prison. “Hey, you could write an article about me. My unsightly scar…” You break off, trying to remember other headlines or articles about you. That’s all you can remember, thankfully. You’ve been trying your best to keep yourself away from the news, because you know it typically brings nothing but trouble. Even so, it’s everywhere.

“Ah, yes, and how the Ripper left you alive?” Freddie says, “Because that topic isn’t exhausted just yet.” She continues wryly. You feel a slight smile rising on your face. No doubt, she has also taken notice of the extensive press coverage surrounding both Hannibal Lecter and, well, you. 

“It’s growing pretty ridiculous,” you admit, allowing yourself to think about it for a moment. Thoughts of Hannibal are never far, but you’ve grown used to suppressing them. With a slow inhale, you allow yourself to contemplate.  “I’ve heard everything from us being in a secret relationship to the Ripper not wanting to end his kill count on an odd number.” The statement is punctuated with a slow exhale of smoky breath. 

“What do you think?” Freddie asks, regarding you sincerely. Her gaze is attentive, but not intense. She is interested in hearing what you have to say, for reasons you can’t quite comprehend. “Why did he leave you alive?” 

“...To prove a point,” you respond hollowly. You’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with this unshakeable fact, yet you haven’t been able to fully grasp its implications just yet.  

“That’s grim,” the journalist admits, taking another drag. She glances at you in concern, you pretend not to notice—it’s a game you’re already accustomed to playing with Bev. “You’re certain?” Freddie asks. After a moment’s contemplation, you shake your head wordlessly. Of course you’re not certain. Hannibal isn’t so easily predictable. Your hand unconsciously rises to touch the scar on your face. 

“Gideon gave you that scar,” Freddie recalls with a frown. She brings her cigarette to her lips again and her shirt sleeve slips down in the process, revealing abrasions around her wrist. You aren’t the only one with scars from that night, it seems. 

“It was healing,” you whisper, goosebumps rising on your skin as you touch the scar. You’re not sure why your voice has fallen so quiet—there is no one else around to hear you. Still, the admission feels damning. “Then… Hannibal tore it open again.”

There’s a startled intake of breath. “On purpose?” Freddie asks. 

“I think so,” you agree, trying to reach the words caught in your throat. You look down at the pavement beneath your feet. Eye contact feels too difficult right now. “I have to wonder if he knew… knew I’d be forced to see him in my mind’s eye every time I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror.” Your throat feels tight. Surely, he would’ve known. Was that his parting gift—a reopened wound, a permanent remnant of what you had?

“Hey, did he really surrender?” Freddie frowns, looking to you for clarification.

You nod. “He surrendered in my driveway,” you elaborate, before you can contemplate the consequences of giving the TattleCrime journalist confidential information. 

“Really?” Freddie gasps, her eyes widening. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. You’re not sure why you’re telling Freddie about this—perhaps because she’s a good listener; perhaps because you just need to tell someone. When you blink, you can see the headlights of Jack’s police car burning through the darkness; when you blink, you can see Hannibal’s eyes gleaming in the dark, pinning you in place. “He said he wanted me to know where he would be, and where I could always find him.” The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, one of the voices reminds you. You shake your head and turn to Freddie, only to realize that she has been struck speechless. 

“And that isn’t the only scar,” you continue with a wry laugh. At Freddie’s questioning look, you take a deep breath and lift up your shirt—just high enough to show her the faded scar on your side. “He snuck into my hospital room and took my kidney ...Then he fed it to me.” You shudder in remembrance, almost able to feel the familiar burning sensation curdling in your throat as you unknowingly digested your own flesh.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but tense silence. Freddie then sighs. “I’m thinking you’ll need these more than I will,” she says shakily, handing you the carton of cigarettes. You take it instinctually. “How in the hell are you still alive?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” you admit quietly. The admission settles heavily in the air, creating an uncomfortable tension. “Why do I get to live, when everyone who has ever interacted with the Ripper before has died?” What makes a victim? What makes a survivor? 

“I’d almost say it’s luck, but… if anything, it’d be bad luck.” Freddie responds with a hum. She clasps her hands on her knees. A soft breeze rolls through the air and rustles her hair. 

“You’re probably right,” you acquiesce. The sun begins to recede behind a nearby cloud in the pale blue sky. Sometimes, when you look up at the sky, you wonder if Hannibal is able to look up at it too. 

“Everyone’s saying Lecter has special privileges as a prisoner.” Freddie says, as if sensing your thoughts. She’s looking to you for confirmation.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say with a shake of your head. At Freddie’s confused glance, you elaborate. “I haven’t visited.” She nods. “I can certainly see how he gets special treatment, though. No one understands the Ripper, so he’s an enigma to everyone. Plus, Hannibal is rather respected in the medical world. He was a really good surgeon, from what I’ve heard. Several publications in The American Journal of Psychiatry…… I’m sure Chilton’s having fun with him, though,” you say, a weary smile rising on your face. 

“Oh, that reminds me… Look at this.” Freddie reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She squints down at it and types in her passcode, before proceeding to tap it a few times. You wait patiently. Moments later, she turns up the brightness on her screen and hands her phone to you. You squint down at the screen.  

“ Hannibal the Cannibal: The Savory Mind of Dr. Lecter ?” You recite aloud, unable to hide your disbelief at the thought of Frederick Chilton publishing an entire book about Hannibal. You can’t help but wonder how he got enough information from him to write it—especially when considering Hannibal’s casual contempt for Chilton. 

“I know, right?” Freddie laughs at your shock. “I doubt Lecter’s very happy about it.” She exhales in a puff of smoke. 

“Oh, the back cover blurb for the book is on here,” you say, staring at it for a moment before beginning to read aloud. “The trial of Dr. Hannibal Lecter revealed to the public another side of a man who was a respected member of proper society in Baltimore. A man who was respected as one of the most brilliant psychiatric minds among his peers. A man who was a gourmand and often entertained society’s elite at soirées where they wined and dined on expertly prepared exotic dishes prepared by the host himself-”

“Did you ever go to one of his parties?” Freddie interjects. 

“No, thankfully,” you say, “But he brought me food… one of the first times we met. I had no idea, so I ate it, of course.” You shudder, thinking back to a dimly lit hotel room, a steady gaze, and an unfamiliar taste on your tongue. 

Freddie seems to have another question on the tip of her tongue, but she’s holding back. You squint at her, before deciding to just ask her if she has a question. Sure enough, she does. It takes the journalist a few moments to ask it. “...Did you ever suspect him?” Freddie’s question is no louder than a whisper, but it seems to reverberate through your mind with all the force of an ear-shattering scream. 

“...Yes,” you admit, because the secret has been eating you alive from the inside-out. A small weight has been lifted from your shoulders, but it’s inconsequential when compared to the blood on your hands. You chance a glance at Freddie. She doesn’t look entirely surprised, although she is staring straight ahead with a slightly troubled expression. “Constantly.” You choke out before you can stop yourself. 

Recognition flashes in Freddie’s eyes and there’s a stab of fear in your chest. “You knew he wouldn’t leave behind enough evidence,” Freddie realizes aloud. Your fear fades, replaced instead with guilt. You know your words will betray you, so you just nod your head silently in agreement. In reality, Freddie is giving you way too much credit. Desperate to change the subject, you return your attention to the blurb on the back of Chilton’s book and continue reading. 

“...A man who worked as a psychological profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A man who was in fact the notorious Chesapeake Ripper. An infamous serial killer with a murderous career as shocking as it is prolific. The trial of Dr. Lecter—shocking as it was, was only the beginning of the disturbing story of the man who became known as Hannibal the Cannibal.

“This book is a deep psychiatric assessment from the very Doctor who worked with Dr. Lecter as well as knew him once as a friend-” You sputter and stop, nearly choking on laughter. “A friend? That’s definitely a stretch.” You think back to how Hannibal introduced himself to Chilton, to the thinly-veiled fury in Hannibal’s eyes as he lingered on the edges of your conversation with Gideon. ( “Stay away from Lecter. I was the same, you know—enamored with my wife. It doesn't last long, trust me-”)

“Chilton annoyed Lecter, didn’t he?” Freddie asks, pulling you out of your memories. You’re thankful for the interruption; it takes you a moment to process her question. Once you do, you’re quick to nod in confirmation. Freddie doesn’t seem surprised by that. “I get the sense Lecter doesn’t quite… do friends, anyway,” she then remarks. That’s an accurate assessment, you think. What Freddie says next shocks you, though. “I think he made an exception for you.”

“Me?” You whisper.

“You,” Freddie nods, staring at you perplexedly—as if she didn’t anticipate you to question that statement. You decide not to probe that topic any further, instead settling on continuing to recite the blurb. 

“A revealing study of what caused Lecter to torture and kill the people around him. What caused him to even eat his victims and feed them to unknowing house guests. A perfect storm of brilliance, violence and psychotic behavior that resulted in one of the worst serial killers in history… 

“Chilton is a shitty writer.” You finish with a heavy sigh.

“Agreed,” Freddie nods. You hand her phone back to her and she scrolls further down in the article before reciting more text. “About the Author: Dr. Frederick Chilton… most recently has been working as the Hospital Director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane where he worked directly with and studied Dr. Lecter himself. 

“Yeah, even I know that’s a load of bullshit.” Freddie concludes with a roll of her eyes. For a few minutes, the air falls still between you. Then, Freddie’s voice breaks the silence. “Do you think you’ll ever see Lecter again?” You swallow hard. 

“I don’t know,” you respond. The dishonesty makes your skin prickle, as that statement lies in firm contradiction with the inexplicable yet assured knowledge that some time, some day, you will have to see Hannibal Lecter again. It may not be soon. It may not be today, tomorrow, or the next day, so you stick with your noncommittal answer. At some point, you know you’ll need to consult the Chesapeake Ripper. One day, another elusive murderer will come along—one who defies the FBI’s carefully devised reason and rationality and subverts all attempts at identification and capture. 

But you will not meet this killer for several more years. In every moment leading up to that fateful interaction, you will have to grapple with the inexplicable, irremovable apprehension settling in your chest—the one that whispers Hannibal Lecter is closer than you think, in a soft murmur. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take another drag, settling into the quiet alongside Freddie Lounds. 

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, unbeknownst to you, a tall man with sharp eyes and a cleft lip opens the door to Gateway Film Laboratory in St. Louis, Missouri. The clerk greets him with a smile, before their eyes catch on the paper in his hand. Lips pressed taut, the man inhales slowly and hands them his job application. 

“Lovely to meet you… Francis Dolarhyde,” the clerk says, addressing him by name once they read it on the paper. Their gaze rises to meet him once more. “Thank you for your application. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us very soon.”

next chapter

The excerpts from Chilton's book are taken directly from the prop used in the show.

Justification: In this fic, smoking is used primarily as a narrative device. The reader picking up smoking is largely indicative of the stress and trauma they've had to go through in the years following the Ripper's capture. Also, smoking provides them a little solace. Smoking (as you probably know) blackens your lungs and severely damages them. The reader is aware of this and, perhaps a small part of them takes comfort in the fact that they're destroying their organs—making them inedible for a cannibal (cough, cough, Hannibal).

I know that's pretty macabre, and I want to emphasize once more that I am not encouraging smoking. It's sort of romanticized in this fic, as are a lot of things that really shouldn't be. In reality, smoking is harmful. I'm not trying to patronize any readers who smoke—I just want to make it clear that I am also not trying to encourage it in any way whatsoever. The events of the last book have really affected the reader, prompting them to find different (and less reliable) coping mechanisms. Being stabbed by someone you consider to be a friend (and perhaps even something more) is not something that a person can recover from in the blink of an eye.

thanks for reading! <3

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[gothcsz]

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter V.

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: Down on the west coast, we got a saying...

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

RATING: 18+ Mature topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: A sexy performance by our main character, he's absolutely whipped, THEY HUG FOR THE FIRST TIME !!, is it really a slow burn if they don't yearn for one another, an insufferable dad, speaking of dad back on my dbf!Javi bs, other things that I'm probably forgetting.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized, including the usage of the song(s) that Paloma will perform throughout the story.

A/N: hi friends! hope you all enjoy this chapter, i was completely smitten while writing this since i'm such a needy little thing when it comes to a good slow burn ship lmfao also i love how we've all collectively decided that javi is lana del rey coded like SO true bestie !! like i love me some flirty!Javi okay sue me !! let him flirt with all the women !! anyways feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or ao3. i'd really appreciate it <3

♰  read on ao3. ♰

♰  playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

Paloma is feeling wildly fervent tonight, a side effect of the eventful days she’s been having. She’s been buzzing with excitement to get up on the stage and exude all the feelings she’s been wrapped up in through music.

Between Javier’s ‘will they won’t they’ repartee and August’s piquant personality; these men have been bending her will to remain strong. It’s a peculiar thing, reminiscent to the stories she reads or movies she watches.

Paloma hasn’t stopped to think about it in a logical sense, where these newfound ‘relationships’ can go, and frankly she doesn’t want to stop and think. She just wants to be… to allow herself to indulge in the pleasantries of their attention.  

She’s at the bar two hours before she’s set to do her gig, cheerfully enjoying the company of her best friend as she drinks her signature root beer and muddled cherry mocktail. She eyes the new karaoke machine that’s just recently been acquired and leans in to get Sloane’s attention.

“Has anyone used it?” She gestures to the machine and Slo shakes her head, wiping down the counter. 

“No, but I think you’d be the perfect person to break it in. Pretty sure I saw some Madonna songs on there…” Sloane tells her in a sing-song tone, causing Paloma’s eyes to light up and she hops off the bar stool to walk up to the stage where it was. It consisted of a large television set and the actual karaoke machine.

She plays around with it for a few, familiarizing herself with the controls before she’s skimming through the dozens of available songs.

The evening crowd has started to file in, she doesn’t even realize since she’s been too busy figuring the machine out. She lets out a delighted sound of glee once she sees that Like a Prayer is one of the available songs and wastes no time in selecting it.

The song begins and she takes her position on the stage, few eyes on her. She doesn’t even need the large teleprompter for the lyrics. Bringing the microphone up to her lips, she begins to sing the intro softly.

Paloma sways her hips when she needs to, keeping up with the song as it’s one of her all time favorites. She’s done a variant of this performance in her bedroom with her hair brush many of times.

As the final notes fade away, Paloma finds herself nearly breathless, her heart still racing from how fun it was. The applause washes over her like a wave, enveloping her in a blanket of appreciation.

With a wide smile adorning her face, she gracefully bows and waves to the audience before delicately placing the microphone back on its stand. As the jukebox resumes its melody, filling the void left by her absence, she makes her way back to her spot at the bar counter, basking in the warmth of the moment.

“You know how to put on a show!” The compliment comes from a redhead sitting in the stool closest to her.

“Thank you.” Her mouth curves into a smile as she eyes her. A bride sash draped horizontally over her torso with the small veil clipped in her hair and she’s dressed in all white. There’s three other woman behind her whom she assumes is the bridal party. “And congratulations.” She raises her glass that had been replenished courtesy of her best friend.

They cheers then engage in some small talk when the bride, Wendy, confirms to Paloma that they are out for her bachelorette celebration. They had some car troubles in the middle of their travels to Austin which led to a rest stop here in Seminary until morning.

It wasn’t how she had planned to celebrate the trip, but there was nothing she could do about it so she’s making the best of the situation.

This has an idea pop into Paloma’s head, empathetic as ever, and she says her goodbyes once the band arrives. The plan is simple enough; perform some of her more sultry songs for the stranded bridal party in hopes to make their night a little more entertaining. It doesn’t take much before she’s got her band on board, tapping on the microphone to get everyone’s attention when she returns to the stage.

Javier did not plan on being at The Whiskey Fox tonight, especially with the lack of sleep he’s endured recently. Not that he hasn’t dealt with it before, but it’s been on an unforgiving incline as of late.

The worst part about his insomnia is how inconsistent it can be. He could go weeks with little to no sleep then suddenly a period where it’s all he does. Hasn’t hit the latter of the cycle just yet, but he can feel it creeping up on him at an agonizing pace.

It’s a complete shit show and infuriatingly lonely. He wouldn’t admit to the latter, however.

Exhausting himself throughout the day with hopes that he’ll be bone-tired by the end of the night, he makes an impromptu stop at the bar where hopefully a glass or two of bourbon will have him easing into sleep the second he makes it home.

It’s a long shot, nothing irregular of what he does on a regular night, but fuck, he really needs to get some rest. He can only function off coffee and nicotine for so long.

The bar is in high spirits the second he steps foot in, and with that comes the reminder that it’s a weekend night which means…

Eyes drift over to the stage and sure enough, she’s front and center, and he fights the urge to gravitate towards her.

Instead, Javier opts to sit at the bar, easily getting Sloane’s attention and ordering his bourbon.

“Y’know… I think this is the first time you’ve in been here while I’ve been on shift. You hidin’ from me, handsome?” She begins with a teasing simper, expertly pouring the drink.

Javier chuckles briefly, giving her a once-over, “Had I known a pretty little thing like you was tendin’ the bar I woulda been in here much more consistently.” Flirtatious as ever, despite his exhaustion, brown eyes meeting her gaze as she diligently sets the glass in front of him with a vivacious grin.

“Oooh, you’re a sweet talker. I like that. Not many darin’ boys ‘round here.” She leans forward, making a point to press her breasts together to show off her cleavage which he shamelessly ogles.

“S’a good thing I’m not a boy, sweetheart.” Bringing the glass up for a sip, their stare isn’t broken and she cocks her head to the side in interest.

“A great thing, even. You’re all man.” Her southern accent drips with sensuality, the suggestion hanging heavy in the air between them. For a fleeting moment, Javier entertains the idea of inviting her back to his place to relieve some tension and get some rest, but before he can act, she’s whisked away by another patron.

Divine intervention, Javi thinks, since his interest for her drops the second he hears Paloma’s voice. Placing some cash on the counter, he moves over to the table he’s accustomed to sitting at, distancing himself from the distraction with great tits behind the bar.

♫

His attention now fully on the woman on stage, her honeyed voice and the movements of her hands as they trail along the length of her body, diligently tracing her curves.

He can’t keep his eyes off her. Clad in a sleek black dress with a sweetheart neckline, its hem teasingly grazes the curve of her thigh. She radiates an effortless sensuality. Her mid-thigh high boots elevate her stature, causing her back to arch ever so subtly, drawing his gaze to her ass.

Her hips sway with a tantalizing rhythm that ignites Javier’s imagination, conjuring images of her poised above him with his cock drilling deep inside of her.

The glass in his hand suddenly feels heavy as his thoughts get dirty, so he takes a long sip, relishing the fiery sweetness that burns down his throat.

Javi finds himself completely entranced, lost in the melody of her voice. As Paloma begins her descent from the stage, weaving her way through the tables scattered around the room, a sense of anticipation stirs within him. With bated breath, he shifts in his seat, eagerly awaiting for her to approach him.

She continues, tastefully interacting the patrons nearby, pocketing bills that are being handed to her. She handles it suavely, tucking the wads of cash in the band of her boot that’s pressed against her thigh.

Javier’s eyes fall to the area as she does this, running his tongue over his teeth and truly contemplating if staying away is worth it all. He digs into his back pocket, fishing out the leather wallet and swiftly pulling out whatever was in it to give her.

It’s then that she approaches him, the spotlight making Paloma look more radiant than any star he’s ever seen. Their eyes meet in an enchanted gaze, his lips tug up into a cocky and expectant smirk in which she matches before slowly rounding behind him, almost singing in his ear.

“Te deseo, cariño, boy, it’s you I desire.” 

Javier’s jaw ticks as her touch runs along the expanse of his broad shoulders, and before she’s able to leave him completely, he slips the bills into her palm and lets it drop from his grasp.

That line was a seductive invitation, crafted for him alone, and he can feel it in the way her lips curve into a smug smile. Was it penned with him in mind, sung in Spanish to tantalize him? The notion ignites a fierce longing within Javier, his skin tingling and body craving her.

Her lyrics, saturated with desire, mirror the very same craving she elicits from him. The hunger in her eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for the passion they both yearn to share.

She finishes the song, the table of a bridal party praising her drunkenly as the music dies down and everyone begins their applause. Some whistling at her, too.

Javier remains unmoved, reclining effortlessly in the chair, one arm draped casually over its back. His gaze is fixed on her, unwavering, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips, the tendrils of smoke curling around him lazily. He makes no attempt to conceal his admiration, indifferent to whether she notices his lingering stare. The bold move she just made only serves to fuel him, leaving his infatuation as intense and consuming as ever.

It’s evident that Paloma seeks his pursuit, craving the thrill of the relentless chase until she willingly offers herself completely. Though Javier typically refrains from chasing pussy, he finds himself captivated by the enticing dynamics of their relationship— a tantalizing dance of push and pull.

This experience is vastly different from his usual encounters, where women often yield quickly to his advances. With her, however, the challenge persists, defying his expectations and fueling his intrigue.

For a time, Javier reveled in the thrill of it all— the fleeting encounters with women at brothels, the allure of one-night stands. The fast-paced rhythm of constant attention and swift hook-ups kept him occupied and amused.

Yet now, a shift has happened.

He finds himself drawn to the unhurried pace of whatever undefined connection he shares with Paloma. It’s a departure from the whirlwind of his past experiences, and despite its ambiguity, it holds a newfound interest, captivating him in its gradual unfolding.

It’s building tension, prolonged foreplay to a shared fantasy that’ll only bring them both conflict. Conflict that he doesn’t want to be burdened with…

Yet, she makes it so hard to stay the fuck away.

As she vanishes into the depths of the back area, Javier swiftly drains the last remnants of his drink, feeling more restless than when he came in.

It has been days since her last performance, yet she hasn’t stopped thinking about that night. It was her first time doing anything remotely sensual as she had— and she liked it. It gave her a lot of real confidence and not that of which she pretends she obtains.

She’s already preparing herself for the scrutiny she’ll receive from a certain group of gossips at church for putting on such a scandalous performance.

Whatever, she thinks, people were going to talk shit regardless and she’s never felt more sexier and empowered. The self-assurance she got from people handing her tips and receiving Javier’s undivided attention was exhilarating.

It had been more than enough for her to quickly improvise a specific lyric in her song. For him.

Paloma is at a loss to rationalize her impulsive behavior once she approached him, swept up in a sensation akin to a siren’s call, drawing in a lost sea captain with an irresistible temptation.

He’d been more preoccupied than usual, leaving Paloma to grapple with an unexpected yearning for his presence. Their interactions had become fleeting, confined to brief exchanges in passing or hurried conversations over the phone, often revolving around attempts to reach the sheriff.

So seeing him there that night, very present at her gig, she knew she had to do something big to give him the hint that she is very, very interested in doing something, anything with him. Consequences be damned.

Paloma won’t be the one to take it there, that’s a rookie move. If Javier is as interested as he appears to be, then she fully intends to practice some patience and have him crawling over to her.

Would he actually do that, though? She only knows bits and pieces of his romantic endeavors, and from the little information she’s gathered; he doesn’t seem like the type to chase but she could be wrong.

There is no harm in trying to seduce him, really, and if he rejects her then she’ll take the hint and move on. It’s not like she wants to date the man or have him fall to one knee asking for her hand in marriage.

No, Paloma just really wants to get laid. Too many nights have came and went where all she’s dreamed of is the hot, older deputy sheriff screwing her into oblivion. 

Then at the bar… he actually gave her money, matter of fact, he had been the biggest tipper of the night. She contemplated giving the cash back to him, thinking it was entirely too much, but she talked herself out of the idea solely because she found the transaction incredibly hot.

She’s cautious not to invest her entire focus in him, so she’s also been seeing August.

Their time together brings forth a distinct experience, stirring uncertainty about her romantic attachment to him. It wasn’t until yesterday afternoon, amidst the tranquil shade of a sprawling oak tree, engrossed in shared reading, that an almost kiss cast light on her true sentiments towards him.

Their connection pulsates with an undeniable chemistry, his attention lavishing upon her as if she were the rarest gem. United by their shared interest for literature and idyllic beliefs, he breathes vitality into the stifling surroundings.

While the opportunity for a shared kiss lingered, Paloma’s thoughts persistently drifted toward Javier, rendering the moment bittersweet.

Lost in her own thoughts amidst the task of pulling weeds from the garden, she remains oblivious to the persistent ringing of the landline inside. Only as the sound penetrates her consciousness does she snap out of it.

Hastily removing her gardening gloves and rushing inside, she reaches for the phone just before its final ring.

It’s Lola from the bar letting her know that a letter has just been dropped off— addressed specifically for Paloma.

She is confused yet intrigued at the news, and in no time she’s in town; sitting on top of the counter ripping the poor envelope open and scanning the words on the piece of paper.

Apparently, the bride who was here last weekend contracts acts from all over Texas to perform at the state fair in Dallas. Seems like Paloma was conspicuous enough to warrant an invite.

A much bigger crowd, her first real chance to branch out by doing something she’s genuinely passionate about. 

After freaking out about it with the ladies at the bar, even taking a celebratory tequila shot, Paloma is racing to make it to the station to share the good news with her dad. 

She hurriedly hops off her bike, not even bothering to chain it to the rack as she snatches the letter and saunters up the steps and into the building overly excited.

Clearly, she’s interrupted something as both men’s heads snap in her direction with heavy, worried looks in their eyes when she barges in.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Her father steps towards her, scanning her for any injuries.

“Yes I’m fine daddy,” she tucks her hair behind her ears to contain some of her excitement since she feels some of the leftover apprehensiveness from before she arrived, “I’m just excited to show you this, look! I got invited to preform at the state fair!” She shoves the paper into his chest and he turns it around so he can read it.

Her eyes are bright in anticipation, searching his stoic face for a reaction.

“Sweetheart, this is wonderful...” He trails off and her smile begins to fade at his tone.

“What? What’s wrong?” She questions, eyes flickering over to Javier who stands almost awkwardly behind the sheriff.

“A girl in Fayette has gone missing. We just got the call. About to head over to help ‘em out.” The news has Paloma drawing in a breath, all the enthusiasm in her body evaporating as he hands the paper back to her.

“O-Oh, that’s—”

“This is amazing news, babygirl. We’ll talk about it more when I get home later, alright? We gotta get goin’.” 

The dismissal breaks her, and there’s a second where her demeanor shows it but it’s only temporarily as she nods understandingly then steps aside to allow him to maneuver his way into his office.

“State fair, huh? That’s huge, congrats bella.” Javier’s voice keeps her from scurrying away and she gives him a small smile.

“Thanks, but seems like there’s more important things to focus on.” She won’t be self-centered by taking up any more of their valuable time. A girl is missing and if they want to come out on top, then their focus has to remain on her and not Paloma’s trivial news.

“You’re right but that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy for you.” She lifts her gaze from her shoes up to meet his at the use of ‘we’ and she melts, instantly.

In his captivating brown eyes, there’s a delicate balance of gentleness and resolve, causing her knees to weaken slightly. She discerns the subtle golden flecks that add a compassionate depth to his stare.

“Yeah, I guess. Just hate that all this is still happenin’. I’m assumin’ y’all aren’t any closer to findin’ out who’s doin’ all this, huh?” Since her father doesn’t tell her anything except what he needs to, she isn’t fully aware of the exasperatingly severity or statuses of the cases.

Javier lets out a heavy sigh, thumb dragging across his trimmed mustache then bottom lip and her eyes zero in on the movement, which she shouldn’t find as attractive as she does. “No, but things like this always take time. It’s the most frustrating thing about the job.” 

She nods, having somewhat of an understanding, “Then I’ll get outta y’alls hair. Leave the mystery solvin’ and savin’ the day to the pros.” Her nose crinkles as she lets out a soft laugh in attempts to lighten the mood.

He gives her a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Javier’s magnetism is undeniable, his rugged handsomeness coupled with an air of competence that captivates her completely. She senses something more than mere physical attraction. It’s as if small moments like these are chipping away at the salacious layers of their connection, revealing something deeper and more profound beneath.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah? Got those parts for dear Darla comin’ in any day now. You’ll be cruisin’ around town in no time.” He winks at her and she giggles softly, blood pooling at her cheeks in a deep blush that he notices immediately and it makes his chest tighten.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it.” Paloma replies, a bit more shyly than she’d like but that’s just what happens when you’re affected by Javier Peña’s irresistible charm.

They hold each other’s gaze for a few more seconds, Paloma losing herself in the depths of his warm brown eyes, while Javier savors her presence entirely. Their silent exchange is interrupted as Romeo emerges from his office, oblivious to yet another fleeting moment shared between his daughter and the deputy sheriff, lost in their own world of unspoken emotions.

She is well aware of the copious amount of time she’s been putting in to her performance for the fair, spending all her free time at the bar with the band rehearsing or in her room piecing together her outfit.

This is her moment to showcase her mastery of the craft, and she seizes it with unwavering determination. To an outsider, the prospect of performing at a mediocre state fair, hours away from home, might seem insignificant. But to her— it’s everything. Every chord struck, every lyric sung carries the weight of her dedication.

This performance isn’t just about the venue; it’s about pouring her proving to herself that she’s capable.

At first, her father had been really excited for her… but as the days dragged by and tensions with the missing person case increased, he began to grow more cynical about it.

With the way things were going, he wouldn’t be able to accompany her and that’s when all the unnecessary comments began. Romeo began to bring up the crime rate in Dallas, hypotheticals of what would happen if she were to get stuck on the side of the road on her way there, even insinuating that her band (which consisted of four members from their church) wouldn’t be as reliable as she knows them to be.

It pissed her off every time he opened his mouth to talk on the matter. At first, she just ignored him or said something neutral to appease him, but now that the date was slowly approaching, she found it difficult to keep her rebuttals to herself.

How many times was she going to have to remind him that she’s a grown up? For some reason, he thinks she’s still a meek sixteen year old girl that needs his protection.

This is what led to the current argument. Him reluctant to let her go and Paloma insistent on going with or without his ‘permission’. Before it has the chance to get out of hand, there’s a knock at the front door and she uses it as an excuse to end the conversation.

Sighing heavily, she opens the wooden door to find Javier on the other side and immediately her frown disappears and she smiles sweetly up at him.

Amidst her intense preparation for the forthcoming performance and his deep engagement at the station, their encounters have become even more infrequent, a departure from their usual routine.

Yet, despite the scarcity of interaction, their bodies seem attuned to each other’s presence, responding instinctively to the silent symphony of their unspoken connection.

“Hey cowboy, whatcha doin’ here?” She crosses her arms against her chest, the screen door still separating the two of them.

“I told you I’d have the parts in any day now.” It’s then that she sees a cardboard box in his possession and realization dawns on her.

“Oh my god— no way! Thank fuckin’— Lord almighty, you’re such a saint.” Javier chuckles at her words which has her feeling fucking giddy as she opens the screen door and steps aside to let him in.

“M’not a saint, princesa, but your kind words are appreciated.” They walk side by side, her shoulder softly brushing against his arm, to the kitchen where her father is.

“Daddy, Javier’s here to finish workin’ on sweet Darla.” There’s a tinge of bitterness lacing her words as she addresses her father, their previous argument still fresh on her mind but she would rather throw herself off a bridge than finish said conversation in front of their company.

The two men greet each other, making small talk as Romeo thanks Javier for all he’s doing for both the town and the help he’s been extending to his daughter. Paloma boredly leans against the doorframe, waiting for them to wrap up their exchange and Javi can feel her impatience.

When they finally breakaway, It’s just him and Paloma in the shed, Romeo stuck inside taking an important call. Instead of perching herself on the chair like last time, she’s leaned over the hood of the car with him, close enough to be able to feel the heat radiating from her body.

“I didn’t interrupt something earlier, did I?” Javier asks, picking up on the tension between her and her dad in the kitchen just then.

Paloma doesn’t reply right away, eyes trained on his working hands within the engine.

“You did but it was a good thing. We were havin’ a small argument that was about to turn into a real big fight. He’s being so anal about not lettin’ be go up to Dallas for the fair. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m goin’ regardless.” She scoffs with a shake of her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“He just worries about you… doesn’t necessarily go about it in the best way but he just wants to make sure you’re safe.” He picks his words as carefully as he can, gaze flickering to her face briefly before returning to the task at hand.

“I know, he’s just so stubborn about it.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

She lets out a genuine laugh, the one that involuntarily brings a small smile to his lips and she elbows him playfully.

“He’ll come around. He sees how passionate you are about your music. Like you said, you’re goin’ to do it with or without him.” Paloma doesn’t say anything, thinking his words over knowing that Javi’s right but he’s underestimating how adamant her father can be.

Finally getting the last piece screwed in tight, he stands to his full height and wipes his hands off on a rag, “Alright, go start her up and see if she’s cooperatin’ finally.” Javier gestures towards the driver’s seat as he slams the hood close and she excitedly leaves his side, flinging the door open and sliding in.

The engine starts with ease and the delighted cheer that comes from Paloma is more rewarding than anything he’s deserving of.

She hops out, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug that takes him back, literally, stumbling over his feet slightly but they’re kept upright as his hands naturally fall to her waist.

Their bodies pressed together ignites a fervent blaze of desire between them.

Her scent— an intoxicating blend of freshly bloomed flowers and ripe fruit— envelops him like a gentle summer breeze, casting a spell he never wants to break.

His fingers brush against the exposed skin from her cropped shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The softness of her curves beneath his touch tempts him to explore further, but he restrains himself.

“Thank you so much, Javi. You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me.” Paloma pulls away first, but not completely, and the position they’re left in is much more intimate than it should be.

His breath fans over her face, which is just inches apart, if he really wanted to; he could lean in and press his lips against hers…

And he really, really wants to but with Romeo just around the corner— he won’t risk getting caught. No matter how enticing and easy it’d be to give in.

“Javi? What happened to officer or cowboy?” He teases, pinching at her hips and she pushes at his chest, finally breaking their embrace.

“Right, forgive me for wantin’ to have a moment of authenticity.” Paloma playfully rolls her eyes, “Thank you so much, officer. You have no idea how…” She trails off suddenly and his brow cocks inquisitively.

“You have no idea how satisfied you’ve left me.”

The sultriness in her voice, gleam in her eyes, and those long lashes batting up at him all innocently does nothing but fuel his craving for her. 

“If this is all it took to leave you satisfied, hermosa, then you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

She bites down on her lower lip, “Thank god I have you here to help me out, hmm?” 

And for a split second it feels like something might happen but ultimately… it doesn’t. 

“Just doin’ what I can, cariño. You get any more car problems just call me and not ese mecánico de mierda (shitty mechanic).”

As she leans forward to retrieve the keys from the ignition, he finds himself entranced by the graceful arc of her back, seemingly inviting his lustful gaze to follow its every contour. The gentle slope of her spine draws his eyes downward, her low rise jeans accentuating her plump ass.

“Well… I can’t call you if I don’t have your personal number… what if I have an emergency and you’re not at the station?” Paloma can feel his gaze on her and it makes her feel satisfied that she’s able to capture his attention so easily, closing the car door with her hip and leaning against it.

“That would just be a downright wretched thing.” As his hand instinctively reaches for the memo book he habitually carries, a silent curse echoes in his mind upon realizing its absence. He does have his pen, though.

With a swift and decisive motion, Javier closes the distance between them. A sharp intake of breath betrays her surprise.

“Don’t have paper on me, but…” Taking her hand gently in his, he turns it and begins to write his home phone number on her palm.

Paloma’s heart quickens its pace, his touch a juxtaposition of rough and gentle against her soft skin. She becomes acutely aware of the stark size difference between their hands, his encompassing hers entirely. A shiver dances down her spine at the sensation, the pressure of arousal building.

With a soft exhale, she finds herself unconsciously pressing her thighs together to relieve some of said pressure. The simple act of hand-holding, so mundane, leaves her wanting more of his touch.

The only thing she can think of is how good his large, thick fingers would feel pressed against her clit while he pleasures her. Or curling inside of her and brushing against that soft spot that makes her come undone.

Focus, Paloma, you’re practically drooling.

“Might wanna write that down somewhere soon. The sweat is gonna mess it all up.” Javier teases, letting go of her hand and stuffing the pen into the front pocket of his shirt. The thin layer of perspiration clearly in response to his gesture.

Her eyes widen at the comment and it has her tripping over her words, “Y-Yeah I’ll, uh, make sure not to lose this. Like I said, it’d be a bummer if I couldn’t get ahold of you in a time of need.”

Her desire continues to simmer and she mentally slaps herself for letting her cool girl facade slip just because he held her damn hand. It doesn’t help that the sight of his exposed collarbones has her fingers itching to trace along his chest and explore beneath the fabric.

She fights the urge to succumb to temptation, her resolve tested by the magnetic pull of his presence.

His smirk never falters, absolutely loving to see his effect on her. It’s only fair, seeing as she’s always the one who riles him up. “Alright cariño, I better get outta here before we get ourselves into trouble.”

The fragile awareness of their shared moment shatters her reverie, grounding her back to reality.

“Of course,” she replies softly, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. Her hand remains steady, resisting the urge to wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch as they head back to the house.

All hands are on deck to find Jessica Valdez, the missing girl from Fayette.

Back in Colombia, everyone was too afraid to speak up when something was amiss in fear of having their lives taken by the vicious cartels that ran the streets. Those who did have the bravery to come forward with information only did so in hopes of getting support and protection from a government that wasn’t even theirs.

Consequently, when adversity struck, the flow of valuable intelligence was delayed, impeding the acquisition of pertinent information. This rationale justified Javier’s visits to the brothels, veiled under the pretext of proactive investigation aimed at uncovering critical details essential for combatting the narcos.

The fucking was just a pleasurable addition.

In small communities stateside, however, that’s all people do. Talk. So, when Javier goes out to do some canvassing of his own; he isn’t all surprised by how willingly people are to spill the secrets of their neighbors. By the end of the day, he damn near knows about all the affairs in town, who likes to steal money from who, the mayor’s ‘illegitimate’ child, and decade long family feuds.

Exactly what he expected to find in small Texan towns.

Like he had told Romeo in the beginning, there’s always some truth to a rumor. As he’s collecting information about Seminary and the communities that surround it; he comes to find out about a trio of troublemakers that come from one of the towns where one of the earliest victims had been found and their peculiar interest in all things occult. 

This piqued his interest and upon further investigation; he quickly found the files for Augustus Dixon, Sloane McCarthy and Gabriel Torres.

Immediately, Sloane caught his attention, although her mugshot portrayed her with a more youthful demeanor. The man from Nina’s funeral, Gabriel, also stood out in his memory. He recalls Sloane mentioning him by name that day he was at the Leighton home, too.

However, the third male remained unfamiliar, his appearance suggesting a rebellious disposition, evident from his file and accompanying mugshot.

The trio had been in and out of jail all their adolescence for petty crimes like stealing, vandalism, public intoxication, fighting and other nonsense. Nothing severe. They were just troublemakers and that is not odd to find in rural areas. Kids get bored and do stupid shit.

Javier would know better than anyone, he did similar things at their age.

He’s spread out on his couch, glass of whiskey in one hand and file in the other. He is deep in concentration, reading over different police reports and trying to find out where the occult aspect of it comes into play when the phone begins to ring and he lets out a grunt.

Reaching over to grab the receiver, he tucks it between his shoulder and ear as he answers.

“Peña.”

“Hey cowboy.”

Her voice has him sitting up straight, discarding the folder in his hand on the coffee table, now fully attentive. It’s actually kind of pathetic how fast his demeanor changes when it comes to Paloma.

“Hola hermosa, a little late to be callin’, yeah? You should be getting your beauty sleep for the big day tomorrow.” He hadn’t forgotten about her performance at the fair, making note of the date the second she told him about it.

“I should be but I’ve got nerves like you wouldn’t believe.” She pauses and he can hear her thinking, “Daddy and I just had a fight… well I dunno even know if you’d call it that. It ended with him sayin’ he didn’t give a damn if I went or not… all that fussin’ just so he could say he didn’t care in the end. If I’m actually that insufferable I’m beggin’ you to put me out of my misery.” He chuckles at that and he can imagine her smiling at his reaction.

“Don’t be nervous, corazón. You’re goin’ to do great. You already knock it outta the park at The Whiskey Fox every weekend. This ain’t no different.” It is different and he knows it, but he also knows her and how she tends to overthink to the point of anxiety. “You ridin’ up there all alone?” Not a fan of the idea but he wouldn’t disclose this to her, now when he knows how much it ticks her off. 

“I was gonna hitch a ride with the band, then I remembered I have a car now so I was goin’ to do that but…”

“But?”

“I want you to come with me… if you can.”

The request surprises him, so much so that it prompts him to take a larger drink of his liquor.

“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” She giggles nervously at his prolonged silence.

“No ‘course not. Just figured you’d enjoyed your newfound freedom of being on the road alone.”

“As fun as that sounds, I think it’d ease my daddy’s nerves knowin’ his glorified babysitter was taggin’ along…” Javier feels like there’s more to it than that, especially since she’s always complaining about being under her father’s thumb— only to go on and continue to pacify him. Before he can ask her about it she continues.

“And I’ve never traveled outside of Seminary… well not since I was a little girl. Didn’t really get out much after mom… Just haven’t been outta town in a long, long time.” He can sense her coyness at the admission and it does nothing but persuade him into joining her.

Javi should think it over more, the logistics of him being hours away with Paloma, knowing how ambiguous things are between them. However, he swiftly dismisses his apprehensions, feeling somewhat foolish for blowing what might be a trivial matter, out of proportion.

Especially when she seems so nervous to ask for his company.

Finishing off his drink, Javier leans in deeper to the comfort of his couch and he can hear her soft breaths on the other end of the line, anticipating his response.

“Alright, cariño just tell me what time you need me to be there and I’ll be there.”

[existentialmagazine]

Review: Alice Pisano’s newest catchy pop release ‘Part-Time Girlfriend’ embodies fierce vocals, addictive instrumentals and a liberating message of knowing your worth

Italian born, London based rising star Alice Pisano has been taking the London pop scene by storm since her 2018 beginnings, naturally writing releases that both entwine high-spirited releases with messages that carry an emotional value too. Following the release of Pisano’s ‘Shattered but Still Cool’ EP earlier this year, Alice is now sharing her newest single ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ that’s the perfect summer bop to be playing loud and dancing along to at every opportunity you find.

Emphatic right from its beginnings, ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ immediately from pressing play embodies all of the addictive spice you could hope for, upbeat and steaming along at full force. A storming, quick-paced beat brings the momentum instantly into the first verse, accompanied by intermittent claps, pops of synth and a vibrant electric guitar riff, a simple but catchy concoction of sounds. Singing atop it with a more downbeat, casual delivery, Alice rather charismatically tells her striking narrative front and centre of it all, capturing lines with an airy, feel-good approach easy to sing along and get in the groove of. Picking up with added bright, drawn-out beats for the pre-chorus, ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ only continues to grow and keep you completely mesmerised before the chorus finally explodes into a fiery outburst you’ll be utterly hooked on. Crashing into thundering electronic beats, synth fizzles and of course Alice’s staple vocal performance that comes completely unleashed as she cathartically soars through dominant vocal highs and a cascading range, ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ hits every single peak of an exceptionally gripping edgy pop release you could want. While clean and catchy, Alice has also nailed a slight rock-based undertone reminiscent of Avril Lavigne’s witty character and spirited sound, an all around top-notch single that leaves us wondering how long it’ll be before Alice Pisano is a name we’re hearing everywhere.

In an era of “situationships” and half-baked relationships tailed off into nothingness, Alice has penned an all-too relatable lyrical message of letting go of all those people who just aren’t ready to commit after stringing you along for as long as possible. Turning their backs on you when things got too serious, ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ is a liberating anthem for burning all those bridges and knowing your worth, all the while angstily releasing the frustrations of being led on and visualising a future together just to be continually left heartbroken time and time again. As lines like ‘I let my guard down because it felt so natural, I really thought that we were compatible’ share how Alice allowed herself to open up, there’s a definite aching buried inside of ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ that yearns for a connection without the let down, but Alice’s confidence has a natural way of burying it into high energy, sing-along lines. Detailing the way she began to allow their lives to combine, Alice sings ‘you picked me up at the airport… we talk about our families’, small and simple details that began to make their connection feel all the more real and as though it were headed into serious territory. But it’s not long before the chorus hook slams back into reality, declaring ‘Oh, what a waste of my time, I’m not gonna be a part-time girlfriend’ after yet another request to ‘keep it casual’, as Alice knows she’s worth more than just being someone’s piece on the side destined to be discarded when they’re done with her. While it’s constantly delivered with a wit and self-assured conviction, if you really listen to the narrative of ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ it truly carries a deep message of preaching self-love, not allowing anyone to hold you back and finding the love you really deserve, with a sprinkling of pain and heartbreak muddled in too.

Speaking on the track Alice says: “I wrote Part-Time Girlfriend after dating a guy who didn’t want to commit… It’s a kiss-off to someone who made you believe they wanted to be in a relationship with you, but backed out when things got too serious. It was so liberating writing it!”

Check out ‘Part Time Girlfriend’ here to enjoy Alice’s blazing sound and lyricism you’ll be screaming along with and feeling all at the same time.

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Unknown

// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.

[savage-rhi]

Immortal Shield Chapter 41: Eripere I

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**To read previous chapters, hit this link

Tagging: @seradyn​

There was but a small trace of light allowed within the confines of the cell block Caelan dwelled within. From afar, she could hear the low groans and whisper pleads of fellow inmates while the new dawn arrived. Or perhaps it was evening? It was hard to tell. Caelan lost count of how many days she had been in here. Days and nights blurred into a single muddled mess.

The air was heavy, and a strong subterranean scent scattered among Caelan’s thick breath. Her nostrils burnt from the mildew smell that tickled the fine hairs inside her nose. She grimaced. Caelan’s body felt the swirling temptation of wanting to expel her stomach's contents, but she held her breath and counted backward from ten. Nausea subsided for the time being. Enough as she allowed herself to wake, having been asleep for gods only knew how long. There was nothing to do but rest, and eat when little food would come. Dehydration had already warmed its way into becoming a lifelong friend as far as she was concerned.

Caelan had no visitors. Other than a few officials wishing to take statements to counter her father's men, she had been left alone during her stay at Altissa's prison. There was a time she tried to listen to the voices of the cell block; to pinpoint where her former Einherjar brethren dwelled. Men who had been rotting here when Tempus first took over the group. Caelan had half a thought to kill them during her stay. Alas, it didn’t matter. Everybody here sounded the same: mindless grumbling zombies. A fraction of who they were before arrival. Caelan could feel her own spirit slipping away, despite how much she yearned to hold on. Even the knowledge that Ardyn was alive wasn’t enough. That perhaps was the biggest pinch of salt to the wound. Not even his memory seemed to keep her afloat these days.

Pulled away from her thoughts, Caelan hissed and tilted her head back upon seeing a warm light pool into her cell. She squinted her eyes, trying to make sense of who was coming in. Between the dull ring in her ears and everyone sounding like mismatched shapes, Caelan had no clue what was happening other than she was forced onto her feet and escorted out of confinement. She wondered if this was how Ardyn felt when he was dragged out of Angelgard; scared of the most basic of sensations after dwelling in darkness for centuries.

Caelan squeezed her eyes shut. A strong burning sensation radiated against the flesh of her eyelids accompanied by dryness that she desperately wanted to itch. She resorted to opening and closing her eyes rapidly, trying to alleviate the tension by producing tears. Wherever she was, Caelan knew she was outside. The sun and the warm breeze that passed through her beige inmate clothes were telling enough. Her skin felt the first pinches of sunburn already.

“Bathe!” Now that was a word she recognized. Caelan made a face toward her captor, unsure if she heard the command correctly. She suddenly felt her body get shoved into a large crate of water. The freezing cold of its touch elicited shocked gasps from Caelan as she was thrown a bar of soap.

“You have five minutes, then you change!” The guard notified her.

“Into what?” Caelan weakly retorted sarcastically. She didn’t see anything hanging up for her in the small room she had been pushed into. A room that was no bigger than a shack. For all she knew, the guard tossed her into an outhouse.

“Clothes will be given later. Now move!” The guard slammed the door behind himself, and once more Caelan was back in the dark.

Caelan wasted no time taking advantage of the opportunity. It had to have been weeks since she bathed. The smell that had been marinating on her clothes was atrocious when compared to the floral scent of the soap she had been provided. Caelan couldn’t believe how she had allowed herself to get used to such filth. There had been many times on Caelan’s travels when she had to go without a shower--but never to the raw extent--she was currently experiencing.

Five minutes had come and gone in a blink of an eye. Just as the guard said, new clothes were given to her. Simple pants and a dark blue t-shirt that was a few sizes too big. Civilian attire. Of course, there was no underwear provided. That would be considered too hospitable for war criminals. Caelan thought to herself.

Caelan made a face when she was initially tossed the new duds. The guard sighed, much like a disappointed parent would in their child for not grasping a new concept.

“Those are for your trial, to make you look presentable to the courts. Your sentencing begins today.” The guard said as a matter of fact.

“Today?” Caelan’s eyes widened. She blinked several times, then started to slip on the shirt followed by the pants. Not wanting to piss off her captor any more than he looked.

“Yes, today. It’s been a month since your arrest. In that time, officials have gathered the evidence stacked against you. Today you’ll appear before a court of judges and Madam Secretary herself. There are a few in-person testimonials to be heard. Afterward, you’ll be passed onto the executioner.”

“Way to spoil the surprise.” Caelan muttered begrudgingly.

“What was that?” The stern voice of the guard made her cringe. Caelan quickly backtracked.

“I said how do you know I’ll be put to death?”

“Simple. I was given orders to tell you how the day would pan out.”

Caelan sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “And to think, I thought that was done out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Har, har. Where did you learn to talk like that, charm school?���

“No,” Caelan furrowed her brows sadly. “Someone I love, actually.”

The guard didn’t bother to comment after the fact. He was quick to fetch some cuffs and bound Caelan’s hands behind her back. It wasn’t long until she was guided to another set of troopers who escorted her through the city of Altissa, Accordo’s capital.

The entire city was surrounded by waterways and canals. It was a complex maze of streets and buildings as far as the eye could see. Roaring waterfalls would occasionally make their presence known, capturing the awe and attention of both citizens and tourists. Every so often a boat could be seen rowing alongside a busy intersection. The warm smell of coffee and rich foods was everywhere, accompanied by equally warm colors and smooth textures scattered across buildings that looked hundreds of years old. This place held an otherworldly charm.

Caelan could feel her mouth salivate for the first time in weeks. It was near torture to be surrounded by such beauty but with the knowledge that she wasn’t allowed to partake. There were several moments throughout the trek, where Caelan imagined her and Ardyn traversing through Altissa trying out new things much like they did while they stayed at Insomnia. Gods help her, Caelan missed him. She hoped wherever Ardyn was, he had peace. His wounds from the battle with Bahamut were grievous. For all Caelan knew, Ardyn could’ve held on for a time but then lost his will to live shortly after she was exported. Regardless, it didn’t matter. She’d find a way to see him again. Even amongst the uncertainty of an afterlife, Caelan knew she’d wait for Ardyn elsewhere.

Resigned to her fate, Caelan didn’t bother to assess the courthouse upon arrival. Nor did she follow her instincts to search for exits. She kept her eyes forward and did as commanded by her captors. There was no point in fighting. Caelan was done with it all. This life had been a hard one, and there was no reason to prolong her own misery. She didn’t even have the will to summon her blade and tempt fate.

An air of gravity made its presence known when Caelan was brought before the judges of Altissa. Caelan swallowed, seeing there were over fifty men and women sitting at the judge's bench. They cast down hungry stares at her like vultures readying themselves before picking a carcass clean. She had no doubts about where she stood among these people. Having already been judged without knowing the full story. Caelan understood these folks saw her as a monster, nothing more or less.

From behind the bench, a backdoor opened and arrived Madam Secretary Camelia herself. She took her place at the head of the judge's bench. A few aids handed her some papers. Adjusting her glasses, Camelia sighed and finally forced herself to acknowledge Caelan’s presence.

“Caelan Zamfir,” Camelia’s face was stern as she peered down. “Genocide is the highest of sins a human can commit. You stand in front of Accordo’s most powerful judges. Evidence has been reviewed toward your heinous acts. The decision is unanimous that you are to be put to death effective immediately after court proceedings. However, until such time, live testimony will be given.”

Camelia folded her hands after placing her paperwork down on the bench. “People who have lost loved ones to you, people who have encountered the Einherjar, and people who know you personally will be allowed to speak. During these hours, we encourage you to remain silent and to think of the face of every man, woman, and child you have viciously slain. That is all I will say and grant to you of my time.”

Camelia gestured for a guard to attend to Caelan. A female trooper gently grabbed Caelan by the right shoulder. She was guided from the main floor of the court and over to a small podium to stand behind. There was so much Caelan wanted to say--a plethora of curses for one thing--but she didn’t have the strength for it. There was something Caelan did allow herself to take heed of as the first of many witnesses revealed themselves for testimony: she would think of faces, but not of the people her father killed. Ardyn, her mother, and little brother would be her last memories. Everything could be taken away, but that.

Hours passed and over forty people lashed out to Caelan for the crimes Julian committed, and had her watch. She wouldn’t lie to herself, it was hard to listen to each voice drown in a wall of anger and grief. Though Caelan knew for a fact she didn’t have a hand in any of these deaths, she still felt the guilt of association. Julian deserved to be here as did Tempus and the rest of the Einherjar. They deserved to relive the hells they had brought upon Niflheim refugees and their friends. To feel as she did every day for being a coward and not standing up to them sooner. Caelan was angry. Angry at the fact she couldn’t do a damn thing about it but sit back and take it. She was a scapegoat for hells unfathomable.

While a woman finished wrapping up her story about the Einherjar butchering her cousins like cattle, a commotion from outside the courtroom's main doors was heard. It captured the attention of Caelan as well as the judges and witnesses sitting among the public benches. Caelan raised a brow, exchanging a look with the female trooper that escorted her to the podium. The woman offered Caelan a shrug, uncertain how to react herself.

“Keep ten feet behind us at all times!”

“Yes sir!”

That voice…Caelan knew that gruff tone from anywhere. That to have been Gladio, the king's shield. She found herself taking a step forward, immediately drawing the attention of the female trooper who gave Caelan a warning look not to proceed. Caelan stepped back and kept her eyes on the main doors as they opened.

“Well, this is certainly a grand entrance if I do say so myself!” Ardyn exclaimed. His voice carried all the way to the judges. He was quickly disciplined by Gladio, receiving a firm smack upside the head. Ardyn shot a brief glare at his captor before addressing his wider audience.

“Aren’t you all a sight for sore eyes!” His tone was like venom laced with honey; potent but rotting with praise. “It’s been so many years since I’ve been graced by the presence of Accordos finest executioners!”

Gladio, Prompto, and Ardyn began making their descent into the heart of the room. Caelan swallowed. Her breath hitched in her throat as shock traveled down her entire body. This had to have been a dream. There was no way any of them were here. She was done for.

Gods, don’t give me hope when I have none. Caelan said to herself. She could hear the three talking amongst themselves. Still out of earshot from all the judges, but close enough in range to where she could register pieces of the conversation.

“So do you know what you’re going to say?” Prompto whispered to Ardyn.

“Of course! I’m not one to skip a rehearsal for such an occasion!” Ardyn mused. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. His comment earned several awkward stares from the judges the closer he got to them.

“This is serious. Don’t make a fool out of yourself.” Gladio chimed in. His voice was harsh while Ardyn chuckled.

“And embarrass the poor crownsguard and their finest? I wouldn’t dream of such a thing! If I am indeed a fool, I could argue that everyone is entitled to be ridiculous at times. However, you my dear friend, abuse the privilege.”

“Asshole…” Gladio murmured. “Let’s get this over with.”

Caelan watched as a faint smirk made its way across Ardyn’s lips. He had an air of haughtiness that he carried with every step, commanding the attention of people he passed by. Caelan’s pulse hung in her throat as reality sank in upon catching a whiff of Ardyn’s scent travel her way. He was real. He was alive. His arms were bound in chains and no doubt under the custody of Lucis, but he was here. He wasn’t dead in her arms like before. The relief Caelan felt was beyond compare.

As soon as Caelan allowed herself to let out a sigh of relief, Ardyn cast a glance toward her. A smug expression had taken over his face. Conveying he thought so little of her and the situation he had been dragged into. His eyes told a different tale.

Deep amber hues were replaced with an unfamiliar cerulean. For a time, Caelan believed perhaps this was an imposter, a phantom of someone she had known. Yet there was no mistaking the yearning and adoration those eyes conveyed to her, along with an unspoken promise: he would take her away from this place. If it was the last thing he’d do.

“Madam Secretary and the Altissian Courts,” Gladio began.

Caelan watched as Ardyn’s soft features he held for her grew rigid and determined. He faced forward. She couldn’t be certain, but Caelan thought it looked as if Ardyn was counting how many people were in the room mentally to himself. She grimaced. Knowing Ardyn so well, Caelan knew he wasn’t above slaughter. Everyone in this room would be fair game to him as far as she was concerned. She hoped with whatever scheme Ardyn was concocting that he wouldn’t harm Gladio or Prompto.

“On behalf of King Noctis, who unfortunately couldn’t be here, I Gladiolus Amicitia, head commander of the royal crownsguard and its units, offer Ardyn Lucis Caelum to give testimony regarding Caelan Zamfir. You may ask the captive anything you wish to know. My men and I will assist fellow Troopers in keeping the peace during this time. Thank you for having us.”

Both Prompto and Gladio gave a bow with their heads and then presented Ardyn fully to the court floor. Gladio gave Ardyn a push from behind, causing him to stumble forward. He smirked hearing Ardyn growl and ignored the curse muttered at him.

Gladio and Prompto then took their place to the right of the courtroom. Fifteen crownsguard made their way to the left and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Accordo troopers already present.

“Please kindly give the king my regards toward his queen falling ill.” Camelia said sincerely to Gladio and Prompto. The older woman then took in a deep breath, finally casting a scornful look toward the man of the hour.

“Ardyn, it’s nice for you to join us after so many years.” It was quite obvious her words meant nothing here. It was all just formality.

Ardyn didn’t seem to care. He immediately smiled big, his eyes becoming bright by the second as he gave a generous bow with his head.

“It’s my deepest honor to see you all gathered on this fine morning! I’d offer a far kinder formality, but alas, my hands are tied. ” He shook his arms for emphasis. The clanging sound of the cuffs that bound his arms echoed throughout the courtroom. Hushed voices and murmurs were already running amok regarding the man who had been allegedly dead for five years, and Ardyn didn't bother to hide he was eating it up.

“There’s no need.” Camelia’s gaze zeroed in on the former chancellor. Memories of her time dealing with Ardyn when he worked for Niflheim began to take center stage in her mind. She had nearly forgotten how dramaturgical of a man he was.

“Are you aware of the reason as to why you’ve been brought forth to the Altissian courts to give testimony?”

Ardyn hummed, making a face. “I can’t say for certain, but I do believe it’s because of a rather lovely woman I traveled with for a time. Ah, there she is as we speak! Quite the scandal you have going for yourself, wouldn’t you say?”

Ardyn cast playful eyes onto Caelan, gesturing out with his hands as wide as the cuffs would allow him to. Caelan had a feeling the look of bewilderment she gave made Ardyn chuckle. She shot a glare at him. The mocking of his tone put her off. He sounded as if he was scolding her for a mistake.

“Moving on,” Camelia raised her voice, commanding Ardyn’s attention. “We have but a few questions for you regarding Caelan Zamfir, and yourself. Can you truthfully answer to the best of your ability?”

“By all means, ask away! That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To serve justice.” Ardyn motioned with his hands. He made a note of how many judges were present and tallied the total up next to the number of people that were sitting on the public benches of the courtroom. Almost 205 give or take. Perfect. He thought to himself.

“Who was Caelan Zamfir to you?” An elderly magistrate asked on Camelia’s behalf. The judge cast her eyes below Ardyn while he began to pace about the court floor.

Both Gladio and Prompto readied themselves, watching intently for any signs Ardyn was up to something mischievous.

“She was but hired help. You see, when I awoke on Angelgard after a long coma, I was in quite a vulnerable state of mind and body. I needed protection so I sought out Ms. Zamfir's services. Being a former crownsguard, I found her to be invaluable. Ms. Zamfir and I made haste to Insomnia. I had plans to visit the king regarding our…not-so-stellar relationship. I’m sure you all know the rest as to how that played out.”

Ardyn took a brief pause to look at Caelan from the corner of his eye. The puzzlement on her face never ceased. To say Ardyn was amused was an understatement.

“Ms. Zamfir at one point considered handing me over to Lucian officials during our travels. Had I not bribed her with monetary gain and public approval, I doubt she would’ve stayed long in my company.”

Ardyn smiled at all the judges. The kind look in his eyes was in stark contrast to his charming but disingenuous rhythm. He could see a few judges already growing uncomfortable.

“Was Caelan Zamfir offered any compensation for said services?” The magistrate asked after clearing her throat.

“Oh yes. Several, in fact.” Ardyn drawled. His enthusiasm accompanied by the salacious smirk he wore had Caelan’s face turning red. She had no doubts where his mind traveled to given his cadence alone, and she made a fist. She didn’t think Ardyn would be one to kiss and tell, but Caelan braced herself for the worst.

“I compensated my shield between the amount of 40 to 75k in gil and credits. Of which I took from old accounts I had at Niflheim. No one knew the wiser I was using it!” Ardyn chuckled at his own wrongdoing.

Caelan’s fist unclenched. She let out a long sigh of relief through her nostrils. If there was an opportunity to hit him soon, she’d take it. No matter how much she loved him.

“There have been reports submitted to us, that you and your shield had a rather close relationship.”

“Hearsay,” Ardyn sighed, giving a roll with his eyes. “Unfortunately, when a man and woman travel together, nasty rumors have ways of tagging along. Ms. Zamfir and I engaged in no such inappropriate contact. I know for a fact she couldn’t tolerate my behaviors, much less stoop so low of her virtue.”

Caelan couldn’t help but snort. He was lying through his teeth, and she knew it well, yet it seemed everyone else was falling prey to Ardyn’s glamour. She was still wrapping her mind around it, why he was simultaneously defending yet throwing her under a bus.

“Did you employ Caelan Zamfir to directly attack the king of Lucis under your command?” The judge asked.

Ardyn was appalled, as he motioned to himself. “Oh, I’d never do such a thing! I may have my problems with the royal family, but that’s my personal affairs. I wouldn’t dream of dragging someone beneath me into my mess.”

Ardyn paced about, gesturing here and there for emphasis and to add further conviction while he finished the rest of his statement. “ Ms. Zamfir, bless her heart, chose to follow me into the palace long after we parted ways. Now, much like you fine ladies and gentlemen, she assumed I was up to no good. Unfortunately from what I’ve been told, it seems that the crownsguard mistook her as an accomplice of mine.”

“Do you admit to attacking the king of Lucis?”

“Pardon?” Ardyn raised a brow.

“Did you purposefully travel to Insomnia to attack king Noctis and his family? I hope that clarifies enough for you.” The woman grumbled the last sentence under her breath. It was quite obvious she was not in the mood for repeating herself.

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge any information as Lucis is pending investigation. If I may be so bold, I’m not the one on trial at present. My former shield is.” Ardyn shook his head. He made a face and then signaled toward the judges every so often as he walked. “With this in mind, I must respectfully decline to answer that particular question.”

“Did Caelan Zamfir attempt to get you involved with anything pertaining to her criminal activity, especially in regards to genocide towards Niflheim citizens?”

Ardyn’s features relaxed and he shook his head. He stopped walking. “No. It was never brought to my attention. Everything for Ms. Zamfir was strictly business. I wasn’t aware of her crimes until recently.”

“Last question,” The older judge adjusted her glasses. “Can you vouch for her character? Please keep it brief.”

“Is that really all there is? Seems like a wasted trip.” Ardyn sighed with heavy disappointment.

“Izunia,” Camelia spoke up for once during the interrogation, giving Ardyn a look to suggest he needed to stay on task. “Please answer the question.”

Caelan watched while Ardyn looked at her from afar. Beneath the cunning gleam his features held, there was a confidence. Instinct commanded Caelan’s attention. Telling her to listen well to what he had to say as Ardyn’s focus went back to the highest of the lands.

“Ms. Zamfir is fiercely loyal. I personally haven’t seen such dedication in centuries. It’s almost unheard of. At times I’ve questioned the nature of her intelligence, yet she never failed to find exits when we dealt with situations beyond our control. I’d say she knows when to run and when to hold her ground. All things considered.”

Caelan saw Ardyn cast one last glance at her from the corner of his eye. There was a subtlety in his body language that Caelan honed in on. He mentioned exits, holding one’s ground, and fleeing. Something was building up. Caelan could feel her intuition telling her that Ardyn would be making a move, and whatever happened, she needed to get out of that courtroom.

“It’s quite unfortunate her choices brought her here. Had circumstances been different, I’m certain Ms. Zamfir would’ve made a fine guard for whatever nation she’d chosen to serve. I’m afraid that’s all I can say regarding the poor thing. I pray she finds repose at your mercy.” Ardyn gave a respectful bow with his head towards the judges, thus finishing his testimony.

“Commander Amictia, you and your crownsguard may take Ardyn back to Lucis. The courts of Altissa have no further use for the Adagium.” Camelia stated. She cast her eyes away from Ardyn, not wanting to give the man any more attention than what he had already stolen.

Caelan watched as Gladio and Prompto approached Ardyn and coaxed him to move. None of them looked her way nor said a word as they followed through with the orders handed down. She was beginning to wonder if maybe she had projected false hope onto the three. Especially that of Ardyn. Maybe her instincts were wrong.

Although Caelan had immense trust in Ardyn, there were many seeds of doubt that began to plant themselves in her mind. Seeing Ardyn’s form slowly disappear from the courtroom began to rip pieces of her heart out. After everything she had done for him, after crying over his corpse, this was it? Was this truly what they amounted to? She couldn’t stop the thoughts from occurring no matter how hard she tried.

“Zamfir,” Camelia’s voice snapped Caelan out of her contemplations, and she was forcibly brought before the judges by the female trooper.

“With Ardyn’s testimony complete, we will now begin the execution process. First, you will be--”

“Pardon my interrupting!” Ardyn’s voice raised all of a sudden. He turned around, facing the judges once again from the court's entrance. “There’s just one more little tidbit I forgot to mention about Ms. Zamfir.”

“Why are you--?!” Before Gladio could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Camelia.

“How paramount must it be that you heckle us during the final procedures?” Camelia hollered towards him. It was clear whatever patience she had for Ardyn had run its course.

“Trust me when I say, it’s of the utmost importance!”

The grin that Ardyn gave was enough to chill down Camelia’s spine. There was something amiss, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

Caelan’s eyes widened. She could feel it. A static pull that had goosebumps trailing up and down her arms in a matter of seconds. She knew the sensation from anywhere. Ardyn was calling upon the royal arms. She could even make out the small bits of pink red light that signaled their presence coming into focus. There were many of them forming all throughout the courtroom.

“Oh, Gods…” She muttered under her breath.

“Ms. Zamfir is notorious for being quite gullible.” Ardyn laughed. His happy-go-lucky demeanor took a dangerous turn as he spoke with a sinister clarity that even had Caelan frightened.  

“Just like all of you!”

Ardyn’s hands lifted and he motioned toward the judges. In a blink of an eye, the phantom limbs of his armiger appeared. The sickle ends of the weapons flew at great velocity. All of the ghostly blades came dangerously close to impaling their respective targets, missing by a few centimeters or less. Not even Camelia was spared as one of the many swords nicked at her throat. A tiny stream of blood already was pooling down her flesh. Screams and yells rose into the atmosphere of the courthouse as chaos bloomed from Ardyn’s sudden attack.

“Get Zamfir out of the courthouse immediately!” Camelia shouted towards a pair of troopers that were nearby. They were quick to grab a hold of Caelan and began rushing her toward the nearest exit.

Gladio and Prompto attempted to restrain Ardyn but to no avail. Upon summoning Rakshasa, Ardyn broke free of his bonds and viciously took offense. He kicked Prompto several times in a series of quick strikes, bringing the reverse side of his blade upon the crownsguards back. Prompto cried out, his body tumbling to the ground.

“You bastard!” Gladio exclaimed, he brought down his long sword towards Ardyn’s chest. He was quickly incapacitated as Ardyn struck the back of Gladio’s neck with the hilt of Rakshasa. To add further insult to injury, Ardyn summoned two of the royal arms to impale the upper portion of Gladio’s legs. His yells intermingled with that of the many screams as Altissia citizens scrambled to get out of the line of fire.

Gladio attempted another assault. Casting his blade towards Ardyn’s feet as payback. Ardyn jumped, dodging the attack in a split second before warp-striking Gladio. The king's shield was knocked several feet away, and Ardyn sent another round of phantom limbs after anyone who was foolish enough to stick around.

Caelan was close to one of the back exits of the courthouse until blood-curdling noises and whispered gasps fell from the troopers that had been escorting her out. She turned her head, nearly meeting the same fate as her captors. Caelan’s blood ran cold, her eyes conveying shock at seeing Ardyn staring her down. She knew the predatory gaze quite intimately. It was the very same one Ardyn had used the day he had taught her to warp strike. Every crease and crevice of his face told Caelan he intended to harm her.

A single royal arm was sent her way with a flick of Ardyn's wrist. Caelan attempted to block with her hands. The ghost-like sword managed to cut loose her shackles and sliced through her palms, causing her to cry out.

While she was distracted by the sudden pain, Ardyn suddenly teleported in front of her. He hit Caelan square in the stomach with the hilt of Rakshasa, sending her several feet back. Caelan caught herself and dodged round after round of assaults Ardyn had prepared for her. Every time she attempted to right herself and take on an offensive stance, Ardyn had a counter. He didn’t leave any room for her to breathe much less have the clarity to best him.

Caelan was too shocked and hurt to ask why Ardyn was attacking her. Everything about this fight felt wrong. She felt her stomach churning in painful knots from his previous onslaught. She didn’t want to fight. Not just because she didn’t want to harm a person she loved, but due to the fact her body was broken. A shell of its former self. She lost count how many times Ardyn managed to nick her flesh with his crimson blade. She could foresee her death at the rate things were heading; dying in a sea of cuts, slowly bleeding out until nothing was left.

“Is this really all you have to show?” Ardyn seethed. His anger held no bounds as he thrust the Rakshasa towards Caelan, attempting to pierce the center of her heart with quick strikes.

“I’m not fighting you!” Caelan cried out, twisting her body to dodge the assault.

“Then you’ll die here!” Ardyn screamed.

For the first time during their altercation, she had an epiphany. Caelan registered the double meaning of his words. Ardyn wasn’t merely referring to himself killing her, but Accordo being her grave. She could feel it from the desperation of his tone. How every strike, every attack, was an attempt to get her to wake up. She needed to cut her own spirit free.

As Rakshasa came tumbling for her head, Caelan at the last second summoned her blade to block. The gold and black steel of her sword let out a piercing screech as its body met that of Rakshasa. Caelan grit her teeth, her eyes deadlocking with Ardyn’s blue orbs staring at her with contempt. As they battled for dominance, Caelan watched Ardyn's calloused features soften. There was a proud tenderness Ardyn held for her even among the glare he viciously gave. Caelan swallowed as she studied him, trying in vain to determine if he was truly a friend or foe. Her heart was beating so fast, she couldn’t breathe or think.

Ardyn subtly nodded to Caelan several times, as if he was telling her ‘well done’ without speaking the words. He mouthed out ‘go’, and as quickly as his gentle expression occurred, he went back to a raging machine; hellbent on getting his opponent to break. Ardyn forced Caelan back with Rakshasa violently striking against her sword. The speed had Caelan chagrined, so much so that she didn’t see it coming when Ardyn swiped her legs and kicked her far away from him.

“I’m afraid I can’t afford to let you live if I am to be free of everyone in this miserable life!” Ardyn yelled with contempt. He sent ten blades of the armiger flying toward Caelan. She quickly sprinted as her blade disappeared, hearing the thundering clang of the spirited weapons hitting objects and other poor souls who happened to get in the way. If she wasn’t running on adrenaline, Caelan would’ve noticed Ardyn wasn’t using the blades to attack her. No. He was using the royal arms to guide her quickly down a hall and to a window nearby.

On instinct to avoid impalement, Caelan tucked in and rolled out of the window, shattering the glass as she fell several feet and landed on a stack of wooden boxes. The impact had her yell out a scream, feeling as if she had been punched several times over. Having lost muscle and weight from her confinement, such a feat had nearly knocked the wind out of Caelan. Regardless of her current feelings, she could hear the static of the armiger drawing close by, and out of fear she ran. Sprinting past crowds of people that were  in a frenzied panic, traveling through a maze of buildings and waterways.

Caelan had no idea where she was going. Nor did she understand a scrap of what happened behind her. All she could focus on was getting far away, and maybe Ardyn or someone would enlighten her at what the hell was happening. She had to hope--

Hope. The word repeated in mind. It was slowly starting to come back to her. The mere concept was becoming tangible once more as Caelan got further away from the courthouse and into the unknown.

[ggukbabyy]

bro... idk about the whole plot of the drabble but it definitely should have some sexual tension going on but i'm not talking about a quick tension, you know... it could take hours or days idk i feel like you would kill it

“No, never,” you comment with a small shake of your head. Taehyung looks indignant.

“Everyone has done something outside of the bedroom at some point.”

You simply shake your head. “Not me.” Your eyes flick to Jeongguk briefly, his gaze drilling holes into the side of your face. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

“You’ve never needed someone so badly you couldn’t wait?” His voice is deep and husky, a hidden implication giving his words weight. You hold his gaze.

“The waiting is the fun part.” The corner of his mouth forms a faint smirk.

“That’s where we’ll have to disagree,” he replies, holding your eyes as he takes a long pull from his drink. Everyone breaks off into different conversations, the intrigue of your reluctance to perform sexual acts in a public space no longer the most interesting thing to discuss. Jeongguk appears to be the only one not ready to let it go.

You sit opposite him in the pub, enough people occupying the space that the din of background conversation makes it hard for others to hear as Jeongguk leans across the table once again.

“Do you really believe that? About waiting?” You’re not quite sure why he’s so interested but you entertain his line of questioning.

“100 percent,” you reply without hesitation and Jeongguk nods slowly as he considers your answer.

“You don’t think the desperation to have someone near you, in you, there and then is fun? How is that not better than waiting?” His eyebrows are drawn together in skepticism. He can’t for the life of him understand how you could enjoy waiting. It’s disheartening to hear when he’s spent the better part of the night trying to figure out a plan that would get you to follow him into the toilets. You’ve been acquaintances for about 4 months and he’s spent an embarrassingly large proportion of his time in your company thinking of all the different ways he’d like to spend his time with you if he could get you alone. And not for one second would he want to wait.

“I enjoy the anticipation,” you begin, moving to mirror his position. Jeongguk gets a wonderful eyeful of cleavage and he takes his time appreciating it.

“Wanting it so desperately and knowing you can’t have it now makes it all the better when it does happen.” For most of the sentence Jeongguk is picturing his dick between your tits so he only half hears what you say.

“Anticipation doesn’t change shit,” replies Jeongguk, leaning slightly closer. A small smile plays across your face, head tilted to the side slightly.

“It’s my favourite,” your voice has turned sultry, the alcohol muddling Jeongguk’s brain preventing him from noticing the change immediately. “The person is so close and not close enough, almost touching where you want and you could scream in frustration because two centimeters to the left and it would feel so fucking good, but they make you wait,” your voice is soft and captivating; even with everything happening around Jeongguk you’re the only one he can hear. His whole body feels jittery yet he’s glued to the spot, his chest beginning to rise and fall just a little deeper as you draw the perfect picture for him. “And wait some more, until I could cry, until I’m begging for the slightest touch or kiss in just the right place, so desperate and needy.” The switch from describing a situation to talking about yourself doesn’t go unnoticed by Jeongguk. In fact, it makes the room seem a little hotter, his pants feel a little tighter, his brain seems a little more clouded as he tries to focus on anything but the sounds you’d make as you beg or the words you’d say to get what you wanted from him. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought of you spread below him close to tears with desperation. Your eyes are alive and wild yet the rest of your face is the picture of innocence and he’s not sure how much more he can take. You’re inching closer to his face across the table as you speak.

“But you don’t like waiting, do you Jeongguk?” You ask and he can faintly feel the warmth of your breath against his lips from this distance. He swallows thickly.

“You don’t want to keep me waiting, don’t like the idea of making me beg for it? For you?” You add on innocently, eyebrows raised as though you’d asked a perfectly simple, appropriate question. Jeongguk can barely form a coherent sentence with his head so full of everything you’ve just said. You stay there leaning on the table for a few more seconds, Jeongguk’s eyes flicking down to your lips, the air around you both suffocating and heavy. You grin widely before leaning back into your chair triumphantly. Jeongguk’s eyes are clouded with arousal, not trying to hide where your words have taken him and his reluctance to return to the real world. By the time he does you’ve moved on to a conversation with Jimin, giggling at his shit jokes. You don’t look Jeongguk’s way once for the rest of the night and it drives him insane.

-----

Two weeks later and you’re at Jimin’s place for a barbecue with a friend. Only Jimin’s housemates are Yoongi and Jeongguk, and no one told Jeongguk you were coming over. Ever since the night at the pub, Jeongguk has fantasised about you more than he would care to admit - even to himself. More than a few times his hand wandered south with pictures of you flashing behind his eyelids, replaying the conversation you’d had over and over, vividly picturing you doing the things you’d described. So when he walks out of the patio doors into the garden to see you laid across a towel on the floor, the smallest bikini he has ever witnessed wrapped around your body, to describe his feelings as shocked is a gross understatement. From his vantage point he can watch you while you remain none the wiser, so he takes the precious time to appreciate everything that you are. Your legs go on for miles and are toned to perfection, your tits fill out your bikini with some left to spill over the side and yearning burns deep in his stomach to have his lips against the smooth flesh, dragging his tongue leisurely across your nipple. Images of you begging for him flash violently across his mind, and he’s itching to return to his bedroom for a few minutes. But then you turn over and notice him, a lazy grin creeping slowly across your mouth.

“Can I help you?” You ask innocently, eyes dancing with amusement at having caught Jeongguk staring. He saunters over to you, arms braced behind him as he sits down.

“You’re in my garden, I should be asking you that question.” Your eyes are glued on the way his biceps tense to support his weight. It should be illegal for Jeongguk to walk around shirtless, even if it is the height of summer. For the sake of your own sanity he should walk around in a full wetsuit - but you’re sure he’d manage to make that look sexy. His broad chest is on full display, the golden skin pulled taut against the toned muscles of his abdomen. Your eyes continue their journey down his stomach, thoughts swirling at the dusting of hair beneath his belly button, following it down until it disappears beneath his shorts.

“Are you nearly done?” Amusement drips from his words as you pull your eyes from their pleasant detour. You fight desperately to keep the heat from your face.

“Almost.” Jeongguk’s tongue pokes the side of his cheek at your answer. He’s used to girls fawning over him, melting into a puddle of shy giggles and doting compliments. Not this. The idea of having you begging beneath him becomes more and more appealing the more you demonstrate all the ways you need to be taught a lesson.

Both of you bask in the heat of the sun in silence, music drifting out from the kitchen, Yoongi’s contagious laughter bringing a smile to your face. Surreptitiously you peek one eye open, looking sideways at Jeongguk. The perfect definition of his jaw is showcased with the way his head is tilted towards the sun, little beads of sweat developing at his temples and clinging to the nape of his neck.

“You should really put suncream on,” you state, shutting your eye before he can catch you again.

“Are you offering?” His tone is bored but excitement thrills through his chest.

“Not really.” Jeongguk fights the smile threatening to reveal itself.

“If I end up burning, it'll be all your fault,” Jeongguk complains, and when you say nothing in return, his arms buckle under his weight dramatically, his back thudding against the grass.

“I can feel the blisters forming already,” he groans, rocking side to side. You suppress chuckles as you watch his performance.

“Unngh,” he groans, turning his head to look at you, a fake pained expression pulling against his features. “I need you to put suncream on me,” he whines, “please.” His lips jut into a pout.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you reply with an eye roll, Jeongguk all but ignoring it as a delighted grin lights up his face.

While you grab the cream, Jeongguk arranges himself into his original position, a satisfied smile gracing his plump lips as he basks in both his small victory and the heat of the sun. His smile vanishes, eyes snapping open, when he feels the cool of a shadow passing across him only to be faced with you straddling his lap. Your expression is the picture of innocence, eyes wide, head tilted, soft lips slightly parted as you hold to bottle of cream in one hand expectantly, but a flicker of wickedness flashes across your eyes, there one second and gone so quickly Jeongguk could almost convince himself that you’re clueless to the effect your close proximity has on him. But the way your back arches into him gives you away.

Jeongguk hisses a breath through his teeth at the first contact of the suncream against his warm skin and you giggle. There’s no hint of amusement on his face. Having you so close and yet unable to touch you has his mind reeling and frustration bubbling like acid in the pit of his stomach. You smell incredible, sweet and floral, and your hands are delicate as they roam his chest and stomach, eyes completely focused on the task at hand. He sighs deeply as he lets himself become lost in the way you touch him, the way your hands rove confidently, traversing low enough to have him forcing down the urge to buck his hips against you.

Nothing in the world is going to pull your gaze from the path your hands trace against Jeongguk’s skin. From his broad shoulders and collarbones you would be happy to drag your tongue across, to your palm grazing his nipple, noting the muscle in his jaw jumping at the contact. Down, down, down his stomach as low as his shorts allow, over his hips and waist. All amusement has vanished as your fingers explore. Jeongguk’s breathing is deep as you toy with the waistband of his shorts, slipping the tip of your finger just underneath. He’s watching you like a hawk, nostrils flaring as he wills you to just reach down, give him the look so he can take you upstairs and show you there’s no fun in waiting. Instead you raise your eyes to his and breathe out, “I need to do your arms.”

He shifts his weight forward, one arm held out for you, the other sliding around your body, hand resting gently on your arse. Raising your eyebrows questioningly at the placement, Jeongguk simply shrugs, a devilish smile flashing at you.

“What’s the matter, darling?” His deep voice questions. You forego a reply, squeezing cream directly onto his arm. He watches your face with delight as you continue.

“Turn around so I can do your back,” your voice is barely above a whisper. Having him so close for so long is starting to prove difficult. You can’t get your thoughts away from his hands, how strong and big they are in your own, how they’d wrap perfectly around your neck or how easy it would be for Jeongguk to prod and massage your g-spot until you were exhausted from overstimulation. It hasn’t slipped your notice that he’s been getting progressively harder beneath you, every inch of him pushing against your core. It’s getting hard to breathe, hard to look him in the eye - he relishes every second of your struggle with a cocky grin. His eyes are heavy and clouded with arousal and he drags his gaze leisurely down your body and back again.

“I’m sure you can reach from here, darling.” The determined look in your eye has Jeongguk chuckling. The action of reaching your hands over his shoulders and down his back has your chest pushing into his face and a small groan rumbles in Jeongguk’s throat. Your stomach burns with desire at the sound, a desperate need to hear the sound over and over, louder and then whispered into your ear, claws mercilessly at your insides, threatening to suffocate you. Without thinking you push your hips down in an effort to garner some friction against your swollen clit. The manoeuver doesn’t go unnoticed.

Jeongguk’s mind is blank. Your arse is pushing back into his palms, his fingers massaging the supple flesh delicately. With your tits so close to his face he determines it would be criminal if he doesn’t lean forward just a little more. His hair tickles your cheek as he moves, his nose brushing your chest as he gets closer. He flattens his tongue against the swell of your breast, licking a stripe against your glowing skin before sinking his teeth into you. A small gasp escapes your lips, hips rutting against him of their own accord. He groans again, using his hands to push you into him harder, desperation and frustration intermingling at the clothing separating your pussy from his bare skin. He pulls back to look up at you, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he restrains himself. Your lips are so close, both of your chests rising and falling rapidly, each waiting to see what the other will do, the atmosphere suffocating as the tension rises. Jeongguk’s gaze is intense and his eyes flick briefly down to your lips, his intentions and desires clear.

“Come to my room.” His voice is gravelly and shoots heat directly to where you need his touch the most. “Let me touch you, make you feel so good, princess.”

“We can’t,” you whisper back, lacking conviction.

“Why not?” Whines Jeongguk.

“Everyone will see and they’ll know.” It’s a feeble excuse and your resolve to stick with it is crumbling quickly.

“I’ll happily fuck you out here if that’s what you’d prefer.” Your cheeks flame at the idea. “It would be easy,” he continues, mind so consumed with you and his need to have you as close as possible. His fingers skim the apex of your thigh, toying with the edge of your bikini. “I’d just have to pull this to the side and then I’d see your pretty pussy, but I bet you have a tight cunt, couldn’t take my cock all at once.” Your core clenches reflexively at his words and you know you’re absolutely fucked.

“Come to my room,” he states, moving your hips over his with his hands. You smile devilishly, leaning forward until your lips almost brush.

“I’m sure you can wait a little bit longer.”

an; so i clearly don't know the meaning of the word drabble and you said i'd kill it so the perfectionism took over and i couldn't stop until i thought it was good

[fandom-collective-writers]

An Entrancing Melody (Kaisei Kuon x MC)

Fandom: Kings of Paradise (Voltage)

Pairing: Kaisei Kuon x MC(F)

Prompts: “Don’t act so innocent, I heard you.” “Those are the moans I love to hear.”

Warnings: NSFW, Wet dreams, Vaginal fingering, Cunnillingus, & Vaginal penetration 

Written by: @voltage-vixen​

“Keep doing that, Kaisei,”MC moaned, unashamed of the desperation laced in with her pleads as her fingers curled around the strands of her boyfriend’s hair, further disheveling his messy maroon locks.

Though words were not exchanged, Kaisei’s grip on her thigh tightened while his tongue plunged deeper into the warmth of her heat. She hummed in approval at the sense of urgency in his deliverance; each lick orchestrated in tantalizing yet pleasurable motions, urging her closer and closer until-

“MC, wake up,” a voice dripping in concern suddenly intruded upon her ear. “Are you alright? It’s okay, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m right here beside you.”

“Hmm?” MC murmured, blinking the lids of her eyes in a half-attempted effort against the illuminating shine of morning light pouring in from the window of the bedroom.

“That’s it, MC,” the same familiar voice coaxed, awakening more of her tired senses. “I’m right here. It’s time to wake up now.”

An abrupt and relieving cooling sensation pressed against her forehead wiping away at trickles of sweat beads, and a gentle touch rested on the surface of MC’s shoulder giving her an affection squeeze.

“Kaisei?” MC yawned, attempting to rub away the final evidence of sleepiness from her tired eyes. When she was better able to see his silhouette, MC was startled to discover that his brow was furrowed in worry. Water droplets were dripping from the washcloth that his fist was tightly clenched around. Gone was the normal façade of his carefree demeanor, and instead replaced with a rare form of uncertainty. “Um, are you okay right now?”

“Am I okay right now? How could you ask me such a question at time like this?” Kaisei yelped, his hands finding their way to the sides of her arms “I should be asking YOU if you’re the one that’s okay right now! You were making some pretty weird sounds in your sleep, and I was worried that you had pushed yourself again and had caught a cold.”

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! DREAM KAISEI WAS SO -AHEM- TALENTED THAT HE WAS ABLE TO MAKE ME MOAN OUT LOUD WHILE I WAS SLEEPING TO THE POINT WHERE REAL KAISEI BELIEVES I’VE FALLEN ILL!!

“Um, actually……,” MC gulped, her cheeks inflamed crimson from the embarrassment of the confession she was about to utter. “I’m not sick! I was…..dreaming.”

Confused, Kaisei tilted his head and gazed at MC questioningly. The features of his boyish charms were heightened and pronounced as his brain racked, seeking to solicit the mysterious meaning behind the implication of her words.  

Dreaming? What does dreaming have to do with-OH.

“My girlfriend was having a naughty dream about me then?”

Kaisei’s ears perked up. That grin appearing on his face was brighter than a child’s on Christmas morning after seeing Santa Clause made an appearance down the chimney. MC had experienced that look on numerous occasions prior; realizing there was no stopping the man at this point. Although knowing what was in store for her, she could hardly be bothered to care. She was ready to comply and Kaisei have his way with her.

“Was I better in your dream than I am in real life?” Kaisei prodded, his gaze an expecting one.

Gone was the newfound confidence MC had rustled up due to the direct nature of his question. Panicking, MC squirmed and made a dash for the blanket to escape the accusing look in his eyes he was flashing at her.

“Now you’re acting all shy?” he smirked, tugging the blanket from MC’s hands as she tried to cover her face in shame at the humiliation of her blunder. “There’s no need to hide anything from me. Don’t act so innocent, I heard you. I heard just how much you yearned for me.”

Hitched breathing resounded throughout the bedroom as Kaisei’s gaze shifted up, indulging in the spectacle of MC withering before him while his hands spared no moments intruding upon her. The base of MC’s palm was braced firmly against the flat of the headboard of his bed, whilst the fingers on her other hand tousled in the ruffled strands of her lover’s hair. He reached under her nightgown to rip off her underwear and knelt down to admire the view of her bare. With his face cradled between the softness of her thighs, his fingers teasingly caressed at the velvet of her folds.

“Did ‘dream’ me make your body this hot?” Kaisei murmured in sync of the movement of his lips sucking down hard on her thigh, the heat of MC’s flesh blazing him. “Were you as wet for him as you are for me now?”

The director’s arousal twitched in the bask of MC’s reaction when his second finger joined his other deep by penetrating deep into the wetness of her dripping sex. A triumphant grin danced across his face when his partner’s head shot backwards into the pillows. The soles of her feet pressed against the muscles of Kaisei’s back to bring him closer to the rush of heat he was responsible for awakening within her.

“Well?” he murmured, purposely drawing out the rhythm of his movements to prolong the woman reaching her high before eliciting the rush of pleasure MC was ever so desperately pleading him for with the batting of those long lashes. Those very same lashes Kaisei that would bat whenever she stole a glance from him when she was with Shun. He loved her pretty eyelashes, and Kaisei loved MC even more greatly. Always one aiming to please, Kaisei inched his head closer to the sensitive bud that she was desperate to have touched.  

MC’s body grew hotter and sweat trickled down the length of her abdomen as Kaisei’s hot breath grazed over her damp skin. He already knew the inner craving of her desires and exactly what it was she needed from him in that moment. The tension in her hips began to relax as she wanted to scream out in submission and demand Kaisei take her here and now.

Inflamed by a carnal appetite, Kaisei growled out in a desperate restlessness and latched onto the side of MC’s hips. MC’s attempt at rationalizing with him was ceased when the pads of his fingertips jolted a tingling sensation between her legs. His eyes were coated in a lustful glaze, and his heavy breathing transformed into what she considered to be a rabid pant. In that moment, MC’s legs wrapped around Kaisei more snugly. She knew he wanted her. In return wanted nothing more than for Kaisei to ravish everything she had to offer him.

Still holding his girlfriend’s body captured in an intense embrace, Kaisei’s tongue was drawn to her arousal glistening where his fingers were just occupying. Begging whimpers were muddled out in between the moans of MC as her body was melting into a puddle.

“Don’t hold back,” Kaisei’s encouragement enticing more of those entrancing melodies MC purred at the induction of his caresses. “Those are the moans I love to hear.”

Ready to devour and satiate his hunger, Kaisei’s tongue lunged yonder past her glistening slit and groaned at the immersing encompass of her heat. The way her hips bucked was a sheer indication of how close the woman already was to releasing the divine nectar he thirsted for. Taking care to apply special friction to her sensitive nub to deliver the care of foreplay he longed to shower his woman with, his fingers and mouth paid a special focus to ensure that eventually she would be able to fully encompass all of him. Still pent up from her prior dream, Kaisei didn’t have the chance to spoil her long since his assault soon induced her climax. MC’s balled up fist pounded against the headboard in satisfaction as her walls fluttered from the peak Kaisei instilled upon her. Touching MC alone was simply never enough to sustain the man, so he used this opportunity to greedily lap up her juices. He felt himself grow even more painfully hard while losing himself in the dusk of her natural scent.  

“Appetizing as usual,” Kaisei muttered, before crawling up to rest his chin on MC’s swollen chest. He reached for her fist which had now gone limp and entwined his fingers around hers.

“Hope that woke you up a bit since I’m only just getting started with you. ‘Real’ me wants to find out which Kaisei is better in the sack.”

Squeezing his fingers tighter around their already enjoined hands, his hips snapped forward in attention to entwine their lower bodies as one, only beginning to draw out moans that would surely last late into the hours of burning oil.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

My Little Secret part 13

Summary: After a rather tumultuous night in Saint Denis, you’re left confused and with more questions than answers. That however doesn’t stop you and Arthur from enjoying one another.

Warnings: Obligatory smutty chapter.

Word Count: 6,673

A/N: Been working on this one for a while. Since I haven’t written in a few months I’ve gotten a tad rusty and needed to take my time with this. So here it is!

“How’d it go?”

Arthur’s quiet, raspy voice immediately snapped you back to reality, blinking as the thunderous clang of the door swung shut behind the two of you. Greeted with the faint vibrations of club music radiating through the floor, you turned to look at him.

He met your gaze with an even stare. “They didn’t scare ya, did they?”

“No, not at all,” you said as you shook your head. “They asked me about my home life, what I did for a living… they seemed real interested when I told them what I was going to school for.”

Curiosity crossed his face. “They mention why?”

“No…” you said, trying to rack your brain. The whole ordeal felt fuzzy, almost dream-like. “Honestly… I can’t remember much.”

Arthur stopped in his tracks. You’d taken one step further before realizing, and you turned to face him. “Arthur?”

“They glamored you,” he stated darkly. “Means they said somethin’ they don’t want ya to remember.”

Your heart sank at this. “So…does that mean I failed?” you quietly asked.

“No, no,” he assured you. “If ya did, they wouldn’t have let ya back out this way. Hell, they wouldn’t let me see ya. They’d take precautions to make sure you wouldn’t know ‘bout us ever again.”

Well, that provided you at least some relief. This however only raised more questions. You remembered their faces, or their vague shapes. Names sounded muddled as if attempting to speak through water. Some memories came clear, you conversing them about yourself. Your job. Your schooling. What your hobbies were. Moments after, darkness.

“Has… has this ever happened? Partial glamors?” you asked.

Arthur sighed before answering, “Very rarely. Hell, I ain’t heard o’ this in a while,” He murmured, his head ducking slightly as his blue eyes swept across the floor ahead.

“So… what does that mean for me?” you continued, frowning at him.

Arthur’s eyes shot back to you, the furrow in his brow easing when he noticed your concern. He placed his hand on your shoulder, sliding it across your arm to gently tug you closer. “Nothin’ bad, sweetheart. Like I said, you wouldn’t be here if things went sour,” he glanced behind him at the closed door. “I’ll have a word with ‘em ‘bout it, see if I can’t figure out why. For now…” he turned to face the hallway again, starting forward. “Lemme take ya home.”

You nodded silently in agreement, somewhat comforted by his words but still apprehensive about what this could all mean. What exactly happened back there that they didn’t want you to remember?

As Arthur led you down the remainder of the hall, the distinct click of the door opening caught your attention. Turning your head to glance behind you, the familiar sight of Charles appeared from behind the door. He hurried forward, moving quite silently despite his thick frame.

“Arthur, hang on!” He called out, reaching the two of you before you could even blink. Vampire swiftness was still something you’d have to get used to.

“Charles?” Arthur turned to face his former companion. “Need somethin’?”

“No,” Charles responded, his eyes briefly flicking to you. “But they do. They told me they need you to go out tonight.”

“Ain’t happenin’,” Arthur answered almost immediately. “I need to take her home.”

“I know, I told them that,” Charles sighed. “Even offered myself in your place, but they were adamant about having you on this case. Sorry, Arthur. I tried.”

You turned your attention to Arthur, the annoyance plain in his weathered face. His blue gaze swept over you, his lips parting as if to say something, but words seemed to fail him.

Charles cleared his throat. “If I may, Lucia has prepared some accommodations at the hotel tonight,” he explained. “If you’re okay with it, Arthur, I could take Y/N there.”

Hotel accommodations? This night was becoming even weirder. You didn’t really want to leave Arthur and yearned nothing more than to crawl into the comfort of your own bed, especially after learning what happened to you just moments earlier. Your head was spinning, unless that was a byproduct of being glamored. Those fuzzy images danced in your mind’s eye as you tried to grasp on any sort of information.

Arthur’s heavy sigh caught your attention. He shook his head slightly before looking at you once again. “Sorry, sweetheart. As much as I wanna get outta this, I can’t.”

You just simply nodded in response. The idea of staying in a hotel wasn’t a nerve-wracking thought, especially in the middle of Saint Denis. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Charles to drive you over an hour back home. At least they were thoughtful enough to allow you for a place to stay instead of having to call for a ride. You supposed it could be worse; dumped on the side of the road out here.

“You got work, or anything to do tomorrow?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you answered truthfully. “If you need to go, then go.”

Arthur’s eyes searched yours for a moment, as if trying to seek a different, nonverbal response. Finally, he spoke, “Alright, jus’ know you won’t be back home ‘til nighttime, unless ya call a taxi.”

“I’m fine with that,” you affirmed. “Wouldn’t want you burning up on your motorcycle in the morning.”

His lip tugged into a faint half-smile. He reached up and placed his hand against your cheek, sliding his thumb briefly over the swell of the bone. “I’ll be joinin’ ya before dawn, though I expect you’ll be asleep by then,” he muttered as he leaned in to place a quick kiss on your lips.

Matching his smile with your own, you gave him another nod. He turned to face Charles, murmuring a thanks before stalking back down the hall. He yanked open the door and disappeared behind it as it swung closed with almost excessive force. With the slam echoing loudly against the bare walls, you sighed and looked at Charles.

Charles smiled once you met gazes, an apologetic look written on his face. “Sorry for the sudden change of plans,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” you sighed. “So, uh… what hotel accommodations were made so last minute?”

“A vampire-owned hotel,” Charles answered. He held up one hand to gesture to the exit while he placed a hand on your shoulder. He noticed the bewilderment on your face. “It’s not what you think, I promise.”

---

It certainly wasn’t what you were thinking at all.

With the image close to an old, haunted mansion surrounded by decay painted in your mind, Charles led you back out through the nightclub and back into the thick night air where a fancy black car waited for you. He drove through the liveliest part of the city, stopping at what you’d known to be only the most expensive hotel in the state of Lemoyne. A single night for their cheapest room ran into the thousands.

And it was owned and ran by the vampires.

With it being so late, you expected low activity. Your mindset changed when Charles brought you into a bustling lobby. With so many moving around, you weren’t sure who was human and who was vampire.

Seamlessly weaving through the crowd, Charles brought you to the front desk. Within moments you were checked in, and the receptionist flashed you a brilliant smile with her fangs gleaming beneath the golden light. You probably would never get used to that.

Afterward, Charles swept you toward the elevator. Traveling up a few floors you found it was much quieter than the lobby, only one or two people milling around, giving you a swift glance before disappearing into their rooms. At this point you couldn’t tell who was human or vampire.

Charles led you to your designated room. He stopped just before the door and turned, offering you a small smile. “This is where we part ways, will you be okay from here?” He asked.

You nodded in response, sliding the key card from its holder. “I’ve stayed in hotels before, it’s no different.”

“I know, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable being here,” he replied. “You are surrounded by vampires after all.”

“As long as they don’t break into my room and drain me overnight,” you were only half joking, but you couldn’t help but to wonder…

Charles chuckled, his face folding into an expression of faint amusement. “It won’t go that far, there are more civilized vampires here than you think.”

“And I know Arthur would protect me in the event they weren’t,” you affirmed, mostly for yourself. “Whenever he comes back…”

“Sooner than you think,” Charles assured you, placing his hand on your shoulder. “Trust me, he does quick work. He’ll be back before you know it.”

Of course Charles would understand, given his past with Arthur. You suddenly felt compelled to ask more questions about their relationship, but how would you even approach that? Aside from the obvious, there was a glaring difference between you and Charles.

Before you could even begin to think of anything to say or ask, Charles stepped back from you. “I’ll be stepping out, hope you enjoy your night.”

“Thank you, Charles,” you say. “Thank you for going out of your way to bring me here.”

“You’re welcome, it’s not an issue at all,” he responded. “Arthur feels deeply for you, and I can see why. I’m glad he’s found happiness with you.”

That warmed your heart to hear.

“I’ll be heading out now…” he spoke. You expected him to turn and walk away. He however leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “By the way… he loves baths.”

You blinked in confusion, giving him an inquiring look. “Huh?”

Charles gave another small smile, the corner of his lip twitching into the slightest of smirks. “Something left over from our old lives. Back then, hotels employed women as bath ladies to help wash anyone who requested it. It’s one habit he didn’t let go of.”

Your confusion only heightened. Was he insinuating that you wash Arthur down? As seconds ticked by, the realization dawned upon you. A flash of heat invaded your face and you ducked your head to avert your gaze. “Uh, thanks for that information…?”

Charles softly chuckled in response, before murmuring a quiet goodbye. As his figure left your peripheral vision, you turned to face the door of your room once again.

The inside was more modernized than you expected it to be. Used to the classic architecture of Saint Denis, this was a stark difference. It reminded you of a type of penthouse seen only in media. A monochromatic scheme of black and silver decorated every facet of furniture and décor. Massive windows sat on the opposite side, only partly covered by the blackout curtains. A king-sized bed with a wine-colored comforter sat in the middle, and upon it seemed to be a pile of neatly folded fabric.

Curious, you approached the bed and found that it was a pair of silk pajamas with the hotel’s emblem embroidered on the left breast. A few chocolates were placed intricately on top of it. Underneath sat a soft robe.

Damn, did every guest get this sort of treatment?

After familiarizing yourself with everything, you showered and wrapped yourself in the robe. You then turned the TV on and relaxed on the bed, too comfortable in the robe to change into the pajamas.

Mindlessly flipping through the channels, you couldn’t settle on one. As much as you tried to focus, your thoughts were just too wired. This whole night set you in a tizzy and you weren’t exactly sure how to make head or tail of it. Arthur said you were partially glamored, and for reasons unknown. He assured you it wasn’t a bad thing, but there was still the question as to why. Did you say something, or did they? What vital information was shared that you had to be wiped clean of?

You also had to wonder what job was so important they needed Arthur to do that very night. He did say he was sort of like a bounty hunter, which meant dangerous work. You’d seen him in action, and knowing his former life as an outlaw meant he was probably one of the toughest guys around. You still couldn’t help but to worry however.

How likely was it he could get seriously injured?

With a silent scold to yourself, you shook her head in attempt to shake that thought. He’s been alive long before your grandparents were even a thought. This was his job, and he spoke as if it was just a normal 9-5 to him.

Time blurred together as your brain continue to flip-flop between everything that happened tonight. The TV was mere background noise as you tried and failed to focus on what was airing. You were watching a movie at some point, when focusing back in there was now a documentary. The movie apparently ended an hour ago and it was now 3 am.

Jesus, I need to go to bed. You thought to yourself as you shifted to finally change into the provided nightwear. Though you still felt wide awake, attempting to sleep was better than getting lost in incoherent thoughts in a seemingly never ending cycle.

Just as you slid to your feet and began to untie the robe, the click of the lock sounded. You froze instantly, your eyes snapping to the door as it opened to reveal Arthur.

The tension eased from your body as he stepped in quietly, his eyes quickly scanning your body before meeting your eyes. “Sweetheart, thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I was about to try,” you answered, abandoning the knot. “I don’t really feel tired.”

Arthur stepped in further and the door closer behind him. “It’s been a long night for ya, I expected different,” he chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, but I keep thinking back to what happened. It’s such a weird night, my brain doesn’t want to simmer down,” you sighed and plopped your butt on the edge of the bed. As Arthur came closer, the fabric of his jacket flitted from his torso. It was just a few inches of movement, but enough to reveal blood stain on his shirt. Your eyes widened. “Arthur?!”

“It ain’t mine, don’t worry,” he said quickly with a surprisingly casual tone. “Jus’ a messy job.”

“What did you do? Kill more fledglings?” You asked curiously.

“More or less,” he shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall to a heap on the floor. Crimson splatter painted his bare forearms. “Ain’t ever gonna be a clean job, as much as I try.”

“And… you walked all the way up here like that,” you stated, gesturing to him.

“There are less used entrances, and humans would be asleep now,” he explained, giving you a slightly cheeky smirk. “Most of ‘em anyway.”

“Well, maybe I can rest easy now that you’re back,” you pointed out with a small smile of your own. “But I was worried about you too.”

His face softened at your words. He stepped toward you, reaching out with a cleaner hand to caress your chin. “You don’t gotta worry, I always return.”

Leaning lightly into his cool palm, you said, “Don’t jinx yourself.”

Arthur gave a small chuckle. “I ain’t as vulnerable as you think, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

You hummed softly, grazing your fingers against the back of his hand. “I hope so.”

His smile was warm and comforting, a moment of silent intimacy exchanged between the two of you. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, he backed off and crossed the room over to where the bathroom door stood ajar. “Gonna shower, I’ll be out in a bit.”

You nodded, silently watching him disappear behind the door. Within half a minute, the telltale sound of water pattering against porcelain filled the quiet space. You were a little more awake now that Arthur came back, regardless you were going to return to your abandoned attempt to rest.

Standing back up, you began to fumble with the knot on the robe once again.

Charles’ voice suddenly passed through your head. Arthur loves baths.

You paused once again. A quick, single thought loomed. You glanced at the closed bathroom door. However, this wasn’t the 1800’s. Indoor plumbing has greatly improved since then. It would probably be redundant.

But what harm was there in trying?

You and Arthur hadn’t done anything yet. Aside from a few makeout sessions and the occasional brush against more sensitive areas (mostly accidental), seeing each other naked was still something to check off on this list. Neither of you pushed for anything, especially since you weren’t sure how to proceed with a vampire.

Perhaps it was time to find out.

Padding across the room, you rested your hand on the knob and turned it, half surprised to find it gave way. Taking a deep breath you pushed it open, met with a growing wall of humidity. His silhouette formed a soft outline through the shower curtain. He twitched from behind the curtain.

He spoke out your name softly, a touch of concern ringing his voice. As quiet as you were, he had impressively acute hearing. “Are you alright? Need somethin’?” He asked.

“No, I…” you trailed off. Almost hesitant to try, you took a deep breath and added, “I just wanted to join you, if that’s okay.”

A couple of seconds ticked by, the water the only sound. You wondered if he was going to refuse.

But to your surprise, he didn’t. “Sure,” he finally answered. “Come on in.”

You smiled to yourself. You’d loosened the robe enough to allow the soft billowing fabric to fall from your figure. Shrugging it off the rest of the way, the only thing separating you and him was the shower curtain. Stepping forward, you reached out and tugged it aside.

Arthur’s face entered your field of view first. Then, his broad torso. Soon all of him was revealed to you, his wet skin glistening beneath the bright light. Rivulets of water cascaded down his body, faintly tinged red from the blood that still remained.

God, was he built like an ox. Your eyes slowly scanned him up and down, stealing an extra second to gaze at the appendage sitting at the base of his waist. You met his gaze just seconds after, hoping he didn’t catch you staring inappropriately.

He smiled and stuck his hand out to you, beckoning you in with a slight curl of his fingers. You slid in without an issue, dampened by stray drops. Your heart was beginning to pound. It wasn’t the first time you’d been nude in someone else’s presence, however knowing he was more than human still struck a sliver of anxiety into you.

His blue eyes shifted for the briefest of a second, taking in your full figure but like you, not letting his curious gaze linger for too long. “You’re gorgeous,”

Heat crept into your face. “You are too,” you bashfully replied, your arms naturally loosely curling around yourself.

“Out of the two o’ us, I think you take the cake on looks, darlin’,” he spoke softly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Oh Arthur, I can’t take all of the credit…” you murmured to him. You wanted to touch him but a small part of your brain still was hesitant. Your one hand reached forward, opting to take his hand. “I still think you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.”

He hummed quietly in response, squeezing your hand in his. “Guess you’ll need to keep remindin’ me.”

“And I have no problem with that,” you stepped somewhat closer, allowing your words to feign bravery. In reality your heart began to pound, and you knew Arthur would be able to hear it. He however gave no indication of knowing, not even a simple acknowledgement. What was wrong with you? It wasn’t like this sort of intimacy was new.  “I, uh, heard you like baths.”

Arthur released a small a chuckle. “I’m guessin’ you and Charles had a conversation.”

“You could say that,” you shyly spoke. “Would you mind if I…?”

“You don’t gotta do anything,” he assured you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Don’t want you feelin’ forced.”

“I want to,” you affirmed. “And I don’t feel like I’m being forced, Arthur…” you reached down to grab a bar of soap. “As long as you want it, I’m happy to provide.”

The wrinkles of concern softened, the smile returning to Arthur’s face. “I guess I can’t say no then.”

You matched his smile, beginning with rubbing the soap between your hands. With mittens of suds, you reached up and slid them against his shoulders. Slowly you worked down his arms, refraining from squeezing his biceps. They were thick and solid, even at resting position. As many times he held you in his arms, you never really thought twice about them. How strong was he really?

Your hands brushed against his, receiving no reaction as you lathered more suds against his work-worn palms. You realized for the first time how warm was skin was. Obviously a product of hot water, however it stirred up a feeling of nostalgia of having a warm body to cuddle with.

Not that you minded his lack of a temperature on a humid night anyway.

Once he rinsed his arms, you moved to his torso. An expanse of more muscle, formed pecs and the tease of an ab outline. While his body wasn’t akin to a typical model, he was certainly built from whatever hard work he was subjected to in his previous life. He once explained vampirism kept you in stasis of how you were as a living being, as well as negating any physical ailments you might have had at the time. You had to wonder what toll his once terminal illness held on his mortal body.

With your brain detached from your mind, you were brought back to reality when you realized you’d ran your hands along his chest and torso more times than necessary. Quickly you shifted your attention. If Arthur noticed, he certainly didn’t seem to have an issue with it.

You were careful below his navel, an obvious place sitting in the corner of your eye as your fingers danced around his waistline. You focused on a bit of blood still against his hip. Even as you tried to avoid the tiny thought that was slowly growing in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but to wonder…

Once again you’d spent a little too long in one spot. Snapping your attention down, you instead brought your focus to his legs.

“Haven’t enjoyed this in ages…” you heard Arthur quietly say.

Peering up at him, you noted the content look on his face. “Charles did tell me there were women who were paid to do this,” you stated.

“Long time ago,” he responded with a tone of reminiscence. “Only time I could truly relax outside o’ gang duties.”

“I guess the introduction of indoor plumbing and showers probably did away with them,” you joked lightly, your fingertips running along the groove of his thigh muscles.

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled. “Thank you for this, darlin’.”

Flashing him a smile, you replied, “you’re welcome,” before moving down to his calves. Making quick work of them, you rinsed off the suds before standing back up. “Turn around,” you instructed.

Arthur did just that, exposing his back. As your eyes swept over him, you couldn’t help but to think everything about this man was built perfectly. The soap bar ran smoothly across the plains of muscle, every ridge and every dip. It was tempting to climb this man like the tree he was.

Those lingering thoughts seemed to stir something within you, a minuscule spark burning deep in your gut. You shook your head, silently scolding yourself. No need to become all hot and bothered over this. Though since he was facing away, you glanced down to take a peek. He had a decently nice butt, toned and not completely muscular, yet not flat.

How fun would it be to grab it while he…

Nope.

You stopped that mental train in its tracks. What was wrong with you tonight?

You rinsed off the soap for him this time, allowing yourself one final quick gaze before he turned to face you again. The smile he had on his lips never lifted as he reached up to caress your cheek. “That was real nice,” he complimented. “I could, uh, wash ya next, if you’d like.”

“I showered earlier,” you responded, reaching up to hold his hand with yours. “But maybe next time.”

A low hum rumbled from his chest in response. “Next time,” he agreed. His thumb smoothed lightly across your cheek, trapping your face in with his other hand. Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss on your lips. You’d expected it to be quick, except he held you there, slowly drawing you in until your skin just barely brushed against his abdomen.

Your fingers flexed at your sides, itching to bring yourself even closer. Prior nerves have since been quelled, yet a different storm began to roll in. The urge was growing more prominent, though you still had to wonder if it were even possible for him.

Finally Arthur released you, slowly retreating to stand upright. The nearly nonexistent space between the two opened slightly as his hands slid down to hold you gently at your waist. He stared at you unblinkingly, blue-green orbs reflecting darkly through the partly obscured light. His gaze was soft, loving, it was almost too overwhelming. Your eyes averted from his, heat once again making its home on your face as a shy smile formed.

Though unintentional, your gaze seemed to drift toward there again. A brief glance lengthened when you realized his appearance changed. Now, he stood more prominent, somewhat elongated in a half-hardened manner.

Oh.

He stepped back immediately as if he realized where your attention settled. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Don’t mean to seem like a pervert.”

You peered back up to his face, noting the apologetic embarrassment written clear across it. It wasn’t even apparent to you that vampires could feel embarrassment, let alone sexual thoughts.

Then again, he did once explain how he still had human emotions. He’d proven that a hundred times over.

“You’re not,” you start. “I didn’t even know vampires could even…” trailing off, your eyes once again sinking below before looking back to him.

“We can,” he confirmed. “Jus’ been a while, guess I let my thoughts wander too much.”

Somehow learning this information was a relief, though it wasn’t for a selfish reason. You took a step toward him. “It’s been a while for me too,” you reached out to entwine your fingers with his. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

Arthur’s hands squeezed gently around yours. The smile from before slowly made another appearance, though holding a bashful nature. “You’re too good to an old bastard like me,” he murmured to you.

You giggled at his words. “I think it’s well deserved…” you shuffled even closer, rolling onto your toes to kiss him again. A wall of solid muscle brushed against your soft exterior, drawing you in for more contact. In a moment of confidence, you broke through the last strings of hesitation and pressed yourself to his body. His hands immediately released yours, finding their place once again on your waist. Absent was the tender grasp from earlier, his hands seemed to have a firmer grip on you.

That wasn’t the only part of him that seemed to firm up.

Somehow, you were feeling adventurous.

Placing your palm against his hip, you wanted to test the waters. Your fingers traced a nonlinear pattern against his skin, drawing closer to the front of his body. You half-expected a reaction only to find none, at least for now.

The heart of your palm smoothed against the plain of his lower abdominal muscles, soft to the touch yet still solid, he showed no signs of tension. Curls of hair intruded your fingertips. Lower you sunk until you found what you were searching for.

You waited for a flinch, for him to pull back. He provided nothing of the sort.

With one smooth glide from hilt to tip, it only then occurred to you how robust he was. A certain thickness that your fingers could not fully reach around. Your own thoughts further progressed to a deeper, more carnal desire. The singular thought of taking him all at once stirred even more excitement deep in your core.

Pulling back from the lip-locked embrace, you smiled sweetly at him, pumping your hand slowly to milk that slack-jawed, half-lidded expression. He only stood there, thoroughly enjoying your touch. Thumbs smoothed against your skin only further encouraged you.

How would he taste?

You knelt down, giving him a thorough once over, drinking in every inch of him before arriving to his face. Drawing up a sensual gaze to offer him, you asked in a sultry tone, “May I?”

Arthur gave you one small nod. That was all you needed.

Darting you tongue from between your lips, you toyed with the pinch of skin underneath. It earned a shudder as you circled your tongue around the head, your eyes never leaving his face. Inching further, you engulfed him slowly, pleasantly underestimating how much space he occupied. He could easily reach the back of your throat.

You began to bob at an eased pace, allowing your tongue to do most of the work. The small sigh gracing your ears encouraged you further, faster.

Fingers smoothed against your scalp in small circles. His deep voice growled your name. He tangled himself within your locks, holding you there yet not forcing you to make him deeper. You appreciated that, rewarding him with haste.

Without a pause, you reached up to fondle him, offering a gentle massage. He seemed to enjoy that, hips twitching forward with restraint. It amazed you how careful he was.

His rough voice filled the shower, a mixture of swears and your name echoing against the confined walls. You pushed even further to take all of him, as difficult as that was, yet the way he gasped indicated his appreciation. The hand on your head curled into a fist, loosely holding your hair.

You did it again, gauging for further reaction. He groaned much louder, expelling a raspy “fuck,” before peering down at you with a subtle, yet pleading gaze.

Arthur was clear with what he was asking, and you hummed to him in approval. His smile widened, placing his hands on either side of your head before thrusting. He began with cautious and slow movement, able to fill your entire mouth with such small effort. You held still for him, allowing for him to use you in such a dirty manner. Soon his pace increased, burying himself even more with each passing second.

He praised you, smoothed your hair, tangling his fingers within it once again. He muttered sweet sins that would make a preacher blush. His grip on you tightened, and he whispered to you, “I’m close,”

Your eyes swiveled up to meet his, rubbing your hand against his thigh as approval. A hazy smile crossed his lips, taking your permission to give one deep thrust. With one sweeping movement he brushed against the back of your throat. You fought back a gag, keeping yourself still for him.

Yet he was fairly quick, pushing himself deep only a few more times before releasing a guttural moan, hips stuttering to a complete stop. It almost surprised you when a cool liquid spilled onto your tongue. When he stepped back and freed your mouth, you savored the taste and swallowed.

Arthur’s satisfied sigh caught your attention. “Ain’t had that in a while,” he mumbled, reaching down to caress your chin. Blue eyes glossed over with a lazy, star struck look. “Thank you.”

You stood up and smiled at him. “Only doing what a good girlfriend should do,” you said with a slight giggle.

Arthur chuckled lowly at your response. The tip of his thumb ran across your lips gently as the smile on his face turned thoughtful. “‘Spose I oughta return the favor,” he spoke, reaching behind him to turn off the water.

A flash of heat crossed your cheeks at the mere thought. Before you could say anything, his arms wrapped around you. With ease he lifted you from the tub, earning a squeak of surprise from you as he stepped out. A sudden shift from humidity to air conditioning was an indication of where he carried you. The chill on your wet skin was soon forgotten when he laid you on the plush comforter of the bed. Arthur’s grip on you soon lightened, wandering hands appreciating every dip and curve of you.

Lips caressed your neck, your collarbone, your chest. A trail of goosebumps followed, awakening senses burning within you. Each new touch drew in your craving for him even more. A soft moan slipped out and he hadn’t even properly touched you yet.

His presence hovered over your center, thick arms sliding beneath your legs to securely hook them. You peered down, watching as he adjusted to kneel between your legs. Eyes flicking up at you, he smiled and quietly asked, “You alright with this?”

You nodded to him. “More than alright.”

His smile widened, heading dipping further, his soft breath ghosting across the sensitive skin. Wetness upon your slit, you twitched in surprise from the chilled sensation in such a sensitive area. The initial shock soon replaced with an all-too familiar tingle that you’d only been dreaming about these past few months.

“Arthur…” you sighed out, closing your eyes and fully immersing yourself within your pleasure. He was much more dexterous than thought; ripples of ecstasy soon overcoming your body. Your legs trembled within his grasp, moaning louder when fingers decidedly explored your inner walls.

His tongue worked in tandem with his touch, an almost overwhelming sensation radiating from your core. If it hadn’t been for his other arm keeping you still, you would have bucked into his face. His name left your lips more times than you could count; a string of sighs and praises following. Your body craved more of his touch, more of him. The mere thought fueled you further.

Your peak was building much quicker than you anticipated. Your hips ground against his mouth selfishly in attempt to chase that high, though in a matter of seconds it vanished.

Giving a pleading whine, you peered down at him with a look of questioning. He smiled apologetically and smoothed his palm across your inner thigh. “Easy, darlin’, it ain’t a race.”

You took a deep breath and nodded, silently scolding yourself for that. The prior thought soon was overtaken, however, as Arthur trailed his fingers across your abdomen. He soon continued his ministrations, allowing for the bubble to build again. Arthur seemed to work even slower now, watching you with intense baby blues. A deep flush settled in your cheeks, turning your gaze away only for him to target a particularly sensitive spot. A toe-curling, squeal inducing rush cascading through your whole body.

“Fuck,” you gasped out. “Arthur, oh g-god…” you stammered, covering your mouth as if others would hear. He eased off, returning to his normal pace before attempting it again. “Arthur!”

His only response was a low hum. One hand trailed upward, the rough of his palm nearly tickling the sensitive skin of your stomach. Soon cupping the mound of your breast, he began to knead the soft flesh. Your eyes flittered closed, a sharp intake of breath when he pinched your nipple. He rolled the hardened pucker between his fingertips, torqueing gently. You hissed out his name once again.

It wasn’t much longer until your peak started to swell again. Fighting the urge to buck your hips into his mouth again, your back arched, hands fisting the comforter beneath, head tilted back, lewd moans sounded to the ceiling above.

Arthur was relentless, drawing out your pleasure with careful expertise. Absent of a quick build, every passing second was almost agonizing. You yearned to chase it, to vainly use his mouth. God damn him for holding you like this. Your high was imminent; your muscles trembling beneath your skin in desperate need to release.

And release you did. One complex drag of his tongue finally brought you over the edge. Every nerve sung as your body contracted, energy expelling in a high-pitched moan. He continuously lapped at you in a lazy manner, drawing out your climax until overstimulation took over, wriggling and trembling beneath him in attempts to pull away.

His arms slid from your legs just a moment later, and he crawled up onto the bed. Propping himself up on one arm, he smiled down at you.

Your returning smile was weak. With your heart racing and breath short, it was almost like you’d run a marathon. “T-thank you,” you managed to squeak. “Haven’t had a…a release like that in a long time.”

Arthur chuckled once. A hand wandered onto your stomach, lightly rubbing small circles against your skin. “Happy you enjoyed it, sweetheart,” he murmured to you.

You lay there, allowing him to trace patterns on your skin. Your heart slowly returned to normal, the last of your high finally dissipating into fatigue. Even as tired as you were, your body craved even more of him…

Your eyes opened to him shifting on the bed. He reached over you to grab something – a flash of pale silk appeared out of the corner of your eye, the provided pajamas.

“Thought those were for me,” you quietly said to him.

“They are,” he responded, placing them next to you. “Put ‘em on, then we can get underneath the covers.”

You gave him a look of confusion. “But I wanna continue…” you moaned to him, rolling over to face him completely. Your hands cupped his face to kiss him.

He didn’t hesitate to return the gesture, though quick and chaste. He pulled back slightly, offering an apologetic smile. “You were startin’ to fall asleep, sweetheart.”

“No I wasn’t,” you started to protest, interrupted by a deep yawn. “Just need a pick-me-up…” you began to sit up, wanting to straddle him. Arthur however placed a hand on your upper arm. An action absent of any sort of force, yet it stopped you in your tracks.

“It’s 4 am, you need to rest,”

“I used to pull all-nighters for school,” you pointed out.

Arthur sighed and shook his head, moving his hand from your arm to cradle your cheek. “That ain’t necessary, love,” he spoke evenly, boring into your eyes with such smoldering intensity. “You’ve had a long night, and I don’t wanna mess up your sleep schedule.”

You contemplated his words. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. The post-orgasm fatigue was just enough to finally simmer your brain down, and your eyelids were growing heavier. “Alright, I’ll go to sleep…” you resigned with a pout.

He smiled, softly running his thumb across your cheek. “Plenty o’ time for that, I promise.”

You hummed in response, your brain beginning to succumb the creeping fog. You managed to sit up, Arthur helping you into the ever-so comfortable silk set. The fabric felt like heaven against your skin, and soon you were tucked beneath the plush blankets. He settled in beside you. Through the heavy drowsiness, you had to smile to yourself. This was the first time you’d be sharing a bed with him, differing sleep schedules be damned.

His arm draped loosely over your waist, his body fitting against you perfectly. Even with his lack of warmth, you were comfortable enough not to care. His lips brushed against the nape of your neck before he whispered,

“Goodnight.”

[lewdbabies]

~My Pet~ part 3 warning: BDSM, MDNI, Choking, Raw sex,breeding, Degrading, Rough sex, Language

sukunaxreader smut

~

His eyes are cast down as you watch him bite into a soft peach nectar dripping down his chin, how could something so simple be so erotic. How can he act like nothing happened between you last night... could it have been just a dream? You scrape your plate in a daze pushing your eggs from one side to the other. The noise catches sukunas attention a look of irritation sets in his handsome features.

“Is something...bothering you” he strokes his chin In curiosity.

“Not at all, I was just wondering when I will be set free” you give him a stern look.

He laughs “You are as free as a bird ,by the looks of how you had my head trapped between your thighs last night... it is I who is the hostage” Your hands shoot up covering your burning face, ‘ how dare he talk to me that way’ you think frantically.

You peek through your fingers to see a satisfied grin plastered on sukunas face.

You shake your head composing your rabid thoughts “Fine then I will be taking my leave” you stand slamming your palms on the table. In a flash your back is pressed against A marble pillar, sukuna towering over you engulfing your small frame. “Never turn your back on me” he breaths in your ear, electricity shoots to your groin. The line between arousal and Fear became muddled ,you wanted to challenge him to see all the ways you knew he would punish you. You look up at him with a glint of danger in your eye, his breath hitches he wasn’t expecting this sort of reaction out of you.

Pushing yourself up onto your tip-toes you brush your finger across his soft plump lips. A dark blush creeps into the demon lords cheeks he looks away in embarrassment. “ what did I tell you about touching without permission...” his voice is dripping with lust.

“I suppose I need to be punished...Su-kuna”

Before you can utter another word he throws you over his shoulder as if you’re weightless and storms towards his bedroom. You’re absolutely giddy inside praising yourself for earning the reaction you wanted. You can finally finish what had started the previous night, you were moist and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

He plops down on the bed maneuvering your body to lay sprawled across his lap. He starts to gently caress your exposed thighs kneading the soft skin, it feels good your body starts to relax a moan escaping your lips. He rubs all the way up to your ass pushing your robe up as he goes, the air is cool on your now exposed bottom goosebumps prickle on your smooth skin. Sukuna leans down sprinkling small kisses all over you, you wiggle signaling for more.

“-Slap!-“ Your breath catches in your throat. He kisses the sore spot licking away the stinging sensation he’d just created. Your pussy is trembling as a surge of adrenaline shoots through you.

“-slap!-“ you shout in pleasure gripping the sheets.

“-slap- what’s my name, say my fucking name”

Your vision is blurred with ecstasy “S-sukuna”

“-slap!- it’s sir to you Slut, You like getting spanked don’t you princess” You moan loudly as another slap lands on your warm ass cheeks.

“Y-yes sir!”

“Fuck yeah just like that moan for me Bitch” he growls, you feel his member growing, pressing against your stomach.

He tears away your panties as if it were nothing but a loose string. His fingers slide between your thighs teasing your soaking cunt. You’re panting now letting out animalistic groans unable to control yourself , the balance of pain and pleasure drives you insane.

“Uhn- Fuck Please more “ your tongue lols out of your mouth, he grabs a handful of your hair with his free hand yanking your head back and shoving his tongue desperately down your throat. His fingers plunge deeper inside you swirling against your sopping walls, you clamp around him.

“You don’t cum until I say you can do you fucking understand me?” Your eyes roll back drool dribbling down your chin .

He pulls his fingers out achingly slow earning a groan of protest from you.

“Do you fucking understand me “ you nod frantically yearning for his touch. He grabs your jaw staring deeply into your tear filled eyes.

“Use that pretty little mouth of yours”

“Y-yes sir” you pant

He plows his fingers into your needy hole finger fucking you mercilessly, your cum drips down his forearm he revels at the sight of your arousal. Sukuna begins to squirm at the friction against his strained member. He rocks you to a earth bending orgasm, he holds you in place as you convulse to your climax. Once your high subsides you roll over curling in a messy ball. You look in amazement as sukuna grips his throbbing cock stroking it. He throws his head back stroking himself faster. “Ah Ah fuuuck” he cries out

You crawl over wrapping your small hand around the base of him mimicking the pace he was going. Pre-cum seeps out of his twitching cock you lick your lips hungrily. Without hesitation you swirl your tounge around his tip licking him clean savoring his flavor. He grabs a handful of your hair pushing himself deeper into your throat. You gag but adjust to his size easily bobbing your head in rhythm with sukuna. He pulls your head up, “stick your tongue out whore” he slaps his cock against your tongue watching your drool slide down his length.

“Come here”

You climb up his body throwing your legs on either side of him straddling his waist.

He reaches up ripping your dress from your shoulders exposing your hard buds.

“This is the second robe you’ve ripped” you giggle.

“I can buy a hundred more for you...” he pulls you forward catching your nipple between his lips. You moan grinding your hips against him , “You want me inside you don’t you, tell me how bad you fucking want it”

He pushes his hips upward teasing your entrance with his tip.

“I want it so fucking bad Ah-uhn fuck me please fuck me”

“I love how you beg for it you’re my little slut aren’t you” he grips your hips pushing you down onto his thick twitching cock.

“Ahhhhh fuuuuck” you are being stretched further than you’d ever been. Your pussy clenches as he fills up your inside.

“Yeah, Ah fuck you like how I play in your insides yeah, mmm you’re so fucking tight” he thrust up closing the distance between you ,your pelvises collide. He drills into your core slamming against your G-spot with each thrust. He bounces you up and down using you as his own personal fuck toy you’re loving every second of it. It feels even better than you’d imagined...There it was... the pressure. It builds up inside you like a geyser aching for release, sukunas strokes become needy you can tell he’s close. Your hips slam into each other rocking each other to the finish line.

“Ah cum for me Baby “ your body Quakes your walls clamp down milking him for every last drop of cum he can spare . He throws head back claws digging into your hips as he fills you to the brim. You feel his cock twitch helplessly inside you completely spent.

You fall forward, your body’s both sticky with sweat. He wraps his arms around your quivering form whispering gently in your ear.

“ you’re such a good girl, such a good little pet”

~ the end

Comment if you’d like to see more and leave suggestions 💗

[spiltscribbles]

this night seems so long!

~Notes: I’m reposting this and i’m still not happy with it :S rip XS

SEND ME A PROMPT  |  A REBLOG MEANS THE WORLD!

.-

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts

with the mild pheasants' song ...

but now I feel the northern wind's blast—

its severe weather strong. 

Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!

And I, because of my momentous wrong

now grieve, mourn and fast.

TS Eliot

.-

The late summer chill seeps through the creeping windows into the flat that they once called home— the feebly standing, slowly disintegrating haven that was painted with laughter before lies, with hopeful kisses before hesitant touches. The cold burrows itself into Sirius’s bones and coats his every thought and  nests deep inside of him until he’s more frost than man.

But then he sees Remus— beautiful and golden and perfect Remus— padding out their bedroom clad in Sirius’s oversized jumper that swallows his hands whole, and that familiarly gentle smile that makes his eyes glitter  once his soft gaze rests on Sirius, and his sleep supple  skin tastes like the things too beautiful to name. He tastes like Remus— like sunlight and parchment and whispered laughter and raspy groans and that’s all Sirius ever wants, has ever wanted.

“It’s September first.” He says once Sirius finally unlatches from his neck, red faced and pleased, and Sirius swears that Ganymede has nothing on him. That if he could he’d restructure every celestial star from above to follow the precise slope of his nose, and the pedal soft curve of his cheek, and the path of his jawline to temple. For everyone to worship him in ways he’s always deserved.

“We’ve made it another month,” Sirius retorts, mixes the splash of milk with the sugar in Remus’s Earl Gray, which is a travesty and a point of teasing throughout their whole relationship since they were nothing but lads. Sirius blames Remus’s beverage faux pas— including his preferential nature to black coffee—to being raised by a Frenchman for a mother, and Remus always counters that if Sirius was any more bloody English he’d be afraid that Queen Elizabeth would poach him for her next husband. Which of course always ended the argument because then Lily would laugh from besides him, and Sirius would glare along with James— both hating it when Remus and Lily’s Muggle references go over their heads like a second language they couldn’t speak.

But Lily’s not here, and neither is James. They’re tucked away in another safe house— the fourth in a calendar year, and they’re both going a bit mad if the letter Lily sent him only a few weeks ago is anything to go by. And Sirius aches for the both of them, aches for baby Harry— his one year old God son who he loves like nothing else. And how could he not? He’s Lily’s bright eyes set into James’s open face, has James’s warm, brown complexion but inherited Lily’s freckles too. He’s Sirius’s God son, and there’s a mad man after him, and sometimes it feels like Sirius’s brain is a mushy, muddled stew melting out of his scalp when he’s forced to contemplate on it for too long— to contemplate on how little Harry seems incapable of escaping the danger— because it goes back to the same name over and over again. The name of someone Sirius refuses to ever let himself contemplate for longer than a breath.

“Aye,” Remus says in that lilting, Welsh bread accent of his before he takes a slow sip and Sirius is left to study the sweep of his long lashes against his fine bones and how less than a fortnight ago that face Sirius adores so endlessly  came home caked in mud and blood that was only partially  Remus’s own and Sirius wasn’t allowed to ask what happened while he cleaned the cuts and kissed the healed pink skin with gentle reverence. “Maybe 82 will be our year Paddy.” Remus says with such raw yearning that it blows the wind out of Sirius like he’s  just taken a bludger to the gut. And he feels so stupid and thankful all at once. Because of course those idl contemplations are nothing but ridiculous fodder. Of course Remus would never— could never.

“Yeah moony,” he says quietly. “Maybe it will.”

Sirius steps forwards, and he kisses him and Remus breathes out like he’s been holding it for a long while, and then his fingers slide into Sirius’s overgrown hair and tugs,  and they’re lost in one another for the rest of the morning.

.-

Three days later Remus leaves again under demands that he won’t ever disclose to Sirius— penance for the trust Sirius broke as a schoolboy with a prank that proved near deadly— and a week after that the Order gets news that the Prewettss were compromised, that it took five of those Death Eater bastards to finish them off, and that their older sister with seven kids of her own can’t bare to hold a public wake.

The cold gets worse, and Sirius doesn’t know where to step to avoid another avalanche; is afraid that with every move he takes, a landmine is waiting to blast.

.-

The bare branches of the elderly tree outside their flat knocks against the partition that once bathed them  in spilt sunlight and stolen serenity and careful comfort. It scrapes against the glass like the fingers of an inferi, accentuated by the sound of the whistling wind, crooning like the menacing melody by a milky eyed, haggard looking banshee. And everything is unmoving, everything is still— petrified for a moment in frozen history.

And Sirius feels his insides collapse when he remembers that he’ll never hear Gideon’s laughter or see Fabian sat next to Benjy again. It’s a generation lost, Sirius thinks morbidly, the way he always gets when Remus isn’t home and he’s tossing back shots of Fire-Whiskey like it’s what keeps his veins pumping life. A generation  of them that’s being killed off one by one, a generation of Hogwarts graduates being obliterated and there’s not an end in sight and Sirius wants to scream. He wants to fight them with his bare hands. He wants to ravage each of their hideouts and use them as target practice for his unforgivables and he wants to run, God he wants to run. He wants James and Lily and Harry to come with him, wants to steel Remus in the middle of the night before he knows what’s even happening. He wants to escape it all and hold onto his family with a iron grip that can only be severed through death.

Sirius wants it so much that it begins to ache, to twist in his stomach and weep within the hollows of his bones.

But then the branches knock against the window once more, and he’s brought back to a reality the makes even idyllic daydreams like that something treacherous and awful. So he pours himself another finger and raises the glass to fallen friends and pretends that the throbbing in his heart is something that can be spelled away if he only works hard enough.

.-

Remus comes home a week later and Sirius feigns that the sight of his lover doesn’t make Sirius picture Marlene’s twisted face of agony and Dorcas’s limp body at the feet of this dark wizard that has destroyed everything Sirius has ever known and tainted everything he has ever loved.

.-

The safe house is sparsely decorated, save for the candle Lily’s always got burning and the succulent she keeps on a shelf besides a small portrait of Harry, tucked between one of her and James on their wedding day, and another of the five of them at their Hogwarts graduation. 

It’s no home, especially not one for a baby that’s as curious and boisterous as little Harry. It’s a prison at best. still packed boxes strewn about the ground, and  a tension permeating the air and it’s awful. But Sirius manages to forget about it when he glances to his right and sees a giggling Harry bouncing happily on Remus’s lap, and Remus is glowing in a way Sirius hasn’t seen for edging on a year. The stiffness threaded through his shoulders has dissipated and his smile is wide and he’s dotingly kissing Harry’s chocolate splattered cheek while James and Lily roll their eyes fondly from across the breakfast spread. And Sirius thinks that if this is all he sees for the rest of his life he would thank every God and every spirit above.

“Uncle Moony, you better be convincing Harry that if he doesn’t eat his berries that the boogie man will come and munch on his toes tonight,” Lily scolds half heartedly, which makes James drop a kiss to the crown of her head before topping off her tea.

“No toes, mommy! No toes!” Harry babbles in that in-between state of gargling and speech that is as precious as it is incomprehensible.

“Saucy boy,” Sirius chuckles, tousling Harry’s already hopelessly disheveled hair and kissing the corner of Remus’s lips that taste like hazelnut and blueberries and a bit like sunlight too. And he thinks that this is what happiness feels like— He’s nearly forgot.

“I’ll get’m washed up, shall I?” Remus says as he rises swiftly from his seat, Harry clapping excitedly. 

“Good man,” James winks and Lily blows him a kiss. Remus looks down at Sirius, a brow cocked slightly.

“I’ll be up in a minute, yeah? Just wanted to help these plonkers with the dishes.”

Remus grins brightly and nods, and then, he stilts— like in hesitation— before kissing Sirius’s temple, promptly shuffling off and humming Harry an old French lullaby that he knows Hope once sang him when he was a boy.

And Sirius’s heart feels so full, so fragile, And Sirius hates that he didn’t tell him I love you, is afraid that the space of time that they’ll get to say that to one another is rapidly dwindling.

“We’re finishing up all the kinks in the plan,” James says, saddling up besides  Sirius, handing him a sponge and keeping the dishcloth in his own. “You still want to act as secret keeper?”

“Course you daft wanker,” Sirius bristles. “I’d do anything for you lot.”

“I know,” James says unflinchingly.  “You and Moony are the best friends a bloke can ask for.”

And God that hurts like nothing else, so Sirius doesn’t even try to retort in any meaningful sort of way.  “Don’t forget Wormyy.”

James laughs. “Would never dare.”

And then silence drops over them like a heavy quilt threatening to smother them to death. And Sirius scrapes off the grime from the dishes and pretends that the plate isn’t still scratched and battered even once the debris is gone. And he swallows down the lump in his throat when he remembers that Remus is leaving again in a matter of hours.

.-

Remus is still curved around Sirius like a blessing stroked to life  with heavenly colors the morning after he gets back. Sirius wraps his arms around him, squeezes tightly and berries his head into his neck, wanting to feel him, to smell him all over. And as they lie down in that heap in the bed Sirius has always called theirs, but Remus has only ever referred to as Sirius’s, he sobs.

“Don’t go Remus, don’t leave me anymore. Just stay here, stay with me. I love you so much that I’m afraid I’ll crack with it and I know you don’t— that you can’t feel the exact same way— but please, just don’t leave us. Stay here, stay and love me too.”

Remus’s even breaths never falter, and he never flutters his eyes open, but Sirius has known him for nearly half his life, and he knows it like he knows his own name that Remus is awake and simply doesn’t answer him. 

What Sirius doesn’t know is what that means.

.-

They’re sitting on either end of the couch now. 

Sirius is pretending to fill out a crossword but is actually trying to decode a letter they had been able to intercept between McNair and a lower ranking Death Eater about some assignation that was meant to be held in the wee hours of October seventh. But every few minutes his eyes wander to Remus, to how he’s curled up with a book of poetry in one hand and his blanket swathed around him. His fringe is hanging in limp curls and the circles beneath his eyes are only that much more prominent, that much more sickly. And his gaze is large and fragile in a way Sirius has never seen. And he wants to slide the novel out of Remus’s hands and he wants to kiss away his frown, and he wants to lock his fingers through the holes in his green sweater and he wants Remus in every way imaginable, to tell him I love you and I love you and I love you so much its like I’m dying. He wants to kiss the inside of his elbow and the knot of his ankle and beneath his naval too. He wants him and knows that he’ll never stop wanting him, and is sure that this— this love— will prove his Achilles’ Heal, and Remus is Patroclus destined to leave him  first and Sirius is destined to wallow in ruin.

Sirius wants to beg him to stay here, to stay with him, to love him like he knows he does.

But Sirius simply does not— Does not tell him any of that.

They haven’t spoken to one another with words for days now, and it feels pathetic and hopeless— the way they only regard one another with stiff lips and cautious glances in the daylight, but that doesn’t stop them still clutching for one another once the sun dips into the  horizon. Like if they can convince themselves that the sex is still miraculous that they still love each other too. As if their bodies aren’t just vessels, aren’t just sacks of skin and bone. And it feels like they’re both giving up on one another and holding on to each other with equal fervency. And Sirius doesn’t know anything any more.

It’s pathetic and it’s painful and it’s pointless. It’s so obviously over, it’s been over for nearly half a year, but they’ve always been cowards when it came to one another. And Sirius doesn’t think that will ever change.

So he only settles deeper into the couch, and he keeps the Shakespeare in Remus’s grasp, and he moves his free hand to deftly clutch around one of Remus’s cold feet, and he squeezes and Remus freezes, and they both breathe for the first time in far too long. But then Remus pulls away, and Sirius lets go before he can feel the sting of rejection and they go back to pretending to go on.

.-

Remus is gone the next morning for a council with Dumbledore, so Sirius wanders the flat like a ghost with no direction, no idea what’s next.

He decides to tidy up the space, like it matters, like anything is normal. And when he reaches for the empty mug on Remus’s nightstand, he sees that his book of poetry is still open, and he lifts it to glance at the sonnet written their in black and white…

When my love swears that she is made of truth

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor’d youth,

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

And Sirius throws it hard against the wall before he can read another word.

.-

Remus is preparing for another mission for reconnaissance, tells Sirius that night over their curry take away. And it feels like the world is dissolving right in front of Sirius’s eyes, like his lungs have forgotten how to breathe during those interludes where Remus leaves without a trace— only starting up again when he returns smelling of blood and fear and the outdoors. And Sirius hates everything so much— Is afraid that he hates Remus most of all some days, even if he’s the one person he can’t fathom existing without. 

.-

The sky breaks open that night and rain pellets down like the bullets from the Muggle films that Remus loved showing him, before the war, and before his disappearing act, and before it felt like a knife was plunged into Sirius’s chest every time he looked at him— and the only worst thing than this would  be if he stopped seeing Remus all together, because he knows it like the innate way he knew how to move his lips against Remus’s on that feted day towards the start of seventh year— that the knife would simply be pulled out and he’d bleed to death bit by bit. 

It hurts like nothing else loving him, but Sirius can’t fathom a world where he does not. Where he doesn’t get to trace the consolation of freckles dusting his high cheekbones, where he doesn’t get to kiss the singular mole at the nape of his neck that’s ordinarily covered up by his thick jumpers. A world where they don’t intwine in the ways that lovers are want to do.

Sirius loves Remus even if he knows it’s fruitless because there’s a war destroying the world and there’s a spy in the order and Remus is the only one who’s brilliant in a reserved way  and cunning when he wants to be and the only one who knows how to properly keep a secret from his friends like it’s a second skin that he wears as effortlessly as a cloak.

And God.

Remus is sitting besides him now, a pinky’s breath away from his perch on the sofa.

There are words that writhe in Sirius’s throat, clacking against his teeth, begging to spill out. He wants to tell Remus he loves him, that he’d forgive him anything. He wants to tell him that Remus can Avada Kedavra him in the cold morning light and Sirius would still only see him bathed in an etherial  glow, but can’t see him doing that to their dearest friends, to Harry who is sacred and should always be protected. He wants to beg him to just speak, to tell Sirius the truth, to tell Sirius he still loves him. Beg Remus to run away with him. To go off to Prague or Cordova or maybe even the states, to say sod it to the whole damn war and just spend their days and nights tangled up with naked limbs and sweaty sheets.

And he thinks he will, thinks that the burning sensation of want within him is too furious to tempt down anymore.

But then the dying sun shimmers through the window, unspools in Remus’s honey curls and twinkles in his butterscotch eyes that were once always dancing with a quiet humor that enthralled Sirius to him like a drifter to a prophet. And it’s not healthy, this vigil he’s always held for him— especially now, especially with his suspicions that James begrudgingly agrees with and Lily fumingly does not— but Sirius’s never been one for self preservation, has never known how to let a scab heal over naturally. He has to poke and prod until it scars, until it becomes a indelible part of him. 

They stay there like that for either a minute or hour more, and when Sirius sees that Remus finally has enough of their staring match, he begins to move away, and it is Sirius— with a quick hand and desperate need— who presses him back down to the cushions with a hot mouth and wandering palms and he pretends that all he feels at the sound of the whimper Remus lets out is pleasure and not pain from his heart chipping that much more.

And this is vacant of words too. This is just instincts and moans and intuition of knowing another’s body and pleasure points and wants  for half a decade now.

They make it to the bedroom and Sirius refuses to be gentle, refuses to deprive himself of anything, and Remus is matching him with every thrust.

When they kiss its wet, and Sirius knows its the tears leaking out their eyes, and he knows in that unspoken, understanding way that this is the final time. That when Remus leaves later tonight, he’ll stay gone, that he won’t ever sleep besides Sirius again, won’t ever hold him like this. Sirius will never get to see him in the splendid, golden hours of morning and never get to run away with him after all. So Sirius blunders Remus’s mouth with his hard tongue, and he relishes the way Remus bites on his bottom lip until he tastes blood. And he throws them onto the mattress and they wrestle together in the sheets, scratching and pulling and canting obscenely. And when Sirius kisses his protruding collar bone it’s I’m saying I love you, and when Remus sucks on the hinge of Sirius’s jaw it feels like an apology. And when Sirius squeezes the scar on his inner thigh where the very first bite mark lies mangled and knotted in his skin, he’s begging him one last time to stay, and when Remus tells him in a voice that’s tenuous and tender and filled with sorrow, “Fuck me” the syllables slot together in a different formation that sound like “I’m already gone.”

They’re having parallel conversations and they’re not speaking and it’s the end.

So Sirius bucks against him and Remus wraps his long, long legs around Sirius’s narrow waste, and Sirius codes his fingers with the lube they’ve always kept in his nightstand and is fast when he plunges them into that ring of tight, tight muscle, when he stretches and scissors  and slicks him open, spurred on  by Remus’s gargled words begging him. “Now Sirius, now, now. Do it now.”

So he doesn’t bother with any of the rest of it. He barely sheaths himself half way before he has to stop, has to catch his breath, to re acclimate himself to the pressure. But then he hears Remus whimper and he surges forwards and doesn’t let up this vicious rhythm that he hears pulsing in his fucking ears. And it’s graceless and it’s hard and it’s a bit rushed but it’s what they need. And when Remus tosses back his head— features twisted up with emotion— Sirius berries his face into his neck and he feels his tears intermingling with Remus’s own and Remus’s loud pleads for him to go rougher, to stay longer, to keep fucking into him. So Sirius listens because there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Remus— even now— and he focusses on his hand circling Remus’s length, on pumping it with a tight fist and a bit of a twist, the way Remus has always preferred it. And he hears Remus croaking out an “I’ve always loved you,” and even if those words are too late, too little, too hollow, they still work to bring him off the edge, and Sirius thrusts deeper only twice more before he’s releasing himself into him— into the love of his life— quickly followed by Remus’s own cock whimpering out it’s own climax. And it feels like the ending to the story Sirius never wanted to stop being told.

But before he can pull out his overstimulated prick from Remus’s arse, Remus just squeezes him with his legs,  eyes fluttering shut while he rests his arms around Sirius’s broad shoulders. “Just stay.” he asks. “Stay until I have to go.”

And the sound of him— so desperate so pliant so tired— breaks the rest of his heart so much so that Sirius feels the remains splintering in his lungs and shattering open his ribcage with a sob he never lets out until Remus is gone.

“Anything you want Moony. Whatever you ask.”

And Remus’s lips twitch up into the best approximation of a smile that he’s given Sirius in far too long, and Sirius rests his head against Remus’s chest, and kisses the freckles that he was so elated to find their the first time they had done this. And he takes in deep the scent of  cinnamon and citrus and sunlight that’s always clung to his skin, and he thinks that this is the first time they’re letting each other feel hopeless together.

.-

The cold has turned over to a blizzard, and it seizes the flat once more the next morning.

Remus is gone and Sirius is left alone and nothing is right.

So he grabs the floo powder from the beautiful, ceramic container Hope had gifted Remus when he first moved into the flat the summer after their seventh year, and he finds James waiting for him on the other side, and he’s never taken in just how exhausted and terrified and sad his brother is looking these days.

“Wotcher, Pads.” James says, sipping on his tea with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and nothing is alright, nothing will probably ever be alright again.

“Hiya, Prongsie,” Sirius says, hearing just how threadbare his voice sounds in the quiet of the Potter cottage.

“So just a morning call? Or would you like me to fetch Haz for you?”

Sirius swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to speak.  “James I love you more than life, love Lily and the sprog just as much— But—“ he chokes up right then before ramming forwards. “I can’t— I can’t be the—“

“I know,” James interrupts, a thin, forgiving smile on his face. “Pete’ll have to do, but I’d still rather it you.”

“I’m so sorry James.”

“Me too.”

.-

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist

[murderousginger]

Nothing at all to me

Tommy Shelby POV

Warnings: Angst? Sex. Messy mind. They're criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word count: 1,747

This song requested by @babylooneytoonz

Special thanks to @pollyrepents for her help to sort out my brain ❤

He couldn't go to Lizzie. Not tonight.

He couldn't ignore the look of worry on her face or deal with her feelings right now. He didn't want to be nice or ruin whatever it was that held them together like it did. He didn't want pity or love.

No. 

Tonight he needed a whore. No strings attached; just his memories, the sex, and the money transaction. 

It was the first anniversary of the fundraiser that killed his wife. 

He had slept with plenty of women since Grace's death. He had his needs and he met them with lackluster and duty. Sex. Clarity. Back to work.

Back to taking care of his family and the many other families that depended on him.

Without Grace, he felt little joy. He had no one to reflect to that wouldn't judge him for his real thoughts. Grace was cut from the same rough cloth as he; she was just always better at hiding it from others.

Charlie was a constant reminder, a mirror of what he lost. He had never known love and heartache to fill so completely in one body, but there it was reflecting back at him from his son.

So he kept his distance. And he drank.

As the night grew longer, he kissed his son goodnight and passed him to Mary, the head maid. He sat in his office and drank as he always did. He whirled the whiskey in the glass, watching the amber liquid turn and coat the sides before he downed it completely. 

He had called the man earlier. She was expecting him soon. 

A brunette, Tommy had said, always a brunette. The days of blondes in his bed were over. None would ever compare again. 

As the clock chimed 11, he got up and put his coat on and stepped outside. The brisk air hit his face and made the slightest fog as he exhaled into the night. 

He would walk tonight. No need in taking a car that others could identify. Or to make one of the men drop him off and pick him up. A walk might do him good. Perhaps the air could break through his muddled mind.

It didn't, of course. His mind would always be a minefield of memories of war, blood, death. 

And her.

Her face flashed across his mind, sweet and angular and golden. Her perfume drifted across his senses and he swore he felt her hand upon his elbow. 

As soon as it was there, it was gone. The night felt colder.

He reached the door and knocked,  immediately hearing a honeyed answer. A madam opened the door with a coy smile and ushered him in quickly, leading him to one of the many bedrooms in the house. 

"Here you are, Mr. Shelby," she said in a hushed tone. "Laura is waiting for you inside. You need something else, don't hesitate to ask."

He nodded, enjoying the haze of his mind in the rushed movements. No time to think. No time to regret. 

The woman had dark kohl-rimmed eyes. It's the first thing he noticed when he opened the door. Her eyes were so dark and deep they could swallow him. Good.

The second thing he noticed was her naked body sprawled enticingly on the bed. She lay with her legs open, no fear or fake modesty. She knew what he wanted and made quick work of starting. 

Tommy stepped closer to the bed as the door closed behind him and was greeted by hands pulling him closer still. She bit her lip playfully as she tugged on his belt and undid his pants with ease. 

"Talking or no talking, sir?" She asked as she stared up from behind her lashes at him.

"No talking," he growled as his head bent back and she found more useful ways to keep quiet.

His hands found their way into her coarse hair as she bobbed and his eyes closed to focus on the warm wet sensation and block the rest of the world out. 

No business. No blood. Only pleasure.

She made quick work of him and he found himself pushing her head to him until she gagged. He pushed her off of him roughly until she was crawling backward on the bed. He crawled over her, grabbing her leg roughly to splay her wide as he thrusted into her, chasing the high. She moaned as his rhythm quickened and he pushed his face into her shoulder. 

One hand lifted her leg higher and the other pushed fingers into her mouth to quiet her as his eyes squeezed shut and he focused on the sensations. 

He would tip her extra as he left, guilt peeking around the corners of his mind, but for now all he wanted was the quiet and the pleasure. 

He could feel it rising in him, the high becoming nearly unbearable as he pounded into the woman. He came quick and hard.

Afterward, he lay in the uncomfortable bed, on the scratchy sheets not made for sleeping, and allowed the woman to curl around him. He needed the reminder of warmth. The grounding of another person who did not have the duties he had. He needed the reminder that other people lived just fine without him. 

He reached to the bedside table where his shirt had landed and withdrew a cigarette and lighter, placing the cigarette in the woman's mouth and lighting it as she inhaled his flame. He dropped the lighter back onto the table and plucked the cigarette from her mouth as she giggled.

A coo came from behind what he had thought upon entry was the curtains to a window. 

She froze, her eyes widening. 

He didn't want another person to look after. He didn't want another soul to worry about. 

He didn't want another mouth to feed. He didn't want another person to curse. 

She smiled guiltily as if she was caught. 

"Don't tell him, please," she scrambled to clutch his arm. "I'm not supposed to bring her, but she was so fussy I couldn't keep her home alone or else the neighbors would call the landlord. Can't have that again."

"Again?" Tommy murmured as he thoughtlessly patted her hand before pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. 

"I'll quiet her," she said quickly, getting up and disappearing behind the curtain. "I can't discount your fee, you've already paid the man, but I can provide extra service?"

Her words rang through Tommy's ears and burned. He heard the muffled whine of the baby and the woman's increasingly desperate pleas for it to calm. 

Before he knew it, he had walked to her with his hands outstretched to take the baby. She hesitantly obliged, allowing Tommy to bounce the baby against his bare chest, a hum escaping the side of his mouth that didn't hold his cigarette. The baby soothed. 

"Come Monday," he toned, "find yourself in my office. You know who I am. Talk to my secretary, Clara, and she'll get you set up for a day job and childcare."

"Mr. Shelby, I couldn't--"

"You didn't ask," Tommy exasperated, quickly regretting himself. 

He always did this; it was his way. 

"Just do it," he said, passing the baby back to the whore, the mother. "I paid for the rest of the night. Just keep the child quiet and rest."

"I didn't ask you to save me," she said indignantly.

Was her name Beth? Or Lacy? Maybe Sue. He couldn't remember. He had lost care for her name as soon as the madam said it. It hadn't been about her. Only his needs. 

"No one ever fucking does," Tommy said as he pulled the half used cigarette from his mouth and extinguished it on the bedside table. 

He took his wallet and threw down some money. He started to dress as the woman nervously paced the room. 

"Monday," he reiterated, pointing to the angry woman and the baby. "Her name is Clara."

He disappeared like smoke, blending back into the night. He and the other patrons moved quickly with their head down as they passed one another in the hallway. 

He didn't know why he helped her. Only that he felt he had to, so he did. Another mouth to feed. Another body to warm. Another set of pleading eyes when things went wrong, and they always went wrong. 

How high was his body count now? How many people did he allow to depend on him?

He had lost himself in the pleasure for a brief moment, only for the world to crash down around him. Only to remember who he was and what he always had to do. 

His mind wandered as he walked the dark streets home. 

His family were in their various houses, sleeping soundly no doubt. Arthur curled against his pious wife, using her as a lightning rod for God's redemption. John no doubt encircled around Esme and her constantly round belly. His children splayed all over the house like the Russians after an orgy. Ada and Carl in their rooms in London sleeping soundly. Polly dreaming up God knows what in her fitful sleeps, visited by whichever ghost will tell her the future and which way to guide the family. 

And Charlie, sleeping soundly in his bed,  unaware of the atrocities his father did daily and the gross acts he committed with strange women to have a moment of peace in his own mind. 

Tommy feared when his son would get old enough to know what he did -- what he really did -- and how he was able to go from a poor traveling family to an OBE in one generation. Tommy didn't look forward to the day his son realized his goofy uncles had blood on their hands because of him.

He knew he was cursed. He knew that those closest to him only lived so long, and the more he fiercely loved a person the faster they died. Tommy knew this. 

You don't pass by the devil and shake his hand that many times without getting some death and knowing about you. 

And by now, Thomas was rife with it.

There were days he wished he could sleep as soundly, that food tasted as flavorful, that he could trust that someone else would pull him from the muck and make everything alright. He yearned for a day that he could turn off his brain and live, but Thomas only had himself. 

So was his curse.

[kodzumie-archived]

Hello! I was wondering if I can request Nagito comforting his s/o who’s insecure of their acne scars? Thanks for taking your time to read this :)

❝I LOVE YOU THERE, TOO❞

Synopsis; If his words weren’t enough to clear the fog of misery, he’d find another way to prove to you that his admiration is sincere.

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x GN! Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, self-degrading thoughts, low self-esteem, breakdown, and hurt comfort.

Kodzumie’s Note; Absolutely, love! Thank you for your request. I hope you’ve had a wonderful day, and I also hope you know you’re absolutely precious. Take care, my dear! Muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ Nagito Komaeda is a devoted lover. He hails you—his lover—for your every action and word, following you to the ends of the Earth as he babbles praise, restlessly.

⤷ He admires you entirely, and values every inch of you. He values your lips as they curl into the smile he oh-so adores; your hands that seem to fit within his like puzzle pieces; your eyes that glimmer as though they were brushed upon with a sheen of stardust, a glow that not even the constellations could rival.

⤷ His heart pulsated with a fondness that he harbored only for you. Intricate conveyance of his love for you muddled within his words; his ramblings that seemed to be phrases crammed together along with the conception of hope.

⤷ Though he tried his utmost best to display to you that he thought of you as perfection personified; what you deemed as flaws he had claimed to be his favorite parts (though he truly loved every part of you equally).

⤷ So he finds it hard to believe that someone as faultless as you would doubt themselves. Every sign seems almost overlooked as he begins to notice the subtle inklings of fragility within your gaze; a gaze that was not directed towards him, but to yourself.

⤷ The idea of you being unable to see the grace within yourself was estranged to him. How could you not see your own magnificence?

⤷ But it’s a truth and one that he struggles to accept. Every undeniable sign that you—his beloved constellation of hope—were truly rendered blind to your allure. Unable to perceive the eloquence of yourself; of the one Nagito swore to himself he devoted himself to, wholely.

⤷ His heart encapsulated a lifetime’s worth of admiration for you; a strung sonnet of affection through his riddling of words, amongst his typical rambles. Though it seemed that his words were interpreted as void; a travesty believed to be induced by your denial. If his words couldn’t convince you of what he finds faultless of your self-proclaimed faults, he’d find a conveyance that’ll help you understand.

⤷ Time and time again, he’s professed to you that his heart is sealed amongst your clutches; devoting himself entirely to you, and to—albeit scum like him is unworthy of such—your love.

⤷ Nagito, though a clutter of questionable motivations and stability, is an honest man. His words a sliver lining brushing upon the canvas of truth with the saturation of hope.

⤷ Yet his hopes of portraying his idealizations of your divinity were fragmented upon the nullification of ontological realization; words can only express so much.

⤷ He’s forced to bare this fact as he’s painfully aware of the falter of relief at each attempt of consolation. For every expression of dissatisfaction, he contorts your words into how he views you; an ethereal blessing of hope amongst a personified, societial of rubble. But, after spending so long in denial of your own repudation, he’s come to discover that the shake of your head is equivalent to the brush of his confession. You don’t believe it.

⤷ You don’t believe his relentless confessions of how astounding he views you; how he truly percieves you as a goddess amongst the pitiful bounts of humanity. You don’t believe it. But of course you wouldn’t. It’s difficult to believe something that he utters as though it was rehearsed.

⤷ Nagito is known for his rambles. It’s a common occurence for the male to mutter on and on about the beauty of hope and its paradoxical conquering of despair. He’s known for his excessive rants, and yet, it fuels your doubts about his insincerity all the same.

⤷ And after long last, he’s aware of this; finally knowledgeable of the way your eyes gloss upon his fervent compliments. He assumed it was spurred in accordance to the swelling of your heart, having satisfied you with his rebuttal to your claims: But he couldn’t have been farther from the verity of the sheen of tears.

⤷ You were suffering; caged within the abyss of the subsequential torment you were forced to bare. Every word, every whisper, it’s as though they mauled at your heart; tearing into the delicate chassis with agonizing malice.

⤷ Nagito was painfully aware of the effect of words, or rather lack of. The vocalized confessions a mere spec of dust amongst the gust of genuinity. But there was a beauty in silence; and a tidal of sincere conveyance through action.

⤷ The lingering notion fixated within the back of his mind as he’s seated beside you once more. He feels as though he’s encapsulated within a trace, his mind fogged with a searing remembrance; deja vu.

⤷ You’re glaring at your lap as your hands brush upon your face, doused in vulnerability as you attempt to conceal yourself from his view. He could hear it; the pluck of pitch as you shakily began to spill your innermost worries; your underlying insecurities.

⤷ “I hate them. I hate them so much, they just... they won’t go, no matter what I do.” His heart ached as with each word that pooled from between your lips, you struggled to maintain your composure. Sinking within the seas of wishfulness; yearning for relief from this grief of being unable to accept yourself as you are.

⤷ Yet you perk your head at the silence in response to your venting; a dreadful silence. Why has your boyfriend—a man who seems to never cease fervent rebuttal—not talking?

⤷ And instantaneously, the tendrils of your doubts engulf you. It hurts, it’s tauntingly painful. Has he finally accepted that there’s no use in persuading the veracity? Has he given up on attempting to convince you—and, per your instilled panic, himself—that you aren’t what you see yourself as?

⤷ The silence is thick; a tense atmosphere in which air has condensed into a fog that neutralizes air. Your lungs burn with the suppression of your sobs as you bite your bottom lip.

⤷ They’ve won, they’ve won, they’ve won; the thoughts and beliefs of your self-loathing have won. and you’re unable to breathe through the weight upon your heart. It hurts; it’s suffering you’ve endured for so long and after such desperation, he seemed to have been subdued as we—

⤷ “...ere.” You falter. The final syllables falling upon your ears as they escaped him, yet you hadn’t caught them. Turning to face him with a visage of poorly veiled pain interlaced with confusion, you ask him to repeat himself.

⤷ Yet you weren’t met with the reptition of mere words. Instead, the sensation of his cold hands cradles the sides of your face, ever-so-gently pulling you closer until you were separated by the proximity of a few centimeters; his breath fanning over your face.

⤷ You feel a gentle weight press against your forehead; his lips. He kisses against the skin with such delicate ministations, savoring the contortion of your expression as he pulls away. “I love you there.” He mutters, a gentle smile upon his lips before he moves onto his next destination.

⤷ A kiss to your left cheek. He lingers for a moment before pulling away, exhaling ever-so slowly. “I love you there.” Once again, he confesses. Repeating the same to your right cheek as he utters the words once more, “And I love you there.”

⤷ His lips glide along your skin as he proceeds to peck your chin, tilting your head slightly to provide ease in accessing such. “I also love you there.” He chuckles, swallowing your anticipation before moving on.

⤷ Upon puckering his lips, he pressed a rather firm kiss against the tip of your nose. You’re able to feel the smile on his lips as he cradles you closer, the urge to embrace you admist the heat of sensuality. “And, guess what? I love you there too.”

⤷ Finally, he hovered above your lips, your breaths melting into one as he gazed into your glossed orbs; the quivering of your lips prominent as he envelops your lips within his own, closing the space between the two of you.

⤷ This time, he loiters against you, parting only to return and engulf your gasps, suckling on your bottom lip ever-so gently. He savors every millisecond; every ounce of your taste. And he savors the salty taste that faintly douses his tongue as tears cascade from your fluttering eyes; crying into the kiss.

⤷ His words unable to convey the sincerity of his admirations due to the plague of repetition, and the ringing of his muddled sonnet of devotion; his expressions perplexing and unable to provide you with the consolation you needed; the security you yearned for.

⤷ Thus, as he pulled away with heavy pants, his eyes softening as you begin to sob; relieving yourself of the pent-up inklings of fogged eyes, unable to detect the flickers of light within the shadows of your self-proclaimed faults.

⤷ The lingering sensation of his lips atop where all you couldn’t stand about yourself induced your heart to swell with a sense of joy; a sense of being able to understand the way he sees you one day. His lasting kisses having filled the air with comfort more than verbal consolation ever could as he finally says, “And I love you there, too.”

[whump-it]

Callum: Fever in Chains

TWs for sickfic, stress position, restraints and Hayden beyond horrid!

@haro-whumps @grizzlie70   @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @iaminamoodymoodtoday @burtlederp @my-whumpy-little-heart @pepperonyscience @faewhump @crowned-avery @whump-tr0pes @spookyboywhump @finder-of-rings @liliability @whumpfigure @girlwithacoolcat @tears-and-lilies @inpainandsuffering @whumpfigure @whumppsychology @ashintheairlikesnow @justabitofwhump

Follows on from this little piece!  https://whump-it.tumblr.com/post/614105812111065088/for-the-one-word-prompt-maybe-callum-with-a-fever

"You can lead a horse to water," Master Hayden said.  "But you can't make it drink.  Do you know what that means?  Or are you too stupid these days?"

Callum's eyes flickered open and closed.  They felt hot.  His eyeballs felt like they were burning.  He wanted to rub his head and check that the spot that always seemed to be bruised was still bruised.  When he moved his hand it was stopped almost instantly by the restraints around his wrists. His joints were aching and throbbing.

He choked on a sob.

"I'm sorry m...m...mmm...Master Hayden," he shivered, the tremor running from the top of his head right down to his toes.  He thought that he had been listening to a lullaby.  He thought that his hands were his today.  But they were stuck somewhere above his head.  He pulled again, pulled and got no more than an inch before they were stopped again.  He groaned and looked up, vision swimming a little.  His wrists were cuffed backed together again as they always were, the link between them jerking against a bar of the headboard, keeping them trapped up there. 

Hands in the air.  He sobbed again.  The lullaby came back.  Rock-a-bye.  He rocked his body back and for and cried with his hands shackled above his head. His mum would have sung that to him when he was ill. His mum would have cared.

His Master sighed, the noise loud and jarring as it pierced his feverish delirium.  Callum wanted the wash cloth back.  He wanted his Master to tell him that he liked him red and sweating with fever.  He wanted not to be called stupid.

He wanted to force his brain to remember what it meant when you led a horse to water.

He wanted his hands back.

“I’ll just go ahead and assume it’s your stupidity showing itself again,” Master Hayden said.  Callum groaned and rolled himself as far over as he could, trapped up by the headboard as he was, seeking the soft comfort of the mattress beneath him in place of the matted comfort of his teddy.  He wanted his teddy.

“I’m sorrry...” he muttered into the bedding.  “I’m sorry for being stupid but I don’t...I don’t...I...”

“I beg your pardon?”  The bed dipped and lurched and Callum felt seasick.  His brain told him that his body was going to tip.  He was certain that he was going to fall.  A bead of sweat rolled down from one shoulder blade to the other.

“I said I’m sorry Master Hayden,” Callum twisted back a little, forced his watering and hot eyes open to try to look at his Master.  “I said I’m...”

“You said ‘but’ you ungrateful little wretch,” Master Hayden grabbed a handful of Callum’s hair, and shook his head side to side roughly.  “But what exactly hmm?” 

Callum’s world lurched again with the violent to and fro of his head.  His brain felt like slurry, slopping uselessly against the inside of his skull.  He could barely think and he wanted his hands and his teddy and he knew that he was sorry but.  But.  There was definitely a but and the flame of fever across his skin and in his mind was working faster than his mouth could keep up with.  Words that should never see the light of day and could never be put back were pressing up against his teeth and his defences were coming down faster than he could prevent.

“But I try!”  The words burst out, a dam with weakened, crumbling walls.  “I TRY.  I try every day and I want to be better and do better but you never tell me how I should do it so that it’s right!” 

The silence from his Master was deafening.  The buzzing from his brain and his ears and his fever was louder.  It drowned everything out.  It drowned him.

“You won’t tell me!  You just hurt me and hurt me and hurt me...” a cough tore up his throat and Callum heaved over it, trying to get it out of the way so that it could stop choking him up.  “You don’t do anything to help me....”  He shrieked at the blow tht he hadn’t seen coming, the heavy handed thud across his right temple.  He pulled and pulled to bring his hands down so that he could protect himself but they remained stubbornly locked up around the headboard.  The effort of his pulling dragged him bodily up the bed, as he pushed himself up closer and closer to his hands.  He curled up as close to the headboard as he could while his Master beat him across the head.

“No!” he cried out, sobbing over the word, stretching its syllable out, multiplying them.

"No!?" Master Hayden threw his head down as though he was disgusted. As though Callum was disgusting. "Where on earth do you get the idea that you can say 'but' to me? That you can say 'no' to me? Me, who puts a roof over your head and food in your belly?"

Callum sobbed and hiccuped, ached and burned up with fever and pain, aches and stupidity. His hands were being moved. They weren't above his head. Hands in the air? No. Hands behind his back. Face pressed into the mattress. A knee in the small of his back as the cuffs were snapped together roughly before the pressure let up and he was dragged off the bed by the wrists. His shoulders lifted too high and the pain made him shriek and drop to his knees with weak knees and a fevered haze.

"Up." His Master's voice penetrated through the overloaded sensations but his limbs refused to work. His normally quick ability to move when restrained was dulled and sluggish. He tried. He screamed internally at himself to move but he wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep and to recover from whatever was raging through his system.

As he struggled to get back to his knees, his Master sighed. Another sigh. Another mark against him. Something else he'd done wrong. The ever familiar feeling of a hand twisting in his hair registered just a second before he was hauled across the floor. 

“You can walk on your knees you little wretch,” Master Hayden said as he pulled Callum along next to him.  “Ungrateful creature.  You go ahead and have the all out stupidity to get ill.  You take up my time with helping you.  You let me put you in my bed and cool you down and then you answer me back.  I have never been as insulted as I am right now.  Hmm?  You know that?  Insulted.”  With the final word, they reached the basement door, the latch being thrown hastily back and the door swung open.  “Down.  And if you take too long I’ll just kick you down there.”

Through his haze of pain and fever, Callum edged his way down the stairs, moaning softly to himself, working his way along on his knees and his side, using the occasional press of his foot here and there where he thought that he would get away with it.  The one dim light that perpetually lit his rules seemed over bright and foggy around the edges as he got closer to it.  As he approached the centre of the floor. 

“Stay on your knees until I’m ready,” he heard his Master say.  His mouth moved before his brain could tell it not to.

“But my knees hurt so much Mas...” he was cut off swiftly by a thudding blow to the side of his head. 

“Let’s keep that stupid bruise of yours around a little longer shall we?”  Master Hayden hissed at him.  “Idiot.”  Callum sobbed and swayed on his knees.  His bruised and no doubt bloody knees, barely registering the sounds of chains being moved around behind him.  His world felt too unstable to focus on anything for too long.  Like a song that plays from one speaker to another, the metallic clinking of chain shifted from one side of the room to the other.  In one ear and then in the next. 

Back and for.

He listened and rocked a little in time with it.

Back and for.

Lost as he was in the aching rythm, he yelped then whined when his Master suddenly appeared next to him, one hand around his throat and the other around his tummy. 

“Face down, stupid,” Master Hayden whispered it in his ear as he lowered Callum to the floor.  Somewhere in the back of his fevereed mind, Callum felt gratitude that he hadn’t been kicked to the floor without his hands to break the fall.  He felt gratitude that he had been helped.  He felt gratitude that his Master was being so kind after he had made himself so ashamed upstairs on the bed.

“Thank you Master Hayden,” he croaked out, his voice cracking with his increasingly sore throat.  He starined to hear anything through the muddle of his mind.  To hear a word from his Master.  He yearned to hear a word from his Master.  Anything that might take the razor edge of his shame from him.  Instead he heard footsteps and chains again.  He felt something around his wrists.  Cold.  It made his body shiver and twitch and he couldn’t stop it.

“You can stay like this until I think you can be trusted not to be so rude and ungrateful towards me,” 

A swift and tight pull jerked Callums arms up behind him and he screamed and sobbed at the pressure on his shoulders.  A click.  A loud snapping sound that echoed through his skull and hurt his head.  A padlock shutting with a register as loud as a gunshot.  Kepping him tightly in place.  Chains from the hooks in the walls wrapped around his wrists and pulled taut. 

Face down and bawling his eyes out.  Arms up behind him to an almost unbearably painful degree.  No soft teddy to lean against.

Hands in the air.  Rock-a-bye your bear.  Bear is now asleep.

He wanted his lullaby.  His bear.  He wanted his mum. 

He wanted anything but silence broken by his own screams and cries.  Anything but the sound of the basement door as it shut behind his Master and left him there.

[attackonmango]

|Teasing| Porco Galliard x Fem!Reader x Zeke x Reiner|💦|

|Throat fucking, oral(m receiving), teasing and mentions of daddy in the form of a nickname, praise, dirty talk|

|Song recommendation: Ordinary Life - The weeknd|

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It happened just as you planned, though it took a bit longer than expected, Porco endured this torture as you taunted his friends like a champ. Teasing Porco in a short and frilly black skirt as you paraded around was a perfect way to calm the pattering inside your core. Your thighs deliciously plush and rubbing together due to the lack of your usual tights. The black skirt was paired with a yellow top that went well with the skirt. A sliver of cleavage peeking from the neckline. Just enough to piss Porco off. Because Reiner, Zeke and Colt’s peering and hungry eyes.

You relish in the glory of the pissed look at was plastered on Porco’s face as he grumbled out his replies, pouting every time attention was on you. You smile at the jealous expression appointed on his beautiful features.

His fingers curling into fists as his mates complimented you. Ones that you took as you were utterly unbashful, your smile never faltering.

“I love your hair, Y/N.” Colt gushes, his eyes flickering from yours to your tits, hair delicately framing them in soft tendrils, a faint blush on his cheeks as you smiled softly at him.

Reiner watched as your thighs jiggle as you swing your legs, feet hovering because they didn't reach the floor. He peered from a side glance as your clothes hugged your marvelous body. He couldn't help but eye what chub you have, thinking about how soft your tummy would feel against him chest. “Your outfit looks amazing.”

“Yea, what is there, looks pretty. Porco let you in here like that?” Zeke teased, peering down at you over his glasses. His eyes eating you up when you weren’t paying attention or when he though Porco wasn’t. “Porco doesn't control what I wear,” you'd roll your eyes, knowing it would rile him up. You smirk when he scoffs, rolling his eyes as his arms crossed around his chest.

“I compliment her enough so watch it,” Porco seethed each time, replying for you. You’d just laugh, and shake your head before giving a smile in reply.

He could’ve sworn he hid that outfit. How did you find it? Guess it didn’t matter now, not when this could end in something fun.

You were driving his friend nuts as they watched the fabric of your skirt flow around your thighs. Zeke sucked down his cigarette a bit fast, and Reiner couldn’t keep his hands off the collar of his shirt as their eyes trail after your every move, clearing his throat every time he looks at you. It didn’t help that Colt had his hands in his lap, his eyes following you shamelessly, a stupid grin on his face. And Porco couldn't stand it. He wasn't one for sharing and he didn't like your flaunting. To put shortly, he wasn't amused by your action.

The way your tits squeezed together as you jotted down the battle plans and essentially Zeke’s every word. Porco hated the way you stared at Zeke, the amusement of evident on your face as the war chief stumbled over his words, swallowing thickly as his eyes lingered on your plentiful breasts.

Rolling his eyes, Porco jumped out of his seat, not flinching as the chair scraped against the floor. His jaw clenched as he glared down upon you. “Bring your ass.” His harsh words fill you with anticipation as he stalked off after grabbing his.

“Can we come too?” Colt called after his friend, his expression dead serious, “cuz I mean..” he trailed off as he railed you with his eyes.

“Damn,” Zeke and Reiner muttered in sync, finishing for Colt. You blush at their reaction, cringing at the thought. Porco didn’t miss the way their eyes fucked you as you stood up and trailed after him like a lost puppy, not wasting much time to keep up with him.

They shut up due to the glare that Porco shot in their direction, over his shoulder. “Fuck no,” his words laced with the deadliest venom he could muster.

As you stood, you used your hand to cover your ass, but it didn’t stop your skirt from flipping up a bit, revealing a sliver of your ass cheek. They relished in the fact that your panties matched your laced yellow shirt. The wet spot on your chair bringing blood to their aching cocks. How Porco’s bitch ass got someone like you was beyond them.

But what could you say? You loved how aggressive he could get. He was the only one who got your rocks off the way you love. He fucked you into submission and it made you want more.

You had to jog to keep up with Porco’s long strides. As you walked behind him, you could feel the heat radiating off him. You slam into his back as he suddenly stills.

He says nothing to you as he pulls open an empty extra closet. It had enough room for you both to fit comfortably in the room, an entire wall clear, so he wastes no time shoving you inside. But Porco didn’t want you comfortable; he wanted you stuck, not worrying about having you any space to do anything other than sit on your knees for him. He had you in the corner, facing him while his back was inches from the door. “You think you are fucking slick?” he'd breath down at you, his eyes peering down at you, while his mind wandered over the things he could do to you, even in this small room. He shook his head at the thought. All that could wait, for now. His finger nipping at the nude buds under your shirt brings a high pitched sigh from your lip. Of course you didn't have a bra on. Such a fucking tease.

“Such a bad girl,” he growled as his hand harshly patted your head. You try not to cry out as his hand-knotted up in your hair. The other hand gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth to part. Once he got it to open, his finger prodded your tongue, making your jaw ache. “Teasing me,” you savoured the fire that burned intensely in his honey eyes that made you shudder under his touch, as you hollowed your cheeks around his fingers a few times, teasingly. “By teasing my friends.” His hand dug into his pants, fishing out his hard cock.

“Shit,” you wince as his dick hits the side of your face, springing outward. You can’t help but recoil back, Porco’s fingers falling from your lips, connected still with a string of spit. “I-I just thought the outfit was cute; I wasn’t trying to tease anyone.” You lied through your teeth, almost convincingly, feigning a plea for mercy. You made this bed, and you wanted to enjoy it.

The shocked look painted on your features and the glint in your eyes mocking innocence. The way you slowed thickly around his hand travelled to your neck. The exhale you gave when his grip tightened softly. Too bad Porco didn’t care. He had you right where he wanted you. Your lying didn’t fool him, for he knew better. He made a mental note to bring that up later.

“Tough shit, open up.” He brought you closer to his hips. His dick dangling by your moist lips that you licked with yearning.

But you don’t open your mouth until a soft smack lands on your cheek. Not hard enough to hurt but enough to sting, mouth dropping at his words. “Be a good girl, come on, don’t be dumb, you know how this goes.” He commanded, his eyes stoic and cold while a sly smirk played on his lips. The harshness was paired with a loving stroke on your head.

Drool pooled in your mouth as Porco placed his cock on your wet muscle. A growl crawling up his throat as your spit coated his thick cock as it stretched your mouth, almost unpleasantly.

You hummed delightfully as his pre-cum filled your taste buds. “Come on, baby. Suck.” His hand in your hair tightening, causing you to cry around Porco’s cock. Obeying him, you resume prodding him with a sliding tongue. Cheeks hollowing around him.

His hand left your throat as his hips rocked into your mouth, as you ran your tongue around his tip before it trailed down his shaft. He revelled in how he fucked you into the corner, hand blocking your head from hitting the wall too hard, though you bounced around a bit. Slurping erupt from your mouth as your tongue rested at the base of his cock.

Massaging his balls with your tongue coaxed soft groans from Porco’s chest, the back of your throat greeting his sensitive tip. “Fuck, your mouth feels fucking amazing.” He rutted into your mouth, holding you all the way down on his cock as his free hand disheveling his habitual slick back hair style, curtaining his forehead. “You look perfect sucking Daddy’s cock.” He praised, loud enough for Reiner and Zeke to hear, he made sure. You were his, after all; he had you wrapped around his finger and your lips around his cock.

Shame and arousal were piling in your chest at the nickname he gave himself while you gagged on his throbbing length as it skimmed your uvula, repeatedly. You couldn’t help but groan as the ache in your jaw grew while you bob your head up in down. “Remember who you belong to, Y/N,” Porco muttered possessively, losing himself in your throat. Confidence surged through you, feeling how he throbbed against your sopping tongue. You pull your mouth back far enough to wrap both of your hands on the base of his dick, pumping away.

Throat squelching as Porco jackhammered into it, chasing the high that he felt like he deserved. He stared into your fucked out eyes, chuckling at the tears that muddled in them, falling silently and freely on to his thighs; Man, how pathetic and pretty you looked while you sucked him off. “Fuck..dammit, swallow it all!” Porco shouted his command as his cock spazzing inside her throat as it spilled from his cock. The thick bodily fluid salty as it coats the back of your tongue. Spurting down your throat as Porco held you still, not giving you a choice to let off, while he holds you with both hands, fucking so deep into your throat that he could feel a heartbeat in your neck. Guzzling him up like the lady you were, you weren't going to be rude and spit out what he worked so hard to make for you.

His dick pokes around in your mouth as you are forced to swallow every last drop. You gasp as he pulls from your mouth, hand massaging your head in praise, signal a job well done. Not caring about the line of drool that trailed from your bruised lips to his softening cock, Porco tucked it away anyways. You smile as Porco uses his shirt to gently wipe your lips while he stood above you, smirking at your panting figure. His breathing matching yours.

“We aren’t done yet, but at least the guys know what’s up,” Porco murmured as he pulled you to your feet. “You belong to me, right,” he reminded you, not caring to ask, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You loved his possessive nature and the way he brought you to your knees to pleasure himself.

[sxdmoonchxld]

Tell Me U Luv Me| MYG

Summary :  You should have stopped this a long time ago. Hell it wasn't even supposed to begin. But now it's too late no matter how hard you try you always go back to him. And now he wants you to tell him the feelings you've been hiding...the feelings you weren't supposed to have.

Genre: smut, smidge of angst, fluff if you cross your eyes and read it upside down

Theme: Infidelity

4k words

Warnings: Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Fingerfucking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Begging, Multiple Orgasms, Fuckbuddies, Bad Dirty Talk

a/n: i use to be lizardsocial, so if this seems familiar that's why.

———————————————————————

You stood outside the cracked door to his room shaking as frenetic nerves fired through the synapses of your brain. The cold draft flowing from the inky darkness escaping the room assaulted the warmth of your skin with coolness. Galvanizing waves of charged currents rushed through your bones, blunt teeth worried the inside of your lip as sizzling bubbles of anxiety, and zealous anticipation boiled in the pit of your gut.

"Are you going to just stand out there the whole night? " His voice, sonorous and smooth akin to dripping molasses reverberated softly through the quiet hallway. 

His words mixed to the distorted pulsing of the blood in your veins. Flowed so heavenly to the crashing drumline beat of your heart resonating violently in your ears. You glanced down focused on the jittery motions of your hands. Remorse and guilt waged in the jumbled mayhem of your thoughts. For a spilt second. Oh such a painful second the image of your original lover manifested itself through your cloud of ignominy. This was wrong, the truth apparent. It didn't take a genius to deduce how inequitable and sickening it is. He didn't deserve this cold dose of adultery and deceit you served him with a cum smeared smile.

But you are weak.

There were several countless failed tries, where you sought to stay away. To purify yourself of his narcotic magnetism, to expunge all late-night escapades unraveling when the moon kisses the sky. Altering to omitted memories to never resurface in the sunlit horizon. Many times there a been that expected moment of reasoning. Albeit choosing to strike post-coital when you’ve been belatedly freed from the smog of arousal. Momentarily sated with the pulsating of your cum filled cunt. It’s usually then, only then you find yourself with the urge - the need to flee. 

To be spooned in the warming embrace of your loving, naive boyfriend. To shield you from the freezing chills of your sins, and help sooth the pain as you reflect on your harrowing actions. Pathetically the shame, pain and regret are wistfully short-lived emotions, forgotten like an old childhood toy. Not soon after, in their place the yearning begins. Boiling at odd hours in the night, symptoms of withdrawal surfacing, devising you desperate.

Oh so fervent

Aching - desirous for your next moment with him.

He is slick and cunning like a snake. Coiled in captivating colors, poisonous, yet so enticing. He was no good for you, it was no secret. But when it all bubbled down to a concentrated thought. You were like a drug fiend, addicted to the empirical taste of his angel dust. Caught deep in the sweet down spiraling remedy that was Min Yoongi. He was the proverbial forbidden fruit and the serpent mix into one deadly package. 

Not much coaxing was needed to take a bite. His tempting words and intoxicating presence was just enough to seal your fate. So with unsteady sock laden feet, your body propelled toward the dimmed room. The creator of your greed and secret ruler of your body waiting just beyond the door.

“I didn't think you were coming."

How funny. In a pathetic way that is. He didn't think you were going to come? Where could he possibly get that idea from? Admittedly it's been a while since the last encounter with busy and conflicting scheduling keeping you apart. Though not once have you missed that hypnotizing tune that always led you to him. Not once have you denied him a chance to ravage a body that was never his from the beginning.

“Did you finally get him to fall asleep?”Yoongi mused, the bed creaking lightly as he rose from lying down. You watched as he began walking towards you with a steady gait. The lamp on his nightstand casting a shadow to hide the right side of his face. Shivering you nodded, a small shaky smile of fondness playing on your lips as you reminisced your boyfriend's excitement over their new album.

"Good. You know how restless Namjoon gets when we have new material on the way." Spoken like a man who knew his best friend, his fucking brother. Yoongi was right though, it took time and patience to soothe a riled Namjoon. 

Listening to hours of animated rambling, chatted amid eye-watering yawns and repetitive strokes through chemically damaged, yet soft and lush strands of hair. Though once his burning enthusiasm trickled down to a burnt-out wick, he was dead to the world.

"Yeah. I know." You responded with stifling discomfiture, a wave of salty transgression washing on the sandy banks in your chest. It was an unspoken rule. Namjoon was not to be mentioned in the immoral extent of you and Yoongi. Not to be slandered and tainted with the actions that would inevitably condemn you to hell. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about him while in this place, in this position; in this context. It served no relief. Only proving to be a conduit of neglected emotions that would be mulled over in the future. 

You flinched at chilled forearms enclosing around your waist. The thin silk material of your nightgown, ineffectively blocking the cold press of his fingertips against the lower portion of skin on your back. Yoongi habitually kept it cold in his room. He joked claiming he liked the way your nipples hardened to stiff little nubs when they met the air. Yet he knew the biting element of his room did naught to rouse your body. It was him, simply him.

"I've missed you," he spoke soft and sweetly with cool lips resting patiently below your ear. His heated breath a spreading raised goosebumps to the surface of the skin on your neck. Pulling back to glance at him, you internally gasped. The verve burning in his eyes as he stared at you unwaveringly, was startlingly surprising. The passion swirling in his chocolate orbs were strange but not unfamiliar. Still, they held his desire and lust, but there was something else mixed in that was unknown, and didn't belong there. It made your heart speed up and palpitate uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

Scowling, your eyes dropped at his words and your own foolish flare of emotions. Of course he missed you, but not in the same way you missed him.

"You just missed my pussy Yoongi," you said unfiltered because it was true and despite knowing that truth, you hated the way your heart pained with a tinge of sadness.

‘No! Feelings weren't to be caught’, you scolded yourself mentally. It was unfortunate enough that you were already addicted to the sex with him. A weakness that you were failingly to recover from, a flaw Yoongi exploited with sick joy. The extent of this relationship carried no purpose beyond a way to release the sexual tension. 

Temporarily rectified by secretive fucking behind his best friend and your boyfriend, Namjoon's back. Any feelings could and would utterly ruin you, except in the recess of your mind, you knew it was too late. The opening for evacuating slipped through your fingers the moment you opened your legs for him.

"It's okay because I've missed your cock." You tried cooing seductively, the partial lie trailing with the hand maneuvering between your frames as you lightly palm him through his sweatpants. An exciting jolt and rush of arousal raced down your spine at the discovery of his cock already at half-mast. Yoongi hummed appreciatively at the feeling of the palm of your hand rubbing slow circles on his clothed member.

"Hmm, are you sure that's all you miss?" he asked his hands languidly stroking your waist.

"I can assure you, your tight little pussy isn't all that I missed from you." His eyes burned into you like he was capable of seeing the hidden parts of your soul. Jarred, your palming slowed down to a stop. Your hands falling limply to your sides and brow bone turning down into a perplexed frown.

"Y-Yoongi, what are you talking about?" You tried pulling away from his hold, exceedingly confused to the implication behind his words. That out of place, foreign emotion whirling deeper, burning brighter in his eyes. 

This wasn't like Yoongi, in fact, it was unnervingly out of character. He wasn't one for teasing or insignificant banter. Honestly, you were surprised you were still on your feet and clothed. If this were like any another of your previous encounters, you would already be on your back. Legs lewdly spread, your gushing pussy filled to the brim, trapped in the clutches of primal fulfillment.

"W-what are you talking a-about." He mocked, tongue sucking his teeth.

"Don't try and deny it. I see right through you. In you."

Enthralled, Yoongi pushing you towards his bed didn't register in your muddled brain until the plush softness of his bedspread cradled your spine. You flinches as hands slammed down beside you caging your head in among extended elbows and bent knees straddled over trembling thighs. 

Yoongi drew his head down to your neck and like a bitch in heat, your neck craned effortlessly. Lips parting for the escape of an airy whine at his warm lips on your skin. The next Picasso in the making he nipped at the column of your neck, sucking your skin with differing pressure, painting the bare canvas with blotches of cherry and mulberry.

Another big no-no.

"Y-you can't see a-anything, because t-there is nothing t-to s-see." you lied again, stuttering terribly in between breathless pants. Yoongi chuckled, you could feel his leer against your skin.

"I can feel it-," he said with a tender lick to the blemishes littering your neck. His head moved down your chest, irritatingly feather-light pecks left by a brush of his lips. His mouth coming to rest over the swell of your breast where your heart pounded furiously below his lips. "-the way your heart beats for me."

A large hand abandoned its post beside your head, cupping a breast wrapped in delicate silk. Gently he massaged the soft tissue, alternating amidst firm and gently caresses. The meat of your breast spilling between clenching fingers. You arched your chest further into his hands, fluctuations of venereal relief rippled from his touch, your throat fluttering out moans. Warm wetness engulfed your other unused breast. Helpless you keened lustily and flagrantly, as flat teeth nipped at the hardened nub poking through the material of your gown. 

Another lusty moan rumbled from your throat as a thick tongue began laving around the bud to soothe the sting of his bite. Your nipple stiffened further the cold air hitting the wet splotch, as Yoongi detached from the fabric encased teat. With seductive chocolate feline-like eyes scorching with ardor. His gaze lingered to your exposed thighs and the bunched up bundle of cloth resting on the apex of your legs.

Your heart throbbed in a frenzy when you noticed the focus of his gaze. Was he actually thinking about eating you out? As long as this affair has been occurring, never did he perform the act, or hint at wanting to. Judging by the cockiness of his rap lyrics, its apparent he is confident in his skills. 

There was usually little to no foreplay, with your pussy easily dripping like the cock slut it has proven to be. Not much needed to be done to have you soaking for Yoongi. A couple of rough fingering thrusts with stomach coiling pressure against your g-spot and you were ready to meet him raw and ready.

A lecherous leer quirked the corner of his lips, he trained his eyes on you as he shifted down your body, his stomach now flat against the bed. You yelped when frigid fingertips seized the flesh of your thighs yanking you closer to his face. The rest of your nightgown rising up to rest in a crumpled heap underneath your breast. He snickered condescendingly at the exposure of the slick wetness coating the center of your panties. 

Unfazed, thick fingers pressed into your dampness, collecting more of your arousal in the seat of your panties. You always got so wet for him, copious fluid dribbling to catch between your ass cheeks, your cunt pulsating wildly in anticipation, eager for his next move. With no hesitation, Yoongi pushed his nose into your pussy, the tip nudged against your covered clit, shamelessly breathing in your fragrance deeply.

"I can even smell it." Another deep inhale through his nose and a hot exhale through his mouth.

“So sweet.”

He pushed your panties to the side, a trail of sticky slick following its wet departure.

"I bet I could even taste it. How much you missed me."

You whimpered, your hips shoving up in silent desperation. You wanted, no needed Yoongi to give you more. You weren't accustomed to being teased, never having to beg. Yoongi always delivered with hip bruising, backbreaking, unrestrained strokes, his cock splitting your walls in rapid succession. That was what you were accustomed too. It was what you thought he wanted, the foundation of this liaison, fast and rough fucks. This time something was off. Things were changing, his intentions shifting, and you were scared, deathly frightened. 

That even an ounce of his true affection, would overpower you. The taking over of your being complete, the tipping point of your inevitable overdose. An abrupt bloom of pleasure unfurled in your lower gut as Yoongi spread your pussy lips lewdly. The thumb of his hand hooked deep within your ribbed walls, your cunt clenched tightly around the thick digit. The stark temperature difference of his thumb and the torrid heat of his ascending tongue drew a high- pitched yelp from your throat. Searing energy blossomed through your core as the tip of his tongue flicked off your fattened clit at his first swipe. Brazen and amplified he sucked on his pink muscled appendage mouth parting loudly with a pop.

"You taste delicious, sweet like I said," he complimented before burying his face in your pussy. His thick tongue squirmed within your core joining his thumb, as it shoved as deep as it could reach before it started flicking out in an amalgam of movements liquifying your insides. You cried out helplessly throwing your head back against the mattress, your hips angled high pressed against his face to him feed more of your cunt.

"Tell me I’m better," He spoke around mouthfuls of your center. You whined, his words cutting through the buzzing vibrations in your ears. He was better than Namjoon, on a different spectrum. It was evident in how your body sang for him, how your hips ground helplessly on the twisting muscle inured so fathomlessly in your cunt. But you couldn't say it, you wouldn't dare say it out loud even though the words burned the base of your throat. That was too close in crossing forbidden territory.

"Tell me how much you missed me." His tongue drew your clit in his mouth, plush lips sucking the corded nub.

"No!" You denied him for the first time.

You just couldn't say those words no matter how much your vocals cords seized to shout the words Yoongi’s request. A muffled chuckle spilled out of him at your surprising defiance. He was calm in his movements, his thumb dragging along your walls to shift to press up against your g-spot, applying pressure with each outward stroke. His gaze was heated, staring at you over the mound of your cunt, balmy puffs of air fanning over your jumping clit as he spoke.

"Tell me how much you missed this. Us. How right this feels."

"Tell me how much better I am than him-" he demanded again. "-can he make your body sing like I can?"

"Y-Yoongi," you gasped harshly sweat permeated on your skin. Descending over the valley of your breasts in opaque pearls. You couldn't say it. Ceasing his stroking thumb, the whine bubbling in your throat was choked down by the replacement of two of his fingers. Scissoring them apart, his fingers curved on your g-spot assaulting the area with pressurized tenacity. With lips back on your clit sucking all the collected fluids down his greedy throat. Your teeth clenched together, hands fisting into the bedspread, your thighs shuddering terribly around his body.

"How much you wished, that was me fucking your pussy 5 days ago instead of him."

You gasped at his words surprise and fear mixed with lust, distorting your features into an almost comical expression. Yoongi laughed cynically.

"Didn't think I'd find out, would you kitten?"

Fucking Namjoon was more so out of guilt than some kind of vendetta against Yoongi. Namjoon was your boyfriend for fuck's sake, you couldn't go on denying him for much longer without him becoming suspicious; if he wasn't already.

"N-o, no!" Still you denied him, unwillingly to come to terms with the truth, both the latter and internally.

Toes folded in on themselves as Yoongi sped him his fingers to deep thrusting aimed directly for the spongy bundled of nerves. Your orgasm started intensified at an alarming pace, you could feel it in the way your stomach cramped. How your hips sloppily thrust toward Yoongi's face, your back arched off the bed. Soft, euphoric cries ruptured from your larynx, binding themselves onto the edge of every fleeting gaspy breath disbanding in the air. You slapped your hands over your mouth to muffle your scream, the sudden snapping ties of your pleasure, hitting you with the force of a freight train. Your upper body flailed around on the bed, unrestrained portions of your legs kicking out at the intensity of your orgasm. Your eyes pricked with tears and lungs suffocated as they were robbed of air.

Floating in post-orgasmic limbo, you vaguely registered his fingers withdrawal from your clenching cunt or the shuffling of his sweats pants down his hips or he hiking of your legs to perch against his waist. It wasn't until the fevered eagerness of his leaking cock head pressing against your quivering core, did you return from the clouds. 

Yoongi stroked the skin of your thighs with sticky tenderness, his face coming closer to yours to capture your chapped lips in a sweet kiss. You gasped in frail distress and shock, your heart constricted tightly within your chest. Stars bursted behind your eyes at the strange feeling of his lips moving against your own. Another act taboo in the relationship that was this. Yoongi seized the perfect opportunity to ease his tongue into your mouth, dancing with your own. He was tart with your flavor, mixed with his addicting treacle.

Gradually his cock split your glossy folds, breaching your cunt's hole with the tip of his cock. You cried out in his mouth, detaching your lips from his. A string of conjoined spittle landing on your cheek as you turned your head to the side. Yoongi's lips followed you, connecting your mouth once again as he began surging his cock, deep, deep, and deeper. The slow pace allowing you to feel the burning stretch, every eager throb of his cock, every engorged vein pulsing under his skin. 

Yoongi didn't give you much time to adjust as he started his leisure strokes. He barely withdrew before he was spearing you back on his cock, much deeper than before. Tearing your mouth from him again, you gasp with the stinging need of air, a forearm coming over to cover your face. The bright light of the lamp on his nightstand shining across your face suddenly a nuisance, as you greedily swallowed in the fresh air between mewling cries of pleasure.

"Does your slutty pussy squeeze him as tight as your squeezing me?" Yoongi grunted reducing his already sluggish pace, his hips rotating with each stroke.

Your head felt like it was ready to implode. You were overheating, short-circuiting, the blood in your veins boiling and curdling. Namjoon infiltrated your thoughts, his kind hardworking nature, how much he loved and adored you, but was it enough? Did you even love him anymore? Or were you stolen away by the man he considers his brother? It was all becoming too much, Yoongi's slow strokes and demanding queries were causing you to overthink. You needed him to speed up, to fuck your brains out so you wouldn't have to be pestered with your evolving thoughts.

"Yoongi, I-I need you to speed up. I want you to fuck me faster, fuck me harder please!" You begged as if your life depended on the tempo of his thrusts, and in a way it did, at least your sanity did.

"Shhh" he cooed. One of his hands abandoning its place on your lifted legs, to come and pry your arms away from your face. Your breath hitched as your blurry gaze focused in on the unbridled emotion raging in his dark eyes.

"Tell me I'm the one you want." He eased out of your body, grunting lowly as your cunt clutched desperately at his retreating cock.

"Tell me I'm the only one who owns you, who owns your heart." Again he sunk back within your depths.

"Tell me you love me and not him, and I'll fuck you until your coming on my cock."

Yoongi promised in one swift stroke buried deep within your cunt, speeding up his thrust to his usually relentless rhythm. You screamed in familiar delight, arms wrapping around his neck in a loop. Your breast crushed into his chest, fingernails embedded in his shoulder leaving raised red crescents. You could already feel your second orgasm approaching, your cunt enclosing Yoongi's cock in a vice-like grip, you never lasted long when he rammed into you like this. It was what you needed, the perfect escape to the feelings boiling in your chest. Another mind-numbing orgasm and he would follow suit, then you could leave and close this chapter of your life, the end of a book with a bittersweet ending.

"Oh, no you don't." Yoongi tsked. He knew the telltale signs of your orgasm, he ruled your body with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove. Reducing his strokes to that of a snail's pace, he laughed at your wail of frustration, a bead of sweat dropping off his body at the shake of his shoulders. How obtuse of you to think he was going to let you come without you telling him what he's been dying to hear from your lips the whole night, for months.

"Say it. Open that pretty mouth sweetheart and tell me what I want to hear." Yoongi cooed, his cock now surging into your depths with shallow, unfulfilling strokes.

"Yoo-ngi." You hiccuped clamping your eyes tight. The coiling tightness of your orgasm was still there, maybe if you concentrated hard enough-

"Say it! Tell me you love, how I love you!" Your eyes flew open, dilating to focus on a blurred image of Yoongi. Him? Love you? How? Why?

"Yes, I love you." He said smoothly, no hesitation, not an inkling of regret, just confidence and love glimmering in his eyes.

"Now. Tell me you love me too and don't lie." Yoongi reiterated with a rough thrust.

"I-I don-" your mouth opened and closed, a fish out of the water you were caught. You fell back on to the bed, a hand placed on your chest over the blood-filled organ crashing against your chest. Your heart captured by another, no longer could you deny it, deny him, deny yourself. So with a heavy heart...you told him. "I love you."

You didn't want to. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. A one-time thing, he...you let escalate too far. Now it was too late. The truth was out now, and all hell was about to break loose.

"Tell me again."

You strangled on a wad of spit at the sudden rough thrust, your teeth clanking together at the single motion. "I love you."

Yoongi groaned loudly, the loudest you think you've ever heard from him at your affectionate confession. His hands readjusted themselves off your thighs to better support himself as he began lifting his your legs to rest on your chest, your knees pushed into your breast. Immediately his hips set off at a fast pace, the slaps of his balls hitting your ass nearly rivaled the shout of pleasure or the wet slapping of where you were connected. 

Your hips met his with bruising contact, but you didn't care, the angle of his cock drilled at your g-spot relentlessly. Black and white dots floating in your vision, eyes rolling in the back of your head. Jumbled repeats of his name wretched themselves from your lips, you were sure the other boys in the shared apartment could hear your cries of satisfaction. Namjoon as well.

You didn't care, your love for Yoongi, the feeling of his cock in your guts, was the only thing on your mind. A couple of more thrust and your orgasm was ripped from you, your legs thrashing about in Yoongi's hold. The sweet pull of your cunt on his cock bringing forth his own release, and with one last surge of his hips, the bulbous head kissing your cervix, he spurted warm ropes of his cum straight into your womb. Breathlessly he dropped your legs from his hands, a mixed wad of your and his cum spilling out from around him. Gently he withdrew and fell onto the bed beside you, lowly he sighed in satisfaction.

"Tell me again."

You told him.

"I love you."