#but have you seen the furrow of his brow and the slight downward tug of his lips when he’s concentrating really hard?

[orange-sunshines]

the most unrealistic thing about mha is that no one publicly drools over katsuki bakugo.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

ROT

hurt/comfort pairing. tangerine x gn!reader summary. tangerine sees through your lies about having a tough time word count. 859

There hasn’t been much to push you out of bed lately. Your complex internal feelings much preferring the protection of your duvet than everything else outside the bubble of sadness you built around yourself. The covers acting as a shield from the real world.

Rotting is the only way to put it really, wasting away. Scrolling mindlessly on your phone from early to late hours of the day, doing whatever deems necessary to quieten and numb the persistent nattering in your brain. Though it was utterly boring, the hours upon hours of staring at your phone all beginning to merge together.

With Tangerine and his incessant worrying of you and your needs, you had to disguise your sadness within sickness — dramatising a bad belly and pounding head in order to keep his anxiety at bay.

You knew your dismal states often consumed him, the thought of being unable to help you acting like an axe in his heart. You couldn’t bear pulling him into your pit of darkness, so you decided to keep him out of it. Wanting to preserve him as a flashlight to navigate yourself from the bleak.

Tangerine has been staying with you to keep you company during your faux fever, maintaining things around your house you were unable to keep up with. All in all being a great house guest and boyfriend.

You hear a slight creak of the floorboards outside your bedroom door, Tan’s head peering through the gap mere seconds after. You turn slightly, momentarily meeting his eyes from across the room.

“Alright?” he questions briefly, voice soft as not to disturb you.

“Yeah,” you reply, response short to keep up the charade.

He signs faintly before he’s on the move, walking across your room until he’s right in front of you, knees knocking at the edge of the mattress. He looks down at you, head cocking slightly as if things are beginning to click in his brain. Dots starting to connect.

“How you feelin’?” he asks, looking over the side of your face, waiting for you to look up at him, though you never do.

“Better,” you lie.

You keep your gaze cast downwards as you shift under his attention. And as you go to tug your covers, wanting to reshield yourself once again, he’s bending at the knee. Lowering himself to look you in the face.

“It don’t look it,” he gently shakes his head, seeing through your lies. The tone of his voice holding no such anger or malice.

You exhale shakily and bring a hand to your face, thumb and middle finger resting over your temples, covering your eyes from his forever intense gaze.

“Why you pushing me away?” he asks, his question sounding more rhetorical — quite like he himself already knew the answer. “Hm?” he hums.

He reaches for the hand covering your face, his index hooking into the V between your thumb and forefinger, pulling it from its secure shielding. He holds onto your hand carefully, sweetly entwining with your fingers as he leans in, pressing a kiss into the back of it.

“What’s the matter?” Tangerine questions, eyes softer than you’ve seen before. Looking over you like the sheer sight of you alone was killing him. “Come on,” he prompts, nodding gently when you finally meet his eyes. “Talk to me. Come on, love.”

You look at your hand in his, watching his what seems to be nervous fiddling — his finger’s playing with yours while he awaits your response. Though, you don’t really have one. You don’t have an answer to give him.

“I don’t know,” your voice cracks faintly as you offer him a shrug, speaking like the lack of reasoning is also weighing heavy on your mind. “I’m just sad,” you murmur, your brows beginning to furrow woefully.

He nods, expression soft and hurt as he looks over you, trying to show you he understands.

“What can I do?” he asks, caressing the back of your hand with his thumb — tracing faint circles into your skin.

You offer him another measly shrug as your tear duct begin to fill. You really had no answer.

He stills, fighting off the lump in his throat upon the sombre sight of you. “Can I do anything?” he rephrases, emphasising whether anything can be done at all.

You give him another shake of the head, the motion as soft as the others.

He nods understandingly, lips forcefully straightening as his free hand reaches for the side of your face — thumb gliding under the wetness under your eye, flicking away a tear.

Your close your eyes upon the warm contact of him, finally feeling a moment of peace.

“Sorry,” you mutter, voice thick from your restless days in bed. It was like you were now finally growing sleepy.

“Don’t be daft,” he whispers, the motion of his head reinforcing the gravity behind the statement. Though you could no longer see it — your eyes fluttering closed.

Tangerine holds onto both your hand and cheek, keeping you safe and protected as he sits on the floor beside your bed. Caressing you sweetly until you’re drifting off into some much needed sleep.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[justnerdy15]

FlashFictionFriday 1.3.25

mc: 1000 prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial anything could happen notes: attached to Daisy Chains.

When they step into the field, the air feels electric, making the hair on her arms stand up, a shiver working its way up her spine. Mara tightens her grip on Saoirse’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and looks up at the star-filled sky, marveling at the bright full moon. How long has it been since she last looked up and seen the sky instead of that dense canopy? How long since she last seen the stars?

She’s too focused on what’s above her, the way her lungs expand with each breath of clean air, that she doesn’t notice the root until her foot catches on it, nearly sending her tumbling to the ground.

Instead of meeting cold dirt, Mara’s face meets soft linen. “Careful, dearest,” Saoirse murmurs, having spun around in time to catch her, one arm wrapped around Mara’s waist.

Mara hears a snort and flushes. “Yes, Mara,” Isolde says, voice dry. “I’d hate for you to kill yourself on a twig after all this work.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes, straightening up. She offers a slight smile to Saoirse, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric where she had fisted her hand, and tugs her along. “Are we almost there?”

She watches as Isolde runs her hand across the tall grass, plucking a single blade between bare fingers, all of her rings and adornments left behind. Isolde rubs the grass between her thumb and pointer finger, letting it dye her skin a pale green before letting it go. “Yes,” she confirms, glancing at them from over her shoulder. “Just a bit further.”

“We need to hurry,” Saoirse says, letting her strides lengthen until Mara quickens her pace to keep up. “If the Prince has not figured out our plan, he will soon enough. He will send his Riders.”

Grimacing at the thought of Caerwyn’s godforsaken knights, Mara can’t help but look over her shoulder, searching the dark woods that surround them. They’re being watched, she knows it, but by what she couldn’t say.

“We are nearly there, child, be patient.”

Saoirse huffs, a frown pulling at her lips, and Mara wants to soothe her fear, rid her of that furrow between her brows, but until they are back in her world, they will not be safe.

“Besides,” Isolde continues, a sly note in her tone, one that causes Saoirse to stiffen. “Have you —”

“Yes,” Saoirse says abruptly, interrupting her. Mara’s eyebrows raise, shocked at the blatant disrespect. Even at their lowest, Saoirse never dared to act anything less than a respectful servant to her queen. “We need not speak of it further.”

“Speak of what?” Mara asks, looking between them, anxiety growing when Isolde stops, turning to look at them with narrowed golden eyes. She tugs at Saoirse hand, forcing her to meet Mara’s gaze. “Speak of what, Saoirse?”

Jaw clenched tight, Saoirse shakes her head. “Nothing of importance,” she says, squeezing Mara’s fingers with her own. But her eyes flick downward and Mara catches a glimpse of her hand twitching before it tightens into a fist.

“You’re lying,” Mara says, hurt bleeding into her voice. They don’t have time for this, she knows that, but disbelief curls around her heart and squeezes. Mara pulls her hand away and takes a step back.

Saoirse swallows, her head snapping to the side to glare at Isolde, who returns it with her own sneer. “You did this on purpose,” she says, letting her hand wrap around the handle of her blade. “You’re stalling.” The words are ripped out of her chest, low and snarled, and a slip of silver is bared before Isolde laughs, teeth sharp.

“I don’t need Caerwyn to do my bidding. If I wanted to keep her, you two would have never made it off the grounds.” Isolde lips curl into a snarl and she marches right up to Saoirse, jabbing one pointed nail into her chest. “She needs the truth. Or do you plan to manipulate her like he did?”

“Now hold on a goddamn second,” Mara says hotly as Saoirse jerks back with a flinch. “She is nothing like your son —”

“Then she’ll tell you the truth!” Isolde barks out. She glares at Saoirse with righteous indignation. “Damn you, imp, you’ll tell her now and not a second later!”

When Mara looks at her, Saoirse steals her breath away.

She looks so afraid.

“Saoirse,” she says, alarmed, reaching for her hand. “Hey —”

“It might kill me,” Saoirse chokes out, looking at Mara with desperate eyes. She’s been compelled, Mara realizes with distant horror. “Going through the portal. It could kill me.”

If her heart could stop, it probably would. “What?” she asks before shaking her head as if it could clear her head. This doesn’t make any sense. This was to save both of them. She tries to blink away the burn in her eyes.

Saoirse makes a noise, wounded and small, and reaches out to take Mara’s face into her hands. “It doesn’t matter. I promise, Mara, it doesn’t matter. I swore to you I would get you home.”

“You swore that you would come home with me,” Mara argues, reaching up to clasp her wrists. “You can’t do that if you’re dead!” She can’t lose her. She can’t.

Bending down, Saoirse presses her forehead against Mara’s. “We don’t know if I will. But we can’t let that stop us. You have to go and you have to go now.”

“There has to be another —”

“No,” Saoirse bites out, ripping herself away from Mara. “There isn’t. We don’t have the time or energy to waste looking for another option!” She drags a hand through her hair before snarling at Isolde. “This is why I didn’t say anything!”

When she looks back at Mara, her eyes are alight with fierce determination. “Mara,” she says, reaching out to cup the back of her head. “Either we do this and it might kill me or the Prince and his Riders find us and they will kill me. Only one guarantees your safety. I’m willing to take that risk.”

Rage crawls up her throat. This isn’t fair. She opens her mouth, whether to scream or yell she doesn’t know, but thunder cracks across the open field and it jerks their attention back to the woods.

No, not thunder.

Hooves.

“We have to go,” Mara breathes out. They have to escape and then —

She doesn’t know.

[sergeantxrogers]

| sanctified |

Summary: Bucky Barnes’ holy grail and safe haven are your body and soul, and after getting a taste of them, he finally knows what it means to be a sinner. 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: Smut!! (switch!Bucky, choking, light spanking, orgasm control, slight exhibitionism), some crying, confessions of love baby

____________________

Bucky Barnes never had a serious girlfriend. Sure, there were girls he’d go out with, press a little smooch to their lips just out of principle, girls he’d walk home after a trip to the fair, girls that would follow him around Brooklyn watching his every move in the hopes that they would catch his eye and that he would give them more than just a polite smile. 

Bucky Barnes used to be a ladies’ man, girls batting their lashes at him when he and Steve passed by on their way to Bucky’s place for dinner, throwing themselves at his feet any chance they’d get because they wanted to be something special to him, they wanted to mean something to him, and Bucky always rejected anything serious with grace. 

And then he fell from the train. And he hadn’t seen a girl his age for almost 50 years after that. He had forgotten what it was like to be smiled at, to be searched for in a crowd, for someone to call out his name - his real name, not Soldat. 

He had gotten used to the harsh orders and cruel insults, the flirty, boyish Bucky that winked at the ladies and guided them during dances hidden and stashed away somewhere deep inside him, dormant and asleep. He was fine with being ignored after everything that happened with Steve, and the fall of HYDRA, and Shuri “fixing” his brain. Fine with staying in the shadows when he didn’t need to be out of them, fine with avoiding people and missing their eye, slipping through the streets of New York like a cat, his only goal to get from point A to point B.

Until he met you. 

You, the part-time waitress that worked at the restaurant he frequented with Mr. Nakajima. Bucky took a liking to you the second he saw you. The do no harm, take no shit attitude that every fiber of your being seemed to be dipped in intrigued him. He liked watching you work, multitasking between orders and receipts and drinks and money and all things in between. It was fascinating to him, especially the side-eyed glances you’d give him with an accompanying little smirk whenever he sat down at the counter with his older friend. Intriguing you were, so much so that he quickly learned what days you came in, and what days you didn’t: Monday, Wednesday and Friday. 

Yori kept pushing him to ask out the “pretty waitress” at the restaurant, and though she was pretty, she wasn’t the one he had his eye on. 

“You should go out with her, she’s a nice girl,” Yori’s soft voice would mutter into his ear, and Bucky would give him a smile and a shake of his head.

If only you knew, Yori. If only you knew, he thought. 

The flirting started simple enough: a sly smile as you greeted him when he walked in. An “accidental” brush of the hand when you’d hand him his third beer. Biting your lip whenever he called your name out to pay. It was simple enough that Bucky’s elderly friend stayed oblivious on the Wednesdays they’d go out for lunch together. 

And truly, Bucky had no reason to come to the restaurant three times a week, twice without the company of Mr. Nakajima. No reason but the sight of you, and it was enough to keep him drawn in, keep him coming and throwing his money on food he never ate and beers he downed without a second thought because he was so enamored by the way your eyes glimmered whenever you gave him a smile. 

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays went by and by until he started dropping his gaze below your neck, pants growing uncomfortably tight at the way you’d bend over to get a new roll of receipts under the counter, or the small sliver of stomach he would notice beneath your shirt whenever you’d reach up for a glass. 

And it wasn’t like you were oblivious either; on the contrary, you stared at the door on the days you knew he’d come in, waiting anxiously for him to come and sit down just so you could feel his presence. It wasn’t that long before you were asking your coworkers to cover you for a few minutes just so you could lean against the counter by him to chat (and give him a peak of something special, but that was besides the point). 

Chats soon turned into jokes and full-blown conversations, with Bucky staying behind long after closing time just to talk to you about anything and everything, from his past to the way you wore your hair on that particular day. 

Which is how you found yourself in your current little predicament. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” you hissed, slapping your hand against the counter beneath you. 

Bucky’s hand travelled up your back, entangling in your hair and pulling your head back, your back arching against him. 

“What happened, baby?” he cooed into your ear, thrusts relentless and never faltering. You whined in response, swallowing back a heavy breath as his lips trailed against your shoulder.

“So... so good,” you managed, and you felt him smirk against your skin. 

His hand left your hair, snaking around to the front to wrap around your neck loosely, and a chill ran down your spine. 

11:47 p.m. and an hour and a half past closing time, shades only half shut on the glass door of the entrance, the only light in the room coming from the streetlight outside and the digital clock on the wall behind you. 

Heavy lidded eyes traveled to watch the door, only a few feet away from where Bucky was pounding persistently into you, your skirt flipped up and panties around your ankles. The fact that anybody walking by would just have to look through the blinds to see you getting railed made you breathless.

Bucky’s low hum floated into your ears, hot breath fanning against your cheek as he rolled his hips to hit that spot that made you clench around him. 

“I’m- I’m gonna-”

Your stuttering made him slow his hips, and in return you whimpered.

“Gonna what? Gonna cum? Hm?”

You huffed at his condescending tone, and he slowed down even more, to the point where you could feel him dragging along your walls, hot and heavy. 

“What if I just-”

Bucky stopped moving his hips completely, and tears pricked at the back of your eyes as your chest heaved, his grip tightening only slightly around your throat.

“- don’t let you?” he finished, pulling out almost completely then, and you groaned in frustration. You felt the knot that had been forming in your stomach loosen, the tingling in your legs fading, and you furrowed your brows in a desperate plea for release.

“P-please,” you mewled. “Please, please, I need to, I have to-”

Bucky seemed to be satisfied with your begging, because he thrusted himself into you again, bottoming out with the slap of skin on skin and your quiet, breathy moans being the only sounds in the restaurant. Each thrust brought out a moan from your lips, a layer of sweat covering your skin. The first tear left your waterline and rolled down your cheek as he pressed down harder against you, the edge of the counter digging into your hip bones deliciously. 

“More,” you whispered, eyes clenched shut as your head went dizzy with pleasure. 

Bucky obliged, nipping at your neck as his hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat travelled downwards to lay a slap to your ass, and you hissed at the sting. Your orgasm washed over you quickly, eyes rolling to the back of your head and legs going weak. If it wasn’t for Bucky’s body holding you upright against the counter, you were certain you would’ve collapsed. Warmth took over your belly as Bucky groaned in your ear, cumming inside you, and he let go of your neck, allowing you to drop your head down in an attempt to catch your breath. 

After he had pulled out of you carefully, helping you pull your panties back up, you turned around, a lazy smile on your lips as you leaned back against the counter on your elbows. Bucky gave you a skeptical look, smirk crawling onto his face as he narrowed his eyes at you.

“What is it?”

You shrugged, tugging at the hem of his shirt to straighten it out a bit. 

“Nothing,” you said mindlessly, smile only growing larger.

He chuckled in amusement, grabbing your hand in his. 

“What is it?”, he repeated, and you sighed dramatically.

“Well, I mean...,” you started, eyes travelling around behind him in false apprehension. “I hope you know this means you gotta take me out now, Barnes.”

Bucky stared at you for a moment, the grin on his face only brightening. 

“Alright, I promise I will.”

____________________

And Bucky kept his promise. 

Five days after your initial hook-up, Bucky came buzzing at your apartment building entrance, bouquet of flowers in his hands, smile on his face. 

“Wow, Barnes, I didn’t know you were into romantic gestures,” you teased, taking the flowers from his hands. He shrugged, shoving them into his pockets as he walked alongside you. 

“I wasn’t. Not really, never used to be.”

He glanced at you as he finished his sentence, but you were too preoccupied with the smell of fresh blossoms to notice the smile playing on his lips. 

“Things change, I guess,” he muttered, and you grinned at him. 

“So, where are we going?”

“I told you already,” he said with a teasing shake of his head. 

“It’s a surprise.”

____________________

Three official dates later and Bucky finally came up to your apartment. 

Albeit, a bit hesitant, because it was well past midnight and “I don’t wanna wake up your neighbors with my huge footsteps, doll.”

It took some convincing but he finally agreed to come up and sit with you a while. You said you would show him your favorite books, introduce him to some new literature he could catch up on. And you definitely planned on doing that, but things with Bucky have a funny way of playing out differently than you expect. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, doll-”

Humming in amusement, you smiled down at him, straddled around his thighs.

Your fingers gripping his hair, you held his head so his eyes were level with yours, and you saw the struggle in them as your other hand teased his cock through his boxers with gentle fingers. 

“What is it, baby?” you pouted, tugging harder on his hair, and he winced at the feeling. 

“Stop teasing,” he hissed through clenched teeth, and you feigned a disappointed frown. 

“Now that’s not very nice of you.”

Bucky shut his eyes quickly in a split second of frustration, and when he opened them again, you noticed his pupils were blown wide, staring into yours.

After a deep sigh, his demeanor changed, lids heavy and lips swollen from the bites and kisses you attacked them with previously. 

“Please...,” he said in a whisper. “Please don’t tease me.”

His words brought a smile to your face, and you pretended to think about it, tilting your head to the side slightly. 

“Alright, pretty boy, since you asked so nicely.”

You punctuated your sentence with a roll of your hips against his, and a soft whimper left his lips when your bare pussy rolled over his dick. 

Your fingers found the hem of his boxers, and you pulled them down, teasingly slow, Bucky lifting his hips a bit to make it easier for you. He breathed a sigh of relief at the feeling of release, and you felt your breath quicken at the sight of his cock, heavy and hard and begging to be touched. 

“Please.”

It came out quietly, desperately, as he stared into your eyes, and you almost smirked at the way he looked near tears. You hummed in adoration, leaning your head down somewhat to press a kiss to his lips. 

“So needy...,” you muttered into his mouth as you rolled your hips upwards, the tip of his cock gliding through your wet slit, and his hips bucked up involuntarily. 

He whined against your lips, nipping at the bottom one when you sank down onto his cock without warning. A sigh left your body when you felt him stretch you out, filling you out completely. You clenched around him, trying to adjust, and he groaned, forehead dropping against your chest. 

No matter how many times he’d been inside you, you always need time to adjust, and you would wait. Oh, you would wait hours if you needed to, because once you got a taste of him, that was it. You were ruined for other men. 

And Bucky could spend hours inside you, warm and wet and perfectly made for him, your body wrapped around his. All you had to do was ask him, and he would fall to his knees in worship. 

You sat on him, just like that, for... seconds? Minutes? An hour, maybe? Bucky couldn’t tell because it didn’t really matter to him. His mind was clouded with the feeling of you tight around his throbbing cock, and your lips on his neck and jaw, and your fingers in his hair. 

Bucky looked up at you, almost glowing with sex and gratification, and he swore to himself he would pray to you, pray for you, pray with you, every single day for the rest of his life. How he went a century without the absolution of your touch was entirely beyond him, but he knew he wouldn’t let you go now that he had you in his grasp. 

You started moving, slowly, teasingly, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. Sighs and pants left your lips at the feeling of being full, stuffed to the brim, and it took everything Bucky had in himself not to grab your hips and absolutely destroy you himself. 

“Oh, God,” you panted into his ear, rolling your hips, chasing your pleasure as Bucky’s chest heaved with labored breaths. 

It was pure torture, in the best way. His eyes watched the way your brows furrowed slightly in concentration, your lips slightly parted. Watched your hands search for purchase on his body, anywhere they could find, as you clenched tighter around him. 

If there was a place he had to choose to stay for the rest of eternity, it was here. 

“I love you,” he mumbled, almost subconsciously, and your movements faltered only slightly. 

Biting your lip, your eyes searched his face, and found only honesty. Bucky’s hands came up to rest on your thighs, fingers digging into them, the contrast of one warm hand and one cold hand sending shockwaves down your spine. 

“I love you more,” you whispered, pulling him in by his cheeks for a short kiss. 

Your pushes and pulls, ups and downs, gasps and moans grew quicker, more incessant, and Bucky could tell by the way your walls fluttered quickly around his cock that you were about to cum. 

____________________

He laid there, next to you. 

He laid there a long time, fingers tracing shapeless patters along your arm as you slept, and his eyes studied your face.

No, Bucky Barnes never had a serious girlfriend. There were girls he’d go out with, girls he would smooch. Girls he would walk home and girls he would smile at. None of them ever gave him the feeling he was running after, always thinking it was right there but always just out of reach. The feeling you gave him, like he was underwater but could still breathe. Like he was on fire but cold as ice, like he never breathed properly before he met you and now, after getting a taste of you, he would never be able to breathe properly without you again. 

He laid there, body heavy and mind satisfied, and he understood. He understood why Adam ate the apple, why Orpheus turned around. He understood why Sparta started a war for Helen, and he understood why Romeo drank the poison. 

He would do it all, sin and be punished a million times over if it meant he would get a glimpse of you every day. 

____________________

TAGLIST:

@dreamsley​ @a-ngeli-que​ @mindyoshiii​ @agirlinherhead​ @s-katergorl​ @ace-27749​ @leyannrae​ @tailsoflightning​ 

[wearywinchester]

Tender

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When hiding an injury from Dean doesn’t go to plan, he’s there to give you the comfort you need.

Requested by @latenight-daythoughts: “Hey! I have a request for a Dean one shot please, could you do one where she gets hurt on a hunt and tired to play it off until they get back to the bunker and when dean patches her up it hurts more then she thought, so she starts crying and Dean comforts her and is all cute and sweet? I love your writing btw!!”

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: angst, injury, blood, fluff, comfort, kissing

Hurt. You got hurt on that hunt and you weren’t quite sure how you talked yourself out of it with Dean. Maybe you actually did, but a part of you told you that was more than likely impossible. Not with the look he gave you or the glance he spared down at your leg. But he seemingly took your word for it at that very moment.

Your eyes squeezed shut for a moment as you took a breath, trying your hardest to make it to the Impala sitting just a few feet away. Every ounce of pressure on your leg made it ache all the more as you walked, walked like you insisted you could do to a persistent Dean the moment he saw the look on your face. But you told him you were fine, staving his worries with a smile and a witty counter that had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was fine, so long as you kept your weight off of it as much as possible until you could clean yourself up, it’d be fine. At least that’s what you’d told yourself.

You were relieved once you’d slipped in the front seat after Dean suggested you sit up there with him, Sam in the back, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you slumped back against the leather seat. The fabric of your jeans over the wound on your thigh had been frayed on the brink of being ripped, but not enough to draw your eye should you be anyone but yourself or Dean Winchester. Stains of crimson hadn’t been visible on the dark denim material, but you were sure it’d be obvious the moment they came off.

As you sat, you felt that ache on your leg begin to lighten some, that pain shooting down it dissipating now that you hadn’t been standing on it.

It shouldn’t be that bad, not really, you’d snagged it along the edge of something sharp when that demon had thrown you with so much as a flick of her hand. You were sore overall, something a hot bath might help with when you make it back to the bunker. But you’d yet to see your leg, to see just what damage lay beneath your jeans.

“You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?” Dean asked, pulling your attention from your thoughts.

You looked to your left, Dean’s gaze shifting from the road to look at you for a moment or two before looking ahead.

“‘M fine, De,” you murmur, that aching burn on your thigh threatening to spill over your emotions and give you away in an instant.

He looks at you again in a lingering glance, his lips pursed in disbelief, brows furrowing at the way you looked down at your leg with a frown, or the way you brushed your thumb over that very spot you said was nothing. He saw how your lips twitched downward in a deeper frown for only a mere second, quickly brushing it off with a sigh and a bite to the inside of your cheek before he looked forward once more.

You knew, by the light tension in his jaw and the crease between his brows, you knew he could see there was more to it than that.

After a moment or two you scooted a little closer to him, your hand grabbing his own. He felt the way you brushed your thumb along his knuckles in an absentminded habit, your gaze fixed out the window in an attempt to set your attention on anything other than the burning feeling that simmered on your skin.

It was okay. You were fine.

Your hand hadn’t left Dean’s nearly the entirety of the trip, something he noticed and something he didn’t mind, something that had him smiling softly at the mere thought of it. But something that was just as quick to steal that smile was the very look on your face each and every time he glanced over at you, a slight frown on your lips that you weren’t even aware you had, and that crease between your brows very much there.

You sighed when he parked in the bunker’s garage that night, getting out before he could come and help you do it. The look on his face was evident that he wasn’t happy with that, those dimples appearing by the corners of his mouth as he looked at you over the roof of the car.

“I’m fine, Dean,” you say, meeting him and Sam at the trunk where you’d grabbed your bags.

“You say that every time, sweetheart,” he counters.

“Maybe this time you’ll take my word for it,” you say, brows raised as you put your bag over your shoulder.

He chuckles then, head shaking as he closes the trunk. You tried your best to be convincing, and so far he hadn’t pried, but that very same feeling was back now that you were up and walking around, pressure back on your leg seemingly worse than before.

You found yourself grateful that Dean had chosen to walk ahead, Sam beside you, making it just a little easier to hide the change in the way you walked. Just enough to get you to your shared room without being terribly obvious. But it hurt, it hurt more and it was becoming increasingly more apparent to you.

You were home, and that’s what made things a bit better for you. You weren’t in some motel anymore, weren’t in the Impala anymore, you were home in the comfort of your familiar place with your room, your bed, and Dean. Despite the nagging pain wearing away at you with every movement of your leg, you tried not to think about it that much, and tried not to think about how it’d feel upon taking your jeans off. How it’d look given that you haven’t even seen it yet.

Dean dimmed the lights in the hall and bid Sam a goodnight like he always did, twisting the knob to your shared room and pushing the door open. Everything was as you’d left it just three days prior, the bed still made and ready to climb in and Dean’s slippers still tucked halfway under the bed, his pajama pants still slung over the back to the small desk chair.

“There’s no place like home,” Dean chuckles, sighing as he drops his duffel bag on the floor at the foot of the bed right next to yours.

You watched as he untied his boots and stepped out of them, unease settling over you as you took your own boots off, fighting the urge to scrunch up your face at the way your jeans pressed into your leg as you bent down.

You couldn’t hide this from him forever, you don’t think that’s possible when you really think about it. But you still weren’t willing to give it up, you could see the look on his face already if he knew. So, you bit the inside of your cheek and shrugged off your jacket, eyeing him with a soft sigh.

“I’m gonna go shower before bed,” you say, smiling when he turns to face you.

He simply hums, dipping down to kiss you.

“Don’t be too long,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back with a grin.

“Is it ‘cause you’ll miss me too much, Winchester?” You ask, brow raising in amusement.

You watch as the corner of his mouth quirks upwards, a laugh leaving his lips as he nods to himself, tugging back the blankets on the bed. It very much was the reason and he knew it, no matter how much Sam picks on him for it all in good fun, he just can’t help it.

“That’s exactly why,” he says, tossing a clean flannel of his your way along with a pair of boxers because he knows just how much you love to wear them to bed. Doesn’t even need you to tell him that very fact because he sees you snag a pair from his drawer every night without a care that he’ll see you stealing them either.

You stand there for a moment more as you look at him, your smile soft and fond as you hold the clothes in your hands. After that moment, you find it in yourself to turn on your heel and step into the hall, heading towards the bathroom. Your heart was bursting with the very thought of him sharing his clothes with you, of the very idea that he’d been so thoughtful, but the wound on your leg was making it awfully difficult to think about anything other than that.

You switched the light on and closed the door behind you, setting the clothes down on the counter. You turned the faucet on and stuck your hands under the tap, the water cold as it splashed across your face. It was a little more refreshing than you felt before it, soothing the fatigue that’d been settling over you only temporarily.

Dread simmered in the pit of your stomach at the thought of having to take off your jeans, but it wasn’t doing you any good to keep them on.

You exhaled a sigh, eyes squeezing shut as you hooked your fingers in your belt loops. It was fine until you got about halfway, and you found yourself fighting the urge to let out the cry that’s been sitting in the back of your throat, the feel of the rough material scraping over your thigh making it all the more difficult to stifle it.

It was then that you saw it, the blood smudged over your leg and the scrape that ran across your skin, angry and red as it tapered just above your knee. You ran your hands down your face at the sight of it, having been less than ideal but you knew it couldn’t have been good.

You kicked the dirtied jeans to the side in frustration, sighing as you opened the cabinet below the sink. You snagged the first aid kit and the bottle of peroxide just next to it, grabbing a clean wash rag.

This could have been avoided, maybe, but at that moment you were struggling to figure out just how it could have been. Demons were unpredictable, able to sense a trick with ease, able to tell when someone’s lurking with the intent to leave one less demon in the world. They give ample opportunities to be outsmarted, though, but this didn’t seem to be one of those times. There was no match for a human against the powers they hold save for the weapons that served you no use that day. You were thrown clear across the room without a beat of hesitation, something done with ease.

So maybe, just maybe it wasn’t avoidable this time.

You knew Dean saw it, he had to. It was more than obvious that there’d be repercussions to being thrown a good seven feet into a less than unforgiving cabinet. He knew you better than to believe that you were as fine as you say you were. He knows you like the back of his hand, can see your stubbornness from a mile away because he’s the very same.

You wet the wash rag at the sink, taking a seat on the bench by the showers. You began to blot away the blood, nose scrunching and eyes squinting as the burn of the jagged scrape worsened from it.

It was then that there was a knock on the door, a more than familiar voice on the other side.

“Sweetheart? ‘M coming in, I forgot to—”

Your eyes widen as the door opens, gaze meeting green eyes before his stare shifts downwards to the rag in your hand, splotches of a pale crimson staining it. They bounce to the source, to the irritated and red scrape dragging along the outside of your thigh, nearly classifying as a cut but not quite.

“Y/n.”

“Dean, it’s not—”

“What, ‘it’s not a big deal’?” He says, anger seeping into his tone. Not at you, never. It was when he thought back to that hunt that has him angry.

“Dean,” you sigh.

He’s quick to cross the tiled floor, kneeling in front of you. He nudges your knee with his hand gently, the tips of his fingers brushing along your skin. You saw the crease between his brows deepen, lips parted as his eyes bounced over the entirety of the wound on your leg. You can see the way his jaw tenses, tight and unwavering and if it were possible, steam would be coming out of his ears at that moment.

“Damn it, Y/n,” he says quietly, a frustrated huff leaving his lips. “You didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out,” you reason, brows furrowing as you tilt your head to the side slightly.

His gaze narrows up at you in disapproval, your reasoning something that was near laughable to him, you even knew it was ridiculous too the moment the words fell from your lips.

“You can bet I’ll freak out,” he says, his chuckle humorless as he runs his hand down his face. “This is exactly why I didn’t want us to split up.”

“Well, we did.”

He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at you, breathing out a huff through his nose. He was upset more than anything, with himself you could tell, could see the frown on his lips as he grabbed the wash cloth from your hand and picked up where you left off.

He was gentle as he wiped away the dirt and blood smeared around it, more so than you despite the white-knuckled grip he’s got on the tattered cloth. You tried to keep your attention on anything else, anything other than the way your leg had been so sensitive even the most mild of touches as hurt. You tried to keep your gaze on him, distract yourself with the abundance of freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks.

They were easy to distract yourself with on any given occasion, on times where you didn’t need to be distracted, when you shouldn’t be. But for the life of you, you couldn’t bring yourself to get lost in counting them this time, not with the numbing pain serving as a painful way of keeping you fixated on just that.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly, residual anger still wrapped around his tone with the softness of his words. But he was more concerned than angry.

You puffed out a humorless laugh through your nose, your grip on the bench you sat on tightening some. “I’m not exactly jumping at the idea of running to my boyfriend every time I get hurt on a hunt.”

Your tone is frustrated, embarrassment simmering in the pit of your stomach over the current situation you were in, not to mention the way it happened. You’d never get taken seriously if you ran and cried to Dean each and every time you got hurt. You barely felt like an adequate hunter as it is, you didn’t want to add to it. You would have been fine if he hadn’t seen it.

“Y/n, this isn’t some puny little paper cut, okay? This is way different than just slapping a bandaid on it and kissin’ it better.”

“I said I’m fine, Dean,” you say, jaw tensing as you look away.

You hated the way your voice was beginning to falter, swallowing thickly in hopes to push down the persistent lump in your throat. Now was not the time to cry, not in front of him. That would only make matters worse and you don’t think you could handle that.

“It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help, not even a little bit. You don’t have to play the tough guy act all the time.”

You stay quiet as you continue to look away from him, the pressure building behind your eyes. When you glance down you see he’s got that dreaded bottle in his hand, popping the cap open with his thumb. He’s hesitant as he tips the bottle, the clear peroxide having poured steadily over every inch of the wound on your leg, bubbling and stinging the moment it touches the damaged skin.

You felt your lip begin to quiver, near uncontrollable as it throbbed and burned, the pain worse than you thought as you bit down on your lip. It was almost unbearable, a numbing kind of pain that brought heat to your cheeks and quickened your heart. That pressure behind your eyes increased then until you just couldn’t handle it, lip free from your teeth as you hid your cry in your shoulder.

But it turns out, you’re not that good at hiding, not from Dean Winchester. Not that it was very hard to notice either.

He stopped immediately, gaze flickering to you, cheeks wet with hot tears and lip quivering in a way that tugged at his heart. His hand settled on your cheek, a gentle nudge to get you to look at him.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, the fond nickname something that makes you cry all the more in that moment.

You wrap your arms around him and he settles back a bit as he holds you closer, brows furrowed and jaw tense because seeing you so upset is one thing he can’t handle. Seeing you cry is something that tears him to shreds every time.

His grip on you is tight, his stubble pressing into the side of your neck. He’s cautious of bumping your leg, his throat clearing to try and stave off that pressure constricting around his throat from that very same lump forming as it did you. You could feel the kiss he pressed to your cheek, one to your temple, lingering and sweet. Dean Winchester could be the gruffest man anyone’s ever seen, but he’s got the softest heart, and if there’s one thing he can do without fail it’s comfort.

He finds himself pulling back when you loosen your grip, lip still wobbly as ever as you look at him with glossy eyes. You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, cheeks that burn with embarrassment for crying even though he didn’t mind it in the slightest. He didn’t mind the tears on his shirt, didn’t mind the snot to go with it. That’s the least of his concerns, they all pale in comparison to you.

“It hurts,” you whisper, your gaze shifting to his at the feel of his hand on your cheek, calloused and warm.

“I know it does, baby. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine what that feels like,” he says, smiling softly. “But ‘m almost finished and the ugly part is over, I can promise you that. You just gotta let me take care of you, okay?”

You nod, the patience in his words having set you at ease as you sniff, wiping your tears once more when his hand falls from your face in favor of sorting through bandages. He comes up with a few cotton pads, laying them over the length of the freshly cleaned wound as you sit there, still sniffling from having cried.

He’s more than careful as he takes the roll of gauze and wraps it around your thigh, securing the bandages completely with care to not make it too tight before he tucks in the loose end.

“You’re good as new, sweetheart,” he says, looking up at you.

You flash him a look, biting the inside of your cheek as you laugh softly, not quite humorous. “I’d hardly call it that.”

You’re grumbling, but he takes that hint of a smile as a good thing, standing halfway to press a kiss on your cheek and one to your lips, another to your forehead as his hand brushes over your cheek before he stands fully and swipes the clean clothes from the counter.

You stand with a look of unease, trying your best to keep the pressure on your good leg before that dreadful pain can jolt up your other. You shrug off your shirt in favor of his flannel, the soft material hanging loosely from your shoulders in a heap of warm and fabric softener and a hint of his cologne. It’s a simple thing that amounts to more comfort than you can express, the mere feeling of it putting you at ease.

He helps you with your pajama bottoms, trying not to fuss over you as you did it yourself, instead offering his arm for your balance that you found yourself needing more than you thought.

Your bed was more comfortable than you’d imagined coming home to, leaps and bounds better than that motel mattress. The sheets were soft and they too smelled like Dean, the blankets warm and hefty as they rested over top of you.

Dean brought you close enough to nearly share a pillow, the events transpiring earlier that day on the hunt having sunken deep in the pit of his stomach and simmered there, bringing with it that anger that hadn’t quite left. It made his stomach twist and churn each and every time you got hurt, the blame he put on himself having picked at him every single time without fail. Especially when it brings you to tears, especially when it’s got you so bothered it’s got you crying into his shoulder.

He hates it, he hates that part of hunting.

But regardless, those kind green eyes meet your gaze as he looks at you with a soft smile, his fingertips brushing along your cheek. He’s got that look on his face, one that’s telling of something humorous sitting on the tip of his tongue just waiting to be spoken.

“What, De?” You sigh, feeling the residual tension of your tears beginning to dissolve just a little more.

He chuckles, looking down for a moment as he shakes his head. “If I were you, ‘think I might’ve cried way sooner than you did.”

You roll your eyes then, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Dean, that’s a lie and you know it.”

“Is not,” he insists, lips pursed to stifle his smile.

You look at him, tired and amused as you make no effort to hide your smile. He’s got that smile, that one that makes your cheeks burn and your heart flutter every time he looks at you like that.

“Whatever you say, Winchester,” you sigh, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips.

You find yourself lying atop his chest as he turns the tv up a little bit more, his chuckle rumbling against you. He tossed the remote down, the very tip of your finger tracing over his chest. Your legs tangle with his own, your injured one on top as you turn a bit more on your side. He’s got reruns of your favorite show on because he knows you’re too tired to watch the new ones, knows you like to have it on when you fall asleep.

“Goodnight, De,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chin before sinking back down on his chest.

He smiles in that moment, soft and sweet as his thumb brushes back and forth over your shoulder lightly.

“Night, sweetheart.”

You’re fine. You’ve got him and you’re okay.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @agalliasi @deandaydreaming @campingmonkey @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @taikawho

[honeytae]

My heart is yours.

hi bubs! so basically this is just about the reader experiencing some jealousy, and jungkook is pretty confused lol. i’m gonna be honest i don’t know how good i feel about this bc angst just isn’t my thing but i hope you all think it’s okay! this is totally not based on real events enjoy! tags: @ahgasearmyfan, @hoseokayy genre: angst, fluff word count: 3.0k

This was not how you wanted the night to go. 

Tonight had started off well; Jungkook had picked you up to arrive at Jimin’s birthday party together, and you had spent the first few hours dancing with him and his friends. You were having a really good time. Emphasis on were.

The fun had ended almost as soon as Jungkook left the table to get another round of drinks, leaving you to converse with some of Jimin’s friends you hadn’t met yet as he made his way to the bar.

In between conversations, you’d taken a brief glance over to the full bar, recognizing your boyfriend as the last one in line as he ruffled a hand through his hair. Smiling fondly at the sight, you’d turned back to one of Jimin’s friends from school, engaging in a conversation about how he knew the birthday boy. 

But the next time you looked over, your whole body seemed to set aflame in a blinding rage. 

Jungkook was no longer at the back of the line, in fact you had to boost yourself up taller in order to see the back of his head. But what you saw next to him was what really set you off; some pretty girl latched onto his arm as if she belonged there.

The chattering voices and pulsing music all seemed to fade into the background as you watched the woman continually push herself at your boyfriend. Clenching your fists, you caved into your seething anger, standing from your seat and stomping out of the room before you could think twice about it. 

He wanted to let that shit happen? Fine. But you sure as hell weren’t going to stick around and watch.

The rational part of you knew that you were acting ridiculous, much like a child throwing a tantrum with the way you’d just stormed off. But the rational part of you was not in control right now. The rational part of you had disappeared as soon as you saw her put her hands on your boyfriend.

Your heels clicked along the floorboards as you made your way toward the door, harsh breaths escaping your flared nostrils at the vision replaying over and over again in your head. 

You were so distracted that you didn’t even hear the footsteps coming toward you, nearly jumping out of your skin when you suddenly collided with a body. 

“Whoa, where are you going?” Jimin asked after steadying your body with his hands on your shoulders, seemingly walking back from the bathroom before you nearly trampled him on your fast paced trip down the hallway. 

A frown appeared on his face as he studied your reddened cheeks and overall shifted energy from only a few minutes ago, ducking his head as his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, your mouth gaping for a second as you considered what to say, knowing you could not possibly state the actual reason you had attempted to storm out of the party without being seen as crazy by your friend.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” He lowered his voice, your eyes widening at the sudden excuse before you shook your head no.

You felt horrible lying to Jimin as he looked at you with a sympathetic frown, the back of his hand going to your forehead with a concerned furrow of his brows. But it was the only option you had; that or looking like the jealous maniac you were at the moment.

“I-I was just going to get some air.” You explained weakly, Jimin nodding before looking back at the flashing lights of the dance floor. 

Was that what you were trying to do? Honestly, you didn’t know. The only thing going through your mind while walking out through the hallway was simply getting as far as you could from what was going on at the bar.

“You want me to come with you?” He offered, making you smile slightly before shaking your head again. 

“No, Jimin, I’m fine. This is your party and I want you to go have fun. If I don’t see you again, happy birthday.” You faked a smile, the man nodding before pulling you in for a hug. 

It was then that you heard the quiet thumping of footsteps down the hall, pulling away from your friend’s embrace to find none other than your boyfriend approaching behind Jimin.

“Feel better, alright?” Jimin gently squeezed at your shoulder, you nodding in response before he walked away, leaving you alone with Jungkook in the otherwise empty hallway.

“You’re not feeling well, baby?” His brows knit pulled together, having overheard the last bit of the conversation in his stroll to find you after returning to your empty spot in the booth, drinks finally in hand. 

“Not really. Just need some air.” You sighed, your boyfriend stepping forward with a press of his palm to your spine to lead you outside, no hesitation in his actions as he concentrated on getting you out of the building. 

Despite the goosebumps pricking your arms, the cold air that met your skin when Jungkook shoved the door open felt nice. You didn’t even realize how overheated you’d gotten in your rage, only realizing then how sickly you’d probably looked to Jimin.

Well, at least that excuse would work out for you.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” Jungkook mumbled, interrupting your thoughts as he slipped his jacket off of his shoulders to drape over your own, taking a seat beside you on the sidewalk. 

You thanked him quietly at the polite gesture, sighing out as you placed your elbows on your knees, resting your forehead in your hands. Honestly, at this point, you did have a headache. But it wasn’t from alcohol or the pulsing music in the building behind you. 

It was entirely induced by the way the blood had rushed to your head when you’d seen that girl push herself at your boyfriend, shamelessly giggling at him in a high pitched tone that had you clenching your fists, the crescent moon imprints from your fingernails still dug into your palm.

It really wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t done anything in return. But at the sight, you couldn’t hold back the fiery monster inside of you, the feeling that you just wanted to slap whoever tried to steal this man from you.

You hated yourself for feeling this way, knowing that Jungkook deserved someone who didn’t make a fuss out of these silly little things. The anger had now almost completely faded, manifesting itself in frustration with yourself and your own insecurities.

Now you were just projecting, taking feelings that were in no way his fault out on him.

“What are you doing?” He spoke up, interrupting your thought process as you continued blinking down at the pavement beside your feet.

Jungkook had been sitting next to you this entire time, observing you with wide eyes as you seemed to completely dissociate; something not all too uncommon for you to do when you were upset about something. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, suddenly alert when he noticed your lower lip tremble a bit, big doe eyes staring back at you as he tried to figure out what was going on with you. 

“Nothing, Kook. I just want to go home, I think. I’ll get a cab so you can stay-” 

“Baby, if you want to leave, I’m coming with you. C’mon, let’s go home.” Jungkook said as he pushed himself up from the ground, reaching his palm out to you, a bit of relief washing through his body when you let him hold your hand and tug you up from the ground. 

Fuck, you wished he wasn’t so sweet. It made it even harder to be upset with him.

You didn’t let go of his hand once you were standing, Jungkook not taking the initiative of letting go either. The touch provided a bit of comfort to the both of you, his touch grounding your anger and your touch reassuring him that it was maybe not him that you were upset with. Maybe.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” He stopped you again, studying your expression with a slight pout. With a silent nod, you let him lead you down the sidewalk, footsteps in tune with his own as you made your way down the street.

Jungkook kept sneaking glances over at you, lost as he tried his best to navigate the clues your body language was giving him.

Your head was cast downward, eyes never meeting his even as he looked over at you. Your hand held his tightly, most likely subconsciously as you seemed completely in your own head at the moment. 

With a deep breath, he paused to interrupt your trudge along the sidewalk, his sudden stop causing you to pause as well, barely even registering the action as self deprivating thoughts continued to swirl around your head.

“Hey,” he softly called for your attention, your eyes meeting his at the sound, “what’s going on?” 

His question had you diverting your eyes again, instead focusing on a passing car as you bit the side of your cheek in angst. He was going to get it out of you sooner or later; he was persistent, always had been.

“I’m fine.” You responded, not knowing what else to say as the wind blew your hair back from your face. 

You watched as Jungkook’s face morphed from confusion to absolute sadness, his fingers gently soothing over your cheek to confirm what he’d thought he’d seen in the glow from the headlights of the car passing by seconds ago.

“Baby, you’re crying.” 

With a confused hum, you lifted your hand to your face, swiping your wet cheeks and cursing under your breath. You truly hadn’t felt it happen, but you supposed it was no wonder with the growing lump in your throat.

“I think it’s the wind.” You mumbled lamely, Jungkook scoffing before pulling you into a hug, guiding your head to the crook of his neck as you easily complied.

“If you think I’m buying that for a single second,” he sighed, “can you please tell me what’s wrong?” He asked sadly, awaiting an answer as you sniffled into his neck. 

“I don’t wanna say it. I already feel like an asshole.” You responded, feeling more tears prick your eyeballs at the mere thought of bringing up your doubts to him. The last thing you wanted was for Jungkook to take your own stupid insecurities and blame himself.

“What?” Jungkook asked, confusion lacing his tone as he slightly pulled away from you to glance at your face. 

“That girl fucking pissed me off. And then I stormed out like a child. I ignored you because I didn’t know how to approach the conversation like an adult. I hurt you, so now I’m crying.” You explained, sniffling as Jungkook swiped at your tears with his thumbs, confusion etched into his features at your scattered thoughts. 

“What girl pissed you off?” He cocked his head, making you widen your eyes in disbelief.

“At the party.” You stated obviously.

When his face still didn’t change, you sighed, biting your lip out of nerves before your boyfriend undid the action with his finger.  His eyebrows were still bunched in confusion, fumbling to figure out the cause of your emotions.

“At the bar, Kook. She was all over you.” You specified, the wheels slowly turning in Jungkook’s head as his mouth gaped open.

“Are you kidding?” He asked in disbelief, making you huff before crossing your arms over your chest, turning away from him with a plastered on smile.

“Yep, I guess I’m just a dumbass.” You shrugged, beginning to walk away before Jungkook caught you with an arm around your waist, pulling you back to him.

“No, no, no, stop. That’s not what I meant. I just, I can’t really believe you’re so upset about something like that.” He explained, you remaining silent as you adjusted your gaze down to the top button on his shirt.  

By now, the jealousy had almost fully faded, leaving you feeling ashamed and embarrassed of your previous actions influenced by your momentary rage.

“I can acknowledge that she wasn’t exactly being appropriate,” He spoke slowly, “but I wasn’t engaging with it, was I?” 

You shrugged at that, blinking at a nearby telephone pole as you nervously fiddled with your fingers tucked into Jungkook’s coat pocket.

“What does that mean?” He asked at the action, causing you to sigh as you looked back at him.

“It means I don’t know. You weren’t exactly pushing her off of you.” You explained, causing Jungkook to raise his eyebrows at you in a deadpanned stare.

“No, I didn’t push her off of me. That’s a step too far, don’t you think?” He asked, inhaling deeply in an attempt to ground his building frustrations, grabbing your hand in his and soothing his thumb over the skin of your knuckles.

“You have to trust me, love. I would never do anything to hurt you.” He spoke softly, you nodding in reply as his eyes implored yours to believe him.

“I know that. I do trust you, Kook. I’m sorry.” You sniffled, Jungkook pulling you into his chest again and stroking his fingers through your hair at the back of your head. 

“I’m not upset with you, baby. Just a little confused, is all.” He pulled back slightly to look at your face, tucking some loose strands of your hair behind your ears as his eyes studied your own puffy ones.

“Why did you get so upset?” He asked, making you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion at the obvious answer to his question. 

“Because that girl was all over you an-”

“That’s not what I mean. Why did that girl bother you so much if you know I only want you?” He interrupted you, watching as you sighed knowingly, gulping the fresh lump in your throat down in an attempt to bury your emotions. 

“It’s not you. I trust you.” You assured him, the man nodding at you as he patiently waited for your elaboration. 

“It’s not you that’s the problem. It’s me.” You said shakily, face crumpling into tears once again making Jungkook step toward you to hug you once again. 

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it, it’s okay.” He soothed you, running his hand up and down your spine comfortingly before you pulled back slightly to look at him. 

“Me crying isn’t a reason to avoid this conversation, Jungkook. I’m being ridiculous and I’m sorry.” You wiped your tears with the pads of your fingers, swiping them away in frustration that you couldn’t express your thoughts and feelings without bawling like a baby.

“I know it’s not, it is a conversation we need to have, I know that. But you’re upset, I’m upset, we’re tired, and it’s fucking cold out here.” He finished with a slight laugh, making you chuckle as well.

“Let’s just go home, change into some comfortable clothes, and then we’ll talk. Calmly. Okay?” He asked, you frowning as you looked back at the building you’d tried to leave in a huff.

“You don’t want to stay? I’m fine with staying.” You assured him, the man chuckling slightly as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I just want to go home with my favorite girl.” He mumbled against the skin, pulling back to raise his eyebrows at your skeptical expression.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He nodded, smiling gently at you when you nodded in agreement, taking his hand in yours once again as you let him lead you to the car. 

“Hop on in, m’lady.” He gestured with a nod, holding the passenger side door open as you slipped past him to sit in the car. 

You expected him to close the door and round the vehicle to get into the drivers side, but you were surprised when he instead leaned over your body, placing his hand on your jaw to press his lips to yours in a searing kiss.

Taken aback at the way his lips hungrily captured yours, your hand instinctively came up to support the back of his head as you allowed his tongue to push its way past your lips. 

The pads of your fingers soothed over the hair on his nape as his soft lips melded with yours, tiny puffs of air escaping from his nostrils and hitting your skin as he continued his dizzying ministrations.

Pulling back, he pressed a gentle kiss to your bottom lip, looking down at you with fluttered eyelids as he stroked his thumb across your cheek.

“My heart is yours. I‘m in love with you. And that will never change.” He reminded you, your eyes glued to his pretty features in awe as you soaked in his words. 

“I know that, Kookie. I do.” You responded quietly, the man nodding in satisfaction before leaning in to peck your lips one last time, pulling back and withdrawing himself from the car.

When he shut the door, you were surrounded in silence once again, but this time your mind wasn’t making it so loud.

It was eased even just the slightest bit at the man’s reassurances, comforted by the way his hand held your own, resting upon your thigh as he started the car.

Your insecurities would not vanish overnight, that was for sure. But with the tender patience Jungkook never failed to provide you with, you had no doubt that it was an issue that could be worked through.

Leaning over to press your lips to Jungkook’s cheek, a smile quirked his lips at the action, turning to you with a shy grin as your eyes traced his features in the dark.

“What was that for?” He asked, smile widening when you shrugged your shoulders.

“I just love you. Thank you for putting up with me and all my crazy bullshit.” You said, Jungkook scoffing in response, lifting your joint hands to kiss at your knuckles.

“I love you. Along with all your crazy bullshit.”

[pascalpanic]

Begin Again (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Inspo: Begin Again by Adam Melchor

Summary: Dating apps never pair you with the right people. Until you come across the profile of a handsome, pancake loving FBI agent named Marcus.

W/C: 4.8k

Warnings: lots of talk of food, language, late night deep conversations, some sadness at the end but nothing intense? reader has a pet cat, is that worth a warning? idk

A/N: HI GUYS this is my first full length Marcus Pike fic! I really hope you like it!! thank you so much to @theteddylupinexperience and @sanchosammy for being my best editors and proofreaders and idea givers!!!

note: PLS listen to the song before/after/while reading! it’s one of my favs and it really goes along with the story

Over the course of your adult years, you’ve become convinced that dating apps are complete and utter bullshit. The algorithms never work right, never pair you or any of your friends with anyone worth seeing in person. Maybe that’s just the problem; maybe it’s not the apps but the people. Whatever the answer is, whatever reason you’ve never found success in the endless swiping, you’re through with it.

That was before last week. The rainy Tuesday night left you in your apartment, alone, to succumb to the cold spring dreariness. Over a cup of hot tea, you’d downloaded the app again. Might as well try, right? You have nothing to lose. If worst comes to worst, catfishing an annoying guy is always a blast. The good news is that this app requires you as the woman to make the first move. That’s kind of a downside- you never know how to start conversations- but at least you can’t get unsolicited dick pics right off the bats. Life is full of tradeoffs, you suppose.

You begin again. The app becomes your favorite pastime. Bored at work or home? Dating app it is. Left. Left. Left. Boring man after boring man. One labeled himself super-straight: absolutely fucking not. One holding a fish: nope. A man who describes himself as a gym rat: not your type. It’s a boring way to spend your lunch break, you’re aware, but the entertainment value is fun if nothing else. There are a lot of strange men out there.

After a few days, your luck seems to turn around as the photo of a man with brown hair and warm brown eyes pops up on your screen. He has a scruffy beard and wavy hair, and the way his smile tugs at the corner of his lips makes your heart flutter. He’s really cute, you have to admit. You read the bio next.

Marcus, 35

❗️ Washington, D.C.

Got forced into making this, but optimistic. Lover of art, dogs, and time to relax. Always down for breakfast for dinner and cuddling. Looking for someone with a sense of independence, love of travel, and a sleep schedule equally fucked up as mine. Must love pancakes.

Must love pancakes. That’s absolutely adorable. You immediately think of your cat, named Pancake, and you laugh and swipe right, hoping the man already thought the same of you. Your eyes widen with excitement and you almost laugh out loud from your giddy state when you see the little logo indicating it’s a match.

The first message you send him has to be perfect. You ponder your options for a minute, frowning and furrowing your brow as you think. You don’t want to come on too strong; you’re not trying to sound like you want a hookup. A simple one-word greeting wouldn’t be enough.

You could comment on something from his bio, you realize as you read it again and again. Maybe ask him about his dog? No, that’s too awkward. You want it to be about him, something that can draw him in. Talk about traveling? No, you don’t want to sound like you’re bragging about the places you’ve gone in your life.

Pancakes. Pancakes are good. You love pancakes. You think for a second more, debating what to say, before inspiration strikes and you send off the message before you can stop yourself.

-

Marcus Pike has essentially felt the same as you. He’s a somewhat charming man. He’s had his fair share of relationships, but they never quite work out. His ex-wife, now long gone and blocked from his phone, was an absolute failure of a relationship. He’d gotten close to what felt like true love with Teresa, another FBI agent, but she flaked at the last second.

Maybe the constant here was that he met them in person. When Marcus falls, he falls hard and fast, down an endless spiral of emotions with no escape. Maybe if he met someone online, it would be different. His best friends had all encouraged it, and on a night out not long after Teresa left him, Pike set up his own profile. He liked that the app didn’t require him to make the first move. It’s refreshing.

Marcus had seen your profile hours ago, on a mindless phone break from his work. He’d swiped right too, stunned by your smile and the lovelines you radiated even through the phone. He crossed his fingers for a good part of the day, hoping you’d swipe right on him too.

His day is busy, leaving him no time to fiddle with his phone and distract himself. He eats in the cafeteria, checking up on his phone. After lunch, he’s walking back to his office when his heart flutters as he sees the dating app indicates he’s had a match. He looks at it and swallows hard before stopping, moving to the side of the hallway to allow others to pass. He’s breathing hard, and his heart speeds up when he sees that you are the one that matched with him.

He knows how this app works. He has to wait now, to let you make the first move. He can’t even write a message until you send one. So he pockets his phone again and continues on his walk.

He’s determined on his walk, rushing back to his desk so he can sit and be thoroughly enthralled in waiting for or receiving your response. His phone buzzes several times with notifications, one of which he prays is you. When he finally sits, he opens the app ceremoniously and has to hold back a genuine laugh when he sees your first message.

Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus shoots back a text nearly immediately. Sorry, what?

Your bio. “Must love pancakes”. Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus is absolutely beaming as he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. Blueberry. Always. I hope that’s the right answer :)

Unfortunately, it’s not, but you’re cute so I’ll let it slide

You called him cute. It makes Marcus’s heart flutter. Come on. There’s nothing like the warm blueberry popping in your mouth.

There is. It’s when the chocolate chips are all melty and creamy.

God, Marcus is already painfully into you. You know what… at least you love pancakes. I’ll let it slide. You got a favorite place?

Anywhere I can get ‘em. You seem like quite the connoisseur, do you have one place in mind?

Jane slams down a stack of files on Marcus’s desk. “Paperwork overflow, Pike. Can you get these done tonight?”

Marcus is the fastest in the office with paperwork, which often leads to him being the one that flies through the files in the place of the people who actually filed it. He nods. What else is there to do? “Sure.”

Jane claps him on the shoulder and wanders off. Marcus watches him in slight annoyance. The best place in D.C. is definitely Sandy’s. Hey I gotta go, text ya later?

I’d love that :)

-

It didn’t take long for your texting to move from the dating app to actual texting. It happened within the same day, in fact.

Marcus messaged you some hours after the initial conversation. Your phone buzzed while you were doing yoga in your apartment, your cat curled into a ball beneath your stomach as you held a downward dog. You nearly collapsed on top of Pancake as you fumbled to sit cross-legged on the end of your yoga mat.

The message from Marcus is bright on the top of your screen. Hi. Sorry that took so long. Work stuff.

Smiling, you take a swig from your water bottle and lean back against your couch. Not a problem. Understandable. What do you do for a living? It’s a loaded question in D.C.; they could range anywhere from politicians to their rich sons to artists and athletes.

I work for the FBI, actually.

Your eyes light up in excitement. That’s the coolest shit I’ve heard. What do you do? Are you an agent?

The man’s responses don’t take long at all. He must be waiting in the chat to respond. The idea makes your heart flutter. Yep, I’m an agent. I work in international art crimes.

You certainly didn’t expect that for an answer. Wow, okay, that’s even cooler than I thought. I was about to call you Agent Pancake but I think my girl would be disheartened...

Snapping a photo of the way Pancake is nuzzling into your side, meowing for snuggles, you have to laugh as you send the photo his way. Funny you love pancakes so much. This little muppet is named Pancake.

Marcus responds with a barrage of heart-eyes emojis, which makes you laugh aloud and scoop Pancake into your lap, stroking her strawberry-blonde fluff. She’s an absolute angel. Like her mother, I’m presuming.

Your cheeks flood with warmth and you can feel the tips of your ears turning hot too. You’ve never even met me, Agent…? You trail off the text, asking for his last name.

Pike.

Agent Marcus Pike. What a nice sounding name. It sounds official and strong and you really like it. Cute last name. Might steal it from ya someday ;)

You don’t normally flirt this shamelessly, but he’s so goddamn cute and funny. You cross your fingers behind your back that this isn’t just a facade, that this is Marcus himself texting like he would to anyone else. You got a phone number?

As you laugh, Pancake paws at your chest to grab your attention, nails nearly digging into the stretchy fabric of your yoga tank top. “Watch it,” you scold her softly and remove her paw from your chest, picking her up and giving her a kiss on the head. Sure do. You want it?

Yes please.

You send your number his way and moments later, your phone pings with a text from an unlabeled number.

Maybe: Pike: hey, it’s Pike :)

You: hey… dammit, I really want to call you Agent Pancakes, but I think my fluffy little heathen would be offended. I don’t know what to save you in my phone as...

Agent Pancakes: Save me as whatever, I suppose. Not my problem, right?

-

The texts became more frequent. Over the course of three weeks, you’d stay up late talking like teenagers, knowing you need to go to bed but unable to bring yourself to do it.

You learned that his middle name was Mauricio, that his mother wanted him to have at least something a little more Latino in his name. You told him the story of how you’d adopted Pancake as a kitten from a shelter and she woke you up one morning with her claws entwined in a snarl of your hair. He told you about his ex-wife and ex-fiancée, Teresa, and you responded that he deserved something better than that. You can already tell that he’s a good man.

At the end of three weeks, you shot Marcus a text. Things seemed to be going pretty well.

You: Hey, you want to do a video call sometime soon?

Agent Pancakes: I’d love that! I’m free tonight if you are.

You: Always free. Shouldn’t you know that?? Doesn’t the FBI spy on us through our phones and whatever?

Agent Pancakes: well, I do work in art crimes. Even if we did, it would be a totally different thing

You: Good.

An hour later, you fidget with your hands as you sit on your couch, the laptop propped up across from you and ringing for a video chat. Marcus’s profile picture bobs on the screen as you wait for him to pick up.

Marcus’s face and apartment fills your screen, and you automatically grin. “Hi,” you giggle and wave, absolutely enraptured by how cute his real smile is, not the forced one in the photos.

“Hey. Nice to kind of-finally meet you,” he tells you and waves back. The wall of his apartment is nothing exciting, but his facial expressions already have you falling. Those big brown eyes compliment natural but ridiculously pink lips, and his brown hair is neatly done. It looks like he’s wearing a tie and a dress shirt; probably his work gear, you suppose.

“You too!” You tell him, unable to stop smiling. “You shaved.”

-

Marcus’s heart jumps out of his chest when he sees you ringing him. He barely has time to flop on the couch and turn it on, propping up the camera across from him.

God, you’re so gorgeous. Your giggle is infectious, making Marcus laugh softly at god knows what. Your grin is equally as contagious, making him smile back. He rubs his jaw in response. “Yeah, yeah. I tend to keep it clean there. Stubble takes too much maintenance, and I have this little patch where it never quite grows,” he tells you as he juts his chin to the camera, touching the spot where his beard can’t grow.

“I like it either way,” you assure him, shrugging a little. “How was your day, Agent Pancakes?” Your voice is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, even with the granulated audio over this shitty app. Agent Pancakes makes his heart flutter. “No, not you!” You groan as Pancake climbs onto your lap. “Hi. Your twin wants to say hi.”

Marcus’s smile widens. “Oh my god, hello cutie pie,” he chuckles, launching into baby talk. “What a pretty girl. You make a good Pancake.”

You smile and rub her fur, grinning. “She’s my baby,” you chuckle and set her aside. “Yeah. I’m busy. Leave me alone.” Pancake meows in protest. “Shut up, I’m on a date,” you whine.

Marcus’s ears perk up. “This is a date?”

Your eyes widen as you turn back to him. “I… yeah?” You ask, wincing a little.

He grins back at you. “I like it. And I’m really in love with the idea of seeing your face when you talk.”

“I like your voice,” you flirt back, but you mean it. “It’s so pretty. Do you sing?” You ask mindlessly, studying the way his brow furrows and his eyes convey exactly what he’s thinking.

He chuckles softly. “I used to. I haven’t in a long long time.”

“You’ll have to sing for me sometime.”

When he shakes his head, his neatly gelled hair tries to break free. A strand does, falling in his face. “You don’t wanna hear it, I promise.” He removes his tie, and you can’t help but watch the movement. It’s incredibly sexy.

A mischievous smile makes you bite the inside of your cheek. “No, I really do, I really think I do.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Only if you try the pancakes at Sandy’s sometime. I promise you, they’re the best pancakes in the District. I’ve never had the chocolate chip pancakes, but if they’re anywhere near as good as the blueberry, they’re fantastic. And they’re open 24 hours. I go there a lot for late night case work.”

You smile at that, getting cozy on your couch and hugging your blanket. “That does sound nice. I love a good all day breakfast,” you say with raised eyebrows, the teasing in your voice. “Okay, human Pancakes. How was your day?” You ask him again, intent on hearing his answer. Not only is his job fascinating, but he’s adorable when he explains things.

Marcus frowns, and that makes you instinctively frown too. “Well, it’s been good. We’re tracking a huge smuggling ring right now, but since we’ve pinpointed a stock house for them, I might have to travel for a while.”

You frown. You’d been hoping you could have a real date soon, at least. “How long is a while?” You ask him curiously, sipping from your water bottle that sits next to you.

“Couple weeks. No less than a month, probably. I’d… well, I might have to go undercover, which means we couldn’t talk for a while.” His eyes are apologetic, showing that he hates this news as much as you do. “And… I’d leave maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

Your heart sinks. “So soon,” you say with a sad smile, a desperate and lonely chuckle. “Well, if you want to come home to me, I’ll be here.”

Marcus’s smile perks up just slightly. “You would be the best thing in the world to come home to. And I’ll have the scruff back by then.”

“Yes!” You exclaim and laugh, pumping a fist in the air. “I think you’re really cute anyway, but I really love the scruff,” you shrug shyly.

“Maybe I’ll grow it out just for you.”

-

The adrenaline from his first technical-date with you prevents Marcus from sleeping. The call lasted hours, the two of you covering almost everything important in your lives. You talked about your favorite television programs and politics, your parents and your favorite pizza toppings. Talking with him was like nothing you’d ever experience, a connection you’d never thought a dating app could offer.

After several hours, during a lull in the conversation, Marcus suggested the two of you log off. It was around 11 P.M. now, and, even though Marcus has a sleep schedule like a raccoon, he figured you should sleep. He blew you a kiss through the camera, which you pretended to hold to your chest and grin at him.

But now it’s an hour later, just past midnight, and Marcus is antsy. He doesn’t sleep much anyway, but your face is running through his mind like it owns the place, and at this point, maybe you do. Marcus sits up in bed and sighs. He knows the proper remedy for this: Sandy’s. Throwing on a rare pair of jeans and a leather jacket over the white v-neck he wears, he slips on his shoes and makes his way to the tiny, 24-hour diner.

-

The adrenaline is coursing through your veins too. You text any of your friends that will listen, rambling about how beautiful Marcus’s face is and how wonderful it was to finally hear his voice. You pace your apartment, petting Pancake as you pass her perch on the arm of your couch. You try to do a little yoga to calm down but you can’t stop smiling. Marcus occupies too much room in your brain to try to think about anything else.

When it’s just after midnight, hunger strikes. You realize you never ate dinner, too preoccupied with talking to the handsome man to even consider microwaving something from your fridge. Talking with Marcus has instilled you with a love for pancakes, and you think to yourself that maybe Sandy’s would be worth a shot. It’s open late.

So you toss on a jacket and pick up your purse, slinging it over your shoulder and leaving your apartment. You toss the book you’ve been reading into your bag, planning to read it while you sit and eat. Pancake gives a sleepy meow of protest but you just smile and lock the door behind you.

The diner is just as small as Marcus described it to you: just a short line of booths along the windows and a smattering of tables in the middle. There’s a colorful, warm-toned tile floor that juxtaposes the warm green of the walls and the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes wafting through the air. Quiet classic swing music filling the atmosphere. You can see why he likes it: it automatically makes you smile.

You sit in one of the booths, facing away from the door, and the kind waitress takes your order: chocolate chip pancakes and an English breakfast tea. The air conditioning is blasting, making you chilly. You tighten your jacket around yourself and sip the tea when it arrives, adding cream and sugar.

Cracking open the book, you cross your legs and lose yourself in the book. The restaurant has a calming aura, and you can feel the tea warming you from the inside. It’s fitting that Marcus loves this place, you think to yourself.

When the pancakes come not long after, you take a bite and almost groan in happiness. It’s absolutely delicious: Marcus was most definitely right. Disappointingly, you have to go to the bathroom about three bites in.

Even the bathrooms are cute, you discover. When you return, someone else sits a booth away,  another lone diner at this godforsaken hour of night, facing the door. You can see the back of what appears to be a man’s head, neatly trimmed brown hair and a brown leather jacket over their neck and shoulders. Sitting back down, your back to the other customer’s, you return to your book and continue to eat your chocolate chip pancakes.

The customer and waitress are talking, but you don’t pay much attention, too enraptured by your book. It’s quiet again after the man puts in his order, and you enjoy the soft jazz music that makes you tap your foot in time against the tile.

There’s a buzzing and the melodic sound of a phone’s ringtone; one of the defaults that a phone provides. Your heart skips a beat as you hear the man pick up. “Agent Pike.”

That can’t be your Agent Pike, can it? You turn and listen and realize it’s definitely him, from his voice and the way he holds himself and the stack of- of course, blueberry pancakes and a hot coffee set in front of him.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sounds good. Let me write that down.” Marcus types something into his phone. “See you then. At the office? Good. Alright, see you.” He hangs up.

Standing, you tuck your book back in your purse and put the bag over your shoulder. With one hand, you grab your plate of pancakes, and the other grabs your tea. You set them down across from him and slide into the booth, grinning. “Huh. Agent Pancakes, here, in the middle of the night. How unusual.”

Marcus’s tired face lights up in excitement. “What?” He laughs, his eyes scanning your face. “Why are you here?”

You shrug and take a bite of his pancakes, sighing. “Had to see if they were worth the hype. I couldn’t sleep, you got me so excited.” The blueberry pancakes are absolutely fantastic, just as good if not better than the chocolate chip ones on your plate. “Damn, you were right.”

“Hey,” he laughs and pulls his plate closer to his chest. “Don’t touch my pancakes.”

You make pleading pouty eyes, frowning a little. “Can’t we share?” You tease. It already feels like you’ve known him for years, even though this is your first time seeing him in person.

Marcus sighs. “I suppose,” he says and rolls his eyes in sarcasm, pushing his plate back out so you can access it.

-

Marcus is beyond stunned, absolutely enraptured in how beautiful you are in person. If he thought he fell on that video call earlier, he’s now reached the very bottom of that cliff, the impact of your everything stealing the air from his lungs. God, he wants nothing more than to kiss you right now, on those lips coated in blueberry juice and maple syrup.

The two of you spend quite some time so there, just talking and continuing the conversation where it left off before. The waitress refills Marcus’s coffee twice and your tea once. “So who called you when you were sitting alone?” You ask him as you bring the white porcelain mug to your lips, sipping at the creamy tea.

He sighs. “Guy I work with, his name’s Patrick. He’s a douchebag, I can’t lie,” he says with a chuckle, and his heart flutters at the way you give a soft laugh back. “Just telling me the details. I leave in about 6 hours. I’ll be in Singapore for a couple of weeks.”

“Singapore?” You exclaim, eyes wide as your fork clanks against your plate. “You better be able to contact me.”

He shakes his head. “I told you, I’m going undercover. I can’t.” He sighs, and he dares to reach out and touch you, to reassure you that he’s there and himself that you’re real, that you’re right there. “Will you wait for me?”

Your heart melts, from an already slush-covered river to a rushing rapids. “Of course, Marcus.” It makes his heart skip a beat. You’ve called him lots of nicknames, but never his real name. Something is painfully intimate about it. “I like you a lot; why wouldn’t I?” You ask, shrugging as if it’s the simplest thing. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

When you finish your meals, Marcus picks up both tabs, despite your protesting. “Can I walk you to your place?” He asks as you both stand and adjust your jackets.

You nod and take his hand. The lights of the city are seemingly extra dim tonight, leaving the street lights to illuminate your beautiful face as the two of you stroll along. You have all the time in the world, don’t you? It’s 1:30 in the morning. You’re both already evading sleep desperately. A little more time together can’t hurt.

His hand never leaves yours, his fingers lacing through your knuckles. You chat quietly, as if you could wake the sleeping city from the peaceful blue drone of a weeknight morning into its daily splendor of horns and hordes of speedy pedestrians.

Marcus bumps your shoulder with his, making you stumble a little to the side and laugh as you look up at his gorgeous face. His face reflects the love you’re both feeling, almost giving the city around you a pink glaze of warmth from the rose-colored glasses you must have placed over his eyes.

The walk draws to an end, as you stand at the entrance to your apartment building. Marcus’s body looks so soft and inviting, and you dare to wrap your arms around his neck and hug him to your chest. “I don’t want you to go, Agent Pancakes,” you murmur into the soft skin of his neck, which is starting to get a shadow of stubble.

Marcus kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t move either, prolonging this time you have together before he can’t see you. “I don’t want to go. I’ve never wanted to stay here more than I do now, but I have to.” His arms wrap around your waist, strong and safe.

Lifting your head, you look up at him, your noses practically touching from the proximity you share. The world feels like a bubble around you two, like some impenetrable one-way material that makes it so if Marcus leaves now, he can never come back. “Well, it’s gonna be a long time, a month or two,” you say with a sad smile. “We’ll have to begin again.”

Marcus shakes his head, his brown eyes almost welling with tears. “There’s no one else I’d want to begin again with.” With that, he looks in your eyes, the question hanging there. Wait for me?

Always, you respond silently by pressing your lips to his, kissing him slowly in the orange glow of your apartment building’s entrance. He kisses back, his lips tasting of coffee and maple and blueberry, yours tasting like chocolate and tea.

You squeeze your arms tighter around him, getting on your tiptoes to be as physically close as you can to him. He has one hand on either side of your rib cage, holding you there as he kisses back with all of the passion and love he has.

It can’t last too long or he’ll never leave. He won’t be able to. He breaks away after a few moments, his lips close to yours. He presses your foreheads together, arms encircling you again. “I have to go. I have to be at the office in an hour.”

You lift your head and your brow furrows in confusion. “Then why did you take so long to walk and eat with me?” You laugh quietly.

Marcus shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave you yet,” he admits, his eyes trained on yours. He gives you one last painfully gentle kiss. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more,” you say with a sad smile. “You’ve been my distraction lately. Whenever I’m bored, I text you.”

He sighs, the confession increasing his frown. “I’ll be in an entirely new place, without you.”

“But I’ll be here, in my same old life without you in it.”

The words punch a hole through Marcus’s heart. It’s true; he’ll have new distractions, new things to do. You’ll be here with a Marcus Pike-shaped hole in your heart. He kisses your forehead, the wheels turning in his head. “If you get a call in the next few weeks from an unknown number, be sure to answer it, okay?”

You nod and smile softly. “You need to go. Go.”

He nods and his hand squeezes yours. “I can’t wait to begin again with you.” With that, Marcus Pike, Agent Pancakes, whatever you want to call him, the man you’re highly suspecting might be your soulmate, walks off into the slightly chilly D.C. night.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic

[aerynwrites]

Hey 👋

Welcome back, I'm glad the little step away was good for you 😊💛

I was wondering if I could request the first time reader buys Captain Rex a gift or has a little surprise day planned for him and he gets a bit emotional because hes not use to being treated well 😭

Thank you 💛

ahhhh okay! So I kind of just took this and...ran with it lol. I hope this is kind of what you wanted!

Surprise!

Captain Rex x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: none - unbeta’d

»»————-　♡　————-««

Being in a long term relationship with a clone was not something you had ever seen in your cards as a Jedi Commander for the 501st. Especially when the clone in question was Captain of said battalion. However, you wouldn’t change it for anything in the galaxy, especially since you have Anakin and Ahsoka by your side to help you and Rex fly under the radar of the Council. Anakin was in a relationship after all, so he understood what it was like.

Today, you have taken one of the rare days off you and your boys get to throw together the surprise you have had in mind for Rex for the past few weeks. None of the clones have real birthdays, but you wanted to celebrate him and managed to get him to pick a random date for his birthday. You smiled fondly at the memory as you sat a plate of cookies on the table.

“None of the clones have birthdays, cyare, you know that. We weren’t born, we were created.” The last words leave his lips with a hint of venom to them, and you can’t help your lips from tugging downward into a slight frown.

“I know that, Rex,” you say softly, adjusting from where you lay on his chest so you can look up at him slightly, “Humor me,” you tease, giving him a small smile, “Since you don’t have an actual date, just pick one!”

Rex gives you a sideways look before finally letting out a sigh at the puppy dog eyes you send him. He is never able to say no to you. After thinking for a moment, he finally settles on a date - the date he became a Captain is the one he chose. 

“See now was that so hard?” you chastise lightly before leaning up and pressing a quick kiss to his lips before settling back down into bed, his arms still wrapped securely around you.

After that, the conversation had never come up again, and Rex had assumed you forgot about the silly birthday date you made him pick out. However, you were just determined to surprise him. You recruited Anakin and Ahsoka to keep Rex busy while you prepared your private quarters for the surprise, and while Rex was none the wiser as to why he was being sent on a wild bantha chase around the base - he felt a sense of relief wash over him when he was finally released from their plot. He has already taken his helmet off as he approaches your shared quarters, eyes tired yet shoulders relaxed at the thought of spending the rest of the day with you. He was planning to just relax with you, relish in the rare day off you both have received and maybe watch one of those cheesy holofilms you loved so much. 

However, when he finally arrives at the room and the door swishes open, his eyes widen in surprise at the sight that greets him. The space is brightly lit with soft music playing in the background and a small handmade sign attached to the wall opposite the door reads: Happy Birthday Rex!  In neat handwriting. His eyes fall from the sign to take in the spread of food and deserts on the table near the kitchen, more than either of you could eat in days. He slowly sets his helmet down on the ground by the door before approaching the table. There’s a cake in the center that reads the same as the sign when he walked in, but the letters are iced delicately over the white base layer in 501st blue. 

Rex feels his chest constrict, an overwhelming sense of gratitude paired with a slight sense of confusion distract him from your entrance into the room. He ‘s only pulled from his observations when he hears a small gasp from behind him.

“Rex, you’re back!” you say happily, rushing over and wrapping your arms around him as he turns to face you. You couldn’t care less that he was still in his armor, you were just happy he was here. “You got here faster than I was anticipating! I was going to have the candles on the cake lit and everything for when you got back.”

He watches as you pull yourself from his embrace and flit around the room, grabbing a lighter and lighting the candles all while babbling away about the food you cooked and the plans you’ve made and how it took you weeks to find the special jam to put between the layers of cake. You were so consumed in your explanations, that you didn’t even notice when Rex’s eyes fell to the four neatly wrapped parcels on the end of the table. All of them had his name on them followed by the person who they were from - at least that’s what Rex assumed. 

He pulls his gloves from his hands before running his fingers gently over the colorful paper, looking up at you in confusion as he interrupts your speech. “What are these?”

Your brow furrows in confusion before realization dawns on you. Rex had never had a birthday gift before. Let alone a party all for himself. You give him a gentle smile and walk over to be at his side as you speak. “They’re presents, for your birthday,” you explain, “Anakin and Ahsoka each got you one when they heard what I was planning,” you chuckled a little, “Anakin won’t admit it, but he spent a lot of time picking out his gift. And then,” you reach out and grab the smaller box, “This is from the boys - your brothers - they all pitched in when they heard about it too.”

Rex could already feel the unfamiliar burn at the back of his eyes, but he tried to reign in his emotions as he pointed to the last one. “What-” he has to clear his throat, “What about that one?”

You grab the box from the table and turn to him, smiling the biggest smile as you hold it out for him to take. “This one’s from me! I couldn’t very well throw you a birthday bash and not get you a present now could I?”

At this revelation, Rex can no longer hold the tears back as he takes the small gift from your hands. He sees your eyes widen at his reaction and a slight panic overtakes your features.

“Oh no,” you mumble, reaching out to place your hands over his own, “Rex what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, wiping the stray tears away before taking a deep breath, “Nothing’s wrong, cyare,” he assures you, looking around the room at all you did for him before looking back to you with a smile on his face, “I’ve just…” he trails off for a moment before continuing, “I’ve never gotten a present before. Let alone a whole celebration dedicated to me being here.”

Your heart breaks slightly at his words, despite knowing the truth behind them. Clones aren’t seen as much more than machines of war to most people - expendable and replaceable things for the war. But Rex is so much more to you, and you were determined to show him that. You smile at him and set the gift in his hands aside, as you steer him over towards the cake.

“Well,” you begin, “As long as I’m still here I’m going to make every single day a celebration about you. Because you deserve to be celebrated.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” Rex tries to argue but you shake your head and point to the lit candles on the cake.

“Oh hush,” you gently scold, “Now, all you have to do for this birthday tradition is blow out the candles and make a wish.”

“A wish?” he asks, turning to look at you incredulously, “A wish for what?”

You shrug, “Anything you want.”

He turns to face the cake again, the candles casting a slight glow onto his golden skin and you can’t help but smile when he finally leans forward and blows the candles out. Once finished he pulls back and turns towards you, a smile on his face as he reaches out to take your hands in his.

“Did you make a wish?” you ask.

He shakes his head, “No.”

Your mouth falls open and you give out a disbelieving scoff, “Rex!” you whine, “That’s the whole point of blowing out the candles. Why didn’t you wish for anything?”

“Because everything I could wish for is standing right here in front of me.”

And before you can protest, he presses his lips to yours in a gentle kiss, suddenly very thankful for birthdays and very thankful for you.

»»————-　♡　————-«« 

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[philicheesecake]

Refugees pt 1 (vore fic)

Note: this takes place with my two newest OCs, Zi and Baka. I might write more about them as their story comes to me. I haven’t given them an exact size yet, but for now I’m saying Baka is 7-9 ft tall while Zi is 4 ft tall.

Warnings: Soft attempted fatal vore, minor burns and injuries, but safe in the end. A lot of cursing and general stinky behavior from Baka

—————

It had been nearly a week hiding underground. The sewer systems were growing claustrophobic and the darkness only grew as the two travelers tried to conserve the energy of their flashlight. Food supplies had run out two days ago, and both of them were growing restless.

Prince Baka as usual seemed to not take the situation seriously. How could he? He was a sheltered spoiled brat who knew nothing of how the real world worked. Zi was only doing their best to try to keep him out of trouble.

But now starving, with no clean water supply, and lost within the winding dark tunnels, anything seemed preferable to dying in here.

Zi stepped ahead through the tunnels, ears twitching as  they listened out ahead for any sign of danger before motioning behind them to follow. There was a pause, but now steps forward. Only an exhausted groan. Then a splash.

Zi blinked in confusion, turning to see the prince trying to get up, having to crouch badly within the tunnels even as he got to his feet, due to his towering size. With the dimming flashlight shining towards his face, his weathered features could be seen. A crocodilian-esque being with three webbed crests spanning from his head to the tip of his tail. His green eyes were dry and exhausted.

"Mmmstarvin'. Fuckin starvin' down here," the prince bellowed weakly. "Can't go on like this..."

Zi sighed, stepping patiently over to the prince and mutely held out their hand to try to stabilize him to encourage him forward. The prince leaned his weight on Zi, before toppling over, splashing into the smelly sewage on top of the smaller creature. Zi coughed, wiping the contaminated water off of their face and grunted as they tried to crawl out from under the prince, trying again to help him to his feet. The prince grumbled, resisting the assistance, seeming set on dying here and now, in the midst of his toddler-like dramatic tantrum.

"Mmmwwwanna die then," Baka whined.

Zi grunted silently under their breath, managing to crawl out from beneath the prince and tugged on the side of his arm to help him to his feet. The prince grumbled dramatically once again, not wanting to move. "Lemme stay here. Don't wanna move... leave me to die..."

His stomach growled pleadingly, echoing through the dark tunnels. Zi sighed, letting the prince's arm splash to the ground like a ragdoll. They picked up the flashlight again and stood before the prince, thinking quietly for a moment before speaking. "Wait here,"

With a small bow of their head, they left through the tunnels, leaving Baka lying baffled in the puddles. Baka had told Zi to leave, but he hadn't really expected them to. Zi had sworn to serve him until they were freed. Did they just see the prince's death as their chance of freedom?

"You can't fffuckin tell mmme what to do!" The prince babbled. His voice only echoed uselessly through the sewers. He let out a whale-worthy moan and slumped back down in the puddles. He smelled awful. He hated the smell. He hated Zi. He hated his family. He hated the world. He hated everything. With this litany of hatred coursing through his mind, he slowly succumbed to sleep, believing this to be death at last.

A gentle hand shaking his shoulder was what brought him back to his senses, and the returning light of Zi's flashlight. Baka grumbled tiredly, closing his eyes again, not wanting to be brought back into this hell. He was perfectly content lying in this puddle and hating everything, and sleeping. He didn't have to exist in this disgusting sewer if his mind was somewhere else.

It seemed Zi had other plans, however. The smaller reptilian's soft voice insistent through the silent dripping ambience of the sewers. "There is a path leading to a river. We can get fresh water and fish there,"

The prince seemed reluctant at first, but anywhere but here was ideal. He was starving, and fish sounded better than nothing. He hoped it wasn't raw, though. He groaned as he lifted his head, reaching for Zi for assistance to get to his feet. Zi complied as well as they could, though they were just as equally deprived of strength, they just tried not to show it as much.

They led the prince to a low opening where the sewer runoff poured into a polluted river. It wasn't the sight that Baka had wished for, but anywhere was better than those sewers. He was never going in there again. Zi made sure the coast was clear before hopping softly into the river and nodded for the prince to follow. Baka collapsed into the running water, rolling a bit beneath the surface before resurfacing, refreshed to have his scales rid of the sewage slush and at least feeling a little cleaner. It seemed Zi had already done so before leading Baka there, visibly appearing cleaner in the better light. Although it was night out in the fresh air, the light from the stars and moons was almost overwhelming to get used to after being stuffed in the pitch darkness of the sewers for so long.

Zi frowned, looking into the river hopefully, though even in the darkness, they knew the prince was right. "We can at least collect some water here. But we can't stay out here for long."

"You fuckin cheated me," the prince growled. "You kept my fuckin hopes up this whole fuckin time. 'Just last one more day sir,' 'now isn't the time for cannibalism. I am here to serve you'  'tomorrow we'll have better luck' 'tomorrow we'll have better luck' and again and again and again and AGAIN. I'm fuckin SICK of this disaster," he managed to get to his feet, swaying slightly. "So you have to serve me one last fuckin time here. Help me out,"

Zi's brow furrowed slightly, showing the slightest trace of concern before stepping closer to take to the prince's side, seeming to assume that Baka needed some help standing. Baka's behavior altered, however, gripping Zi a little too tight for support, instead, bringing them closer and his mouth yawned wide above them, suddenly clamping his jaws over their shoulders. Zi was shocked, sucking in a surprised breath. The prince had mentioned eating Zi before while they were in the tunnels, but they hadn't considered that he would really do it. In panic, they struggled against the prince's grip, but he simply ignored it. The prince's mouth watered heavily, drenching Zi's upper half with sticky drool and drew them in deeper, beginning to swallow. The throat opened up before them and the slight jerking of the jaws forced Zi in deeper despite their protests. The tight throat dragged them downwards more quickly with each swallow and the shove of Baka's hands.

He didn't have long to enjoy this feast, however, when a beam of light shown down from the slope near the river and a team of uniformed armed men were all directed at him, quickly making their approach to surround him. The prince tried to sit up, wincing as the weight in his stomach sloshed and resettled from the action. "Can you just leave me for five fuckin minutes?" Baka grunted. The soldiers surrounded him and patted him down to search for any weapons, finding none, before binding his hands behind his back and led him up to their transport.

Sitting alone in the back of the high-security transport vehicle, he could feel Zi's struggles begin to weaken. They were just as weak as him, and he doubted they would last long. They seldom spoke normally, though he could hear their normally level voice sound out more fearful, albeit muffled, pleading for reason. The prince didn't bother listening, pressing a hand to his middle to coax them into digesting already.

"You're wasting your breath in there. You dragged me through fuckin hell, and now ya get your fuckin share of it," Baka grunted under his breath.

Zi went silent, hugging themselves in the hot, slimy darkness. Their struggles stopped, but their breathing was still fairly normal, a little panicked. They were probably trying to preserve energy.

"My service meant nothing?" They spoke quietly.

"Your service meant food that I should've given into a week ago," Baka grumbled. "And now we got captured anyways, so dragging me through those sewers was fuckin useless."

Zi went dead still, probably from disbelief, or despair, though it was hard telling their reaction without a visual. Not that Baka cared anyways. They should be dead soon.

The car came to a halt and the back doors opened from the truck. Armed guards led prince Baka through a sheriff's office, leading him to one of the back cells. They had been remote enough to be far from the capitol, so the police had to wait for the officials to show up before transporting him back to the new enemies' capitol.

For now, Baka slumped within the holding cell, lying back on the hard bed. "I don't wanna die... they're going to kill me," Baka spoke to himself, though his occupant heard. Ironic that he was complaining about dying while he was currently killing his most loyal and perhaps only ally.

"If you let me out, I can help... we can escape again," Zi offered hopefully, trying to keep emotion out of their voice. It was really beginning to sting in there, and the acid levels were steadily rising. The clenching walls persisted to grind the caustic fluids into Zi's exposed skin, and it was growing increasingly painful and unnerving.

"Mmmh, I don't wanna," Baka responded.

"Neither of us want to die, Baka. If we fail, we both die. If we succeed, we both live. If you kill me now, it would be inevitable for both of us,"

Baka groaned. He didn't respond for a moment, rubbing his gut almost mournfully. The acids were getting worse from this action, their level rising to fill half the chamber. Zi withheld a worried whimper in their throat, trying to keep their chin above the acids. The walls suddenly clenched tighter around the smaller reptile, painfully this time, nearly crushing their ribs, before the motion forced Zi back up the throat, carrying them upward with difficulty. The little breath they had collected was squeezed out of their lungs and they choked on the slime around them, nearly suffocating before their release.

A gagging sound and a glimmer of hopeful light beyond the jaws greeted them before they were coughed up onto the floor in a puddle of slime and acids. Zi gasped for air, shuddering violently and coughed up the slime that had caught in their throat. They dragged themselves across the floor to prop themselves against the wall of the cell, looking over at the prince with unveiled residual fear in their eyes.

Baka was on the floor lying on his stomach with drool dripping from his jaws, looking further nauseous and miserable. He let out a long drawn-out dramatic groan.

Zi hastily tried to wipe some of the slime off of their face, glancing down with a disgusted shudder to notice the nasty burns that marred their scales. They couldn't focus on that traumatic experience though, shakily getting to their feet. They stumbled over to the barred entrance of the holding cell, examining the lock and took out a lock pick, beginning to get to work.

A small click sounded once they succeeded, and they looked over at the prince, trying to help him to his feet. His hands were still bound behind his back, and Zi was almost too afraid to release him. Just as they helped Baka to his feet, alarms suddenly blared. They winced, ears flattening back and they looked towards the doorway fearfully.

"...fuck," Baka growled.

"We have to go," Zi went out the opening of cell, looking carefully down the hallway. Oddly, the guards were nowhere to be seen, and action was heard further within. Their brow furrowed in confusion, and they stepped silently into the main area of the police station, Baka dragging himself behind them with no regards for stealth, and seeming further interested in making as much of a dramatic scene as possible along the way.

The door opposing them suddenly swung open and several assorted armed men entered, not wearing the police uniforms, and appeared like standard civilians. Their eyes lit up in relief and one rushed forward to greet the freed prisoners with a bow. "Prince Baka, please come with us. We're here to help, and we're loyal to your line to the end,"

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Novalunosis

[n.] the state of relaxation and wonderment experienced while gazing upon the stars.

For @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday, my first one! And this picture is gorgeous.

Pairing: Din Djarin x female oc (no name/features are mentioned)

Warnings: uh, don't jump off balconies into water please? Fluff, angst-ish, idk what I'm doing.

A/N: Takes place before the show.I don't know how the Force works? *waves hands* Fanfic! My first time writing for Din and Star Wars in general. Also, punctuation? Don't know her.

There's a vaguely familiar silhouette standing behind the gauzy curtain across the room. A room Din doesn't recall entering, which should put him on high alert but he finds that the adrenaline doesn't come rushing. Nothing about this room with walls the color of soft sunlight and warmth in the lines of its decoration sets him on edge.

If anything, he relaxes where he sits on the edge of the bed. Looking down he finds a muted green blanket and crisp white sheets tucked neatly around the mattress beneath him. Gloved fingers run over the slight sheen of the top layer, wondering how he could dream up something he's never seen before.

These dreams, and the figure across the room, find him when he sleeps. Not often enough that he expects them but with a frequency that puzzles him when he lets it. Nothing ever the same twice, nothing except for her.

"I think I was here with my parents once, when I was little" the voice reaches his ears like there isn't a barrier of beskar between the two and he has to reach up to feel for it, just to be sure.

The figure chuckles, pushing the curtain out of the way to smile at him. Having a smile offered to him, for him, is not a regular occurrence for the Mandalorian but still, it's nothing he seems to need to be wary of if the warmth uncurling in his chest is to be trusted.

The woman is barefoot, pale blue pants fitted with pockets at every chance with a well worn, cream colored shirt tucked haphazardly into the high waist line. Her arms are bare, scars on them visible from where he sits.

Her face is happy but expectant, eyes trained on him. Definitely familiar. A name floats somewhere in his head but he can't quite reel it in, even as she walks over to sit down beside him, one leg tucked under the other as she faces him.

She's close, knee brushing his thigh as she settles comfortably. Din knows her, she obviously knows him. How is the only mystery.

"Are we dreaming?" he asks, helmet turned in her direction, the use of 'we' coming out before he can comprehend it.

"Yeah, the first one in a while" she nods.

"How?"

"You always ask that."

"Should I not?" his tone is less than cordial but he's confused yet unconcerned at the same time and it is frustrating.

"Din, I know you, and I know the scar on your right hand palm because I put it there" as casually as she speaks his name, she tugs on the glove of his hand, arching a brow in question.

He lets her have it, her own hand wrapping around it, careful of his vambrace, and massages the scar through the leather of the glove.

"You were better with a vibroblade at the time" he huffs, more so at the strange sensation of saying something he knows is true with certainty, even though the memory attached to it remains blurry.

"Were?" she scoffs playfully and Din smiles just a little "I'd bet my whole weapons cash that I'm still better with one than you are, Din Djarin."

"Deal" he says and curls his fingers around hers, leaning into her space like the slow pull of gravity when a ship breaks atmo.

Forehead meets helmet none to gently but she just grins up at him, so close to the visor it might as well not be there at all. He gets the distinct sense that for her it makes no difference, she knows him. She knows his face.

One corner of her mouth pulls up with her grin, a little crooked, but it feels significant. Distinctive. It strikes a chord somewhere inside him and thrums its vibrations of familiarity all throughout his body.

"Wanna see outside? It's beautiful" she pulls back, standing with their hands still connected.

Din can only nod, getting to his feet when she tugs. A helpless satellite in her orbit.

The balcony behind the curtain is small but surrounded by green towers of hanging vines, leaves reaching downward over railings and stone architecture carefully crafted to feel open. Like the walls are meant to breathe with you.

He's too busy gazing up at the blue square of sky through the open roof that he doesn't notice her tugging off her pants until they are tossed at his helmet.

"What are you- NO!" the nervousness in his voice pitches upwards to panic once he pulls the fabric clear of his visor, only to see her push herself up and over the balcony railing.

The jump is graceful, muscles learned in quick movements, trained to lift, pull, and leap. It just about stops his heart as she slips out of his reach and down below. Maybe this isn't a dream after all.

The splash below nearly has him keeling over the railing, watching the fabric of her shirt billow out in the water, a stark contrast to the blue tile design on the floor of the pool.

"Are you kriffing insane?" he yells down to her once she surfaces.

"Cuy ogir'olar" she answers in Mando'a, crooked grin taking over her face.

"Irrelevant my-" he shakes his head "you could have gotten hurt!"

"This is a dream Din! Stop being such a gullipud and join me!" she kicks onto her back and begins to paddle calmly around the pool.

He sighs as he watches her, strong legs pushing her through the water leisurely while her arms keep her balanced. It's a steady rhythm, watching the clear water ripple around her, sunlight flickering on the miniature waves like metal in dunes of sand.

Din gives in sooner than he likes to admit. Removing his armor piece by piece to set it on the bed, hesitating with hands poised to remove his helmet.

This is nothing but a dream after all.

The sentiment makes it no easier to walk back out onto the balcony, devoid of any beskar, barefoot and balling his hands up so tight he can feel the bite of his nails on his palms. Looking down at the water, he spots her floating on her back, eyes closed.

Leaping over the railing is nothing, he does dangerous things all the time. It's when he bobs back up to the surface of the cool water that any kind of apprehension sets in because she's swimming over to him, that bright look back on her face.

"You look like a drowned Wookie" she teases, slowly lifting a hand to push the hair plastered to his forehead away "when was the last time you got a haircut?" He pretends to think about his answer, enjoying the feel of her skin on his face as she lets a finger drift down between his brows, across the bridge of his nose and all the way to tip. It's a circuit she repeats, back and forth. Up and down. Like she's putting him in a trance.

It works. Her question forgotten, just the warm brush of her fingertip and the feeling of being known. Even covered in his armor it felt that way.

He knows she doesn't like being told what to do, knows how hard the knuckles of her deceptively soft looking hands can be against flesh, knows she was a Foundling like him. He knows that she never gets tired of looking at the stars, no matter how far she travels.

She only startles a little when he lunges forward to lift her up and pull her tight against him, arms secure around her. His face is pressed against hers, every inch of connection he can wring out of this, he will.

"Hi" she whispers into his ear, with arms slung around his neck and legs around his waist beneath the water. She sounds like she's greeting an old friend who has finally recognized her.

"I missed you but I don't even know who you are" voice thick, he admits defeat "I don't know your name and I'm afraid to let you go."

"I know, Din, I know" she nods and the drag of her cheek against his sends a shiver down his spine.

"Tell me where you are so I can come to you"

"I'm right here"

"I mean it"

He pulls back, one palm cupping her face, staring her down. Intent on waiting her out. The water laps patiently at their movements like a ticking metronome.

"No, you're right where you need to be, on the path you need to go down" she smiles again but there's a sadness creeping into it.

"I don't care" his words are quietly fierce, pulling her back against him as if he holds on tight enough to her, he can pull her out of this dream with him.

He shuts his eyes and buries his face into the crook of her neck, the cool scent of water giving way to the layers underneath. Of bacta and herbs and something unnameable and warm assaulting his senses.

Around them, the vibrant green layers begin to brown and decay. Leaves fall swiftly down to float on the water, dissolving. The walls start to break slowly, color fading from the intricate tile work. She can hear wood splinter and give way under rot somewhere above them.

"This place, it doesn't exist in the real world anymore" she tells him, tears gathering as she looks up while still holding tight to her Mandalorian.

"I don't care" Din repeats, eyes open and trying for one more glimpse into hers but she's looking up.

So he does too and finds the sky dark, spotted with stars he's never seen before. They must be her stars, wherever she is.

"It's okay Din" she shushes him even as he shakes his head, the pit in his stomach a gnawing beast of panic he hasn't felt in so long.

He knows he wouldn't recognize himself at the moment, this silent begging thing clutching onto an almost stranger like she knows the universes biggest secrets. It's not okay.

"It is, it is" she leans in, finger beginning the endless loop of stroking the strong line of his nose, up to the furrow in his brow. Once, twice, and then she presses a kiss with warm lips to his cheek.                                   ----------------------------------- The mandalorian jolts awake, nearly spilling out of the pilots seat in the cockpit of the Crest. Heart pounding like a heard of bantha, sucking in breaths so fast he yanks of his helmet.

The blur of hyperspace stares back at him from the view port and he tries to tell himself the spot on his cheek that remains damp yet warm is simply sweat.

Not even the stars believe that.                                      --------------------------------- On a planet that spins beneath stars from a dream, the walls of her bedroom give a quick tremble in sync with her return to consciousness. She had given up on shelves and hanging pictures long ago.

They simply ended up breaking, like so many other things.

Pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders, she gets out of bed and makes her way through the dark maze of her home. It's large but not for the luxury of it, whatever isn't covered in medical supplies and random tech leaves very little for personal items.

An old habit from to much time spent planet hopping.

But the stars, there is always room for the stars.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Emp-Ire, “The Oracle.”

I had very little time to write today, but I have had people request the story behind this one, so I thought I could open it quickly today before I get swamped.

Again forgive me. I had to write very quickly. I hope you have a good day!”

The world shone like a beautiful marble beneath them, vast stretches of blue water under swirling clouds of white. The landmasses were mostly green like on earth, though there was more orange present here than there would have been on the human homeworld. 

There was not one singular landmass, or even a few large ones, but thousands of little islands clustered together like shards of broken glass scattered across the floor after one drops a plate. 

Ramirez looked out the window his hands and face pressed to the glass as they descended downwards towards the blue glittering surface.

“Remind me what the theme of this planet is.”

“Planets don’t have themes Ramirez.” Adam Said, crossing one ankle over his other knee.

“Ok yeah yeah, but I mean, what microculture do they have.”

Adam shrugged, “Some kind of Greek-Roman thing going on.”

Ramirez grinned, “Excellent?”

Adam’s brows furrowed together suspiciously, “Why?”

“You know how the Romans and the Greeks were….” Adam blinked, “No?”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, “I don’t have to give you a lecture on WHY olive oil was so popular during Roman times, do I?”

Adam stared at him for a long moment before it finally clicked, “Oh… oh…..ew.”

“What? Got a problem with that?“

“I definitely did not want that image of you in my head thanks.”

He grinned, “That means you were thinking about it.”

“You were holding me as an intellectual hostage, and I do not negotiate with terrorists.” Ramirez laughed as they lowered through the clouds .

“What is their major export?”

“I thought it was Textiles, some kind of silk though I forget what kind. I think they also quarry certain kinds of stone, but I could be wrong about that too. All I know is they have extreme restrictions on what kinds of equipment can and cannot be used planetside, so they have to keep everything…. Not medieval per se, but no emissions,and extreme infrastructure is a no go.

“Alright cool, where are we landing.”

“I think they are calling it New Athens or something.”

Ramirez leaned back in his seat, “Do you think these people actually believe all this stuff or is it just like elaborate roleplay?”

‘I think that even if it is elaborate roleplay, it won’t be for long. Soon enough people born here are going to believe it.”

The struts on the landing gear cracked and popped as they settled into place. Outside the window the landscape was mediteranian, with rocky hillsides and low lying bushes interspersed with the occasional tree-like structure. Long grass of some kind poked up from the soil, orange in the daylight which had a strange yellow cast.

They stepped out of the shuttle and onto the platform where some enterprising person headset up a vending booth for proper period clothing. The man seemed a bit miffed as the two of them passed by and into the nearby changing stalls, having already been equipped by Adam’s mother.

Adam stepped out a moment later to find Ramirez fiddling with his sandals, and Adam became aware of a slight breeze on the wind as it tugged at the tunic he wore.

As someone who had worn almost every type of clothing under the sun, he had to admit that he was familiar with the sensation of having a breeze, though that didn’t mean he was entirely used to it. 

They turned and walked down the nearby pathway sandals flopping on the ground as they made their way over the next little rise to look down on the still-being-constructed New Athens.

“Holy Shit.” Ramirez said quietly 

Adam blinked, craning his neck back to look at the massive statue rising itself into the air. A statue of what must have been Athena.

“And look, no crane.”

“No shit, and those buildings over there, I think they already finished that one.”

The two of them stopped gawking long enough to make their way down the path and onto the well kept paving stones of the city. They must have entered a market district as men and women called to them from booths on either side of the walkway. Large crowd filtered in and out, and just a few blocks away from here he could see holding pens where they were keeping specific earth animals, like goats and pigs. Strange exotic birds hung in cages, though none of them were earth birds.

Clearly they must ahvebeen native.

In a near daze they made their way up through the city and towards the marble temple erected on a hill at the center of the city. Trees shedding petals like delicate blue blossoms fell onto the street making the scene all together familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Ramirez craned his neck up to look at the still-rising statue as they passed by stepping up the marble steps and under the massive pillars that held up the artfully crafted roof of the structure.

“Wow.”

Little fountains, reflections pools and an elaborate guardian had been built up around the marble structure, and in this palace people had congregated. A couple of men were arguing, what do Adam sounded like the finer points of philosophy, while a man serenaded a crowd of onlookers with a strange and unfamiliar instrument. Humans weren’t the only ones here of course, a couple of Tesraki could be seen lurking around the stalls, and selling their wares though the population was predominantly human.

“I like their idea of exterior decorating.”

He turned to see what Ramirez was talking about, and was greeted by a very fit, very nude, marble statue of some unknown young athlete or demigod..

“Of course YOU would think that.”

Ramirez frowned deeply, “I was merely commenting on the artistic style in which they have rendered the image from stone. The detail and the dedication that it must have taken to-”

“You’re talking about his abs.”

“Yeah, I am talking about his abs, but not JUST his abs. He’s got nice calves too.”

“Calves?”

“I am a sucker for nice calves, you see that’s why you and I would never work, because you only have one real one.”

Adam snorted and looked down at his legs, which were he admitted a bit out of place in the world of knee length tunics. You could almost assume they had walked right into the past and then, boom. Advanced prosthetic leg.

“So what are we going to do while we are here?” Ramirez wondered.

“Not entirely sure yet. Sightseeing, obviously, maybe just hang out on one of the many white sand beaches, we can do whatever we want. Who knows, maybe you could go visit the oracle and ask her why the gods cursed you with such a thick skull.”

“I was thinking about asking which one of the gods is my parent since clearly I am a Demigod.”

“You seek the oracle!”

The two of them nearly jumped out of their skin turning around to find a very tall, very beautiful woman standing behind them with an entourage of admirers following behind her. She stepped forward, making it very uncomfortably close to the two of them.

“Well hello aphrodite.” Ramirez muttered

She smiled at him, “Sweet words can get you far in a place like this.” She traced her hand over his shoulders as she walked around him head tilted.

“Well there is more where that came from I assure you.” Craning his neck to see her more clearly.

She smiled, “I am Althaia devine assistant to the oracle.” She turned to look up at Adam, “And you, do you seek the oracle as well.”

She traced her fingertips down his arm, and seemed rather miffed when he didn’t react other than to pull away slightly, “How much?’

She frowned again, “What do you mean.”

Adam smiled stiffly, “I mean how much do we have to pay to see the oracle.”

Althaia Huffed, “Ten Credits.”

Adam laughed, and Ramirez frowned at him.

Althaia turned to walk away but Adam waved a hand, “Hold on, hold on. I asked how much I never said we weren’t interested.”

She trend to look at them with one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised, “Come with me then.”

The two of them fell into step beside her, Ramirez looking like one of her devoted admirers.

She turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly, “You seem familiar. What do you do for a living?”

“Just a soldier, both of us just soldiers.”

“And are you seeking…. A quest perhaps.”

He wondered what kind of touristy quest she was talking about. Probably some kind of scavenger hunt that would ring them to the edge of the city where they would find a golden fleece draped over a tree.

“Not sure yet,”

She led them up the temple steps and stopped outside two large double doors. A pair of guards, golden breastplates and blue accent feathers stood before the door. Their shields held to their chests, their spears at the ready crossing them as the strangers approached.

She turned to look at Adam and held out her arm. He smiled as he exchanged twenty credits with her. 

Althaia waved a hand and the two guards uncrossed their spears and stepped aside. The doors creaked inward and Adam and Ramirez were hit in the face by a waft of incense which floated heavily on the wind and into their faces.

“Go, go and speak with the oracle.” She said nudging them forward.

Ramirez sniffed at the air as the doors closed behind them.

He frowned, “Hold on a minute.”

Adam looked at him, “What?”

“This is not JUST incense.”

“Pretty sure that's how it used to work.”

The two of them stepped forward over the marble floor passing more and more marble statues as they walked towards the end, where a group of guards…. With suspiciously bloodshot eyes… stood before an alter, where sat another beautiful woman wearing a light fabric shift, long black hair cascading over her shoulders.

“You have come seeking the oracle?” She said her eyes distant.

He was pretty sure that’s just because she was high.

“Yes?

She looked at them eyes seeming to stare into and THROUGH them, “Two soldiers…. Two soldiers on a quest.”

She must have known who Adam was otherwise that prediction might have been pretty impressive. Either that or Althaia had an earpiece in and was feeding her information about the people coming to see her.”

“Son of Aphrodite, Son of Athena….”

Adam just smiled.

Ramirez elbowed him in the ribs, “hear that, she thinks I’m sexy.”

“Yeah and she thinks “I’ am the smart one, so Don’t get too excited.”

She eyed them shrewdly, and something in her expression made Adam feel strange. It was as if she was contemplating something very very deeply. As they watched, she tapped her fingers against the stone.

“Take a ship, tell them to drop you on the border of Laconia, and then head inland. You will find your quest there.”

Adam smiled, “Thank you, Oracle.”

She waved them away dismissively, and the two of them stepped outside Adam breathing a sigh of relief as they stepped out of the smoke and into fresh air. 

He coughed, “So, what do you think this quest is going to be.”

“I don’t know, maybe we will meet a sexy snake lady.” He elbowed Adam, “We already have a cyclops.”

“Oh shut the hell up.” Adam grumbled as they made their way down towards and towards the docks.

The ships were simple wooden constructions with large sails and lines of chairs below deck for rowing. It was almost a surreal feeling as they boarded and set off on the crashing waves. There was no salt in the air which made Adam think that this was fresh water, which was pretty convenient for the people that lived there. Once they told the captain of the ship where they were going, he gave them a strange look, but took their credits and ordered his men to sail.

Adam was getting mildly suspicious by the time it all started, but decided to go along and see where this would bring them.

On all sides small islands passed by, and on those small islands he could see cities being erected, Vineyards being tended, and the occasional strange and mysterious looking animal disappearing back into the plant life.

“Laconia.” he rolled the word around in his mouth, “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“No, why would it. Here is my thought. We show up, walk to the middle of the island and find a golden sheep or something. I don’t know maybe we meet a guy dressed up like a minotaur and have to wrestle him for it or some shit. Either way, should be fun, and then we can spend the rest of the time lazing around on the beach sunning ourselves.”

Adam nodded but wasn’t sure whether to believe Ramirez as the boat made its slow way down the straights, past other vessels which sailed with blue trimmed sails. It took them almost half a day to reach this, Laconia, which Adam still argued sounded familiar, and disembarked on the sandy shore.

The captain didn’t give them any direction, but ordered his men out once more.

Adam hd expected there to be some kind of pathway or maybe a sign marking where they were supposed to go, but there was nothing, and so he shrugged and motioned Ramirez to follow him as he made his way up the center of the island.

They were walking for a while. This island was a bit larger and so had an expanse of grassland and mountainous terrain interspersed with the occasional tree.

“I have no idea where I am going.” Adam muttered under his breath as they came up around a rock incline.

He nearly leapd out of his skin as a loud battle cry rose up from the stone and a group of what must have been five men descended on them from the rocks spears raised. Not thinking Adam ducked under the trust of one man and shouldered him in the chest. Throwing him back as he snapped upwards to grab the spear.

He wrenched it form the man’s hand as she shoulder him painfully to the ground.

He spun around in a circle, clashing spears with a second man who had come in from the left.

Off to his right Ramirez had been caught off guard and been plowed to the ground by one man holding an absolutely massive circular shield.

His spear was knocked aside in that moment of hesitation and a leaf blade appeared at his throat.

He looked up to see an absolutely massive man standing over him red cloak billowing in the wind, golden helmet with its red plume glittering in the sun. The man was so ripped with glistening muscle that he made the statues outside New Athens look practically puny.

He looked down where one of his men was slowly hauling himself to his feet, another muscle bound brute who looked almost embarrassed.

“Who are you!”

The man demanded.

Adam raised his hands, “I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m not the one with a spear to my throat.”

“Adam, and that one is Angel.”

“What business do you have on our island. Spies for the Athenians.” he snarled, and his acting was so good for a moment Adam almost believed him.

“Uh no…. No, they sent us here but, I don’t work for them.”

The men muttered angrily. Five hulking shapes, five men who clearly made a living of hitting the gym.

“Tan they sent you here to die.”

Adam frowned.

The spear pulled back.

And then a hand stopped him, “Wait…. The king should decide.”

There was a pause, “I suppose you are right.”

“King, king of what?”

The two men turned to look at him, deep frowns on their faces.

“The king of Sparta.”

[radiantroope]

Something More || Topper Thornton

pairing: topper x reader

mentions: the pogues, rafe, kelce

requested: yes; anon asked “hi! can i make a request for a topper imagine. something like after sarah breaks his heart and you try to be there for him even though you’re a pogue so he’s an ass at first but then he just wants someone to listen to him and eventually he’s all crazy for you. fluffy? maybe a little smutty?”

warnings: angry!topper, verbal abuse(?), slight violence, angst, swearing, fluffy soft topper, SMUTTY SMUT SMUT AT THE END, unprotected sex (wrap it up kiddos), spanking

author’s note: this is unedited because it’s long as hell and i’m lazy but yeah, hope you enjoy🤪 i also think i went a little off from the request but i tried to keep it as close as possible!

masterlist | add yourself to my tag list

* this is not my gif! if it’s yours, please let me know so i can give you proper credit!!

You were at work when your phone started ringing in the break room. You were sat at a table, munching on a salad for lunch. Your eyebrows furrowed when you saw Kiara’s name across the top. The Pogues and you had an agreement not to call each other work unless it was important. You slid your finger across the bottom to answer and swallowed your bite of food.

“Kie? Everything okay?” you said as you held the phone to your ear.

“No everything is not okay!” she exclaimed loudly on the other end. You pulled the phone away from your ear in shock before bringing it back. “John B just brought Sarah Cameron over here. They’ve been macking behind our backs and he lied about it!”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you dropped the plastic fork into your bowl. Topper and Sarah had just gone to Midsummers together. You’d just seen them at the country club the other day because, as fate would have it, they got sat in your section. You had to watch them disgustingly flirt across the table the whole time you tried to wait on them.

“She was cheating on Topper?” you more so stated than asked in realization.

“Yes! He broke the most sacred rule, Y/N. Pogues don’t lie to other Pogues!” she shouted. You understood that she was more concerned with their friendgroup, but your mind traveled elsewhere.

You remembered seeing Topper arrive at the club shortly before you went on break. He met up with Kelce and Rafe to golf for the day. You needed to talk to him - make sure he was okay. He was supposed to be your sworn enemy by most standards, but you hated that damn rivalry. You didn’t understand why you all just couldn’t get along.

“I’ll deal with John B later,” you reassured the raging girl on the other end of the phone. Being one year older than them all, you’d been made honorary ‘mom friend’ of the group. You typically handled drama amongst the teenagers. “I gotta go, Kie. I’ll call you when I get off.”

Kiara bid you goodbye and you quickly hung up. You stood from the table and tossed the rest of your salad in the trash; it wasn’t that great anyway. You exited the break room and made your way to the dining area of the club. It was fairly empty, only a few tables occupied by club members. You spotted the back of a frosted tipped head at the bar and made your way over to him.

Topper was getting a few beers for him and the guys before they headed out on the course for the day. No one ID’d him, of course. The members of the club paid enough money to oversee this type of thing. Everyone just looked the other way.

“Hey, Topper, can I talk to you?” you asked as you came to his side.

He glanced at you with a furrowed brow and scoffed, turing back to the bartender, “Do I have a choice?”

You ignored the question and way he tried to brush you off. You shifted your weight on your feet and said, “I heard about Sarah. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Topper froze completely in his spot. He knew word was going to get around eventually, it was inevitable and obvious. Though, he wasn’t expecting you to walk right up to him and say something about it - putting salt in an open wound. He slowly turned to look at you with a stone cold expression on his face.

“Why would you ask me that?” he practically growled, handing shooting out and gripping harshly onto your upper arm. “Did you come over here to gloat? Make fun of me? Rub it in my face that your little friend’s been hoeing around with my girl?”

“No I-” you winced as Topper squeezed your arm harder, “Topper you’re hurting me.”

The tall Kook released your arm, realization crossing his face but it was quickly replaced with a scowl again. The bartender put the beers on the bar and he practically threw the cash across the bar at him. He grabbed the beverages and turned to you again.

“I have your job in the palm of my hand, Y/N, don’t ever talk to me about that again,” Topper spat before walking away.

You had a frown etched into your features as you watched the blonde go. Your hand massaged the spot he’d grabbed subconsciously. When he was out of sight you dropped your hand to your side and sulked back to the break room. You were going to spend the fifteen minutes left of your break wishing you’d just kept your mouth shut.

•

The next time you saw Topper was at a Boneyard kegger. You hadn’t seen him at the club since that day. You hoped you never did. You desperately needed that job to keep you and your mom on your feet. You’d never be able to find another job that paid that well, especially if your boss spread word that you messed with the Thornton boy.

You made your way towards the kegs for a refill when a group of guys turned with freshly filled cups. You’d had your eyes cast downward on your feet as you tried not to trip in the sand. You nearly ran into someone’s chest when you looked up into the face of the boy you were trying to avoid.

“T-Topper,” you stuttered, taking a step back when you realized how close you were. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” Rafe snickered to your left, sauntering off with Kelce somewhere. Probably to find their next innocent and oblivious hookup to add to the notch on their belts.

You ignored the self proclaimed ‘Kook King’ and stared up at Topper. His jaw was set as he stared down at you. His eyes were swimming with something you couldn’t pin point. Regret? Guilt, maybe?

“You come over here to try and get me to talk about my feelings again?” he mumbled, raising the cup to his lips to take a large drink.

“No.. I just- Look Top, I’m sorry.”

Topper scoffed and rolled his eyes. His shoulder bumped yours as he walked past, but not before adding, “Stay the hell away from me.”

Pope, who’d been at the kegs handing out beers, came to your side immediately upon seeing you frown. The two of you watched the boy make his way to his friends and other Kooks.

“You okay?” the dark skinned boy asked, now looking down at you.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I’m fine,” you forced a smile to your lips and handed your empty cup over to be filled.

Unbeknownst to you, Topper watched you all night. He didn’t understand why you cared. He didn’t understand how you could still be so nice to him with the way him and his friends treated you and your friends. It was frustrating, really, this feeling in his chest that was pulling him towards you. Something about the way you looked at him, the way you were soft spoken but strong willed at the same time. He couldn’t shake this feeling of wanting to let you in.

•

It was a gorgeous morning. The sun had just completely revealed itself from the horizon, not a cloud in the sky. The waves were especially good. That’s how you found yourself down at the beach on Figure Eight. Their beaches weren’t as crowded since, let’s face it, the Kooks didn’t give a damn about surfing. You had a whole mile stretch to yourself. The only people you saw were a few joggers and dog walkers.

Your surf board glided through the waves effortlessly. You practiced some of the tricks JJ had been teaching you, nearly losing balance a handful of times. One wave took you by surprise and you tumbled through the water. You came up for air, choking on sea water, lungs burning. You could feel your muscles screaming at you despite the saltwater making your body feel exceptionally light.

You climbed back up onto your board, wiping your eyes and try and rid them of the burning sensation. You blinked away the mix of tears and seawater, looking towards the beach when you saw a familiar frosted tipped head. He stood shirtless, arms by his sides as he stared at you - a small smile on his lips that you couldn’t see from so far away.

As you slid onto your stomach and began paddling back to shore, you were half expecting Topper to leave. You were surprised when he didn’t, instead walking closer to you as the waves crashed around your legs when you stood.

“Didn’t know you were so good at that,” it was a half-assed compliment, but you still smiled.

“You wouldn’t know, it’s a Pogue sport,” you teased breathlessly.

Topper rolled his eyes, this time playfully as a smile again tugged at his lips. He watched as you stuck your board in the sand and undid the ankle strap. You sat down to take some relief off your aching legs and leant back against your palms.

“What’re you doing on this side of town?” he asked as he came down to sit beside you, keeping a good amount of distance between the two of you.

“The beach is less crowded over here. It’s easier to surf without worrying about getting run over by someone else,” you replied, looking over at the dirty blonde.

Topper’s skin was glistening with sweat and his muscles looked taught - not that you were paying attention. You figured he’d been on a run before stopping to talk to you. Only God knows why after the way he’d been treating you.

“You know, I didn’t mean the things I said to you,” his voice was softer now. His blue eyes met yours for a moment before he was looking back out at the water. “I guess.. I was just so angry at Sarah and John B. You’re his friend so I took my anger out on you.”

“Apology accepted,” you replied with a smile, even though he hadn’t outright said he was sorry. Topper’s gaze locked on yours and a genuine smile crossed his lips.

The two of you sat on the beach for hours, time slipping away from you as you talked. He opened up to you about Sarah and how heartbroken he was. He told you how his attachment to her was unhealthy and he wasn’t even sure if he was truly happy with her. He told you how he’s just ready to move on and figure out what real love is.

He opened up about his mom and how she expected so much from him. You realized the boy boy had a lot of pressure on him. He was going through more than a lot of people knew about, even his own friends. But you noticed how he sat up straighter and seemed more relaxed the more he talked. He was smiling and laughing with you, something you never thought you’d be able to say. You saw a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before and it made your heart swell.

•

You and Topper had been hanging out quite regularly. He’d meet up with you after you got off work and you’d grab lunch or take a walk on the beach if it was late. You’d take long drives on your days off, windows down with music playing softly as you talked about everything - or nothing at all. He’d even helped your mom fix her car when it broke down on her way to work. It surprised you that he even knew anything about cars, thinking he just threw money at someone to fix whatever problem he had.

The Pogues didn’t know about your newfound friendship with the Kook. They assumed you were busy with work and your mom. Occasionally you had to pick up some extra shifts so your absence was nothing new to them.

The Kooks heard you’d been hanging around with Topper but no one had really seen it with their own eyes. They were whispers of gossip in the dark started by older folks seeing the two of you at the club or on the beach. Rafe had tried to ask his best friend about it but was brushed off as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

When you showed up at the Boneyard for - yes, another party - with the blue eyed boy, everyone’s attention was on you. You were linked arm in arm as you treaded the sand down to the crowd of people. The whispers and quiet murmurs started. It was eerily quiet - those parties were never quiet.

The Pogues were by the kegs, staring wide eyed and mouth opened at the two of you. You could practically feel the uncomfort coming from John B and Sarah. If looks could kill, Rafe would have killed you both, Kelce stood beside him with his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“Well this couldn’t be any more awkward,” Topper muttered, trying to stifle a laugh.

“It was your idea to come together,” you whispered back, glancing over at your friends, “They’re looking at me like I just killed their puppy.”

The two of you erupted into a fit of giggles, making your way to the kegs. Pope filled up a cup and hesitated as he handed it over to Topper. You kept the smile on your face as you looked between the Pogues. You took the next cup and took a sip as the tall boy unlinked his arm from yours.

“I’m gonna go talk to Rafe before he has an aneurysm,” he muttered in your ear, hand lingering on your lower back.

You hummed in response and nodded, watching him walk over to the Kooks before you turned back to your friends. Still, they were staring at you. Mixed looks of surprise, disapproval and betrayal.

“What the hell was that?” JJ was the first to open his mouth.

You shrugged a bit and smiled around the rim of your cup as you took another sip of the bitter liquid.

Kiara sat herself on one of the kegs and added, “Dont play coy with us, Y/L/N. What’s going on?”

“We’re just hanging out! It’s not a big deal,” you exasperated, free hand slapping against your thigh after you threw it up.

“You’re fucking Topper now?” John B asked, standing behind JJ with a disgusted look on his face. “That’s why you’ve been so MIA lately?”

You turned to the curly haired brunette and raised an eyebrow. A sarcastic smile painted itself across your lips and you tilted your head. “I don’t think you have much room to talk, do you? We’re not fucking. Don’t be an asshole,” you retorted.

A silence fell over your group, an uncomfortable one. You weren’t one to talk to friends in such a way but they’d backed you into a corner. They were trying to interrogate you, but John B was also running around with a Kook and even helped her cheat. You weren’t going to let them judge your choices when they weren’t much better.

As soon as Topper walked up to his friends, Rafe couldn’t help the words flying from his mouth, “So you hang out with Pogues now?”

The shorter male scoffed and shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He brought the cup he was holding up to his lips to keep himself from spewing a harsh remark in return.

“I mean, if you’re just fucking her, it’s cool bro, do what you want. But you two sure did seem coupled up. You don’t want some Pogue slut ruining your reputation, Top-”

“Don’t talk about her like that, man,” Topper snapped, staring his friend in the eye. Rafe raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms over his chest. Kelce stood awkwardly to the side, not wanting to include himself or pick sides between his friends.

“She’s not a slut and she’s not just some Pogue,” Topper continued to defend you, turning to look over his shoulder at you. He could tell your discussion with the Pogues was heated by the way you were talking with your hand and the clench of your jaw. “She’s a cool girl. She takes care of her shit and doesn’t let people’s opinions of her, change how she carries herself. Maybe if you actually got to know her instead of judging where she came from, you’d see that too,” he continued, looking at Rafe again.

The brunette Kook held his hands up defensively and muttered something like okay man, whatever. Topper turned to look at you once more, catching your gaze. You sent him a small smile and a single nod. He did the same. Despite how your friend’s felt from both sides, the two of you didn’t care. You were like two magnets being drawn together, a feeling neither of you had ever experienced before.

•

Your shift had just ended and walked out the doors to see the familiar Jeep parked out by the curb. You smiled and walked over, pulling the passenger side door open and climbing into the vehicle. Your hair had started to fall out of the ponytail you were wearing and you probably smelt of all the food you’d been handling all day. You rubbed a hand over your face tiredly and leant back in the seat.

Topper sat in the driver’s seat, taking a moment to stare at you before driving away. He had a small smile on his face when your eyes met. You let out a soft laugh and covered your face with your hand, mumbling, “What?”

The Kook shook his head, feeling his cheeks heat up at being caught. He bit the inside of his bottom lip as he pulled the car away from the curb and started driving. You turned to look out the window and noticed he was taking you farther into Figure Eight instead of the usual way to your house.

“Where are we going?” you asked and turned to look at him again. The sun was setting and casting a beautiful glow over Topper’s face. His tan skin being illuminated by the orange light made his eyes impossibly bluer.

“My mom’s on the mainland for work so I figured we could hang at my place,” he responded, glancing over at you. “If that’s okay! I didn’t even ask.”

You hummed and nodded, eyes drifting back out to the houses flying by. You’d only been to Topper’s house one other time since you’d started hanging out. You knew what it looked like though. The Pogues liked to crash house parties often and his had been one of them many times.

You arrived at the large house fairly quickly and Topper let you inside. You kicked off your work shoes by the door and followed him up the staircase. He opened his bedroom door and walked in ahead of you, quickly picking up some of his discarded clothes and tossing them in his hamper in the corner. The room was very minimalistic and tidy, probably his mother’s doing.

You walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the sea foam green colored duvet. He wiped the palms of his hands on his shorts and turned to you. Your hands were clasped together in your lap as your eyes traveled around the room. You looked so tiny compared to the large mattress and he could tell you were a bit uncomfortable - not wanting to dirty his space.

“You can take a shower. I know you probably want to,” Topper suggested, walking across the room and opening the door to his attached bathroom.

“Oh I- uh, I don’t have any clothes.”

Topper waved his hand in dismissal and opened up the bottom drawer of his dresser. He pulled out a pair of old basket shorts and a t-shirt. He put them on the counter in the bathroom and turned to you with a raised brow.

“I guess I don’t have an excuse now, huh?” you chuckled and stood up, entering the large bathroom.

“If you need anything just gimme me a shout,” he told you with a smile before stepping out of the bathroom and shutting the door.

You turned on the shower and got it to the right temperature, taking off your clothes and slipping under the stream of water. You let out a content sigh and basked in the warmth for a minute. The water pressure was so much better than what you got on the South side.

You quickly washed your hair with some of his shampoo and shockingly, conditioner. Most boys wouldn’t have that product. His body wash was sandlewood scented and you used your hands to clean your sweaty skin. You took an extra minute to make sure you were rinsed completely before turning off the water.

You grabbed a towel and thoroughly dried your body before stepping out and slipping on Topper’s shorts. They were big on you but thankfully didn’t fall off your hips. You slipped his shirt over your head and smiled softly as his scent swirled around you. You skipped out on undergarments - considering you didn’t have fresh ones, but you were comfortable enough around the Thornton boy to go without.

You opened the door while towel drying your hair and found Topper sat against his headboard. He’d changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and one of his old Kook Academy t-shirts. He was scrolling through Netflix, trying to find a good movie to put on when his eyes traveled to you. His breath hitched at the sight of you in his clothes, wet hair dampening the maroon colored material.

It’s as if his eyes were glued to your body, frozen on the bed with the remote clasped tightly in his hands. You tossed the towel into Topper’s hamper and made your way to the bed. His gaze was still on you as you stopped at the end and you chuckled.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you teased, climbing up onto the bed and crawling towards the pillows.

“Don’t tempt me.”

You were still on your hands and knees when you looked to the tan boy. He was staring back at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes were a darker, stormy blue. His eyes flickered between yours as he had an internal battle with himself. They drifted to your lips as you pulled your bottom one between your teeth.

“Can I kiss you?” Topper’s voice was softer now, eyes meeting yours once again.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you replied through a grin and shuffled closer to him.

The Kook’s hands dropped the remote, one finding the back of your neck and the other meeting your waist. Your lips met awkwardly at first, noses bumping. You pulled back with a soft laugh and tilted your head, leaning in slowly this time. The kiss was soft and tentative. Your lips moved together in synchronized motions.

Topper’s hands pulled you closer until you were sitting on his lap. The room was heating up by the second as your hands roamed the toned planes of his chest over his shirt. You tongue swiped at his lips while tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His large hands wrapped around your hips before sliding up and feeling at your waist.

You hadn’t realized you’d started to grind down against the Thornton boy until you shifted and made contact with his half hard cock. He gasped into your mouth and pulled away from your lips. His pupils were blown wide and his cheeks were pink. You looked something similar, lips swollen from the pressure of his against yours. He had grabbed onto your hips tightly and held them while his chest moved with his soft pants.

“Y/N..” Topper hesitated. He didn’t want you to feel like this is all he wanted. The two of you had spent so much time together, he felt so stupid to shut the idea of being with you down all those times just because you were a Pogue. You knew him better than his own mother at this point. You helped him get over Sarah and learn to love himself again - and in turn, start to fall in love with you. He didn’t want you to feel like his rebound or a fling. He wanted you; all of you.

Your read Topper’s thoughts through his eyes, feeling your heart swell. Your hands came up to cup his cheeks and bent down to press a sweet kiss to his lips. Your mouth trailed down his jaw until your soft breath was at his ear, making a shiver run down his spine.

“I want you, Topper,” you whispered, a hint of desperation laced in your tone.

The sound of you saying those words alone had his cock fully erect. A low growl sounded in his chest when you ground your hips against him once again. He flipped the two of you, your head nestled in the pillows as he hovered over you. Your legs were bent at the knees at both sides of his hips and his pressed his length against your clothed heat. You mewled at the touch, fingers sliding into the frosted tips of his hair.

He dipped his head and attached his lips to your neck, sucking dark marks into your delicate skin. Your head tilted to him better access fingers tugging as his soft locks as he found your sweet spot. Topper groaned softly, one hand sliding under your - his - shirt. His thumb and pointer finger rolled your perked nipple, causing your back to arch.

“Stop teasing,” you whined as he lifted his head and smirked down at you.

“Patience, babygirl,” Topper muttered, pushing himself up onto his knees. He pulled his shirt off your body and hummed as he took in the sight of your exposed chest.

The obvious tent in sweatpants made your mouth water. You reached down and wrapped your hand around his clothed cock, palming him through the garnments. He let out a strangled groan as he twitched in your hand. He quickly ripped off his own shirt, giving you a chance to admire his muscular body as he worked on getting your shorts off.

Topper couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d been longing for this moment since he realized his feelings for Sarah had diminished. You’d been waiting for this moment since he apologized at the club. You’d always found him attractive and as the two of you got closer, your feelings for him only intensified.

“You’re already wet and I’ve barely started,” he breathed as he spread your legs open for him and admired your glistening pussy.

You bit your lip and tried to get Topper’s sweatpants down his legs but from your angle, it was almost impossible. You huffed in frustration and laid back against the pillows.

“Topper, I’ve been waiting for this for too long. Please, take your pants off and fuck me already.”

The Kook didn’t argue. He wanted nothing more than to lay down and devoure you of everything you had; make you cum repeatedly on his tongue. But with the way you were practically begging for his cock and dripping arousal on his duvet, he couldn’t wait to fuck you into next week.

He pushed his sweatpants and boxers down far enough for his cock to spring free, not even bothering to take them off completely. He hooked one of your legs over his forearm and tapped the head of his length against your clit then dragged it through your folds to your entrance. The corners of his lips twitched up as your juices coated him. He guided himself inside of you slowly then put that hand on your hip.

A soft moan left your lips as Topper filled you up, sighing in relief when he bottom out and held your hips as close to him as he could. He had his jaw clenched, eyelids fluttering as your walls hugged him perfectly.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned softly as he began thrusting slowly. He’d pull back until the head of his cock was the only thing inside of you, then press the whole length of himself back into you.

You whimpered in response, displeased with his slow pace. Your hands traveled up the expanse of his abs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When you reached his pecks you dragged your nails back down.

“Fuck me like you mean it, Top, please. I need more,” you begged the gorgeous boy above you.

His eyes left where the two of your bodies met and locked on yours. They were cloudy with arousal and a smirk spread across his lips, replying, “As you wish, princess.”

Topper’s hips snapped forward as he started fucking you faster. The sound of skin slapping on skin filled the room as well as your moans. The grip he had on your hip was bruising tight and his cock was brushing your g-spot with every thrust. He grunted as he moved your leg and put your ankle over his shoulder, bearing his weight on his free hand.

You brought your other leg around his hip, crying out as he started pounding against your g-spot now. The coil in your stomach was winding up fast. Topper felt your pussy clenching around him and he moaned.

“Gonna cum on my cock already, baby?” he asked, bringing his hand off of your hip to rub quick circles against your clit with his thumb. He watched your eyes roll back, mouth falling open as pornographic, sinful moans escaped you. “That’s it, cum for me, Y/N.”

Your legs shook as the euphoric orgasm wracked your body. Topper slowed his thrusts as you road out your high bending down and sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You whined and arched into his mouth, nails scratching at his shoulder blades.

He pulled out suddenly, leaving your body cold and empty. You opened your eyes to see him shimmying out of his sweatpants and boxers. He was lazily stroking himself with one and the other grabbed your leg to turn you over.

“Hands and knees, babygirl,” he demanded, pulling your hips up once you were on your stomach.

You had barely gotten your knees situated before he was plunging his length back inside of you. You propped yourself on your elbows and gasped as he set a brutal pace, one hand pressing into your lower back on the spine. Watching your ass bounce with each of his thrusts had Topper in a daze. He couldn’t take his eyes off of your bottom half and his other hand came down on one of your asscheeks roughly, causing him to groan as he watched it shake.

At this angle you could feel him so much deeper than before. All of your senses were on overdrive after your first orgasm, now he was slamming against your g-spot at an ungodly pace. Your second orgasm was approaching faster and faster and you couldn’t stop your pussy from clenching right around him.

“Yes, fuck yes! Right there, Topper, don’t stop!” you moaned out, the side of your face pressed into the bed and muffling your voice slightly.

The Kook let out an animalistic moan, hands gripping tightly to your hips as he pulled you back to meet his thrusts. They were getting sloppy, but he tried to keep his pace the same, letting his head fall back as he felt his own release approaching.

“F-Fuck,” Topper groaned, squeezing onto your hips, “I’m gonna fill up this tight pussy, baby. Shit, I’m cumming.”

The two of you released almost at the same time, you reaching your second high just before him. A cry of his name left your lips as your juices coated his swelling cock. His hips stuttered as thick ropes of his cum filled you up. He slowed down, using your tight walls to milk himself as he chanted your name like a mantra.

You fell limp on the bed, causing Topper’s softening cock to slip out of you. He watched his cum slowly drip out of you, making a mess onto your abused cunt and his bed. He got up from the bed and went to his bathroom to grab a washcloth. He came back and gently cleaned you up then himself.

The Thornton boy helped maneuver you under his sheets, smiling at the dazed look in your eyes. He stripped the comforter off his bed and made a mental note to wash it in the morning before climbing under the sheets beside you.

He pulled you into his side and wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head when you rested it on his chest. He brushed your hair off your shoulder and let his fingertips trace gentle patterns onto your bare skin. The silence didn’t bother either of you - just content being in each other’s embrace.

“Hey, Top?” you muttered sleepily into the golden skin of his chest. He hummed in response and you continued, “I really like you.”

Topper couldn’t hold back the grin that invaded his face, throwing his head back for a second in joy.

“Hey, Y/N?” he copied you, waiting for you to hum in response before he tilted your chin up. He planted a loving kiss against your lips then the tip of your nose and whispered, “I really like you too.”

tagging my ✨rafe sluts +1 topper slut✨: @letsgofullkook​ @sortagaysortahigh​ @queenk00k​ @jjmbanks​ @ims0golden​ @jjsmentalpolaroids​ @jjmaybcnks​

[writefightandflightclub]

Wanderers: Orestes x reader

Summary: friends to lovers / hurt + comfort but make it Roman, I guess?

Author’s note: this will make more sense if you’ve seen the film, but it’s not essential. This is my first time writing for Orestes (or ever writing historical fiction) so please be kind! And PLEASE tell me if you liked it, loved it, or hated it so I know whether to ever put myself through this again. (This was fun but it took 1000x longer due to Googling a new question about the Romans every 30 seconds. But damn, I learned so much!) Also, I made some definite choices with Orestes’ characterisation and we may not love it, so let me know!

Word count: Why is this 9.5k? I hate myself. 

Warnings: 18+only. Unrequited love, explicit smut  inc. oral sex, handjob, massage, penetration, fingering, grinding, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), cumshot. Language. One mention of period blood. Outdated notions of virginity (one reference). Romans had slaves- this isn’t a key theme. Major historical inaccuracies, probably. Typos, definitely. Slight film spoilers?

Song inspo: Oh wanderer, I've been wondering / If your brown eyes still have color, could I see? / That night, that night with those hands, those hands (Wanderers, Cat Power)

Tagging: (PLEASE ONLY READ IF YOU ARE 18+ REGARDLESS OF TAGS!) @darksideofclarke @damndamer0n @veuliee2​ @yougottakeeponkeepinon @himbopoes​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @lostgirlheather​ @justrunamok​ @aellynera​ @damerondjarin​ @blushingwueen​ @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall​ @holybatflapexpert​ @arabellathorne​ @yourbucky084​ @mandoplease​ @mylifeliterally​ @arkofblake​ @multifandomlife22​

“News of it has reached you, then?” Orestes addresses you glumly as you enter the room, looking up at you from where he languishes in the warmth of his bath, soothing away his sorrows. Bright and delicate notes from a lyre resound around the room, the dappled light streaming in from the courtyard seeming to dance and glint in response across the surface of the water. The air is balmy and the room tinged gold as the desert sun sulks towards its dormitory.

You flinch. Of course you’d heard. The whole city had heard tell of Hypatia’s scathing rebuttal of his profession of love. You had come as quickly as you could in order to console the man.

You admire Hypatia, very much, and that admiration extends to her wicked sense of humour; however, you cannot condone any act which inspires such melancholy in Orestes’ eyes as that which greets you. He is a such a gentle, lovesick soul, after all.

You smooth your face, and continue towards him neutrally and calmly, obligingly pouring the large jug of sweet-smelling oils and petals into the waters. You purposefully avoid Orestes’ gaze as he watches you, his arms stretched out along the edge of the square bath. You have prepared his most preferred concoction, and you hope Orestes does not notice the sheen on your brow, resulting from your exertions in acquiring said ingredients from the market at such short notice.

Surreptitiously, you examine Orestes for signs of distress as you dip a hand in to swill the water and circulate the perfumed mixture, steam rising to meet your flushed face. You note his eyes are puffed and bleary as if he has been crying, his curls uncharacteristically mussed.  

“You look as though you might offer me counsel.” Orestes breathes, reading the set of your face with ease. He knows it is unlike you to bite your tongue. Straightforwardness is a quality Orestes admires in women; or, at least, in the few he keeps close. Further, it is a quality he more than tolerates in you, despite your mismatched positions within the household.

“One as lowly as I could not dream of it, Orestes.” You speak coolly and liltingly, in well-rehearsed tones, your voice nevertheless imbued with a bite and authority beyond your station. Your eyes glint subtly with humour as you proceed. “Indeed, I am not as endlessly wise as the esteemed company to which you are accustomed.” You hope you have masked the condescension in your tone sufficiently. As much as you admire Hypatia, occasionally you do stray too close to envy.

“And yet, your eyes are busy with thoughts enough for ten scholars,” Orestes observes, inhaling the perfumes deeply as the sweet musk begins to circulate.

You merely deliver him a wry smile, eyes cast downwards towards the motion of the swirling petals and oil droplets beneath your fingers. “And yet I bite my tongue. It is a skill you may hope to emulate, one day, pupil.”

His eyes shine gently in response to the soft fun you poke at him. “Come, girl. I will at the very least have your skilful fingers calm me. I will accept that as a form of counsel, if you would deliver it.” You finally look at him, your gaze flicking towards his umber eyes and finding them soft and cautious. It is not a command – not in the slightest, although it holds the appearance of one, as befits your position. Instead, you alone recognise it as a plea for comfort, from one friend to another. “You may continue to mock me, if you so wish. Indeed, mockery of Orestes is the favoured activity of the day, for all in Alexandria.”

You may not be a slave, but neither are you Orestes’ equal. He could command you, but the man, ever since he was a boy and you a girl, has only ever treated you with kindness. Still, though he may lapse and appear to forget that you serve him, the thought that you are here only through charity seldom escapes you. Despite that you are of noble birth, your parents had died before you could be married off, leaving a burden of bad debt and ill-repute behind. Orestes’ father had taken you in, owing to the deep, brotherly bond he shared with your own father. So, in the years following, you have worked for your keep. You know you are lucky to find yourself in such a rare and happy position, still being able to enjoy a moderate level of freedom. Plus, your duties are typically performed in service of Orestes, which favours you greatly. You carry them out not only with dedication, but with a song in your heart.

“Certainly, Orestes,” you state, obligingly. “And rather than mocking you, I shall meditate on your superior qualities. I will pray that something comes to mind before the bathwater cools.” You can’t help but chide him fondly, as is habit, and you are pleased that it tugs a hint of a smile from him, at least.

You climb the marbled steps up to the edge of the raised bath, coming to perch behind him where he luxuriates. You lean, reaching for the metal vessel to your side, and from it you drizzle some aromatic oil onto your hands, promptly beginning to massage the meat of Orestes’ shoulders with your deft and expert touch. You take considerable pride in the fact you can usually alleviate the man’s sorrows. Tonight, however, his muscles feel particularly taut, and you must knead him with greater vigour than usual in attempts to dispel the anguish from his body.

Orestes hums against your touch as you settle into your work and find the optimum pressure, though he does not collapse against you to the usual extent. Your brow furrows in concern as you detect the day’s pain and no doubt humiliation in his body. Hypatia had handed him a rag soiled with the blood of her cycle, in front of the whole Agora, unequivocally dismissing his affections. You could not imagine a harsher public rebuttal. Still, there is something to be said for clarity, you suppose.

“I can feel the words in your fingers, girl. I can hear them in your clipped breathing. What is it that you would tell me?” Orestes prompts, and it causes you to still your aggravated breath. It seems that his body is more in tune with your touch than you might expect – seemingly, he can read you as well as you can read him. “Speak plainly, I beg you. Not one of the slaves will counsel me with truth - only theatre and deflections. They will not admit I am cursed.” Orestes complains in a cracked voice, with a wave of his hand towards the slaves standing by with bowls of lye soap and strigils.

“Orestes...” you whisper, softly chiding this dramatic, lovesick fool in hushed tones. “It is a shame you have not pursued a vocation in the theatre yourself, as you oftentimes tend towards the dramatic.”

He huffs out a breath. “Perhaps there is truth in that. Though when love plays out as a tragedy and a comedy -at my expense- what other option is there except to take the stage and denounce this cruel pageant to any who will listen?”

You dig the heels of your hands more firmly into his shoulder blades, satisfied as the ministration finally earns a grunt of pleasure from him.

“Orestes,” you begin as your hands continue to work him. “I would willingly provide an audience for you. Most men think and speak, and yet feeling is like thinking to you. Indeed, whatever is in your heart becomes breath, and I always delight in hearing it.” There is no man you know with such an active heart. “However, I implore you, for a moment now be still and let your heart rest. Let me soothe you, rather than stirring the waters.”

Orestes sighs deeply and then gestures to the slaves. “A moment, please? Leave us, will you?” Orestes asks with a waft of his hand, and they pad obediently out of the room. “And get this lyre out of here, for its happy, mocking notes only ail me further. I can safely declare that music is not the antidote to love I was promised.”

“Shush, Orestes. Still your passions and let me wash your hair,” you soothe. You lift a red earthenware bowl and have Orestes tip his head back, so that you may wet and rinse his luxurious crown of curls. Your fingers weave into the inky tendrils to massage his scalp, your ministrations drawing a contented moan from him. The sound comes like honey, warm and liquid, sweet on his lips, and it undeniably stirs your hunger. You can’t help but trail your eyes over his bare form. His curls are wetted and slick, pink petals clinging to him, making him appear alike to one of the muses, albeit in his male form. His shoulders and back gleam with the glistening concoction of oil and water, the low, golden sun from the courtyard deepening the tan tones of his skin. Orestes is beautiful. Truly beautiful.

Hypatia had spurned him, and you could not understand it. If you could have a man such as Orestes dote on you the way he dotes on his teacher, you are certain you would not be so quick to dismiss his affections. You are certain that you would welcome them. You would welcome his touch. You would welcome his lips. Your thoughts race towards forbidden, carnal ends, and you clench your thighs together, as if you may be able to contain the swell of your arousal.

You sigh involuntarily, a brief whimper of melancholy escaping you as well as you consider the hopelessness of your own plight, and the sound snatches Orestes from the surrounding calm you have instilled in him. Even so, when his voice finds you it is smoothed and steady; no longer as cracked. His tone is more informal, and casual, now that you are truly alone.

“What is it you wish to say, sweet girl? You insist that I still my breath, so I beg you to speak. You need not withhold the truth from me,” he insists. “Can you tell me what I did so wrong? I have been relentless in my pursuit of music-making, so much so that the Gods cruelly visit aulos upon me in my dreams. When it is not her I am seeing, of course… Or, sometimes it is both visitations, sent entirely to mock me, I am certain.”

He still holds out some hope then, even now? Bless his dear heart. You keep your voice soft. As soft as the waning sunlight and the hazy air. As soft as his curls.

“Sweet soul,” you begin, squeezing his shoulders gently to brace him for your words. “I speak the truth out of kindness.” Your words are thick; dripping slowly from your lips. “You seek something from Hypatia which she cannot and will not give you, Orestes. There are others who would freely give what she withholds. To them you must turn.”

“That may be true,” he concedes, “but I want no-one else.” The lovesick man responds dolefully, his shoulders slouching and his voice small. No-one else. No-one at all, then?

You do not hate Hypatia. The woman is free to love or not to love as she wishes. You do, however, hate Orestes’ pain. You hate the love which spawned it. This tragically wasted, unrequited love, which is so abundant within him that he has become alike to an overflowing jug, liquid spilling forth from his eyes as his muse remains unwilling to drink his love down. You would drink from him. You would quench yourself on him as if parched, if he would allow it. You would dance in the waters of his fountain and consider yourself blessed.

“Shush, Orestes. It pains me that you are hurting so,” you soothe, your heart shattering on his behalf as you feel a gentle sob wrack his chest. Your usual balms are evidently not potent enough, and so, it seems, you will be required to concoct a more fitting remedy. “Will you lay on the massage table? Will you let me soothe your whole body? Your anguish is so that I cannot work it from your shoulders alone.”

Orestes twists in his position, turning his head towards you, tears glistening in his eyes like stars in a night sky. What if the sky is perpetually crying, as all of its planets are doomed to wander?

“Sparrow, I will gladly accept your magic fingers, and whatever form of comfort they might offer. The Gods blessed you with such skill and in turn they bless me.”

You smile softly, a guiding hand on his shoulder. “Come then, sweet man.”

“Ah, she no longer mocks me? I shall have to remember the effects of my teary supplications upon you.”

Orestes’ eyes sheen softly as he launches himself from the waters, his nude body shining and as sculpted as the marbled statues of the Agora, not a hint of self-consciousness as he parades over towards the table. You allow Orestes to prepare himself whilst you fetch fresh oils, noting that your robes suddenly feel too heavy and stifling even for the subdued evening heat. You strip off an outer layer, knowing that you will become further flustered as your hands begin their roam all over Orestes’ body. A desire twists in your stomach at the thought and you try to push it aside, focussing whole-heartedly on your pledge to soothe him.

You tug the lush red curtains closed to form a partition around the table, and when you turn back toward him, Orestes has laid himself out on the stone massage table, face down, his crown of curls quickly air-drying and crinkling. As you approach, you can’t help but take in the sight of him all stretched out, in particular his shapely legs and the curve of his buttocks, which are more than pleasing to you. Beads of oil still adorn his skin like glistening jewels, and your urge to touch him deepens.

Clearing your throat gently to indicate your readiness you move close, and Orestes hums softly in acknowledgment. You gently position his legs with unobtrusive and swift hands, moving them slightly apart from one another, and set his arms down by his sides, his palms facing the sky. “Comfortable?” you ask, trying desperately to keep your voice even.

“Yes, sparrow,” he says, as if pre-emptively grateful for whatever relief you care to offer him.

Taking a deep, centring breath, you again pour oil into your palms and rub until it is warmed. Then, despite the stirring and chaos in the rest of your body, your hands are sure and practised as they greet his skin. Orestes is firm and smooth beneath your caress. The man is no gladiator; he is a scholar, a thinker, and his body reflects that. His skin is not marred by battle scars, nor do his arms swell with cultivated muscle. Orestes does have a pleasing natural meat to him, and his body manages somehow to be both soft and strong; alike to his heart, perhaps. You have had dealings with gladiators- many of them brutes, and Orestes’ rarer softness is perhaps what enamours him to you. He may not have cultivated muscles, yet he conscientiously cultivates his mind and his heart. Of course, he has yet to cultivate his tongue, and often speaks too soon, but you can forgive him that. You much prefer straight-talking.

Focussed on easing Orestes, you work your hands into every part of him, relieving all of the knots you can find. Your fingers and thumbs work and knead and strum the muscles beneath his flesh until blissed out sounds are all he can emit, as if you play his body like a lyre, plucking resonant tones of happiness from him.

A sense of satisfaction overcomes you with each contented noise. If Hypatia will insist upon making Orestes cry, making his overflowing jug crack, your caress will insist on moving like potter’s hands over him. Your hands will replenish him as if he were clay; will fill in all of the fissures and restore his shape. You will pledge to leave him more whole than you found him. In pursuit of this, your hands move over his shoulders, his back, his arms, his buttocks, thighs, and calves – even the palms of his hands and his fingers. The action is almost meditative, as you focus in your mind’s eye on turning him to clay. On pushing aside the fact it is Orestes you are touching in such an intimate manner.

“Hmmm,” Orestes hums in praise, once you have rubbed him into near boneless-ness. “They say the planets seek to orbit the earth in perfect circles, but I attest that it is your hands which move in perfect circles, sweet girl.”

Your heart flutters like a locust’s wings at his words of praise, even as you continue tending to him.  

You do feel as if you have rubbed perfect circles into his flesh – simply because you feel no other flesh could be as perfect. Who needs Ptolemy or mathematics, when you have the path of your hands over his body? A path you could follow forever, your hands -through practice- finding their most perfect route around him. Learning him more deeply, as you so wish to. Still, to distract yourself from your wants, you focus intently upon the meditative quality of circles repeating.

Circles like orbits. Like cycles. Like a potter’s wheel. Like the circles of his eyes, as warm in colour as worked clay. Like circular breath. Like the mouth of an empty vase. Like gaping spaces wishing to be filled.

You attempt to calm your quickening breath as your thoughts wander, and before long, you wonder if Orestes -oblivious to your wheeling thoughts- has fallen asleep beneath your touch, until you hear him softly suspire. “You are too good to me, dove. I note how well you care for me,” he admits, tentatively. “Of the two of us, I at least pray to the Gods that you can find the happiness which I cannot. It is what you deserve.”

“Do you praise me merely that I might continue, Orestes?” you deflect, as coolly as possible, a thin smile on your face despite your shock at the earnestness of his words. “Turn over and I shall attend to your front now, do not fear.”

He turns over, gladly, as you set about applying more oil, your hands working over his form. You rub his shapely arms and chest, feeling his nipples pebble beneath your touch, inducing a throaty moan from him. You work down his toned stomach and the slight curve and softness of his lower abdomen. You carefully massage up his shins before dedicating greater effort and pressure to the meat of his thighs. The more that you touch him, the more acutely you become aware of the few places you neglect to touch him, until it is all you can think of.

You know he reads you well, and you fear you may be entirely transparent as Orestes reclines on his back, watching you with an intent fascination as you run your hands all over his body. The act, like this, feels a hundred times more intimate. You cannot tell yourself he is inanimate, like clay beneath your touch- now he is a finished work of art before you and his living, breathing presence causes a plague of locusts to flutter nervously in the pit of your belly.

Orestes is overwhelmingly beautiful like this. He has his arms folded behind him, his head propped-up on his interlaced hands. When you finally glance at him, it is merely for a fleeting moment. That is as long as you can bear to look into his deep, intense eyes, or see his tongue darting out keenly over his plush lower lip when your gaze snags there. A gulp trails down your throat and you quickly look down, focussing on where your touch conscientiously works Orestes’ upper thighs. This does little to ease your growing nervousness, especially as you see his exposed member begin to engorge, rising to sit proudly upon his stomach.

You suck in an involuntary gasp when you take in the size of him, half-hardened, feeling that his sword -if fully erect- would certainly be an intimidating weapon. You don’t mean to keep looking; however, once you are looking, you can’t seem to look away. Orestes is pretty there too. So pretty, and so readily responding to you. He is girthy and well-proportioned, plucked hair at the base of him giving him a smooth, clean appearance, and allowing you to see every veined, ruddy inch of him.

You gulp at the thought of him swelling to his full capabilities, and a heat overtakes your loins and you imagine what your hands might do to satisfy this very particular stiffness. As you imagine how you might oil him here too and feel him hard and slippery in your hands, hearing the obscene, wet noises of the slickness around his length as you work him.

Lost in your fantasies, the sudden absence of your touch signals to Orestes that you have concluded your efforts, and he props himself up on his elbows with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. Almost appearing drunk with relaxation, he hums contentedly and this time you swear you feel it reverberate in your core.

“How is it you are able to both soothe and arouse me? My whole body is singing obediently like a plucked string, resonating from your touch.” His breathy words curl beneath your skin and have you singing for him too, your arousal spreading through your body like the warmth of dawn over the horizon.

Orestes’ oiled figure appears like a cast of bronze in the subdued light, the contours of him gleaming and shadowed all at once. His dark eyes are blackened with lust like the mouths of caves, dark and inviting, and all you want to do is climb into him and be surrounded. He always looks so soft to you. So delicate and beautiful. But suddenly, laid out for you like this? He looks masculine and sharp. He looks virile and rough and…

Oh Gods, you think as you snatch your hands away from his body, lest you might cave to your weaknesses. You should not be having these thoughts about your master. About your friend.

You mind flails for a course of action, thinking that it would be proper to move away. To offer him some wine to further soothe him. To, at the very least, do something other than stare at him, yet you feel drunk on him too after so long with him beneath your caress. You don’t want to stop touching him. It is not enough to hold him in your hands. You want to tip him to your lips and drink him down, deep, deep into you.

“Give me your hands, dove,” Orestes asks softly, looking up at you from beneath the fan of his thick, dark lashes.

It is not often that you are lost for words, or that you lose your cool. However, at this moment, your breath is strangled in your throat as if your desire has made your very spirit wane. You can scarce muster movement. Still, you manage to offer your hands to him as he commanded, presenting them to him tentatively as if they are tied at the wrists, unsure what he wishes to do with them once he has them in his possession. Will he thrust his shaft into your hand here and now and have you pleasure him?

In fact, twisting to prop himself on a single elbow, sweet, sweet Orestes wraps his free hand around both of your wrists and brings your hands towards his lips, softly pressing a kiss to each palm in turn as he looks up at you, reverently. The gesture is so soft and so sensual that it brings tears to your eyes.

Oh, how you have longed for a kind touch from him. How you longed that he might press his hands or his lips to you. You routinely pour your comfort into him until he is full and free from cracks. If Orestes is an overflowing jug, by the Gods you are parched. You are an empty vessel and you need to be filled.

“My sweet dove and your magic healing wings,” he praises, his voice slowed and hushed. “If she is my injury, you are surely my balm.”

You huff out air at his words, looking down at the floor in an effort to control the burgeoning tears and tightness blooming in your chest.

“Orestes…” you protest, weakly.

His words are kind and sweet, yet they serve as nothing more than a reminder that you do not stir him. You are well aware you can make Orestes feel peace, yet you wish to excite him as she does. You wish you could summon a storm within him rather than calm waters.

Feeling a little raw and a little caught off guard, you continue, your frayed heart wanting desperately to assert some kind of dominion over him, however tenuous. “While I cannot rival her, I attest that I might provide you something which she cannot give to you.”

“Tell me. What?” Orestes asks, still clasping one of your wrists loosely in the grip of his warm fingers, unthinkingly tracing the pad of his thumb over your oily skin, his eyes languidly wandering previously untraversed routes over the contours of your body.

You boldly continue, a slight quaver in your voice. “Do you not wish to feel desired, Orestes? Do you not wish to feel loved, like you give but don’t receive in kind? I can make it so.”

Orestes laughs disbelievingly then – a warm, deep chuckle. The resonant rumble is jarring in the somewhat still night, evening birdsong and cicadas the only other sounds within the room. He breaks contact with you, and that jars you too. “To which God would I pray to achieve such a feat? Even the pagans do not possess numerous enough gods to make it so, no matter how I may try and appease them.”

Orestes swings his legs around and comes to a sitting position on the stone slab of a table, his hand coming to cup your chin in wonderment and concern that you still refuse to meet his gaze.

“I desire you, Orestes,” you state plainly, your words blurting from you like wine from the neck of an uncorked vessel, served by a drunken man. You can no longer contain them and you offer them indiscriminately. “To be desired - is that not tempting?” You look him right in his umber eyes, your voice faltering, your teeth worrying your lower lip. “Am I at all tempting to you?”

“Sweet girl...” Orestes deflects, caught off-guard himself, his brow furrowing in disbelief as his eyes search yours. He finds no hint of mocking behind them.

“I have seen your sword swollen with need whenever I bathe you, Orestes,” you continue, your voice husky. “While you relax beneath my hands. I know that there must be an inkling of desire within you.” Your voice is little more than breath billowing in the space between you. “Won’t you let me touch you, with my whole, willing body?”

A hard swallow bobs in Orestes’ corded neck, his tongue trailing along each of his lips in turn. The air in between you mingles and becomes charged. However, you know Orestes speaks with his heart. It will take more than a willing body for him to submit to you, you wager. As expected, you look into his eyes and find hesitation there.

Can you really not tempt him, then? Are you so unlovely that he will not take what you freely offer? The fear of such rejection flares in you, and so you offer an unthinking, last-ditch effort. “You can even close your eyes and think of her while I touch you, if you wish.”

At that, Orestes delivers you a grimace, as if he has tasted bitter fruit. “That would be wrong. You should know better than that.”

A flush creeps over you and you wring your hands together, your manner becoming uncommonly deferential, your head bowed. “I apologise. I know you would not soil Hypatia with such actions. Forgive me my insolence.”  

You fear punishment. Orestes has never punished you, yet you have never gone so far in your disrespect of Hypatia. However, you are surprised when his hands travel to yours to grip them firmly in his instead.

“Dove, save your apologies. I would not soil Hypatia in such a way and nor would I soil you. You deserve more than that, beautiful, sweet thing.” Orestes’ eyes are soft and searching as he looks upon you, and you are floored again by his disarming sweetness. “By the Gods, why on earth would you offer yourself to me in such a way?”

“Surely you understand, Orestes,” you respond in a small voice. “Wouldn’t you give yourself to her, in any way she would willingly have you?”

Orestes clasps your hands a little more tightly, his thumbs smoothing over your skin in attempts to calm your evident agitation. “Yes, I would,” he admits, though not proudly. “Without doubt, yes. But I am an idiot; hopelessly, pathetically in love.” Orestes speaks plainly, in a self-deprecating manner, as if the situation is both obvious and absurd.

You tug in a breath on which to launch your confession, praying for smooth sailing as the air catches in your words. “And I too am hopelessly, pathetically in love, Orestes. Though I maintain it is only you that is an idiot.” You add insult to injury, just for good measure, hoping the teasing may lighten the burden of your confession.

Confusion then realisation dawn on Orestes’ face and you look bashfully down to the floor as you continue, an involuntary tear forming on your cheek like a glistening trail of a comet through the night sky.

“In that, at least, you and I are equal, if weighed by the measure of our unrequited loves.” you profess, solemnly. A delicate laugh at the comedy of your misfortune ekes out of you then, puncturing some of the tension. “Two of us in love but not desired by our muse. Perhaps the both of us are cursed.”

Orestes looks upon you with a melancholic smile. With sudden affinity. He knows all too well how it feels to be in your shoes. Yet, he similarly has no words of comfort to offer you. He can only counsel you with truth. You wonder, as you look upon him, whether the Gods cursed him with melancholy, yet blessed him with eyes that were beautiful enough to carry it.

“Aren’t we a lonely pair?” he asks, finally, and he leans his head into your bosom dejectedly, accompanied by a hearty exhale. Still, he allows your fingers to tangle in his hair. He does not pull away from the comfort offered as your arms wind around his shoulders. You accept his comfort, in turn, as his arms wrap firmly and pleasingly around your waist.

“We are alike to the wanderers,” you breathe, speaking of the lonely planets and their blind, unfathomable orbits through the dark. Then: “Orestes?” you venture, idly stroking the back of his neck as his hands slip further down your back, shifting to your hips, his breathing becoming more ragged. He looks up at you as you speak his name, his eyes brimming with a quiet vigour. “Tonight, instead of feeling like a wanderer, you could be the centre of the universe. Might we not allow ourselves to feel a little less lonely, if only for a moment? Don’t you want someone who orbits you?”

“Sweet girl...” Orestes breathes. “You want more than I can give you.” Still, he is tugging you closer to him, holding you more tightly.

Your eyes rove hungrily over him. You cannot help it. “I am no fool, sweet man. I know well that I do not have your heart… yet I venture there is somewhere else I might make you pump blood, is there not?”

Orestes’ tongue darts over his lower lip again, the planes of his face looking sharp and angled, half in shadow. Orestes looks at you. Really looks at you, with those glinting and dark half-moon eyes of his. You pump your eyebrows suggestively as his eyes land on you with a questioning gaze, delivering him your most seductive stare from beneath your lashes.

“You are tempting, aren’t you?” Orestes teases with the hint of a cheeky smile, his lips tipping up at the corners. His face begins to come alive with it, before his cheeky edge is blunted by reverence. “In fact,” he teases, shifting his hands even lower on your hips and gently squeezing, “you are beautiful. These hungry looks you bestow upon me? You provide a certain beauty she cannot rival. She will never look at me the way you do, with desire lighting your eyes.” You can but hope that she will seem henceforth like an unfeeling stone in comparison to the liquid desire flowing through you.

“Let me, Orestes,” you plead. “Let me look at you and beauty will prosper in my eyes with every inch of you my gaze falls upon.”

“You truly desire me?” Orestes asks, nestling his head into your bosom again.

“Yes, this is the truth of things,” you respond in earnest. “It is my desire to comfort you in all the ways I know how.”

Orestes becomes bolder with your revelation, his fingers skimming lower, ghosting over your buttocks and splaying over your upper thighs, squeezing you there. “Your legs are quaking, sweet. Is this all for me?”

Both of your breaths are coming quickly, heaving in your chests. You tip your head back and moan silently into the air as his fingers dig into the meat of you, expelling affirmatives from your lips.

“Then tell me exactly. How do you imagine I may achieve such comfort?”

“When you take yourself in your hand, how does it feel?” you question in sultry tones, your hands pawing at any inch of him you can reach, skimming down his back.

“It feels pleasurable.” Orestes responds obediently, a quiver in his voice.

“Now, imagine how my skilful fingers might instead relieve your stiffness. Won’t you allow me to soothe you?”

“Yes. Yes, I will allow it. Come then and soothe me, sweet thing.” A playful, tempting smile blooms on his face, and, sitting on the edge of the slab of the table, Orestes leans back on to his hands, creating space between your bodies. It causes you to double take at the sight of him all over again, nude and oiled and his sword brandished. His eyes flick down to his proud length and you follow his gaze there.

“My sword blazes for you, dove. I am on fire as I keenly await your touch, if you would give it.”

You swallow thickly and keenly oil your palms, again warming the lubricant before you touch him. Your heart thrums in your chest now like the wings of a songbird taking flight. Then, you touch him everywhere except there, brushing against his length with only your thumbs and fingertips, until he pleads that he can take no more teasing. Finally, and with disbelieving relish, you take his fully engorged member into your hands. Starting at the tip and wrapping your hand, you slide one hand and then the other down his shaft, all the way to the base of him, making him slick. Orestes’ hips stutter into your hand from this simple motion alone.

“Your hands are as magic as ever, sweet girl,” Orestes chokes, as if he might spill his seed for you in mere moments. He emits a deep rumble from his chest as you massage him there, both hands on his shaft. There are wet sounds as you coat him until he is gleaming, and as you circle your thumb over the head of him whilst you pump and tug him in the grip of your palms, as if you intend to milk him dry. You squeeze him firmly and add a slight twist to your wrists as you work him, fascinated by the size and hardness and contours of him. Orestes throws his head back, a strangled moan emanating from his slack mouth as his eyes flutter closed from the sensations. He looks as though he might collapse from them, his arms shaking and barely supporting him.

“My dove, the things you are making me feel are surely sent from Elysium.” His voice is like warm desert sand slipping through your fingers, rough and soft all at once.

“You deserve it, Orestes,” you gush. “I want to make all of you feel good. I want to give you everything,” you admit, your voice filled with veneration.

When Orestes tips his head back down from the skies his eyes are hungry. He’s never looked at you like this before. Like a wolf emerging from a cave. Just for a moment, he looks at you as he looks at her, and you feel as bright as the midday desert sun.

“Tell me. What might I give you? My head under your skirts? My fingers buried in you?”  

“I am not finished giving to you yet,” you purr. With relish, you sink to your knees, placing your hands flat on Orestes thighs, dipping your lips towards his shaft.

Orestes moans in anticipation, yet tugs lightly on your hair to prevent you from sinking down on him, momentarily. “Your most sacred body part?”

“The Christians believe that. You’re a pagan, Orestes. Let me suck you?”

Orestes nods affirmatively and throws his head back in another open-mouthed moan as your wet mouth finds the tip of him, your tongue winding around his head and the contours of him. He feels warm and fleshy, and his girth strains and swells against your mouth, ridges and veins slipping past your tongue as you flatten it to dip you head all the way down the shaft of him. Sucking on him is divine, the uncharacteristically gruff and desperate noises coming from his mouth spurring you on.

Orestes flails and tugs helplessly at your hair after your continued efforts. “Ungg. Stop, my bird, else I will reach my peak. Your mouth is even more magic than your hands.”

You slide your mouth from his shaft slowly and with a pop, looking up at him deviously with cock-swollen lips. “Now you are trembling, Orestes. Is this all for me?” you purr, tone dark with lust. He moans again, merely from the sight of how carnal and delectable you look like this.

“I want to touch you,” he pleads, desperately. “I need to look upon you. Will you undress for me?”

Touching Orestes and giving him pleasure is one thing, though you don’t know if you can bear him touching you without becoming vapour. Without erupting. A gulp trails down your throat yet you nod keenly. You unfasten clasps and ties and slip the diaphanous fabric away from your body, your robes cascading to the floor in a gathered heap like a despondent cloud.

“Fuck.” Orestes intones gruffly as his eyes trail over you, and he appears to have stalled as he is met with the sight of you. Crude words from his lips are rare, in comparison to his profanity-loving brethren. That the curse is delivered with a voice full of grit and hooded eyes, that you inspired it, has your core clenching around nothing as he looks over every inch of your body in awe and obvious approval.

You move slowly and fluidly towards him, your movements sultry, and Orestes regains his faculties as the need to touch you rather than merely stare at you overtakes him. He takes the jug of oil and tips some into his own hands, rising to stand close enough to you that the tip of his erection presses enthusiastically against your hip. Then, after awaiting a nod from you, he reaches his hands up to rub oil over your breasts, seemingly fascinated by the way your nipples harden beneath his meticulous fingers. He pinches and rolls them and his touch has your core positively molten.

You moan for him, extending your arms out to his shoulders to steady yourself as he puts his hands on you. No-one has touched you like this. Not once in your life have you been touched with such softness.

“You swoon for me, sweetness?”

“I cannot fathom such a divine touch. I think that I must be within a dream for I have your hands upon me.”

Orestes spins you, so that you may steady yourself against the edge of the stone slab, moving to press his hot body against you, burying his head into the crook of your neck.

“Do not place yourself below me, sweet thing. I intend for us to be equals in our pursuit of pleasure.” He speaks into your neck as his lips drag along your skin, his sprouting stubble grazing you there- the only rough part of him. “Tell me that you desire me, dove.”

“I desire you,” you offer the words to him freely.

“And I you.” he says earnestly, laden with need, his admission sending a shudder all the way down to your core.

Your faces are close now, your fractured breath mingling in the tight space between you, and this heat, oh gods this heat growing between your legs. You cannot help but dip your head as if to kiss him, your forehead resting against his and noses brushing as you whimper and whine with need.

“I cannot exchange breath with you. We must not.” Orestes protests weakly as your lips skim his. Now you understand this regard for your mouth is not simply some Christian notion. You understand that Orestes wishes to save his own breath for Hypatia. Even now.

“She will not love you like this,” you reason, your bluntness a product of your furious need.

Orestes groans and looks perplexed by indecision, even as his hands trail wantonly over your buttocks.

“And yet, I orbit her all the same,” he says resignedly.

“The planets travel the most perfect path possible,” you bargain into his neck. “Yet you insist on travelling the path with most opposition.”

“My heart may be foolish, yet my hands might travel the smoothest path, hmm?”

At that, Orestes’ hands move between your legs, his oiled fingers skimming your clit and your drenched folds. You practically sob into the air. It feels too good. It feels divinely good.

“Will this do, then?” his cheeky smile resurfaces as you buck against his touch, your heat already so sensitive and responsive to him.

“Don’t stop, Orestes. Don’t stop,” you plead and moan, body lurching against him, as you become a trembling mess. You can scarce believe that Orestes’ naked body is held warm against yours, the promise of his erection still pressing against you - still rock hard for you.

“I think there is a way we can both be comforted, dove,” Orestes speaks, his voice overflowing with need. If you wish it, I would have you on top of me as you grind this delicious mess on my sword.”

“Yes. Oh Gods, yes.” Your request is breathy, as if your throat is parched.

Orestes shifts to lay himself out on the table again, taking your hand and guiding you to straddle him. You settle your core over the top of his shaft, your folds pressing up against the length of him. You glide yourself all along the straining mass of him, coating him in your juices; massaging him with your heat alone and shifting your hips in whatever pattern allows you to best caress and engulf him in your warmth and friction. Even without penetration, the sensations are blissful, and you writhe together as each stroke heightens your shared pleasure. Each time you dip your folds wantonly over the head of him, his cock twitches to meet you, as if in attempt to be swallowed entirely by your heat.

Orestes tips his hips up into you, pinning your own hips with his hands, increasing his pressure against your slick as his hardened length slips and slides against you. The way his head skims rhythmically against your clit, the way your folds swallow and caress the tip of him, and the blunt pressure against your entrance have you whimpering for him. You think the pleasure between your thighs must be at the centre of all creation, and you are enthralled by its force as you orbit it.

You loll forward, almost completely limp and unravelled by bliss already. Your hands fall to either side of Orestes’ torso to steady yourself, boxing him in and creating an intimate circle with your arms, your faces close, moans billowing right into each other’s ears, cheeks, necks. Lips hovering close.

“You make me feel so good,” you moan. “Kiss me, Orestes. Please. I beg you. Kiss me just once as if you love me.” your words are breathy and hurried and needy, your coolness entirely undone.

Orestes groans as he continues to grind against you. “I cannot do that, my dove.”

“Then please… please just kiss me?” you beg as you writhe your wetness all over him with increasing pace.

He folds his knees to the rear of you so that he may plant his feet and press himself even more firmly to you. The motion adjusts his angle and he strikes your clit just right, causing you to shiver and deliver a throaty, brazen “fuck” into the air.

At that, Orestes looks at your lips with a growl, and finally caves to his desire. First, he presses a chaste prayer to your lips. It’s as if he tries his utmost to kiss you like he loves you. Perhaps as if he attempts to will it so. However, the truth of it is, he desires you, and as soon as his lips taste yours his mouth returns even hungrier than he began. With his next kiss, your tongues mingle softly, like dissolving honey, before the kiss grows in intensity. With his next, his mouth is opening to devour yours, his tongue probing and tasting the cave of you, your moans stifled as his soft lips crush against you.

“I wish I could hold you inside of me,” you say longingly into his kiss as you approach your peak.  

“I wish it could be so, my sweet. Alas, I cannot release my seed inside you, and nor can I take your innocence. That gift is yours to give to whomever you may marry.”

“Orestes, you sweet fool. I am not innocent. And there is no other I would marry. You may not love me, Orestes, but I orbit you all the same.”

As the sensations intensify, you enjoy the slick, solid mass of him beneath you. You relish edging him closer and closer towards his end. Lost in the throes of pleasure, Orestes clasps you to him so tightly, his arms surrounding you in a perfect circle. You writhe and moan and whimper for each other, your crushing embrace at once both melancholic and urgent, his lips meeting yours again and again in desperation, as if famished. You taste salt and you know not whether it is he who is crying or you, or some combination, but it doesn’t matter in this moment. You would drink his tears down. Drink all of him down.

“I will find my peak in only moments,” you warn. “I will reach it soon.”

“And I too. Come, get beneath me,” Orestes suggests, his typically smooth voice ragged.

He flips you urgently and you settle beneath him, legs spread open, more than ready for him to nestle between them.

“You truly wish to have me inside of you?” he asks, examining your face for any hint of hesitation.

“Yes, Orestes. Yes. Please.”  

He rubs your clit skilfully until you are evidently on the edge of bliss, maintaining a blunt pressure against your entrance with the tip of him. Finally, he dips to plant kisses on your lips, your neck, your chest as he drives his whole length forward, sheathing himself in your warm, surrounding depths. One thrust is all it takes and you are clenching around him, writhing in a display of pleasure, moans directed at the sky in praise of the Gods as your release bursts through you like the birth of a flaming sun.

Orestes mutters strings of soft praise and crude profanities into the air. His breaths become laboured gusts of air as he attempts to stave off his end whilst you tighten so deliciously around him, his eyes screwing shut as he brings himself under control, his body trembling.

“Where, sweet? Where?” he manages to choke out.

“Let me taste you,” you invite, and he thrusts deeply into you once more before pulling out and coming to his knees, taking his shaft delicately in his hand, his needy cock twitching for some contact, some release. The head of him is ruddy and swollen and he looks fit to burst as he gleams with a concoction of oils and your juices.

“Unnggg. I need to find my end. Oh Gods,” Orestes begs, and you transfer your position as quickly as possible to all fours to oblige him, bringing your mouth to his shaft.

The first hot rope of cum spills over your lips and chin at the mere suggestion of filling up your pretty, eager mouth, and the remainder of his seed pumps into you, salty and sweet as your lips and tongue surround him. He moans and stutters as he fills you up with each pulse from his aching balls, grabbing your head as he sinks the length of him down into your throat as deeply as you can take him. Groans and praises tumble from his lips as you suck him dry, his relieved shaft throbbing in your mouth.

You tease Orestes with further kitten licks to his sensitive head, easing him gently down from his high. You hold him there until you are sure you have drained every drop from him; even until he has softened, feeling entirely unwilling to relinquish his delicious cock from your mouth. Once he is freed, you lick the stray salty release from your plump lips as he regains himself, looking down at you with something resembling awe.

“You are beautiful,” he praises, in disbelief.

“As are you,” you respond with a blissed-out smile, your tongue flicking to savour the residual tang of him on your teeth.

You collapse on to the stone slab together whilst you regain your breath, ending up top-to-toe. Orestes insists on tasting you too, nuzzling his head in between your hot thighs to lap at your own sweet release, sending shuddering aftershocks through your body as you feel his eager lips and tongue nestle over your core. When your clit becomes too sensitive you giggle in protest and shift on the slab until you are each stretched out on your side, using your elbows as pillows and looking into one another’s eyes.

You are happy. You are. And yet, a single disobedient tear rolls down your cheek, causing Orestes’ brow to furrow in concern.

“Sweet girl, I am sorry for your pain. How I wish that I could give my love to you, sparrow.”

“Shush, sweet soul. Don’t stir the waters. Simply let them still for a moment,” you counsel softly, an even smile on your face even as your eyes shine with sadness. He returns your smile and reaches out to brush your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

“I will try, though you have riled all the waters within me to a frenzy, my peak washing over me like a great wave.”

A broader smile blooms on your face then. You have stirred him after all. You snuggle close to him as he lazily traces nonsense shapes on your arms and back with his fingers, and you lie there together in comfortable, quiet contemplation, wanting to savour whatever this had meant to each of you. You remain there, until your heart calls you to fracture the silence.

“I must go,” you whisper reluctantly, shrinking from him as you withdraw, alike to a flower withdrawing its petals from a waning sun.

You push yourself up to a seated position on the stone table, yet Orestes’ hand flicks out to wrap around one of your wrists. “Don’t. Don’t go,” he pleads.

You look at him softly, with infinite fondness. “You and I both know that this afterglow you are feeling is not love. I wished to bask in this false sun for as long as possible, yet I do not wish to be here when it fades, Orestes.”

You look into his eyes and his admiration blazes so brightly for a false sun that you could almost be convinced of it.

“First, tell me- did it comfort you too?”

“It did,” you reassure, truthfully, hopping down from the table and beginning to gather your strewn garments. “Though, it is both a comfort and a torture to know that not only are you sweet as honey, beautiful as a muse, sharp as a scythe, and funny as a curse tablet... you are also skilled at swordsmanship. The Gods truly excelled themselves with you.”

Orestes’ eyes gleam, happy to see your playful nature shining through once more. He swings his own legs to retake his seated position, facing you as you redress. “Hmm. High praise from one usually so mocking. Though you evidently forget that I can now play the aulos. Another superior quality for your ever-lengthening list.” He grins broadly at you, and you find him disarming all over again.

Orestes grabs your wrist and tugs you into him in a swift motion, wrapping a single arm around your waist and looking up at you with new eyes as your laughter lilts down toward him.

“Though, in truth, dove,” he smiles fondly, “I think you brandish a sword better than I. You are all that I am and more, I venture.”

You settle your arms around him again, fingers twisting in the curls at the nape of his neck. “We are more alike than I realised, then,” you say pridefully.

“Yes,” he agrees, “It is so. After all, we were both stupid enough to fall for the wrong person.”

His eyes spark with humour as he delivers his words, but there is a sadness buried beneath which you are determined not to unearth. “And tonight, Orestes, we were smart enough to make the best of it, for once.”

You smooth your face again, trying not dwell on his insistence that you each fell for the wrong person. Hypatia may not be a match for him, but you still cannot accept the notion that he is in any way wrong for you.

Instead, you concentrate on the way Orestes’ eyes glow in admiration as he gazes up at you, a smile lingering still on his lips. He reaches up to your cheek to caress you there, but you snatch his hand playfully in yours before he can fulfil his intention.

“Careful, Orestes, do not fall for me,” you caution chidingly. “I have been told you are cursed. I, for one, want nothing of it.” You flash him a sad yet cheeky smile, before reaching out to caress him on the cheek instead, tenderly flattening your palm to his face.

You are reluctant to end your encounter on a sombre note, and yet there are things which must not remain unspoken.

“If you need me Orestes, I am here. And, it must be said… I love you. You are loved, and you are more than worthy of it, sweet soul. Some with the cheek to call themselves scholars of the stars evidently neglect some of the sky’s greatest wonders. That is their loss. What a dark night, I think, without the brightest star in the sky.” As a final gesture, you smile softly and dip your face to press a shy, chaste kiss to his cheek. Orestes’ eyes flutter closed as your lips brush against him, and he watches you with shining, grateful eyes as you pad out of the room.

You leave him, you hope, a little less overflowing. A little less cracked. He leaves you a little less empty. A little less parched.  

Maybe Orestes will resolve to pray to the Gods that he can love you in return. Maybe one day soon he can. If it is your fate, then so be it.

Though you dare not invite hope in yet, perhaps you need not wander so alone along your path, now that you have spoken your truth. Maybe when the paths of wanderers do not run in perfect circles, all that remains is to create a new model of the planetary system.

For now, you glance back at him as you ready to leave and he is still looking at you in that rare way, even as tears pool on his cheeks. He is looking at you as he looks at her. As the sun sinks towards its dormitory, you feel momentarily like your star is rising.

For now, that will have to be enough, because he has nothing more to give you.

[starions]

like sand.

astarion x oc (anya)

992 words

fluff kinda lol (oneshot)

-

“Is the water nice?”

Anya’s head perked up at the sudden intrusion, hands stilling in her hair as she tried to comb out the knots. She recognized the voice immediately; the posh, Baldurian accent was not lost on her when she’d met Astarion for the first time, though she was not expecting someone of noble descent to pull a knife on her.

Then again, here she was, using lake water to clean the blood from her hair.

“Weren’t you taught that it’s rude to intrude when a lady is bathing?” Anya said, glancing over her shoulder to look at her lover.

Astarion stood leaning against a tree, arms crossed against the leather armor he frequently complained about wearing. A smirk played on his face, one of his pointed fangs peeking out. “You’re hardly naked, my dear,” he motioned to her night clothes, slightly damp and clinging to her skin, “and even if you were, it’s hardly anything I haven’t seen before.”

The purr in his voice triggered Anya to roll her golden eyes, yet it spread warmth through her belly. It was extremely aggravating, though she couldn’t get enough of it.

“Is there something you need from me?” Anya asked, continuing to comb through her hair. A particular knot had made its way to the back of her head, and she feared she’d have to cut it out if she couldn’t undo it soon.

“One can only stomach Gale’s tales for so long,” Astarion said, walking closer to her until he was next to her. His eyes danced over the bite mark on the bare side of her neck, still bruised purple from the first night he bit her. He should be gentler—she deserved as much. “Do you need help?” He asked, the usual mischievousness absent from his tone.

“Help with what?” She asked, pulling so hard on the knot that a hiss escaped her throat.

Astarion knelt down behind her, taking her copper locks in his pale hands. “With your hair, my love. You’ll soon rip your hair from your scalp without my assistance.”

Anya paused, lips pursing. He held her hair tenderly as he worked the knot in his hands, as if a slight tug of his wrist would bring her unbearable pain. It was unlike their nights of passion, where the grip he had on her hair was tight and controlled. Anya couldn’t help but note how intimate this was, him brushing through her hair with his thin fingers as they were illuminated by the stars.

It felt foreign to her-- unnatural. Something in her wanted to push it away and never have to deal with the likes of it again. Something else begged for it, like a man dying at her feet, coughing up blood and begging for mercy. She leaned into him, soaking in the feeling of his touch. Wondering if this was just another thing she couldn’t have.

He made quick work of the knot, letting her damp hair fall down her back like a waterfall. His fingers lingered on her neck, tracing the bite marks and lovemarks he’d left on her as proof of their intimacy. Proof that she trusted him enough to let him do such monstrous things to her. Astarion wasn’t sure if she was incredibly naive, or if he should put as much trust in her as she does him. His hand trailed up to her pointed ears, and he grinned at the shiver that ran up her back.

Anya suddenly turned so their knees were touching, shocking Astarion for a second, but his hands soon found their way to her waist, as if on instinct.

If Anya opposed, she said nothing, yet her eyes still narrowed at the pale elf. “Why did you come to find me?” She asked quietly. Anya needed the affirmation that he wanted—needed—her just as badly as she. The tadpole in her brain begged her to search his mind, finding the answers she needed like water, yet she resisted. She wouldn’t betray his trust by invading his thoughts.

His ruby eyes said nothing, and she couldn’t tell if he had nothing to say, or if he was just good at hiding it.

Her eyes glanced downward, disappointment flooding her body at the silent rejection. Before she could stand, Astarion’s hand trailed up her side, until the coolness of his palm cupped her cheek.

Astarion waited for Anya to recoil from his touch and yank his hand away. Yet that reaction never came, and Anya leaned into him, until her lips were pressed against his. Astararion reacted tentatively at first, but quickly parted his lips to gently deepen the kiss. His free hand cupped her other cheek, clutching her as if she’d slip through his fingers like sand

Anya’s left hand clutched onto his wrist, the other tangled in his hair. She sighed into his mouth, revelling in the feeling of being wanted. It was an odd feeling, but she soon realized it was not as unwelcome as she wanted it to be. She let herself give in, to be captured, and her brain couldn’t decide if it was a terrible idea or not.

At last, Astarion pulled away, giving a chaste kiss onto her red lips, and, surprisingly, one final kiss on the tip of her nose.

He stood, clearing his throat before speaking. “The others are probably expecting us.”

Anya glanced up at him, face blushed and brows furrowed. “You don’t want to…” She trailed off, running her hands up and down her thighs.

Astarion hesitated for a second, eyeing her in consideration, but shook his head nonetheless. “Not tonight, my dear. Though, I appreciate the offer.”

He held out a hand to help her stand, and Anya took it without hesitation. Confusion still clouded her thoughts; not of rejection, but of what Astarion was feeling.

He said nothing, though, as they walked back to camp. The feeling of dread in her stomach lingered still.

[jojo-fantasy-aus]

Fantasy Au!

Joksuke x F!Reader-ch 6.

It Takes Two.

I call this chapter "please dont bottle up your feelings"- enjoy!

----

You had only ever seen royals eat such extravagant, foreign food. Things like that just weren't on the menu for the working class unless it was a holiday or festival. Even then, you still had never had any yourself, until now that is.

Rows upon rows of lunch courses were laid out in front of you on the rosewood table. You were already salivating, this was quite a feast, and a delicious one at that. The savory smells that filled the air could make a man go mad. You weren't the only one stuffing your face, but you certainly were the only one out of your original group to restrain yourself just enough to not look like a feral squirrel. Shigetchi laughed as he looked over the table.

"I hope you enjoy this Josuke, Okuyasu. Because it's the only free meal you're going to get from me!"

You smile a bit at the small man's exclamation, but Josuke and Okuyasu only groan.

"Come on man, aren't you a little too rich to be so stingy?" Okuyasu huffs, mouth still full of food. Josuke nods aggressively in support, chewing avidly on his lunch. Shigetchi chuckles, and you almost flinch when he grabs his fork a little too violently. It was just a way for him to bluff retaliation, you were sure, but even so the action had you on edge. It was normal, considering the events in the past week.

The men's conversation became a little muffled, and you had almost lost your appetite. Simply pawing at the food with your fork. Life really had gotten a bit strange, hadn't it?... Would it ever go back to normal again? You had tunnel vision, dead set on your plate. You were starting to feel defenseless as you recited everything over again in your head. No wonder you were so jumpy, you were living your worst nightmare. One in which you were constantly in peril and haven't been able to do shit about it. You really weren't hungry at all anymore, anxiety had filled your stomach instead of food.

"Miss? Did you hear me?" You snapped your head up, and everyone was staring at you. You swallowed the food you had just now realized you were still chewing, and nervously set down your fork. You had spaced out for a bit longer than you realized. You noticed before you spoke that Josuke had tensed, avoiding eye contact with you.

"Sorry, I'm a bit out of sorts today. Could you repeat that?" Shigetchi nodded. Wiping his face with his napkin.

"I've invited the rich man that you are investigating over for tea this afternoon. I have vowed to him not to discuss any of our business operations, but that doesn't mean I can't plant a spy." He started to twirl his fork in between his fingers, setting his elbow down on the table to rest his head in his hand. He had such bad manners for a man with so much money.

"Okuyasu would stand out right away, and Josuke has no clue on how to properly serve tea, or food for that matter. You are the only person that can properly get the job done without raising suspicion, or be legally tracked back to me."

"Oh," You murmured. He wanted you to spy? Such a thing was so adamantly discouraged at the Palace, that you almost immediately rejected the idea. But you knew he was right. This was definitely something you could do quite well. You pursed your lips as you thought about it, you would finally have a foot in the door of finding the princess, instead of just watching others help the cause. You were about to answer when Josuke spoke up.

"I don't think she should do it." Your brows furrowed at Josuke, Shigetchi looked confusedly at him. Okuyasu was still eating.

"You took a vow not to speak about anything you discuss with this man, correct? So what do we do if he finds out She's a spy. Shigetchi, this too dangerous in the long run." He was right. You knew he was right. It was just so frustrating to realize. If you did this- you would finally be useful again. You would stop being completely useless to the team you had devised. If anything you had been more of a nuisance than a teammate all this time anyway.

You suddenly felt determined to see this plan through. Josuke was sweet, and smart, and kind, but you couldn't play it safe like he wanted you to. You told him that already, earlier today. You realized that in a flash of anger. You had to do this. If not for the princess, for yourself.

"Everything that we are doing is dangerous, Josuke. Why would this be any different than anything we've done before?" You hadn't meant for your voice to raise, but you were much too angry to apologize. The food was long forgotten by now, even Okuyasu had stopped eating. Josuke raised an eyebrow at you.

"It's different because it's you. You, all alone without any sort of defense in case things go wrong-"

"I'm not defenseless!" You shouted, standing straight up and slamming your hands on the table. You were shaking from the adrenaline. Why did you do that? It was like all the emotion from the past few days started to catch up with you in one awful moment. All three men looked at you, suddenly very concerned. You felt the need to leave before you were flooded with shame and regret. You looked straight at Shigechi.

"I'll do it. Let me know the details later, I'm afraid I must take my leave." Just like that, you had stormed out of the dining hall and into the corridor.

Your vision had started to tear up. Why had you snapped so suddenly? It was so hard to understand everything that was going on, besides the fact that the people around you clearly didn't have faith in you. Your heart was pounding in your ears. Whatever this was, it wasn't healthy. You used to sit with Yukako for hours, and you would just let each other unload, obviously it hadn't been possible to do that lately. You took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep yourself from crying. Josuke's call of your name cut clear through the air, but you kept walking. He called again, this time right by your side. Damn him and his cardio.

"I never wanted to imply you were- I'm just- worried about you!" You snorted, speed-walking faster. Josuke easily kept up.

"I told you this morning that I was not going to go home. That also meant that I was not going to just sit back and do nothing while you and Okuyasu are out working your asses off to find Yukako!" He huffs at your words, eyes casted downwards.

"I'm sorry. I know you've already given me your answer, but I just don't think doing this without m- without at least one of us is a good idea." You didn't want to talk to him anymore. You were starting to feel bad for yelling again, but it was understandable right? You had a reason to be angry, didn't you? After a silent split second Josuke called your name again, and grabbed your wrist.

You didn't know if it was the tug from him stopping dead in his tracks and pulling on your arm, or how overwhelmed you were. It was just a reflex. You knew it was him but for a moment it felt like that disgusting man again-

The slap stung your palm long after it was over and done with. You didn't know what to do. You just stood there, wide eyed at your own actions, looking at Josuke. He stared back, heart-wrenching incredulous eyes looking through you.

"I- I'm so, so sorry. I didn't- I don't-" Tears started to well over in your eyes. You didn't know what to say. Josuke didn't let go of your arm, gently holding it in his grasp.

"It's okay. I'm sorry for tugging on you like that." The tears started to come faster, and your face started to scrunch up in an ugly cry. Josuke softly pulled you into an embrace, testing the waters almost, and you couldn't help but melt into his warmth. You held onto him like he was your lifeline, your bodies pressed as close together as they could.

 

After that, Josuke realized that part of the reason you were acting so strange had to be the lack of control you had. There wasn't really any other explanation to it. He could see how overwhelmed you were, and made a decision for both of your sakes. He would follow you back to Shigetchi's tonight, and you would never know.

Maybe he should've listened to his mom when she suggested he be a doctor.

 

You felt much, much better after crying. Of course, the guilt of this morning still remained. Shigetchi probably thought you were crazy though. After taking the few hours in-between lunch and the meeting to calm yourself, you were confident you would do this job perfectly.

You had never blended in so well before. Serving the dishes and the tea was a piece of cake, you were a bit smug that all of those years serving the royal cook's food with hard-earned poise and grace finally came in handy.

The man that Shigetchi had over for tea was Viscount Brimsey, a man you had seen quite often in fact. One word to describe him thoroughly would be, "royal ass-kisser". It seemed that his reputation at the castle followed him here as well.

"You've quite outdone yourself, Yangu. These scones are quite divine," you fought the urge to roll your eyes as you served the tea with ease.

"Thank you," Shigetchi smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sarah, my cook, has always done an excellent job."

"I'm jealous, the old maid at the villa has started to get sloppy with the preparations. Just last week she…"

The fine China teapot gently landed on the tray with a clink, and you carefully picked it up and set it on the trolley. The Viscount paid you no mind as you rolled the tray out of the room. Shigetchi gave you a slight nod as you left. You knew what you were to do. No one noticed when you left the door open by a crack.

You stood there for quite a bit, and it was definitely quite boring. You busied yourself with checking on the food and tea still on your trolley, trying to look like you weren't peeping in to any other servant that would pass by.

"...The economy lately…"

"...have you been to the theatre recently?..."

"...my rose garden is…"

You had been hunched over the trolley for so long your back started to hurt. Was this truly the man you were supposed to investigate? If he was in any way dangerous, it certainly didn't show in his conversation. It was getting rather difficult to not fall asleep standing. You could hear someone's footsteps come down the hallway, and stood up straight immediately, starting to place more tea cakes and sweets on two more serving plates.

"The princess was always a brat anyway." It was the Viscount's coach and footman, walking down the marble-floored hallway in their disgusting, muddy boots. Were they seriously talking about such a sensitive topic so openly? You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"It's no wonder she was grabbed instead of the king. The little bitch had it coming." They both let out a loud laugh, and you tried to hold your temper. Yukako wasn't a brat, nor was she as patient as you were. She would've socked them in the jaw by now.

"Did you see her face when-" The first plate slipped from your hands by complete accident. Fuck. You frantically bent over to pick up the glass and ruined food. "Did you see her face," that had to be talking about her while at the Festival, right? The words had caught you so off guard that you ruined a good lead. Damn it. Maybe you should be investigating this guy and his employees after all.

The men had approached you fast, looming over your bent form, but instead of looking intimidating, they looked nervous.

"Sorry miss, did you, uh, hear our conversation just then?" You had to think quickly.

"Veux-tu manger?" The men were taken aback for a moment, and then started to laugh.

"Just another dumb foreigner." That was a close one. You really said "would you like to eat?". Thank God they didn't understand your awful French pronunciation. The men waved at you, and opened the big door that led to the sunroom. You could hear Shigetchi and the Viscount stop conversation immediately.

"Sorry, my Liege. Your daughter is requesting your presence at the villa." The Viscount chuckled. Wiping his face and standing from the table, tipping his head at Shigechi.

"I'm afraid I must go. Thank you for your gracious meal, Yangu." Shigetchi nodded, giving his regards as the Viscount left. You curtsied slightly as he passed you no matter how disgusted you felt. The conversation overheard was more than enough to place blame on the man. You held back a smirk, a feeling of triumph rising in your chest.

You hoped Yukako and Koichi would hold on just a bit longer. You were on the road to finding them.

[worldwidemochiguy]

made for each other (soft! yandere taehyung)

Summary: After Taehyung kidnapped you, you promised yourself would never allow yourself to fall in love with him. It seems Taehyung is determined to make you break that promise.

Word Count: 3.5K

Authors note: this was inspired by a prompt from @kpopgirlbtssvt​ to another writer which was about the reader coming to taehyung for cuddles after being unable to sleep bc she’s sick. I just thought it was such a cute prompt so I decided to write something for it as well <3

You can’t sleep. Five months ago, that wouldn’t have surprised you. After all, having been kidnapped and held hostage by a stranger who said he was in love with you, it would have been more odd if you could sleep easily. But now, coming up to six months in Taehyung’s care, though you had stopped counting after the fourth, you usually find it easy to sink into sleep. The bed Taehyung has given you was much nicer than your old one, the mattress doesn’t have springs that dig into your back and the duvet actually keeps you warm at night. In all honesty, that wasn’t the only thing that improved when Taehyung stole you away.

He took you from your one-bedroom apartment, shitty and way too overpriced for a barely-graduated collage student, even if you were working four separate jobs at the time to make ends meet. Taehyung’s luxury apartment was certainly a lot nicer, and it is less stressful, not having to worry about money or other people, of course, you haven’t seen any other people since Taehyung took you. 

It had taken you a long time to gain this relaxed view of your kidnapping. Honestly, you’re incredulous yourself, but you have come to terms with the fact that you’re never going to escape. It isn’t that bad, living with Taehyung. He always makes sure you’re comfortable and cared for. You have everything your heart desires, except a connection to the outside world. Despite his almost daily declarations of love and desire for you, he had vowed not to touch you. The very night he took you, he promised he would only kiss you once you explicitly asked for it. 

You made a vow too, that night. You promised yourself you would never allow yourself to fall in love with Kim Taehyung. And you were beginning to fear you would have to break your promise.

It’s just because I’m sick, you reason to yourself, I’m not thinking straight, so of course this won’t matter. You wilfully ignore the fact that, despite the fever raging through your body, you’re still mostly coherent. Probably could be completely coherent, if you weren’t so tired. But so far you have been finding it exceedingly difficult to sleep. When you were a young child, your mother would always hold you through the night when you were sick, stroking your hair and singing a soft lullaby to help you drift off. Obviously, going to your mother is out of the question, but the desperation for human contact is a growing urge poisoning your mind.

That same desperation leads your footsteps down the hall at half three in the morning to wait outside Taehyung’s bedroom door. You raise your fist to knock, but hesitate. Are you really going to ask your kidnapper to comfort you? To cuddle you in his bed? It doesn’t matter that he’s attractive, which he is, very attractive, possibly the most beautiful man in the world-

The door swings open, the shock causing you to overbalance and tip directly into the naked chest of whom you had been previously calling the most beautiful man in the world. Taehyung holds you against him for a brief moment, before gently setting you back on your feet with a soft chuckle. 

“I could hear you padding up the hall.” He explains, cooing slightly at the sight of your flushed cheeks, glowing in the darkness. “What do you need, baby?”

“You.” The word slips out before you can stop it, and Taehyung’s brows rise so high they disappear into his hairline. He has the most delighted expression on his face that you have ever seen.

“Well, what do you need me for, baby?” His deep purring voice makes you shiver slightly, which triggers another shiver, due to your illness. Taehyung’s brows shoot down again and furrow, as he shoos you into his room, grabbing a blanket off the bed to wrap around you.

“You’re sick.” The blanket smells like him, and it distracts you as he flutters around you, checking your temperature with his hand and trying to see if you’d lost weight — you’ve only been sick a day, but Taehyung worries about anything that happens to the most important thing in his life. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands, and you instantly feel bad.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“But now you’re outside my door.”

“Well, actually, I’m inside your room, now.” You quip and he huffs impatiently, even as a slight smile tugs on his lips.

“What changed your mind?” Here, you become more bashful, trying to avoid his gaze by looking downwards but he tilts your head up with a gentle yet firm grip on your chin. “I need an answer, baby.”

“Well…I…” He hums impatiently, “I couldn’t sleep. My mother would always cuddle me when I was sick, but now I don’t have anyone.”

“You have me.” Taehyung responds immediately.

“…I know. That’s- that’s why I’m here.” Your confidence falters a few times, but you manage to finish your statement. For a second, Taehyung looks confused, but then the widest grin lights up his face — not that you find it endearing or adorable or lovable or whatever — and he holds the corners of his blanket wrapped around you and tugs you closer to him.

“You came here… in the middle of the night… to cuddle with me?” Taehyung sounds like he can barely believe it, and you groan in embarrassment, burying your flaming cheeks in his chest.

“Yes. Now, please, just do it without being too smug.” 

“What would I have to be smug about, my love?” He asks, smugly. 

“Taaeeeee,” you whine, knowing that any term of endearment was his weak spot, “I don’t feel well. Please don’t tease me.” You pout cutely and he coos at you, gathering you up and sweeping you onto the bed where you immediately make yourself comfortable, his scent surrounding you, making you feel better already.

He pauses for a second at the foot of the bed, watching you burrow into his sheets with dark eyes. He then gets into the bed beside you — still shirtless, you note with equal parts excitement and horror — and settles on his back. Before you can even move, he has tugged you onto his chest, with your head against his heartbeat, and his strong arms encircling your waist. Your legs tangle together as you tilt up your head to look at him. He is gazing at you with the most love-filled, adoring expression you had ever seen.

You lay your head back on his chest, vision beginning to swim as your sleepiness overtakes you, and you wonder idly, how bad could it be to let yourself fall in love? 

——-——–——————–——————

You wake up surrounded by warmth and comfort, held protectively in a pair of arms which you never want to leave. In your sleepy state, your subconscious recognises your love for Taehyung and you start burrowing further into his hold, placing lazy kisses wherever you can reach with your eyes still closed.

Taehyung releases a low-pitched growl, the vibration finally waking you up. It takes you a second to realise what you are doing and you sit up hurriedly, cheeks painted a bright red. You then realise that you are effectively straddling Taehyung’s lap, which explains the smug expression on his face, and you try to move off him. He quickly sits up as well, drawing his knees up and pinning you between his legs and his torso. Your hands, lying ineffectually on the rumpled sheets, come up to rest on his shoulders.

You give a pathetic attempt at pushing him away — clearly you don’t actually want him to go — and he laughs, only drawing you closer to him in retaliation until your noses bump. 

“Good morning baby, or, should I say, good afternoon?” Your eyes flick to the clock on the bedside table and you gasp. It was half past noon! You, again, attempt to scramble off his lap, but he stills your squirming by brushing his nose up the side of your neck.

“Don’t worry baby, you needed your sleep. I would gladly stay in bed the whole day with you, if I didn’t have to feed and take care of you.” With that, he gently shifts you onto the bed and stands up, already heading for the door. You frown, and get up to follow him.

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Of course I do. I always take care of my possessions, and you, my love, are the most important. Just go back to sleep, I’ll bring you lunch in bed.” Ignoring how the casual possessiveness makes your lower stomach clench pleasantly, you pout, though he can’t see it as he is turned away from you, heading to the kitchen. 

“I don’t want to stay in bed. I’d miss you.” The words slip out before you had a chance to go over them in your head and Taehyung immediately turns around, an adoring expression taking over his face again. 

“You are being a very good girl.” He purrs, looping his arms around your lower back and tugging you into him. Since you’re unwell, you allow yourself the indulgence, and raise yourself on your tiptoes to tuck your face into the crook of his neck. He walks both of you back slowly and then, without warning, spins you around and lifts you up, placing you on the counter with ease. He laughs when you yelp in shock, both at the sudden movement and the coolness of the counter, though it does help soothe your heated skin. 

“What do you want for lunch, baby?” You shake your head,

“I don’t feel well enough to have lunch.” 

“Baby, you have to eat something.” Taehyung sighs, and you give him your best puppy-dog eyes, “What about just rice? It won’t make you too nauseous, but it’ll stop you from feeling hungry.” You think about it for a second before nodding. He rewards your obedience with a sunny smile and you try to ignore how it makes your heart flutter almost painfully. 

Taehyung warns you several times to be careful as he starts boiling the water and preparing the rice. He even warns you about avoiding the cooking knives on the other counter because ‘those things are sharp, baby, I can’t let you get hurt.’ Try as you might, you can’t make yourself view him as overprotective and controlling, knowing now that he only wants to keep you safe because he cares so much about you. 

While you wait for the rice to steam, he quizzes you relentlessly about your symptoms.

“Do you have a headache?” 

“Not really.”

“Do your joints ache?”

“Do my joints ache?” You ask incredulously, “Did you become a doctor or something?” He shoots you an unamused look.

“Answer the question, baby.”

“Yes, my joints ache.”

“Have you been having hot flushes?” As he quizzes you, your eyes drifted down to his still-bare torso, all the way down to the defined V that led into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“A little.” 

“Is your throat sore?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? This is a yes or no question and if you can’t say no, that means yes.”

“I mean, it hurt yesterday, but not today.”

“Your throat hurt yesterday and you didn’t tell me?!” 

“I didn’t think you would care.” Taehyung mutters what sounds like a prayer for patience and then tugs you forwards so you perch on the edge of the counter. Even sitting higher up, he is still taller than you as he crushes you into his chest.

He holds you for what feels like forever, and when he pulls back it is only to press his forehead against yours. His breath fans over your cheeks as his eyes gaze into yours.

“Of course I care, baby. I care about everything you do, or have done, or ever will do. If you sneeze, I want to know. If you think you hurt your ankle, I want to know. If you saw a fucking cloud out the window that you thought looked like a dog, I want to know. Because I love you. I love you and I will keep telling you that until you understand it because, to me, loving someone means they are the most important thing in your life, do you understand? You are the most important thing in my life, and I want to know everything there is to know about you. I know you aren’t used to affection, but you’ll have to get used to it because I’m not going anywhere and-” 

You cut him off by pressing your lips to his. He stands still, frozen for a second, but when you whimper softly against his lips, he takes control of the kiss, forcing his tongue into your mouth and you melt. His lips slant against yours perfectly and you can feel his hands slowly travelling down to cup your ass. Your own fingers tangle in his hair and start tugging it when he breaks away, giving you space to breathe while he marks your throat.

“Mmh, get back here.” You whine, and he chuckles against your neck.

“Have to mark you up, baby. Have to let everyone know you’re mine.”

“No one else is going to see me, anyway.” You protest, trying to drag him back up to your mouth. The feeling of him marking you was certainly amazing, but you have been waiting half a year to kiss Kim Taehyung and you aren’t about to stop anytime soon.

“You’re so desperate for my kiss, aren’t you?” His ego is swelling dangerously, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Yes, I am. Please kiss me, I’ve been holding myself back for so long, I’m desperate.” You beg shamelessly, and he growls against your throat before rearing up to claim your mouth again, wrapping your legs around his waist to lift you off the counter and pin you against the wall in one seamless movement. 

It is that moment the rice cooker chooses to go off, signalling the rice has finished steaming. Taehyung pulls away slightly, and then smirks when you chase after his lips. He allows you to steal a precious few more kisses before he sets you down on the floor, arms coming up to your waist automatically to steady you when you stumble slightly.

“Baby can’t even stand up without me, huh?” You can’t even deny his smug remark, instead choosing to hang onto his shoulder as he tries to go and check on the rice. “Baby, I have to go and check on the rice. You must be hungry.”

“Rice isn’t what I’m hungry for.” You muttered, and Taehyung’s short intake of breath was the only warning you got before you were pinned against the wall again.

“Naughty girl,” Taehyung purrs, his hand wrapped around your throat, tight enough to keep you still and submissive, but not completely cutting off your air supply. “Bad baby, saying all these naughty things when daddy is trying to be sweet to her.” You whimper, his muscular thigh is right in between your legs but when you try to grind yourself against him for some relief, he tightens his hold on your neck. 

“I think my baby needs to be taught a lesson.” 

“Yes, please- teach me, I need-”

“Please, what, my love?” You try to swallow but it’s difficult with his hand tightening on your throat, your vision begins to darken. 

“Baby, I’m still waiting on an answer here.” Taehyung prompts you. 

“I’m sorry… please- please teach me a lesson, daddy.” His gaze darkens, and you think he’s going to kiss you, you want him to kiss you, but he pulls away. His hand falls away from your throat and he returns to the rice cooker. You stay resting against the wall, trying to even your breathing, and Taehyung puts the rice into a bowl and gets chopsticks for you. 

He moves towards the seating area and you follow him, slightly confused. Your confusion deepens as he sits down on the armchair, rather than a loveseat. Maybe he wants you to sit on his lap? Thankfully, he doesn’t leave you confused for too long. 

“Kneel.” He smiles slightly at the sight of your wide eyes, and attempts to make himself clear. “Kneel by my feet, like the good little pet you are. I’ll feed you, baby, don’t worry.” You felt your knees bending and hitting the floor even before you fully registered his command. Taehyung felt a sense of victorious pride swelling within him as he watched you kneel for him obediently, your pretty lips open and waiting for him to feed you. To be honest, the sight of you on your knees for him made more than just his pride swell. He had been so patient for so long and it had all been worth it to have you as you are now, perfect and perfectly submissive. 

He feeds you the rice slowly, taking care not to give you too much at one time to avoid triggering a stomach ache. Even as your cheeks burn at the humiliation of kneeling at his feet like a dog, you felt a certain amount of comfort at the fact that he cares so much about you that he wants to look after you like this. Once the rice is finished, you yawn and lean against Taehyung’s leg, closing your eyes. You feel his hand start to card through your hair and you know that, if you were a cat, you’d definitely be purring right now. 

“Is my baby tired?” Taehyung questions softly and you nod, jostling his leg slightly.

“Can I take a nap?”

“Of course you can, my love. You have been so good today. My perfect girl.” He praises you as he helps you to your feet. You look up at him, and the breath you have just been taking in abandons you suddenly. 

He is so beautiful. He’s looking at you with such a tender, loving expression and you know in your heart, you have broken your promise to yourself.

You are in love with Kim Taehyung. 

You mask this self-revelation with a soft smile, untangling yourself from his arms and walking towards the hallway. You hear Taehyung following behind you, but choose not to acknowledge it. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” You pause, turning around to glance back at him.

“My bedroom. You said I could take a nap.” You pout, and Taehyung smirks,

“What makes you think I’m letting you go back there now that you’ve slept in my bed? Well- our bed.” He doesn’t give you a chance to answer the question before he sweeps you into his arms in bridal style, striding back to his room and depositing you on his bed. He sighs contentedly, watching you acquiesce and make yourself comfortable on the bed.

“You look so beautiful in my bed, my love. You will always sleep here from now on.” You nod sleepily, uncaring of his possessive tone, and make grabby hands at him, wanting him to join you and snuggle in bed. You hear a quiet chuckle before the mattress dips and you are gathered into his arms again. You have never felt so untroubled in all your life. 

He arranges you so that your head is resting on his chest, with your leg thrown over his hip, completely intertwined together, just the way he loves it, and how you are beginning to love too. You raise your head to look at him, finding his dark eyes already watching you affectionately. 

“Taehyung?” Your fever is making you woozy, along with the sleeping pills Taehyung had crushed into the rice. He didn’t want you to have trouble sleeping, and he knows what’s best for his little girl.

“Yes, baby?” He replies and you smile. You can barely see straight but you know you have to tell him something, something important. 

“I love you.” His eyes crinkle as he gives you a wide, boxy smile. It’s the last thing you see before you succumb to exhaustion, your smile still fixed on your lips as your eyes shut. Taehyung takes a second to admire your beauty, before leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead.

“I love you too, baby. Every day I’m so thankful that I was made for you, and you for me.”