#but the rum just drowned everything out

[centaurs-arejerks]

for my birthday i got this book of cocktail recipes themed around batman

a lot of the recipes look super fun! like this one for talia

but i tried this flying grayson's themed cocktail and i just have to say.... i'm so sorry dick, they did you dirty. this was disgusting. you deserve better than something that tasted like a lemon spent too long in a bowl full of rum

[velarisdusk]

Burning Desire

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Series Masterlist Part 4 <- ✦.⁺.✦.⁺.✦ -> Part 6 - TBD!

word count: 17k (AAAAA?)

content: [ explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, BDSM, power dynamics, bondage, gags, sensory deprivation, pain play, spanking, paddling, flogging, begging, degradation, praise | infidelity, emotional infidelity, explicit language, alcohol, drinking, smoking (cigarettes, marijuana), bitches are fake as fuck, bad rebound choices, i.e. casually fucking someone who you KNOW has had an actual crush on you for years and not caring, the Vanserra family is a loving one in this he deserves happiness ]

summary: In a depression following being caught cheating, a troubling phone call brings a harsh revelation. Distraught and in need of comfort, you turn to Eris, who's been trying to reach out since that night. He provides the emotional and physical escape you need.

author's note: oh. my. god. i've been working on this for what feels like a decade i feel like years have been taken off of my life. school has been killer (negative), writing this was killer (positive), and i hope you enjoy >:)

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks of rotting in bed, drowning in self-pity, and starting your days with cigarettes and bottles of rum. Over a week ago, you threw your phone into the drawer of your nightstand, barely resisting the urge to post a pity-filled story for your close friends. Before you essentially vanished, you noticed texts from Feyre and Mor. That was nothing out of the ordinary, but you didn't read them, dreading their content. Were they upset? Angry? What did they think of you? Were the messages even about the situation? You couldn't say if they knew or not.

You also received messages from Az, Eris, and Tarquin. Their concern surprised you, figuring that bro code would have outranked you on the list of priorities. But then, were they even still talking? If you were Cassian, you’d probably cut off all communication.

It was a complicated situation. They all worked together and had for years. They couldn’t just walk away; they were bound by contracts. You wondered how practice was faring if it was even happening. By now, they must have realized that Cassian wasn’t speaking to you. Whether they kept things private or shared the news with Feyre, Mor, or anyone else, you had no idea. You hoped they had the sense not to all come downstairs at once after your departure with Cassian. But even if they were careful, it must have been noticeable when they started reappearing suddenly.

Two weeks of these thoughts hurtling through your mind.

You haven’t told your mother why you showed up disheveled at her door in the night. How could you? You couldn’t bear to face her after admitting what you’ve done.

But as the hours stretch endlessly, a surge of loneliness (only the latest of many) finally drives you to your phone. You respond to the texts from Azriel and Tarquin, reassuring them that you’re as fine as you can be. When you open the text thread with Eris, you’re caught off guard.

Hey, just checking in. How are you holding up?

If you need someone to talk to I’m around. Seriously.

Look, I get that it might seem weird coming from me, but I’m genuinely concerned. No strings, I just want to make sure you’re okay.

I’m not trying to pry, but isolation doesn’t help. If you need a break from everything, my line’s always open.

You sit there, staring at the string of messages, each one making you feel a little more seen, a little more cared for. You aren’t even sure you want to acknowledge that right now. It’s almost too much, the kindness wrapped in Eris’ words, especially when everything else feels like it’s crumbling around you.

But Eris’ texts… they’re a lifeline, a small thread of connection in a sea of isolation. You pick up your phone again, reading through the messages once more, feeling the sincerity behind them. The idea of responding, of reaching out, is both comforting and terrifying. But the thought of facing all of this alone, of letting it continue to eat away at you in silence, is somehow worse.

Your fingers start to move, typing out a response before you can second-guess yourself.

you’re not prying, thanks for checking in. captain morgan’s been keeping me company lmfao

No sooner do you turn your phone off and toss it onto the bed beside you does the screen light up again with a buzz. That was fast.

Sounds like he’s good company, but maybe not the best listener. How about a real conversation instead?

You can almost hear the playful tone in his words, a lightness that cuts through the heavy fog of your thoughts. It’s enough to make you smile, just a little, even as the weight of everything else still hangs over you.

Another buzz and his next message appears.

Seriously, if you want to talk, my door’s open. No pressure, just an offer.

You can tell he’s trying to strike a balance, not pushing it too hard but still getting through your head that he’s there. It’s disarming in a way, and it leaves you wondering if maybe, just maybe, you should take him up on that offer.

thanks eris, i might take you up on that. it’s just… a lot rn, yknow?

There’s a pause, the seconds ticking by as you wait for his reply. You don’t have to wait long, and it’s as straightforward a reply as you expected.

I get it. You didn’t make the mess alone, just wanted you to know you don’t have to deal with it alone. And if you want to get out of your place for a bit, my offer still stands. You can even invite the captain as your plus one if that helps.

You smile at that, a small huff of amusement escaping you. The thought of getting out of your old childhood bedroom, of not being surrounded by the same four walls that have seen you at your lowest, is more appealing than you’d like to admit. Maybe a change of scenery, and the chance to talk things out with someone, would help.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you think about how to respond. Part of you wants to dive in and take him up on the offer right away, but another part of you hesitates, unsure how it would look if Cassian found out. You decide to keep things simple. You don’t respond.

Without paying any mind to the countless social media, text, and call notifications from your other friends, you open your texts with Nesta and make a FaceTime call. The thought of her blunt honesty is a small comfort in your otherwise bleak current existence.

Her face appears on the screen, and though her expression is one of surprise and concern, you can’t help but feel a twinge of relief.

“Where’ve you been? You look…”

She trails off, her eyes narrowing as she takes in your appearance. You glance at yourself in the small window at the top corner of the screen. Your eyes are puffy and red, your face is pale, and the bags under your eyes seem darker than ever.

“Talk to me,” Nesta says, her voice gentle but firm, as if trying to cut through the fog of your despair.

You draw a deep breath, the weight of your emotions pressing heavily on your chest. “I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice trembling. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart. I’m a fucking mess.”

Nesta’s gaze softens further, her concern palpable. She leans in slightly, her tone soothing yet resolute. “You can tell me whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m here.”

The hesitation is palpable as you search for the right words, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. Finally, you find the courage to confess. “I messed up, Nesta. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’ve ruined everything.”

Nesta’s expression tightens, her eyes flicking to something off-screen for a moment before she returns her focus to you. She runs a hand through her hair, a sigh escaping her lips as she gathers her thoughts. “Just... try to explain what happened.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions before asking, “Do you know what’s been going on?”

Nesta’s gaze momentarily shifts away, a flicker of something you can’t quite read passing over her face. “I’ve heard bits and pieces,” she begins, her tone deliberately vague. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”

Sensing her evasiveness, you decide to give her a broad overview. You explain the guilt and confusion you're feeling, how everything seemed to unravel and make the situation worse than you could have imagined. You describe the betrayal and the weight of not knowing how to mend things. By the time you’ve caught her up, your words are coming out through hysterical cries and gasps for air between sobs.

Nesta listens quietly, absorbing the emotional weight of your words. Her expression reflects a mix of sympathy and contemplation as she processes the gravity of what you’ve shared.

“I broke that boundary to hell, Nesta. I ruined everything.” Your voice trembles with the weight of your confession, the words feeling like a leaden anchor pulling you down.

Nesta’s brows knit together, her concern deepening as she tilts her head slightly. “What boundary…?” she asks, her tone gentle yet probing, as if trying to piece together the fragments of your unraveling story.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breath, but a sniffle escapes you. “They’ve all been pretty flirty with me since the beginning, and Cassian and I… we decided early on that we didn’t mind it?” You pause, glancing down at your hands as you fidget with the red scrunchie around your wrist, twisting the fabric between your fingers. “So we’d just let them like… make comments… touch up on me a little–”

A sudden, sharp gasp crackles through the phone speaker, cutting through your words like a knife. Your eyes narrow as you stare at the screen in confusion. That sound hadn’t come from Nesta; you’d been watching her intently this whole time, and her lips hadn’t moved.

You furrow your brows, your heart quickening with unease. “What was that? Is there someone there with you?” you ask, trying to keep the edge of suspicion out of your voice, but failing.

But her face is the image of calm, save for the confusion in her furrowed brows. “Huh? Oh, it was just the TV,” she says, quickly flipping her phone around to show you the screen. The shaky camera reveals a reality show playing in the background, the exaggerated drama of strangers’ lives filling the awkward silence.

But your gut tells you something’s off. The way her hand shook just a little as she moved the phone, the tension still lingering in her posture. It all feels wrong. Despite her attempt to brush it off, the seed of doubt has been planted, taking root in the back of your mind.

Nesta flips the phone back to face her, and her voice is smooth and encouraging as she speaks. “So, what are you going to do? Are you going to talk to him?”

You hesitate, letting out a sigh as you rub your temple. “I don’t know. I’m scared of what he’ll say, or worse... what he won’t say. I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of rejection, Nesta.”

She nods slowly, her expression softening into one of understanding. “You have to do what feels right for you, but running away won’t make it any easier in the long run. I know it’s—and I’m sorry to say this—your fault, but you still deserve to know where things stand, even if it’s hard to face.”

You shift uncomfortably, the weight of her words pressing down on you. “I know, I just... I need time to think. To figure out what I want, what I’ll do.”

Nesta listens patiently, offering her quiet support as you continue to spill your thoughts. The conversation drifts from your immediate fears to the what-ifs. She shares some of her own experiences, her voice a mix of tough love and genuine care, giving you just enough space to feel heard without feeling judged.

The minutes tick by, and soon you find yourself leaning back into the pillows, the exhaustion creeping in. You talk about other things too, and an hour passes before you even realize it, the conversation winding down naturally, both of you running out of things to say. It’s a comfortable silence now, a brief respite from the storm of emotions you’ve been weathering.

“I should let you go,” you finally say, your voice soft. “Thanks for listening, Nes. I... I needed this.”

Nesta smiles, a touch of warmth breaking through her usual stoic demeanor. “Anytime. You know I’m here for you.”

You nod, feeling a little lighter, if only for a moment. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

As you move to end the call, you hear it—faint, but unmistakable. A voice, muffled but clear enough to make out the words: “No way–”

Your heart skips a beat, but before you can react, the call disconnects, leaving you staring at the screen, that single phrase echoing in your mind. The voice wasn’t Nesta’s, and it sure as hell didn’t come from the TV. You know that voice. It’s familiar in a way that makes your stomach churn, your pulse quicken. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks, a cold wave of dread washing over you.

It was Elain’s. You’re sure of it. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, your mind racing. But why would she be there hidden from view? Why wouldn’t she just say hello or at least make her presence known? The questions tumble over each other, forming a gnawing pit of unease in your gut.

Then, like pieces of a puzzle snapping together, the thought hits you: Elain was listening in, but she didn’t want you to know she was there. The secrecy, the way Nesta quickly tried to cover it up. It wasn’t just about eavesdropping. No, it felt intentional, like Elain was trying to gain insight into your situation with Cassian. Your breath catches in your throat as the implications sink in. A cold, hard truth begins to crystallize in your mind. She wanted to know the details because it mattered to her. It mattered because she’s involved—because she and Cassian are…

You don’t want to finish the thought, but it’s there, undeniable and ugly. Elain and Cassian. It explains the secrecy, the way Nesta tried to protect her, and the sickening feeling gnawing at your insides.

The weight of it is almost unbearable, pressing down on you as you sit there, phone in hand, processing the cruel truth that’s just come to light. Elain and Cassian. How? Why? You never saw any sign in their interactions before. The bitterness of the revelation is a sharp, relentless edge in your chest — you need to do something, anything, to shake off this feeling.

You push yourself up from the bed with a determined resolve, your mind racing with anger and the need to reclaim some sense of control. First things first: you need to wash off the remnants of the last two weeks, the sweat and guilt that cling to you.

The hot water of the shower is a welcome relief against your skin, and you let the steam envelop you, trying to wash away the emotions churning inside. You lather up, scrubbing away the sweat and liquor and cigarette smoke, letting the water run over you until you feel clean, both physically and mentally. You stand under the spray, letting the water cascade down your body as if it could cleanse the memories away. When you’re done, you run a comb through your hair, detangling the wet strands with care before blow-drying and styling it, every strand perfectly in place and your arms sore by the time you’re done.

You reach for your phone, fingers hovering over the screen as you debate your next move. Finally, with a deep breath, you type out a message to Eris:

you still up for company?

It’s simple, to the point, and carries the weight of everything you’re feeling right now. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this, but you hit send before you can overthink it, nerves and anticipation bubbling in your chest. As you wait for his reply, you glance at yourself in the mirror, taking in the freshly styled hair, and the clean skin. You look entirely different than you did this morning. You’re someone in control, someone who knows what she wants. Your phone buzzes.

Absolutely. I’ll swing by and pick you up.

You weren’t expecting that, but you don’t hesitate before replying with the address. His response is swift.

See you in 15.

Your eyes linger on the screen, absorbing his words as you double-tap and leave a heart his message. Something is grounding about the certainty in his response. No hesitation, no questions, just action. You set your phone down and take one last look in the mirror, a quiet determination settling in your chest. He’ll be here soon, and you have just enough time to get dressed.

You see Eris pulling up through your window, the white Jaguar rolling to a stop, and you take a deep breath before heading toward the door. As you walk down the driveway towards him, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the car’s window. Jean shorts and a hand-cropped t-shirt—casual and understated.

Eris’s eyes meet yours as you approach the car, his expression softening with concern. There’s no sign of the smirk you usually see on his face. Just a steady gaze that feels sincere. He leans over the center console and opens the door for you, a simple gesture, but one that makes your heart feel lighter.

As you settle into the passenger seat, you set your tote bag down in the footwell. It holds a mostly full bottle of Captain Morgan, a pack of Newports, some gum, and a lighter you grabbed on your way out.

Eris’s eyes flick to the neck of the bottle sticking out of the bag before he asks, “Bringing the party with you?”

You shrug, offering a faint smile. “You did say I was allowed a plus one.”

He nods, his tone softening. “That I did... You okay?” he asks, pulling away from the curb.

You glance at him, a bit surprised at the shift from teasing to concern. “Not really,” you admit quietly.

Eris gives a small nod, his eyes still on the road. “Could’ve guessed the answer, huh?” he remarks, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

You offer a wry smile and a quiet “yeah.” You glance out the window as the sunlight reflects off passing buildings. “But I figured getting out of the house might not hurt. What were you thinking of doing?”

Eris keeps his eyes on the road. “I can swing by somewhere if you need to grab something or,” he pauses, a sly grin forming. “Or if you’re up for unwinding a bit…”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the playful glint in his eye. “What are you suggesting?”

He shrugs, one hand gripping the steering wheel casually. “We could stop by my plug’s place and pick something up, if you’re looking to take the edge off. He’s got some good shit.”

You lean back in your seat, considering his offer. The idea of numbing your mind with something other than liquor is very tempting. You glance at Eris, his casual demeanor giving nothing away, but you can sense that beneath the surface, he’s paying close attention to your reaction.

You nod, feeling a sense of resolve settling in. “Let’s do it. I could use a change of pace.”

Eris keeps his eyes on the road, but there’s a flicker of approval in them. “Alright, then,” he says with a grin, shifting lanes smoothly as he changes direction. His hands move with practiced ease, one gripping the steering wheel and the other shifting gears with effortless precision. You glance up from your phone just in time to see him reach into the center console. He pulls out a sleek pack of Dunhills, taps one out, and lights it with a quick flick of his lighter.

The cigarette sits casually between his lips, its ember glowing softly as its smoke curls lazily around him. “Want a cig?” he asks, his tone casual as he cracks his window.

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, reaching out for the cigarette sticking out of the pack. Eris passes it to you with a small knowing smile, his eyes flicking briefly to meet yours before returning to the road and lowering your window for you. You take a drag, the smoke filling your lungs and momentarily dulling the edges of your lingering unease. It’s quite the difference from the menthol kick of your usual Newports. The flavor is richer, with a deep, earthy undertone that’s almost woody. It feels more refined, less about the immediate hit, and more about a lingering, sophisticated aftertaste. You exhale, the smoke curling in the air, and the taste leaves a warmth that’s oddly comforting.

“Helps, doesn’t it?” he glances at you, a touch of curiosity in his gaze.

You exhale slowly, watching the smoke get pulled out the window. “A little… Thanks,” you say, and you both know it isn’t just for the cigarette.

Eris nods, his grin widening slightly. “Anytime. We’ve got a bit of a drive, so just get comfortable. We’ll hit the place soon.”

You settle back as Eris merges onto the highway. The sun is high, casting a warm light over the passing scenery. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the classic rock on the radio make for a relaxing ride. You gaze out the window, watching the landscape shift as the car speeds along. After finishing your cigarette, you hold onto the butt, not willing to litter. Eris is focused on the road, so you just hold onto it, unsure what else to do.

A few minutes later, Eris chuckles and glances over, eyebrow raised. “Were you going to hold onto it the whole ride? Come on, you can’t be serious.”

You give a small laugh, shaking your head. “Well, I wasn’t going to throw it out the window.”

Eris smirks, his eyes flicking to the cigarette butt in your hand. “Just give it to me.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing against your wrist as he tries to take it from you. But you’re quicker, pulling your hand away with a playful glare. “No!” you protest, holding the butt out of his reach. “You’re gonna throw it out the window!”

His grin widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leans closer, making another grab for it. “I won’t, I promise.” And for some reason, you believe him.

He takes the cigarette butt from your fingers and, with a practiced motion, opens the center console and undoes the locking mechanism on a glass jar. He drops it in, the jar already filled with likely a pack’s worth. The jar seals with a soft click, likely why you hadn’t noticed any lingering smell before. He shuts the jar and console, his attention never wavering from the road.

The smell-proof jar, not even considering littering, doing it all while keeping his eyes on the road—it’s the kind of thing that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

The drive stretches on with the radio playing softly in the background. You watch the scenery blur past as the car weaves effortlessly through traffic. With the windows still cracked, you catch a glimpse of Eris’s auburn hair tousled by the breeze. The sun casts long shadows across the highway, and you find a strange comfort in the steady rhythm of the drive. Eventually, Eris slows the car, steering off the main road and into a sleek, gated driveway. The place is an upscale, modern mansion with neatly trimmed hedges. Not what you expected. He parks near the entrance and turns to you with a casual smile.

“I’ll leave the car running,” he says. “Lock up, I’ll be quick.”

You nod, watching as he gets out and heads toward the front door. The gate closes behind him with a gentle click, leaving you alone in the plush interior of the car. After a few minutes, Eris reappears with a small, discreet bag in his pocket. He slips back into the driver’s seat, the bag placed neatly into the center console.

The car pulls out of the driveway, and Eris’s eyes flick toward you as he navigates the streets with practiced ease.

“Any special spots in mind, or are you up for anywhere?” he asks, the hint of a grin in his voice.

You shrug, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Nah, yours is fine.”

He gives a teasing scoff, putting a hand on his chest as he speaks. “My place is special, (y/n), you wound me.”

His words pull a genuine laugh from you. It really wasn’t that funny, but hearing your name on his tongue so casually stirs a nervous flutter in your chest.

“What’s so special about it?”

“Besides the view, or the pool, or the game room?” he pauses for dramatic effect, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Yours, truly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that so? And what makes you so special?”

Eris lets out a soft laugh, his gaze flicking to you before returning to the road. “Well, I’ve been told I’ve got a talent for making things unforgettable.”

“Someone’s got a massive ego.”

He grins, his eyes glinting with confidence. “Guilty as charged. You like it though.”

You roll your eyes at that, unable to keep the smile from creeping onto your face any longer. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Ah, you didn’t deny it. I’ll take it.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh softly, shaking your head.

As the highway fades into the background, the road before you begins to wind through lush greenery. The towering trees start to crowd in, their canopies forming a dappled, sunlit tunnel. Fields of wildflowers stretch out on either side. The road curves gently, revealing glimpses of a large, elegant house nestled among the trees, its silhouette framed by the tranquil lake shimmering in the late afternoon light.

When you step inside, the first thing you notice is how effortlessly cool the place feels—like it’s been designed with a blend of sophistication and laid-back charm. The living room is spacious and airy, with large windows that let in plenty of natural light, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden floors. The furniture is a mix of sleek modern pieces and cozy, oversized cushions that invite you to sink in and relax.

Eris heads over to a low cabinet and retrieves a small grinder and some neatly rolled-up papers from a hidden drawer. He moves with casual confidence, clearly in his element. You couldn’t help but wonder how many women he’d invited here for a smoke before you, having to remind yourself that this wasn’t that. You’re here as a friend who needs an attentive ear.

“So,” he says, flashing a grin as he begins grinding the weed, “what do you think of the place?”

You settle into the sofa, taking in the room’s ambiance. The walls are adorned with tasteful art, and the scent of cedarwood and something subtly herbal fills the air. It’s inviting.

“Not bad, huh?” Eris continues, leaning against the cabinet and looking down at the papers in his hand.

You chuckle, glancing around. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

His eyes dart up to meet yours, a playful, mock-surprised smile on his face. “Crazy…” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes with a smile. “Oh come on, you know it’s a nice place. I'm not gonna shower you with more compliments than you need.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he sits on the couch, starting on the joint. The sound of the grinder and the rustle of the papers are the background to your conversation. “Fair enough. But before we get too cozy with this,” he nods toward his work, “let’s talk. I’d rather hear how you’re really doing.”

You hesitate, feeling a bit vulnerable all of a sudden. “I don’t know if I can get through it all sober.”

Eris looks at you with a soft, reassuring smile, his fingers pausing briefly as they work the paper. “Just try.”

For a moment, you’re silent, the sound of the grinder filling the space between you. You look around the room, at the art on the walls, the low light casting a warm glow over everything. It’s easier to focus on that than on the storm inside your head.

But then you find his gaze again, and the quiet concern in his eyes makes something inside you crack, just a little. "It’s just… everything’s been so overwhelming lately," you begin, your voice soft. "I keep making these choices that… I don't know how to explain it… I’m digging myself into a deep, deep hole. And I don’t know how to get out." You hesitate as you try to find the right words. “It’s just… I don’t even know why I let it happen. I mean, I love Cassian, he’s everything to me. But every time I’m with you,” the words catch in your throat, and you quickly clarify, “with all of you, I mean… I feel like I’m losing myself, like I’m just drifting through all of it without thinking. It’s like I’m not even in control anymore.”

Your voice trembles as the floodgates open, the words spilling out faster than you can stop them. “And the guilt… it’s eating me alive. Every time I’d see Cassian, it was like I was drowning in it. When we went to sleep at night, when he’d kiss me, when we cooked dinner, when he’d tell me he loves me and I said it back with a straight face, knowing what I’ve done… I keep asking myself why I did it, why I kept doing it, but I don’t have an answer. I don’t even know if I’m looking for one or if I’m just trying to justify something that can’t be justified.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the weight of it all is too much. “I thought I could handle it, that I could keep everything separate, but it’s all tangled up now. I’m tangled up. And I don’t know how to fix it, or if I even can.” You pause, swallowing hard as you try to gather your thoughts. Focusing on how methodically he rolls the joint is the only way you can keep from crying. “The past couple of weeks have been a nightmare,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “Every day feels like I’m just… going through the motions. I wake up, and for a split second, everything’s fine. But then it all comes crashing back, and I remember what I’ve done. It’s like this constant weight on my chest, and I can’t breathe.”

There’s a heavy silence as you finish, the room feeling almost too quiet. You glance at Eris, the exhaustion in your eyes reflecting your need for a break from the emotional turmoil. “I can’t keep talking about this right now,” you say, your voice wavering slightly. “I just need to… I don’t know.”

Eris nods, a knowing look in his eyes. “Yeah, I got you,” He stands up, moving with a relaxed confidence, and heads towards the kitchen. You watch him, feeling a small flicker of relief at the prospect of a distraction. He returns with two glasses of ice, setting them down on the coffee table before lighting the joint and pointing towards your bag for the rum. When you reach to pour the drinks, he gently takes the bottle from you, pouring them himself.

You take the glass when he offers it, the alcohol warming your insides and helping to dull the sharp edges of your thoughts. Eris hands you the joint, a small, encouraging smile on his lips. “Here’s to a temporary escape,” he says, his tone lighter now.

You take a slow drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs and the effects of the alcohol and weed start to mingle in your system. The combination is soothing, and you feel the tension begin to ease. As the minutes pass, you can feel the fog of intoxication settling in, and your thoughts become less jagged.

A while later, the room is darker now, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp on the side table. The drinks are empty and the bottle of rum you brought stands proudly, and emptily, in the center of the table. The joint is long finished, and the conversation has shifted from heavy to light. You and Eris are more relaxed on the couch, and the air is filled with more classic rock, the remnants of laughter, and the gentle hum of your voices.

You lean back, feeling pleasantly buzzed, the haze of the alcohol and weed wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth. Eris is sitting right next to you, his leg pressed against yours, his hand resting casually on the cushion next to you. The shared warmth and comfortable silence between you feel natural.

“You know,” you say, your voice slightly slurred but lighthearted, “I didn’t think I’d find myself here tonight, like this. But... I’m glad I did.”

Eris glances over at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Sometimes the unexpected turns out to be the best part of the night.”

You chuckle softly, the sound mingling with the music playing in the background. “Yeah, it’s funny how things work out. I definitely needed this more than I realized.”

He nods, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “It’s good to let go now and then. Just don’t forget there’s still shit to unpack when you’re ready.”

You let out a deep sigh, your gaze drifting around the dimly lit room. There’s a moment of hesitation as the weight of your earlier conversation looms on the edge of your thoughts. The alcohol and weed have softened the edges, but the heaviness is still there.

Eris shifts slightly, his hand moving a bit closer in the process. Whether it was intentional or not, you don’t know. “You know,” he says gently, “it’s not every day you find someone willing to listen without judgment. You should take advantage of that.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the pressure build behind your eyes. “Cassian… he’s been nothing but loving, nothing but kind to me. And it kills me, Eris. It kills me to look at him and know that I’ve betrayed him in the worst possible way. Multiple times.” You feel the lump in your throat as you continue, the warmth of the alcohol making it easier to let your words flow. “I keep trying to think of ways to fix it, to find some sort of answer or way to redeem myself. But...” Your eyes search the dim room as if trying to find some clarity in the shadows.

“I keep going over every moment, every decision, wondering where things went so fucking wrong. It’s like replaying a movie where I know the ending is tragic, but I can’t look away. I did this shit to myself…

“The hardest part is that he saw everything. He didn’t even need me to confess; he saw it with his own eyes. And everytime I replay that night, I think about how coldly he looked at me. He’s never looked at me like that before. Not that I don’t deserve it.” You glance at Eris, the weight of your emotions clear in your eyes. “I’m trapped in this cycle of guilt and regret, and it’s suffocating. I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore—whether it’s forgiveness, understanding, or just a way to get rid of all this guilt. The thought of facing Cass again… God, I can’t…”

Eris’s eyes narrow slightly as he takes it all in, draping an arm across the back of the couch. You aren’t quite close enough for it to wrap around you.

You mentally chastise yourself for wishing you were. Thinking like that is what got you into this mess.

His voice is low but steady when he speaks. “You’re human. You made choices. Bad ones, sure, but it doesn’t make you a monster.” He pauses, his gaze intense. “It’s easy to get lost in guilt. But you’re not doing anyone any favors by going MIA. Especially not Cassian.”

You scoff. “Cass doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“How are you so sure?” he asks, his fingers drumming lightly against the couch, the rhythm steady and patient, unlike the chaos unleashed in your mind by the simple question.

The Facetime with Nesta shoves itself to the forefront of your mind as if your subconscious has been holding it back all this time. You’d heard Elain’s voice in the background, imagined her laughter mingling with Cassian’s, imagined him sharing her breath, his tongue deep in—

The thought hit you like a sucker punch, just as the air had been knocked out of your lungs the moment you’d put the pieces together.

“I’m pretty sure Cassian is fucking Elain,” you blurt out, your voice shaking with the weight of the confession.

Eris’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “Why do you think that?” he asks calmly, though there’s a new edge to his voice.

You swallow hard, the memory still raw. “When I was on a call with Nesta, I heard Elain in the background. She was trying to listen in on me ranting about this all to Nesta… She didn’t even say hi to me, didn’t let me know she was there. Why would she do that unless she was hiding something?”

Eris raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical but curious. “You might be reading too much into this,” he says, but the sharpness of your gaze makes him backtrack quickly. “Alright, alright, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… how are you so sure they’re involved?”

You exhale sharply, frustration evident. “Cassian is incredibly vindictive in bed,” you say, thinking back to all the times he’d gone hard on you just for catching you making eyes at one of the guys. “I’ve been through his friends, I’d be more shocked if he didn’t try to go through mine.”

Eris’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Most of his friends.” He doesn’t elaborate but the implication is clear. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it’s not always best to assume the worst.”

A fleeting thought crosses your mind. Eris is right. You and he never crossed that line, despite the heated moments over the years, despite the events the night of Ianthe’s party. If Cassian is dropping you off on your mom’s doorstep just to go after your friends, maybe it’s time for you to stop moping around and start embracing some fun yourself. Why should you sit at home and stew when he’s out there doing who knows what? Who knows who? For all you knew, Nesta had fucked him too. And, honestly, Eris doesn’t look half bad in that black, fitted t-shirt and tailored jeans, the thin silver chain around his neck glinting in the low light. There’s a roguish charm about him, just as there’s always been. It’s something that makes him undeniably tempting.

You look down at your lap with a sigh, a feigned sadness in your eyes, and a playful pout on your lips. “Well, if Cassian’s going to do whatever he wants, maybe I should too.” You look up, letting your gaze linger on him, lowering to his lips before meeting his eyes again.

Eris’s eyes flicker with surprise, but he maintains his cool as he raises a brow. “Is this where we’re headed now? I thought we were in the middle of something a bit more serious.”

You scoot closer to him, close enough for the hand on the back of the couch to rest on your shoulder if he wanted it to. “Maybe I’m tired of pitying myself. Or maybe I’m feeling adventurous.” A glint of mischief sparkles in your eyes before you slip back into your act.

Eris chuckles, a faint smile curling his lips. “A distraction, huh? You know that won’t fix anything.”

You shrug, maintaining your demeanor. “Who says it has to be about fixing anything? Sometimes a little distraction is just what you need,” you level. Tired of the theatrics, you scoot even closer and grab that god-forsaken hand, placing it gently on the back of your neck.

Eris’s fingers linger there, his expression shifting from playful to intrigued before he traces soft patterns on your skin. “Is that right? And here I thought you were just looking for a friendly ear.”

You lean closer, your voice dropping to a softer, more flirtatious tone. “You mean to tell me you didn’t have any other intentions? Not a single fleeting thought?”

Eris’s gaze drops to your lips, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. “So, what are you suggesting? Are we breaking some rules tonight?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, something like that. A night of enjoyment. No strings attached, just...”

Your words trail off as you close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a slow, heated kiss. His hand grips the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. It starts slow, almost exploratory, but quickly deepens as you both lose yourselves in the moment. The taste of liquor lingers on his tongue, a heady mix of rum and something uniquely Eris. You savor it, letting the alcohol-infused warmth of the kiss sweep over you. Your lips move against his with increasing urgency, and you gently tug at his lower lip, pulling him closer.

Eris’s hand tightens around the back of your neck, his fingers sliding into your hair as he angles his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue meets yours with a bold, almost possessive stroke, and you pull back just slightly, your breath mingling with his. Your eyes lock, the heat still palpable between you. “I like the taste of you,” you murmur, a playful glint in your eyes.

He exhales, a low, throaty sound that’s part groan, part sigh, as if you’re unraveling him with every word, every touch. It’s the kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, making you feel like you’ve got him right where you want him. His eyes darken with desire and amusement before he leans back in to capture your lips again. This time, the kiss is more intense, a dance of passion and need. His hands roam to your waist, pulling you even closer. The world outside seems to fade away as you both lose yourselves in each other.

Eris’s lips trail down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You arch into him, the sensation of his touch making you shiver. You let out a soft moan as he kisses a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your pulse race. You’re left feeling lightheaded from the drinks and the smoke, and every touch, every caress feels electrifying. His hands slide up to your back, pulling you tighter against him, if possible.

His lips return to yours, and this time, the kiss is unrestrained, filled with a raw, urgent need. You can feel the strength in his arms, the way he holds you close, as if afraid that letting go might make this moment slip away. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze smoldering. There’s a breathless pause, the intensity of the moment hanging between you. “You said you were feeling adventurous,” he says, and you shrug. “How adventurous?” His voice is low and his words are laced with an intensity that wasn’t there before.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound almost breathless from the heated kiss. “You’re not planning on taking me out back and murdering me, are you?” you joke, looking out the large windows at the sea of tree silhouettes around you.

Eris’s lips curl into a half-smile. “Well, I hadn’t thought of it, but now that you mention it…”

You nudge him playfully, your smile widening.

Eris’s expression turns serious again, though the amusement in his eyes doesn’t fade. “I promise, nothing like that. But I do have something in mind that might be a bit… beyond what you’re used to.”

You look into his eyes, feeling a mix of anticipation and excitement. “I sincerely doubt that,” you say, your voice steady. You’ve had more than your fair share of sexual escapades, indulging in all kinds of experiences in past relationships. And with Cassian, the bedroom was never without a spark—rarely did things stay simple.

Eris’s eyes brighten with satisfaction. “Good to hear.”

He stands and grabs another joint he’d rolled earlier, offering you a hand to help you up. You take it with a playful smile and follow him.

The music fades as you follow Eris down a short flight of steps. The hallway is lined with eclectic art and framed photos. One with Eris surrounded by a bunch of dogs, a grin on his face that’s more genuine than you’ve ever seen. Another with the Vipers, his arm slung casually around Azriel, all of their faces flushed with victory. You have to talk yourself out of paying too much attention to Cassian in that one. There’s even one of him with who you assume is his family, standing in front of a cabin, all smiles and warmth. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, and it makes you see him in a different light—one that’s more personal, more real.

At the end of the hall, a large bookshelf stands against the wall. Eris pauses, throwing you a sly glance before reaching for one of the books. He pulls it, then pushes the bookshelf open, revealing a short set of steps leading down into a hidden space below. How cliché.

“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to step inside.

You look at him with creased eyebrows, to which he only gestures his arm in again. You find a lounge, set slightly lower than the rest of the house, with five or so steps leading down into it. The room is richly decorated, with dark wood paneling, plush seating, and warm, ambient lighting that adds to the intimate, secluded atmosphere.

Eris follows you inside, closing the bookshelf door behind him. The room is completely private, a hidden sanctuary within his home. He steps closer, holding the joint he rolled earlier between his fingers. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of quiet pride.

You take a moment to absorb the space, your eyes drifting over the rich details—the king-size bed on the far wall, the soft glow of the lighting, the floor-to-ceiling mirror on one wall, the smooth texture of the dark wood, the way the room seems to envelop you in warmth. It's intimate without being suffocating, luxurious without feeling ostentatious. You notice cabinets discreetly integrated into the walls, their contents hidden behind polished doors. A smirk tugs at your lips as you turn to face him. “I can honestly say I wouldn’t have expected this from you, Eris. A sex dungeon? Really?”

Eris arches a brow, looking mildly offended. “Dungeon? That’s what you’d call it?”

You raise an eyebrow in response, your teasing tone unwavering as you gesture around the room. “Isn’t that what it is? Hidden room, dark wood, all the ambiance… seems like a dungeon to me.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Dungeons are cold and grimey. This is a private lounge, a sanctuary, carefully curated for… specific tastes.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing softly in the room. “A curated sanctuary, huh? You really do have a way with words.”

Eris’s lips curve into a smirk as he reaches for your hand. “Words, among other things.”

He lets the words hang in the air, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. You arch an eyebrow, leaning in slightly as if challenging him. “Among other things?” you echo, your tone playful. “Care to elaborate?

He steps closer, his gaze steady and full of intent. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he replies, his voice smooth as silk. “But first, I need to know how far you’re willing to go.”

Your heart skips a beat, not out of fear but from the thrill of the unknown. You’re no stranger to pushing boundaries, and something about Eris’s confident, almost predatory demeanor only heightens your anticipation.

Instead of answering directly, you take a step closer, closing the remaining distance between you. “You really think this kind of thing is—What was it you said? ‘Beyond what I’m used to’, was it?” you tease, your lips curving into a smirk.

Eris’s smile widens, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “Alright, alright,” he murmurs before he pulls you in by the small of your back for another heated kiss, and he speaks against your lips. “You have full say in how this goes, I don’t want to go any further than you’re okay with.”

You pull him off by the hair on the nape of his neck, and the muted hiss that escapes him shoots straight to your core. “Oh, well if I’ve got full say,” you say, sarcasm lacing your words. “Give me whatever you think I can take, and then some.” You give him a dazzling smile, but he can only look at you in wonder.

His hands find your waist, giving the flesh there a tight, possessive squeeze. He leans forward, bringing his lips to your ear. “C’mon, pretty girl, strip for me.” His voice is low, almost coaxing, with a soft yet commanding tone that makes your skin tingle.

Though you’re surprised at his suddenness, you don’t hesitate. As you begin to strip away your clothes, Eris steps away, moving toward a large set of deep drawers. He looks back at you as he goes, drinking in your every movement as you peel off each item of clothing. First you shed your shirt, then the shorts, followed by your socks, underwear, and even the scrunchie on your wrist. The air thickens with anticipation as you wait, rather impatiently, to see what he’s looking for.

“Y’know, most guys wouldn’t have their back turned to the beautiful, naked woman in their basement,” you muse, examining your nails as you stand perfectly tall.

“First, it’s not a basement.” He turns to you, black rope in hand, his smirk tinged with an emotion you can’t quite place. “But you’re right, baby. I’m sorry. How about I make it up to you?”

You have to suppress a shiver at his words, or maybe it’s because of the cool air on your bare skin. He takes you in like it’s his first time seeing you, like he didn’t have you practically grinding against the heel of his hand two weeks ago. You’re not sure if it’s the substances in your system or the prospect of doing whatever he can imagine to you, but he feels different today than he had then.

Eris reaches into one of the drawers and pulls out a small, sleek controller. With a quick press of a button, a rig begins to descend from the ceiling, the soft hum of the motor filling the room. He keeps his eyes on you, holding the controller loosely in one hand as the rig stops at around eye level.

His tone is almost casual as he walks back towards you with the rope, the controller goes into his pocket. “Ever use one of these before?” You can only shake your head in response as you walk around the metal hook, thinking for the first time that you may be in over your head. “Good. Go ahead and kneel there for me.”

Eris moves behind you as you kneel, working the rope through the rig and instructing you to place your hands behind your back. The rope isn’t as rough against your skin as you anticipated. His hands work with practiced ease, securing your wrists together. He steps back, watching you with a satisfied expression. Then, with deliberate slowness, he begins to raise the rig, the rope tugging your wrists upward. The position forces you to stand as it continues to rise, his eyes narrowing as you do.

Once you’re in position, bent forward with your arms forced behind you, Eris steps closer again, his fingers tracing the line of your spine. “You look so good like this,” he murmurs against your ear. His fingers skim up your arm, lingering at the nape of your neck. His touch is almost tender, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “Is it okay if I–”

“Do whatever you want,” you interrupt, your voice steady even as your heart races. “If I don’t like it, I’ll let you know. Just do something, please…” You needed a distraction from your thoughts, and the newness of this all was sobering you up.

A slow, approving smile spreads across his lips as he nods. Without another word, he goes to a cabinet, selecting a few items with deliberate care. When he returns, the scent of him envelops you as he carefully ties a blindfold around your head, plunging you into darkness.

You hear the soft rustle of fabric and the click of something plastic. Before you can dwell on it, the world goes silent as something is placed over your ears. The shift is sudden, disorienting. The subtle hum of the room, even the sound of your own breathing, everything fades away, leaving you in an almost eerie stillness.

The rope tugs uncomfortably, but not painfully, at your wrists, the tension in your arms pulling you taut. Your heart pounds, each beat echoing in your chest, reminding you of the vulnerability you’re allowing yourself. Then you feel it—a gentle tap on your jaw, followed by his thumb brushing against your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. You take the hint, opening your mouth for him. The next thing you feel is cool metal pressing against your lip as he slides a ring gag into place.

“If you need to stop,” he says after raising an ear of the sound-canceling headphones, “shake your head and I’ll check on you. Nod if you understand.”

Just as you do, the pad is back over your ear.

You feel the air shift as he moves around you. Deprived of your sight and sound, your body becomes hypersensitive to every touch, every brush of fabric, every subtle shift in temperature. The tension in the air is palpable, your anticipation growing with each passing second.

A light touch trails down your spine, causing you to shiver involuntarily. The sensation is followed by the warmth of his hand as it settles on your hip, steadying you. You can barely hear your own breath, the sound muffled and distant, heightening the sense of isolation. Then, a gentle tap against your inner thigh. You instinctively spread your legs, the vulnerability of the action sending a rush of heat through your body as his touch lingers, waiting.

Then, without warning, a sharp sting lands across your ass. Your body jerks in response, the sting quickly dissolving into a low, throbbing heat. The unexpected strike pulls a soft whimper from your gagged mouth, but before you can even process it, another comes, and then another, each one precise and measured.

The blows alternate with the soft caress of his hand, the contrast between pleasure and pain pushing you deeper into the headspace he’s crafting for you. The strikes aren’t overwhelming, but each one is enough to remind you of the power he holds in this moment, the control you’ve willingly surrendered.

You lose track of time, each sharp strike followed by soothing touches, the rhythm lulling you into a dazed, almost meditative state. The gag keeps your mouth open, forcing you to focus on the steady rhythm of your breathing, each inhale and exhale carrying a mix of adrenaline and endorphins. The warmth of saliva trickles from the corners of your mouth. The rhythmic stinging across your ass slowly transforms into a heated, throbbing warmth that radiates through your body. Each strike, followed by the soft caress of his hand, leaves you in a heightened state of arousal and anticipation, melding into pain and pleasure that lull you deeper into the experience.

Suddenly, the warmth of his touch disappears, and you’re left in disorienting solitude. The absence of his presence makes you acutely aware of the emptiness left behind, amplifying your anticipation. Without warning, you feel something cool against your inner thigh, followed by the unmistakable sensation of a vibrator pressed against your dripping cunt. It’s startling, and though you can’t hear it, you moan, loud and needy.

His hand is on your hip, steadying you as the vibrations increase in intensity. The buzzing becomes loud and clear as he gently pulls the headphones off, and you hear them thud as they fall somewhere. The sudden reintroduction to sound is jarring as the room’s noises flood back in—the loud hum of the vibrator, the sounds you hadn’t realized you were making, the now husky tone in his voice. Each sound is more vivid than before.

Eris’s voice breaks through this new sensory flood, warm and approving. “You’re doing so well for me, baby,” he murmurs, his tone a soothing balm. After being spanked, then paddled for God knows how long, between his calm, reassuring voice and the relentless vibrations against your cunt, you aren’t sure how long you’ll last.

His fingers replace the vibrator, brushing lightly against your clit. He teases your folds, just enough to drive you wild with need. You squirm against the rope, desperate for more contact, for release.

“You want more, don’t you?” Eris’s voice is low, almost a purr as he leans closer. His breath is warm against your ear. “Tell me what you need.”

He rubs slow circles against you, his fingers like fire against your skin. You try to articulate what you need, but the gag muffles your words into incoherent sounds. The frustration of being so close and unable to finish draws an exasperated groan from you, and he responds with a deep, dark chuckle. Eris’s touch withdraws entirely, leaving you in aching anticipation. The sudden absence of his touch is maddening, your body craving the completion he’s denying you. You can’t see him, but you can feel the warmth of his presence lingering near.

Minutes pass, or maybe just seconds—time has lost all meaning in this swirling haze of sensations. Without warning, you feel the sharp sting of a flogger grazing your inner thighs, just enough to remind you of his control. The flogger’s strikes alternate between gentle taps and more forceful hits, never quite enough to satisfy your growing desperation, but enough to keep you on edge. Each touch pulls you further into the comforting fog he’s woven, and your whimpers morph into sharp yelps of pain, each one more urgent than the last.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, his voice laced with mock sympathy. “Does it hurt, baby?” His tone is tender, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it that promises much more pain.

You groan, the sound a mix of frustration and need, but Eris’s expression hardens. The flogger lands on your skin again, a sharp crack that reverberates through your body. He grips the hair at the nape of your neck tightly, yanking you closer until your breath mingles with his. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that’s both terrifying and intoxicating. His lips hover near your ear, his breath raising goosebumps on your skin.

“Do you have something to say?” he asks, his tone noticeably darker and more dangerous. There’s a tense, almost impatient edge to it, a sign that stepping out of line is not an option. “A complaint? Are you ungrateful for what I’m giving you?”

The flogger’s strikes become more deliberate, more vicious. Each one lands with a stinging, biting pain that blossoms across your skin, the sensations mingling with the ache of your muscles straining to hold the position he’s put you in. He’s toying with you, savoring your helplessness, the way your body trembles and arches under his control, the way your breath hitches in anticipation of each new strike.

“Who’s in charge?” he whispers in a slow, deep voice, every word dripping with malice. You try to answer, but the gag in your mouth turns your response into a pathetic, muffled sound. Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration, tears of helplessness welling up and quickly absorbed by the blindfold. You can’t form the words, can’t tell him what he wants to hear, and that only makes it worse.

He clicks his tongue, a sound of feigned disappointment, and tugs your hair again, forcing your head back. “Ah, couldn’t quite catch that,” he sneers, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

You whimper, the sound a pitiful mix of plea and frustration, and he chuckles, a dark, cruel sound that sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly. He’s enjoying this — enjoying how easily you bend to his will, how every strike of the flogger makes you jerk forward with a cry. He wants to see it all, the way you crumble under his touch, the way you surrender every last shred of control and hand your worries away to him.

“I control how this goes,” he growls. “You said you’d be good for me, baby. Did you lie? Do I need to stop treating you like a good girl? Because I can do that if that’s what you want.” The flogger strikes down in the middle of your back with a crack that feels like it splits you open, and you cry out, the sound desperate. Your body lurches forward, but Eris’s hand is still in your hair, holding you in place, forcing you to stay still, to take every single lash he’s giving you.

“Look at you,” he hisses, his voice dripping with condescension. “So fucking needy. You love this, don’t you? Being my little toy, something I can break however I feel like.”

The words cut deep, the filth of them sending shockwaves through you. You hate how true they feel, how much you crave the pain, the degradation he’s giving you. The flogger strikes again, harder this time, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. But you don’t fall. He won’t let you.

“Oh, you like when I treat you like this. You like this a lot better than before, I can tell. You’re just a fucking hole, aren’t you?” he continues. “A pretty little slut who’ll do anything to please me. Do you even have any shame left, or do you need me to fuck some sense into you?” The flogger descends again, and again, each strike punctuating his filthy words. “I’m going to break you, baby. Turn you into the perfect little slut who’ll take everything I give and then beg for more. And you’ll love it, won’t you? You’ll love being nothing but my whore, thinking about nothing except wanting my cock.”

Each word, each degrading, filthy word, sinks into your mind, pushing you further into the haze of submission. The pain of the flogger, the sting of his words, they’re all you can think about. Your world narrows to just him — his voice, his hands, the way he’s tearing you apart and building you back up, molding you into what he wants, what you need.

He pauses, the flogger still resting against your skin, the rough leather a reminder of what’s coming next. He drags it slowly down your back, letting it scrape over the welts he’s already raised. The sensation is entirely new, a subtle pleasure and pain that leaves you trembling.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his tone a bit gentler now, but still laced with that underlying cruelty. The change gives you whiplash. “I can see it. You want to be good for me, don’t you? You want to show me just how perfect you can be.”

The flogger strikes again, and you gasp, the sound a desperate cry. But this time, he doesn’t stop. He strikes again, and again, the rhythm relentless. Each lash pulls you further from the chaos of your thoughts, dragging you into a dark, twisted place where nothing exists but him. The pain and pleasure blend together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“You’re going to remember this, baby,” he promises. “You’re going to remember how it feels to be mine, to be owned. And you’re going to beg me for it again, aren’t you? You’re going to come crawling back desperate for me to use you, to turn that pretty little mind off and break you all over again.”

He’s right. You can feel it, deep in your bones, in the way your body responds to him, in the way your mind clings to every word he says.

Eris’s eyes never leave your face, his gaze predatory as he watches you fall apart for him, unraveling under the weight of his dominance. You’re exactly where he wants you — lost in the moment, completely detached from anything and everything happening outside these walls. As the flogger comes down one last time, sending a final, searing wave of pain through your body, you know that this is exactly where you need to be tonight.

Finally, when you’re trembling, he lowers the flogger and returns to your clit, the light, teasing touch of his fingers reigniting the fire within you. “You feel that, baby?” he whispers, his tone teasing. “Feel how wet you are for me? You like when I hit you, don’t you?” He drags two fingers up your center, gathering your slickness on them before bringing them up to your open mouth. “How badly do you want to come?”

You nod, desperate to show him how much you need this, but he’s not finished with you yet. “Tongue out,” he purrs, his voice a low, silky command that sends a shiver through your already trembling body. Without a moment’s hesitation, you obey, sticking your tongue through the cold metal of the ring gag. A string of saliva spills out at the motion, glistening in the low light, and you hear a soft, satisfied exhale from him.

Eris drags his fingers down your tongue, cleans them off inside your mouth, pressing them against your tongue. “Can you taste how badly you want it?” His voice is a dark, teasing caress, each word wrapping around your mind, sinking deeper into that place where only his voice and touch matter.

You can’t respond, not even attempt to, but the question is rhetorical anyway. He doesn’t need an answer; he knows. He withdraws his fingers, leaving your mouth empty, yearning for more. The loss makes you whimper, as does the ache in your jaw — a pitiful sound that he savors as he continues, his tone a mix of mockery and care.

“You can taste how good I’m making you feel, how much you love it when I hurt you. You want to taste something better, baby?”

Before you can process what he means, you hear the familiar flick of a lighter, the soft his as the flame catches. Your heart thumps in anticipation. A moment later, the smell of weed fills the air, earthy and heady.

Eris takes a slow, deep drag from the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before he leans in close. His lips brush against the edge of the gag as he exhales, blowing the smoke directly into your mouth. It’s so unexpected, so sudden, that you choke, your body convulsing slightly as you try to inhale and cough at the same time.

The thick, pungent smoke fills your lungs, burning them and reigniting your high. You can feel him watching you intently, relishing the way your body reacts.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle. “I want to see how much you can take.”

Your chest heaves as you fight to draw in air through the second cloud of smoke he blows your way. He chuckles, and with an almost casual motion, he reaches up and unfastens the gag, pulling it away from your mouth. The relief is immediate, but it’s laced with the residue of his control, the taste of smoke lingering on your tongue.

“There we go,” he coos, running his thumb over your wet, trembling lips. “Such a good fucking girl, taking what I give you. But we’re not done yet, are we? No, you’re going to give me more, right?”

His thumb presses against your lower lip, parting your mouth slightly, and you instinctively suck on it, the action almost automatic. Your body responds to him without thought, driven purely by the need to please, to submit, to give him everything.

When he finally, finally begins to untie you, his hands are gentle but firm, his touch careful as he releases the ropes one by one. The sensation of freedom is almost overwhelming after being bound for so long. But before you can fully process it, his hands are on you — supporting you and guiding your arms back down slowly and carefully. He pulls the blindfold from your eyes, and you try to readjust to the lighting.

He’s taking another pull, holding the joint between his lips as he takes you in. But that isn’t what stops you in your tracks. At some point during your immobility, he’d rid himself of his shirt, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from taking him in. His hair is tied back into a bun, strands having fallen loose around his face, and his chest is covered in a glistening layer of sweat. Images of Eris spanking you, walking around you and assessing where to land the next blow, of the muscles in his arms flexing as he strikes. The hungry look in his eyes and the tightness of his jeans as he watches you writhe under his touch.

“How do you feel, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. “Did I get you there? That nice little headspace where it’s just you and me?”

His voice is soft, but there’s an edge of satisfaction in it as if he already knows the answer. “Did it help?” he continues, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Did I get you out of that busy little head of yours?”

You nod, still dazed by the intensity of the experience. You’d felt blissful before, sure, but this was entirely different. This was unadulterated endorphins and adrenaline. He grins, the expression both proud and wicked. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering sensations.

But he doesn’t stop there. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Now, let’s see how long I can keep you floating, yeah? You’re not done yet.” Eris tosses the flogger in the general direction of the shelf it goes on, and guides you with a commanding yet gentle touch to a mat on the other side of the room, placed in front of full-length mirrors. The surface underfoot is soft and inviting, and he helps you kneel in the center, the plush cushioning molding to your knees. He moves behind you, his hands brushing along your arms until they rest on your shoulders, a comforting weight as he leans in close. He hands you the joint, inviting you to take a few hits before handing it back. The smoke in your mouth, in your lungs, it only boosts the floating feeling you have from the experience of this all.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety whisper that wraps around you like a warm embrace. “So beautiful, so ready. But I need you to understand something, sweetheart.” His hands slide down your arms until they reach your wrists, guiding them up to the back of your head. “I need you to be ready to trust me completely. How far I push you now is all about helping you relax, so you can completely lose yourself.”

He pauses, letting his words sink in, his breath warm against your ear. “This isn’t about making things difficult, not for either of us. It’s about you letting me guide you through this. I want you to be my good girl, to follow my lead and take everything I give you.”

His hands rest on your shoulders again, squeezing you lightly. “You’re going to do everything I ask, aren’t you? You’ll be obedient, you’ll let me push you, because you know I’m going to take care of you, don’t you?” His voice is soothing, like honey, and you can’t help but melt into it. “You’re going to give me all of you, every last bit, and in return, I’ll give you everything you need. Remember how you begged for this last time we were together? I want you to be that good girl for me again.”

As his words echo in your mind, you recall the last time you were with him, at Ianthe’s party. The memory is all too vivid — your desperate need, your willingness to surrender completely. You had been so open, so eager, voicing all your desires and pleas. The way you had let go of all inhibitions, the intensity of your submission, and the way your words had spilled out in a fervent, almost frenzied confession. The memory is as intoxicating now as it was then, all things considered.

His words are a gentle invitation, luring you in with a calm confidence that makes it impossible to say anything but yes. You feel hesitant as you consider the depth of your commitment. The tension in your chest tightens for a moment, but then you nod slowly, your voice soft. “Yes,” you murmur, the word barely a whisper but laden with an unspoken promise to embrace whatever he asks of you.

Eris’s fingers brush lightly over your hands, guiding you to interlace your fingers. He steps back to observe you, his eyes raking over your form, taking in every detail. The floor beneath you is hard, unforgiving, but his presence—his authority—keeps you grounded. The anticipation builds as he circles you slowly, like a predator assessing his prey.

“Knees wider," he orders, his voice still soft but with a firm undertone that brooks no disobedience. You adjust, spreading them further apart, feeling the strain as your muscles stretch. You watch him through the mirror, watch how he gives a satisfied smirk as you obey. You finally see how blissed out you look. A dewy sheen of sweat covers your body, your chest rises and falls deliciously with each breath, and your skin is red where you remember him flogging you. You couldn’t imagine what your ass and thighs looked like; red as fire, you imagined, if the lingering, stinging pain was anything to go by.

“Arch your back for me.” His hand is at the small of your back, applying gentle pressure until you curve just the way he wants. The uncomfortable position has you on edge, completely exposed, and yet there’s a strange comfort in the way he controls you, in how thoroughly he’s taking over your body and mind.

Eris takes his time, relishing the sight. “Look at you, already so perfect for me,” he purrs, his hand trailing down your spine in a slow caress that sends shivers through you. “You’re going to stay just like this, sweet girl, you hear me?”

You nod as he runs a hand over your head in a soft caress, trails that hand down your spine. Then, without warning, his touch sharpens—a sudden, firm grip on your hips, followed by the sting of his hand against your ass. The first slap is light, almost playful, but it quickly escalates. The next one lands harder, and he pauses to run his hand over the reddened skin, soothing it briefly before delivering another, even harder.

"Does it hurt, baby?" he teases, his voice a low murmur in your ear. "Or does it just make you want more?" He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he continues, alternating between sharp spanks and gentle caresses, pushing you to embrace the pain, to find pleasure in the way he’s handling you.

"You’re so good for me," he continues, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Taking everything I give you. I bet you love it, don’t you? The way I’m making you feel?" He chuckles a bit at your lack of response. “You can speak now, sweetheart, I took the gag off for a reason.”

You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath. “Hurts…” you manage to whimper, your muscles shaking. “Hurts really good. I want more.” He spanks you again. Hard.

“Is that how good girls get what they want?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed and you recover from the sting of pain.

“No, I’m sorry,” you rush out, wincing from the pain of the spank, the soreness in your legs and arms. It’s too much. “Please, will you give me more?”

He takes one last, long drag from the joint, finishing it off and throwing the roach towards a bin. He drags his fingers down your back again, only to grip your hips and pull you further back, adjusting your position until you’re even more exposed, your knees straining to hold you up. The discomfort is intense, but the way he’s pushing you has you on the brink of something deeper, something more primal.

Finally, he moves in front of you, his eyes dark with intent. He cups your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. "If you want more you’ll have to work for it, baby.” You nod eagerly and he smiles endearingly. “You’re going to show me just how badly you want me," he says, his voice a mix of tender command and raw desire. "And you’re going to do it the way I like."

He steps closer, guiding your face until your lips hover just in front of the zipper of his jeans. "Open that mouth wide for me," he coaxes, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip before pressing it down. "That’s it. Nice and wide."

You obey without hesitation, the need to please him overwhelming everything else. He pulls you into him, his hand resting over your interlaced ones, rubbing your face and mouth into the denim. You feel pride at the way his cock grows stiffer without having taken him into your mouth. You can only imagine how good it must feel to get fucked by that cock, to have it slam into you from below when you ride him, to take it so deep down your throat you can’t even taste his release. A low ‘Now, look at that’ pulls you out of your thoughts, and you look up to see his arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t even have to ask you to keep going,” he says, his voice laced with arrogance. Your ears turn red with embarrassment when you realize you’ve been practically nuzzling your face against his cock, but oddly, there’s a twisted sense of contentment mingled with it.

He takes his time undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, mere centimeters from your still-open mouth. No one can make taking jeans off hot. No one except Eris, apparently. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, but not too much—just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him. His cock is hard and throbbing, a rich, warm shade of pink with a slight flush at the tip. The girth is impressive, making your mouth water with anticipation. It stands proudly, the pre-cum at the tip glistening slightly under the dim light. You lean in, ready to take him into your mouth. The heat and tension in the air are palpable, and you’re just about to close your lips around him when he gently but firmly grips your hair.

"Not yet,” he murmurs, a playful edge in his voice. “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you? I haven’t given you permission yet.”

You pause, your lips hovering inches away from him. Your eyes flick up to meet his, a mixture of frustration and amusement dancing in your gaze. “You’re cruel, you know that?” You drop your arms, the strain of holding them there finally too much. He notices the shift, but to your relief, he doesn’t say anything, letting it slide.

Eris smirks. “Cruel? I prefer to think of it as… thorough. You wouldn’t want me to rush, would you? A little patience never hurt anyone.”

Your eyes narrow playfully. “Patience, huh? I expect a good reward afterward.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grip on your hair loosening slightly. “Is that so? And what kind of reward are you hoping for, baby?”

“Something a little more satisfying than just this,” you say with a teasing smirk, your wit finally returning after being silenced for so long. “I’m thinking you could make all this worth my while.”

Eris chuckles softly, looking down and relishing the view of his cock hovering over your face. “I will, without a doubt. But you need to be patient,” he repeats. His eyes linger on you as he shifts, rubbing his cock slowly against your cheeks and lips. The touch of his skin is warm and firm, and each movement is calculated, gliding with a teasing pressure. The pre-cum at the tip leaves a subtle, slick trail that only adds to your arousal.

You feel the ridges and veins of his cock brushing against your skin. His touch is firm but purposeful, making sure you feel every bit of his arousal. He takes pleasure in the way your lips part involuntarily, the way your breath hitches with each stroke. Eris’s breathing grows a bit heavier, his gaze intense as he watches your reactions, savoring the build-up and the control he exerts.

As he continues, he lightly traces his cock along your jawline and over your closed eyelids, creating a delicious blend of sensations. The warmth of him mingles with the coolness of the room, heightening the contrast between the two. He pauses occasionally, teasingly pressing his cock against your lips or rubbing it against your forehead, only to shift and start again.

Your need intensifies with each passing moment, the teasing just shy of maddening. You try to keep your composure, but the craving to have him in your mouth is overwhelming. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you whisper, “Please… let me.”

Eris’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk, clearly pleased with your plea. “Now that’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs, his grip tightening slightly in your hair as he guides you closer. “Go on, baby.”

With a soft breath, you lean in, finally closing the small distance between you and him. The moment your lips wrap around the head of his cock, a soft groan escapes him, and it sends a thrill through your body.

Slowly, you take him deeper, your tongue gliding along his length, savoring the warmth and the weight of him. The slickness of his pre-cum makes it easier to slide him into your mouth, and you hollow your cheeks as you move. His fingers thread through your hair, guiding your rhythm, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely contained control he holds over himself.

You focus on the sounds he makes—the low, husky breaths, the occasional hitch in his voice when you find a particularly sensitive spot. Each reaction spurs you on, encouraging you to take him deeper, to push the limits of your own control. Eris’s voice, rougher now with desire, breaks through the haze of your focus. “That’s it, just like that,” he praises, his grip on your hair loosening slightly to let you set the pace.

His hips start to move in time with your motions, a slow, steady thrust that matches the rhythm you’ve established. You relax your throat, taking him in further, feeling the head of his cock brush against the back of your throat. The sensation is overwhelming, yet you revel in it, the sheer intimacy of this act, the way you’re entirely at his mercy, yet completely in control of the pleasure you’re giving him.

Eris’s breathing grows more ragged, the tension coiling tighter within him. He watches you, his gaze heavy-lidded with lust, his usual composure slipping just enough for you to see how much he’s holding back. The knowledge that you’re the one drawing out these reactions from him makes you bolder, urging you to take him deeper, to drive him closer to the edge.

But just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back slightly, halting your movements. “Not yet,” he breathes, voice strained but firm. “I’m not done with you.” His words are a promise, and though you’re aching to continue, you obey, releasing him with a mix of anticipation and frustration.

Eris's hand slides from your hair to your cheek, his touch gentle now. He leans down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a brief, almost tender kiss before he straightens up. Without a word, he helps you to your feet, his hands steady and reassuring as they guide you toward the bed.

He lowers you onto the soft sheets with care. The roughness from before has melted away, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. As you settle onto the bed, Eris kneels at the edge, his hands gliding over your thighs, spreading them slowly.

He looks up at you, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart stutter. But just as quickly as it appeared, it fades away. He’s silent as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips lingering there for a moment before he continues, trailing soft, slow kisses up your leg. Each touch is feather light, as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

When he reaches your core, he pauses, his warm breath ghosting over your most sensitive spot. The anticipation is almost too much to bear, and you feel a shiver of desire run through you. But instead of diving in, Eris takes his time, pressing a soft kiss just above your clit, then another, slightly lower. His lips are gentle, tender.

Finally, his mouth closes around you, and he begins to work with a slow, deliberate pace, his tongue moving in languid strokes that send waves of pleasure through you. There’s no rush, no urgency—just a steady, sweet rhythm that makes you feel cherished in a way that takes your breath away.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly as he brings you closer to his mouth, his tongue swirling in a way that’s both gentle and utterly consuming. Each movement is tender, every touch filled with a quiet, unspoken affection. He takes his time, coaxing soft moans from your lips with each delicate flick of his tongue, each gentle suckle.

The pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising within you, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge, not from overwhelming intensity, but from the sheer tenderness of it all. Eris’s name escapes your lips in a soft, breathy moan, and he hums in response, the vibrations sending a fresh wave of sensation coursing through you.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t rush you to the peak, but lets you linger in the sweet, tender pleasure for as long as possible. It’s only when your body begins to tremble, when you’re right on the brink, that he finally picks up the pace, his tongue moving with a little more pressure, a little more focus, guiding you gently toward the release you’ve been craving.

And when you do fall, it’s into the softest, most blissful release, the kind that leaves you feeling weightless and utterly at peace. Eris stays with you through it all, his mouth never leaving you until the last tremor of pleasure has faded, and then he pulls back, pressing one final, lingering kiss to your trembling thigh. When he does pull away, it’s with a soft, almost reluctant sigh. He moves up your body with the same tender care, his hands trailing lightly over your skin, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. When his eyes meet yours, there’s a softness there.

Eris doesn’t rush. He leans down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours in a way that’s more about comfort than urgency, more about reassurance than demand. His mouth moves slowly, languidly, tasting you as if he has all the time in the world.

Your hands find their way to his back, sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as your body arches instinctively toward his. There’s a quiet, almost reverent intensity in the way he touches you, his hands moving to cradle your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours.

He shifts slightly, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist as he settles between your thighs. You can feel the hard, insistent press of him against you, the heat of his skin melding with yours, and it sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft.

You nod, breathless, your eyes meeting his with a trust that’s unspoken but absolute.

Eris presses a soft kiss to your forehead before lining himself up with your entrance, and with one slow, deliberate thrust, he fills you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and comfort, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as he begins to move.

He sets a gentle pace, his hips rolling in slow, deep strokes that leave you gasping. There’s no rush, no frantic rhythm — just a steady, measured movement that builds a different kind of tension. Eris’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as he watches you, his gaze never leaving yours. Each thrust is accompanied by a whispered word of encouragement, a soft murmur of praise that only heightens the intimacy between you.

Your bodies move together in perfect harmony, each roll of his hips sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the softness of the sheets beneath you, the warmth of his body above you, and the gentle rhythm of your bodies coming together.

Eris leans down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his breath warm and ragged as he moves inside you. “You feel so good,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with a deep sense of awe. “So perfect.” His words send a shiver down your spine, the intensity of the moment wrapping around you both.

He shifts his angle slightly, his hips pressing deeper, and you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders. The new angle has him hitting just the right spot, each thrust making your toes curl with pleasure. “Eris…” you moan, the sound of his name on your lips seeming to spur him on.

“Right there?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand trails down to grip your hip, holding you in place as he drives into you with slow, deliberate thrusts. “I want to hear you, baby. Tell me how it feels.”

“It’s so good,” you gasp, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “You’re perfect, Eris, just like that.”

His pace increases slightly, still measured but with a growing urgency that matches the heat building between you. Each thrust is powerful, and precise, and sends waves of pleasure rippling through your entire body. You can feel the sweat starting to slick your skin, your breaths coming out in short, desperate gasps as he brings you closer to the edge with every movement.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice gentle yet firm, and when you do, you find his gaze locked on yours, his amber eyes dark with lust and something deeper, something that makes your heart stutter. “I want to see you when you come,” he adds, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek as his other hand slides between your bodies to find your clit.

The moment his fingers touch you, you’re lost. He circles your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that match the rhythm of his thrusts, his gaze never leaving yours, his lips curling into a knowing smile as he watches your reaction.

“Please…” The word slips from your lips before you can stop it, desperate for more, for everything he’s willing to give. Your hips lift to meet his thrusts, your body arching into his touch as the pressure builds inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until you feel like you’re about to snap.

“Please, what?” Eris’s voice is teasing, but there’s an edge of intensity there, a deep desire to hear you say it, to have you begging for him. “Tell me what you want, baby. I’ll give you anything.”

“Please, I want to come,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. “I need it, Eris, please.”

His eyes darken with satisfaction, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, teasing kiss as he picks up the pace, his fingers moving faster against your clit. “Then come for me,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you.”

That’s all it takes. The combination of his words, his touch, and the deep, steady thrusts of his cock send you spiraling over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, your back arching off the bed as you cry out his name, the pleasure so intense it’s almost too much to bear.

Eris doesn’t let up, driving you through the waves of your orgasm with steady, unrelenting thrusts, his fingers never leaving your clit until you’re trembling beneath him, completely spent. He watches you the entire time, his gaze heated and possessive, a soft groan escaping his lips as he feels you come undone around him.

As your orgasm begins to subside, he leans down, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss, his hips still moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and breathless. “So fucking perfect.”

You’re barely able to respond, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, but you manage to whisper his name, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continues to move inside you, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more urgent.

Eris doesn’t hesitate, sensing the way your body melts beneath him, still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm. With a smooth, practiced motion, he flips the two of you over, his hands guiding you to straddle his waist. Your limbs feel like jelly, weak and trembling, but he shushes you softly, his hands firm on your hips.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm as he brushes your hair away from your face. “Just lay on me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

He pulls you down gently, your chest pressed against his as your head rests on his shoulder. His hands slide up and down your back, grounding you, before they settle on your hips again, holding you steady. You barely have time to catch your breath before he starts moving, his hips thrusting upward with powerful, controlled strokes.

The sensation is overwhelming as he fills you completely, the force of his thrusts sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. You can feel every inch of him, the heat of his skin against yours, the strength of his body beneath you, and the way his cock drives up into you with unrelenting intensity.

“Eris…” you moan, your voice muffled against his neck as your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he takes control.

“Shh, just feel me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as he continues to thrust up into you, each stroke hitting deeper, harder. “Let me make you feel good.”

Your body responds instinctively, your hips moving in time with his as he drives into you over and over again. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your gasps and his low groans, the intensity of it all threatening to unravel you once again.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his pace relentless as he chases your pleasure. His hands roam your body, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, pressing your face against his neck, while the other grips your waist, pulling you down onto him with every thrust.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice rough with need. “So tight, so perfect. You’re gonna make me come, baby. Just like that.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your body clenching around him as you feel yourself spiraling toward another climax. The intensity of his thrusts, the way he holds you so close, the deep, reverent way he whispers your name — it’s all too much.

“Eris, I’m…” you start, but the words dissolve into a moan as he slams up into you with a particularly hard thrust, your vision going white as another orgasm crashes over you, more intense than the last.

“Oh, you giving me another one, sweetheart?” he growls as he feels you tighten around him. “Let me feel you.”

Your body convulses in his arms as you shatter, the pleasure ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. Eris’s grip on you tightens, his own release just seconds behind yours as he thrusts up into you one last time, pulling out as he comes with a low, guttural groan, his cum spilling over your ass in hot, erratic bursts.

He holds you there, both of you trembling, your bodies entwined as you come down from the high together. His hands are gentle now, soothing as they trace patterns on your skin, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

After the intensity of your release subsides, Eris’s touch becomes gentle and soothing. He cradles you in his arms, his fingers brushing tenderly over your back and sides as he presses soft kisses to your forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and filled with concern. “You did so well, you know that?”

You nod, your body still shivering slightly from the aftershocks, but a soft smile plays on your lips. “I’m okay,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath.

Eris gives you a reassuring smile, his hands moving soothingly up and down your back. “Good,” he murmurs, his tone tender. “I’m here. Just relax, let me take care of you.”

He carefully disentangles himself from you, his movements slow to avoid startling you. As he rises from the bed, he gently helps you shift so that you’re on your stomach, your hips slightly elevated. “Just a second,” he says softly.

Eris heads to a nearby cupboard, opening it to reveal a small, built-in towel warmer. He retrieves a warm, damp towel from inside, the comforting heat emanating from it as he brings it back to you.

He returns to the bed and carefully unfolds the towel, its warmth a welcome sensation. “I’m going to clean you up now, okay?” he asks gently but doesn’t wait for an answer as he begins to dab at your skin. The warmth of the towel is soothing, easing any lingering tension.

His hands are gentle as he tends to you. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all clean and comfortable.”

Once he’s finished, he places the damp towel aside and returns to your side, pulling the comforter over you both. He settles next to you, pulling you close and pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head. You snuggle into his embrace, feeling the warmth and safety of his presence. His arms are steady and reassuring around you, and his murmurs of affection make you feel cherished and adored.

You finally find your voice, looking up at him with a tired but content smile. “That was incredible. I didn’t expect to feel so…” So good? So much? So intimate?

Eris grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

You snuggle closer, your head resting against his chest. “I feel like I’m floating. In a good way.” You mentally kick yourself — of course, it was in a good way. Who says floating in a bad way?

Eris wraps his arms around you a little tighter. “You deserve to feel this good. Just know I’m always here for you, not just for things like this, for whatever. Whatever you need, (y/n).”

You sink deeper into Eris’s embrace, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. The comforting weight of his arms and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lull you into a state of serene contentment. The intensity of the earlier moments fades into a gentle afterglow.

As you relax, your thoughts begin to wander, drifting back to the complexities of your life outside this moment. Cassian's name surfaces in your mind, but it's quickly followed by the image of him with Elain. The idea of them together interrupts your peace. It should sting, but somehow, it doesn’t.

Instead, the memory of Cassian and Elain feels distant, almost abstract, overshadowed. You'll deal with it another time.

You shift slightly, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. The world outside, with its complications and unresolved emotions, feels like it’s receding. In this moment, the only thing that matters is the warmth between you, the sense of being cared for, and the gentle hum of satisfaction that lingers from your shared intimacy.

Eris’s soft breathing and the comforting pressure of his touch anchor you, and you let yourself drift in the quiet aftermath, content that you’ve found a moment of peace and connection that you can hold onto.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Taglist <3

@blessthepizzaman @celear @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @girl-math-aint-mathing @halo-hanging @julesvanslutta @lilah-asteria @meeperthejeeper @paleidiot @panther-girl-124 @secretlyhers @starlightazriel @scarsandallaz @uncxmfxrtablex @xxemmarldxx

[aquilapolariz]

the ocean's mercy (portgas d. ace x reader)

Summary: Ace encounters an ocean of memories and thoughts that seem to drown him. Someone needs to pull him out of the sea and help him navigate it.

Notes/Warnings: Minor spoilers for Ace's background and minor spoilers for Wano (all of them are literally just name drops), angst with comfort! Requested by anon

Word Count: 2.2k | Read below the cut or on Ao3 here!

The Moby Dick was filled with cheers and liquor as the crew watched Ace single-handedly take down a pirate crew. Pride swelled within you, joining in the shouts and claps of your pirate brothers and sisters. 

Ace landed back on the ship with a dramatic thud, hopping onto the railing, and then jumping onto the deck.

Ace was reliable but reckless, fiery and confident. His tattooed back was facing you, Whitebeard’s Jolly Roger on display to Ace’s friends, enemies, and everyone in between. But really, when it came to Ace, there really was no in-between. He loved like there was no tomorrow and saved pure hatred only for those he believed deserved it: those who hurt the people he cared about.

His shoulders, strong and sure, slouching only when he squatted on the edge of the ship, were laid back in satisfaction. His chest was puffed out with no signs of exhaustion on his face. He shined bright like the sun, his radiant smile reinvigorating the crew, which prompted them to grow louder and drink even more rum. It seemed like nothing could ever shake Ace or his unwavering resolve. The air around him was full of certitude, as if only the strongest of earthquakes and tsunamis could weaken his unfaltering spirit.

And disasters that were big enough to shake up Ace were few and far between.

A disaster of that magnitude ended up being Marco offering Ace the position of Second Division Commander. You raised your eyebrows at Ace’s hesitation. For a full week, he didn’t give Whitebeard or Marco a proper answer.

The great Fire Fist Ace is never uncertain, or so you thought.

+++

Ace made everything look effortless. From making his crewmates laugh to punching enemy pirates or falling asleep in any situation, Ace made living life look easy. But he was only human. And just like every human, Ace contained multitudes that were hidden beneath his facade. 

“Looks like we’re spending more time together, huh?” 

“Guess so,” you said inattentively. “Though you are a big shot now, Mr. Second Division Commander. Who says you’ll have the time to spend on me?”

“As my own boss, I say so. I gotta get to know the Second Division better than anyone else.”

“Well, cheers to that,” you responded, your glass clinking against his as the party celebrating Ace’s promotion commenced. 

You didn’t tell Ace — or anyone else for that matter — that you saw him pacing outside of Pop’s door for an hour the night before.

+++

Even from the ship, you could see that his feet were in the sand, but his mind was somewhere far away.

“Hey, Ace,” you uttered, quietly approaching him. 

“Hey,” he replied, his eyes regaining their vibrant glow as he turned to you with a captivating smile. “Not enjoying the feast?”

“Hard to enjoy it without you,” you shot back.

“Codependency at its worst,” Ace laughed.

You sat down next to him, the sunkissed sand filling in the spaces between your toes and enveloping your feet like a warm embrace. “Why aren’t you on the ship with everyone?” you lightly chided, “it’s a commander’s duty to spend time with their crew, no?”

“Wasn’t really feeling it today, I guess.”

“Was it something Teech said? I swear that guy doesn’t know how to shut up.”

“If I was bothered by Teech I would’ve left this ship long ago,” he chuckled as he looked away from you. Ace’s hearty laughter was like a wave that regularly washed away your worries. But this time, it didn’t.

You took in the view he was facing: a shoreline that never seemed to end. Before you joined him on the beach, Ace had been staring at the sand for what felt like years. Within the minuscule grains, Ace could see the faces of a young Sabo and the legendary Gold Roger. He blinked and those faces morphed into the purple-haired Otama and the crying face of Yamato. 

These sands of doubt and time did nothing to ease the tension in Ace’s body. 

“Despite how close you are to everyone, it still feels like you keep people at arm’s length. You said you needed to get to know your division more, but how about letting the division know you?”

“There’s nothing to know.” Ace feigned offense at your skeptical expression, “What can I say? I’m a simple guy.”

“A simple guy who Whitebeard allowed to take a division commander spot?” you questioned.

“Exactly! What you see is what you get.”

You snorted. “What I see is a devil-fruit user, who has a misspelled tattoo of his name and doesn’t know how to wear a shirt.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Contrary to popular belief, I know how to spell my name.”

“That’s odd. I’m not getting that from what I’m seeing.”

“Then what do you get from what you see of me?”

“I see my second division commander. Reliable. Cares about his friends and his family to a fault.” You paused, but Ace kept nodding, urging you to go on. “You’re just eating all these compliments up, huh?”

“Whattttttttt? Nooooo!”

“I see a stubborn idiot”— you mentally celebrated a small victory when Ace’s lips instantly turned to a pout — “who’s too kind.” He squinted at you. His expressive face never seemed to get old. “Too kind to the point where you never want to be vulnerable.”

The tension in his face all but vanished, and he suddenly turned away.

Despite always seeming larger than life, this was the smallest you’ve ever seen Ace. With every wave, the sea crept closer and closer to where the two of you were sitting until the salty water washed over the tips of your toes. Ace recoiled and scrunched his face at the sudden weakness he felt, even if it was only for a moment. Ace seemed like he would be pulled in by the rising tide and sink down into the sea if you left him alone—not because of his weakness as a devil fruit user, but because of his oft-hidden weakness as a human. Even Ace was not immune to the endless pools of self-doubt. 

So you put your hand on his shoulder, scooting closer to Ace to close the gap between the two of you, trying to ground him and prevent him from falling into the siren’s song of sadness. He thought about your words. Too kind to the point where you never want to be vulnerable. You keep people at arm’s length. Arm’s length is still pretty close, he always told himself. He turned to you and your face was mere inches away from his, brought closer by the hand that clung to his shoulder now. You were much closer than arm’s length. But for some reason, this time, it didn’t feel close enough. 

“I know no one ever asks you this but, what’s wrong, Ace?”

He stared at his wet feet. “The sea takes my strength, y’know?” Of course you knew that. And of course he knew that that wasn’t what you were referring to. 

“It’s always a surprise when the tide comes in, isn’t it?” He asked cryptically. 

You frowned. Ace never spoke in riddles. 

“Is it, though? We’re pirates, we know how the ocean works,” you reminded him.

“We know the tide will always rise and fall, but in the New World it’s a little more difficult to know exactly when.”

You hummed realizing that Ace was right. “It's constant, true, but it’s also constant change.” You stared at the ebb and flow of the water, falling into its visual rhythm.

“And as pirates, we’re always at the ocean’s mercy,” he added. It always surprised Ace when memories of the past washed over him, seemingly at the most unexpected and unwanted times. 

You shook your head with a smile. “With the help of the wind, a trusty ship, and an able crew, we can defy even the roughest of waves.” This time, the seafoam seemed to form the faces of Luffy, of Whitebeard, of Marco, of you. “Without the ocean, how would we sail to all these islands and live the life we do? The ocean isn’t our enemy.”

Ace mentally cursed at himself for getting caught up in his thoughts and, dare he say it, regrets. Memories of the past, just like the tide, aren’t always out to get him, it seemed. The waves fell back into the ocean, suddenly much less threatening.

Ace let out a sigh of relief. He mentally thanked you for pulling him away from an ocean of spiraling thoughts. He should’ve known that you would leave the feast to look for him once as soon as you noticed he was gone. As much as he tried, there was no escaping you. Was there any point in still trying to? “It’s nice to have such a reliable crew,” Ace said coolly.

“It’s nice to have such a reliable commander,” you replied without missing a beat.

Maybe he would let himself be selfish, be vulnerable. Maybe he would share the weight of his past with you, little by little. He reached across his chest to place his hand over yours, your touch lingering on his shoulder. He was a fool for thinking he could keep you at arm’s length for forever. He drew in a deep breath, his brows furrowed, as if debating whether to speak. You squeezed his shoulder, reassuring him of your presence.

“Sabo,” he blurted out. “I had a brother named Sabo.” You raised your eyebrows, trying to process his sudden words. “The extra “S” in my tattoo is for him.”

“Had?” You asked. His dark eyes bore holes into yours. Full of life and depth, you couldn’t look away. You felt like you were at the ocean’s mercy. The bottomless urge to know and explore every part of it was pulling you in, more than ever before.

“He died when we were young. That’s why it’s crossed out.” 

You gasped, recoiling away from him, pulling your hand away, his eyes narrowing almost immediately. “I’m so sorry for always teasing you about it. I shouldn’t-”

He tousled your hair and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch. Just like how the tide is bound to  the shore, there was always an unseen pull between the two of you. With Ace’s words lingering in the salty air, that pull became more discernible. “No need to apologize. It always made me smile. I know for a fact that Sabo would’ve joined in on your jokes. He’d probably ask me why I bothered putting an ‘S’ in my name instead of getting an entirely separate tattoo,” he laughed.

You let out a sigh of relief. There it was. Your ears were filled with his rich laughter that washed away your worries— your worries about him and about accidentally hurting him. “Hmm…that would be a good question. You’re really not making a good case for yourself, Ace. You sure you didn’t come up with this excuse after you messed up your tattoo?” you playfully quipped.

“No! You don’t believe me?!”

You shook your head with a smile. “I believe in you. Always have, always will.” Ace watched you as you began to stand up, trying your best to dust off the sand on your legs.

“How can you say that?” Ace asked curiously, hugging his knees to his chest. He was thankful that you were no longer facing him,  that you wouldn’t see him with his shoulders slouched, looking so small. Your eyes were fixed on the horizon across the vast surface of the ocean. 

“Say what, exactly?”

“That you’ll always believe in me?”

You walked closer to the water, willingly letting the waves wash over your feet. “There’s nothing that you can do that will make me not believe in you,” you stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He stared at your back. He took in the way you so easily walked into the ocean that he thought was so dangerous before. “What if”, he paused, taking a deep breath, “what if it’s not what I do, but who I am?”

There it was again, you noticed, Ace speaking in riddles. “You’re you. That’s more than enough.”

“You’re saying all I gotta do is exist? And that’s…enough?”

You spoke to the merciless ocean: “You exist and I see you. All of you.” You turned around. Ace looked up at you, the sounds of the waves lapping seemed to be an echo of your words, as if the whole universe was trying to get through to him. You reached your hand out to his. Taking it, you pulled him up to his feet and dragged him closer to the water. Both of your ankles were completely submerged, but neither of you minded. Feeling some energy flee from his body, Ace felt weak, but was that such a bad thing? He squeezed your hand, the warmth of it standing in stark contrast to the shocking cold water around his feet. No, he concluded. Being vulnerable wasn’t so bad, especially when it was with you. Because you really did see all of him: the weak parts, the strong ones, and everywhere in between. “To see you is to always believe in you,” you whispered.

You brought your gaze back to the horizon and Ace followed suit. With your hand in his and the waves now lapping against his knees, he couldn’t help but feel gratitude. The merciful ocean had brought you to him, washing up on the shores when he needed you the most.

[diorcities]

icarus

pairing: jeno x fem reader.

genre: smut, angst

content: mention of inexperience reader, mention of virginity, face riding (female), slight bondage (collarbone), female masturbation, fingering, anal fingering, multiple orgasms, riding, oral sex (male).

wc: 2.5 k

an: stop bc this look so ridiculous i don't even care. am i projecting? yes. do i want my yn moment? also yes. i love daydreams, and i love being delusional, anyway, enjoy &lt;3

masterlist

oh, icarus! for all you have fallen, still you flew! and for a moment, the sun knew of you, too.

“yn, you're here?” your friend snaps her fingers in front of you, making you blink twice. “i'm having a collapse,” you confess, grabbing your head. “oh, no, i think i'm having a panic attack.” your eyes widening as the realization hit you in the stomach. “yeah... can you have it later? we're in the middle of something.” you laugh, tense. “i mean, what's going on? we've been here before,” she wanders around, as the lineup moves. “like, past year, you forgot?” you shake your head, a glimpse of a smile slowly dancing on your lips.

of course you remember.

last summer was the best summer of your life. after you have studied all year for your final exams at university, you and your friend went on a summer trip full of concerts and traveling around the globe. it was a rewarding experience for passing all your exams with good grades and saving money on your part-time job. it didn't matter what concerts you were attending. imagine dragons, coldplay, taylor swift... after a whole year of working hard, it was kind of a present from you to yourself. forgetting completely about college, both of you had a great time last year.

one night you two bumped into a concert having a place in your city. your friend immediately wanted to go, and consequently, dragged you with her. since your motto was <enjoy the summer as if it was your last> you didn't waste time and started to feel the vibe of the moment. letting yourself go.

a guy caught your attention that night. spending all evening looking at him in awe. amazed. later that night, you were sure his gaze was fixed on you. stealing glances from time to time, your heart beating so fast in your chest from the arousal. when the concert was over, he invited you to come with him.

his voice was low and raspy, like a shot of rum. and later that night, you knew his breathing was sharp and heavy. arms covered in veins, body sculpture, and chiseled by some divine god. eyes so dark you are scared to drown in the void of his pupils. nose long and manly that still makes you wet your underwear. you let him have you that night. a couple times.

“oh, god, i lost you again.” your friend rolls her eyes. “what's the deal with you?”.

“sorry, i got lost in my thoughts,” you reply, advancing with the line. your friend gives you a look. “you sound flustered,” she notices, smiling. “stop that,” you cut her off, hearing his laugh. “i mean, i'm a human, i'm nosy,” she defends herself. “what if i wanna know what happened?” “nothing happened,” you answer. she huffs. “lies.”

once inside, you and your friend go to the right side of the scenario. “you never told me about that guy you met last year,” she comments. “you know... your first time.” she adds. “oh, what if he's here tonight?” her eyes wides. “could be,” you say, distracted. “that's why you've been smiling so hard, i just know it.” she laughs. “i kinda wanna meet this sex god that has you smiling like an idiot.” you join her and laugh. your smile dies in your lips as the bitterness hit you. chest starting to hurt. what if he doesn't remember you? what if he doesn't want to see you? your fingers start to fidget the moment the lights go out.

and there he is again. the warmth expanding in your chest when your eyes manage to find him. he looks the same as always. ethereal. unreachable. magical. your eyes opening, trying to grasp everything. frame it in your head. tattoo it. he doesn't look at you. his eyes sweep the whole place with parsimony, but his eyes don't find yours. and the flame in your chest spreads. wanting. wishing. your muscles move on their own as you stand up, without worrying about how ridiculous you are trying right now. but your attempt worked. and now his eyes lock with yours. and you feel like you're holding your breath, yearning.

is this how icarus felt when he approached the sun? this burnt feeling through the limbs, only to find out he was burning inside out? suddenly falling (in love) with joy because, for a moment, he was close to the sun?.

his eyes weigh down when he looks at you. charged with a deep feeling, an unknown emotion. licking his lips as he sinks into his thoughts, imagining. his hectic breathing makes him look attractive. his skin glowing with sweat. flexed arms looking bigger; the memory of them holding you tightly as he penetrated you with care. you bite your lip instinctively, and you see him spasm where he stands.

both of you don't think you can hold it anymore.

the hours pass slowly. a torture for you, already waiting for him. your fiery pussy wet by your violent desires. lips part open as you breathe fast and superficial. he disappears behind backstage and doubt freeze you right where you are. wondering if you imagined it all. until a message.

j: you free?

“no. fucking. way.” you shush her watching her open her mouth, in disbelief. “you're texting jeno!?” she whispers, and you nod. “wait, what? hold on.” her eyes sparkle. “so this mysterious guy is the one and only jeno lee?” you roll your eyes. “jeez, you'll let everyone know.” she glances at your phone. “well, you better go, right?” she says. “wait, you're not coming with me?” you ask, worried. “i mean, i don't see any threesome word anywhere, so yes, i'm leaving,” she says, “you better show off. tell me all about it tomorrow,” she demands, walking away. “eh, can i have an autograph, perhaps?” she jokes, before winking. you watch her leave before responding to the message.

you: always.

even up close, your eyesight doesn't do justice to his beauty. he had a shower before you arrived. water pearls forming in his jet-black hair. his hands guide you to a wall before attacking your lips fervently. with sharp and hungry movements, he devours your mouth with desperation. leaving you breathless. the kiss breaks enough to take a breath of air, a thread of saliva connected to your lips due to arousal. feeling his tongue make its way through your mouth, flicking and moving, causing your arousal released in your core. “i want you,” you whisper in his mouth, feeling his hands running over you. “how much?” he breathes. your hands guide one of his hands under your skirt. his palm rests in your pussy. wetness going through the fabric. a filthy groan leaves his mouth. “take it off for me, angel.”

you do as you're told. lowering your underwear to your ankles and picking it up from the floor. you hand it to him, watching him bring your underwear to his face, sniffing your scent. “cute,” he says, before he kisses you. hands finding the buttons of your shirt, undressing you. leaving quick pecks on your lips, he guides you to his hotel bed. you drop yourself on the surface, staring intently at him standing in front of the bed. “show me how much you want me.” his glossy eyes darken at the sight of you spreading in the bed as you do what he wants. your black skirt lifted up, showing your wet pussy. your fingers slide between your folds, before inserting two in your cunt, remembering the times you touched yourself thinking it was him.

your head pulls back, eyes shut, feeling a sweet warmth in your intimate area. your mouth opening to let out little gasps, while your fingers move rhythmically and quickly in and out of your pussy, hitting hardly your spot. “jen-o,” you pant with a whine. the only mention of his name on your glossy lips makes his dick twitch inside his pants. he sits in the bed, eyes glued on your fingers stroking your cunt. your back arch as you feel the flames spreading inside you, his hands stopping you from reaching your climax. a wave of spasms shakes your body, as you bite your lips, opening your eyes, before he uses the same hand that pulled out your fingers from your pussy to insert his own. “let me.”

his movements are by far more precise and agile than yours. his long fingers going in and out, as you stirred and hissed and twitched your face in pleasure under the blackhair's gaze. his free hand goes to your collarbone, restraining you from moving under his touch. the wet sounds filling the room with your whimpers and moans, feeling his fingers increase intensity and speed, driving you insane, making a mess of babbling and incoherent words. your eyesight going black when he hit your sweet spot repeatedly, limbs going numb, before the fire pools and spread in your core, to the rest of your body. legs pressing together as he keeps flicking his fingers inside, your walls contracting and pulsing in his digits.

he lets you go to lick your arousal from his fingers, humming in an instance. “so sweet.” he states. “fuck, let me taste a little more.” you feel his breath in your pussy, before his tongue wipes out your sensitive core. your hands go to his hair, feeling him licking and sucking you. your legs spread open, as he dives into your pussy with heavy breath.

he detaches from your pussy and sits up on the bed. his hands seek yours and climb you on his lap without difficulty due to your muscles still stiff, body feeling lightweight. he kisses your neck and lips. hands disappearing under your skirt sensing his fingers testing your ass, sliding his index finger along the length, until finding your hole, inserting his digit with a quick move. your body stutter as the warm feeling embraces you, starting to wiggle while his finger fucks you. it's a new feeling for you, arching your back due to the strange pleasure that hits you. starting to grind against his lap. his free hand goes to your back, unfastening your bra. his thumb rubs circles in your nipple while his mouth wraps the other one, sucking gently.

he stops his fingers while lifting you with one arm enough to pull down his pants. “are you gonna be a good girl and ride this dick? mmm.” you nod effusively. he releases his length and it hit your leg, twitching. your hands go to your skirt, but he stops you, “leave it on, you look cute.” glancing at his bulge you think that it must hurt him. so you don't waste time after he puts a condom in, taking it on your hands and plunging it inside, already craving it. a sweet burn embraces your pussy due to his thickness. stretching you out. adjusting and wriggling on his length. jeno lets out a rasping grunt before he makes you bounce on his lap. pounding into his dick, your vision fades to black, sensing the waves of pleasure washing you. your breathy moans and soft whines mixing with his guttural sounds. kissing his lips, grinding against him. awakening all your nerve endings.

you contract your walls feeling his dick twitch, before pushing it deeper, the dizziness clouding your senses as you go up and down, constantly hitting your core, almost seeing stars. “fuck, i'm gonna cum.” his raspy voice warns. you go faster and harder, riding him to his climax. feeling his dick, pulsating against your walls, you grind him, rocking your hips back and forth, feeling his cock still hard. your moves becoming sloppy the more you approach your orgasm, finally exploding and throbbing around his length.

you pant, exhausted. feeling mind blurry and body buzzing on top of him.

“sit on my face,” he hisses, lifting you up with ease. his body rests on the mattress as you climb to his chest, hands holding you for support before you sit down on his face. nose rubbing your clit.

you let out a little moan before you start moving. his hands holding your thighs tightly while you rock your hips into his face. tongue licking along your folds, nose stroking your clit, grinding against him, mixing your juices with his saliva. his warm breath hitting your core sweetly while he mumbles “taste so good.” speeding your moves as the knot in your stomach tightens. quivering and crying out because his tongue feels so good, before releasing your extasis in his mouth. your orgasm washes you over, dissolving in shockwaves.

you stroke his hair while he force you to rock your hips along his mouth. feeling so satisfied it hurts. “s-too much...” you cry, trying to stop him from moving you, but he's stronger, so it doesn't happen. “go on, darling, a little more.” he mutters into your core, sending shivers through your body due to the sensation. you swallow, deeply. “let me... i want to taste you too, ” you confess, fluttering your eyes because of how sensitive you were.

you hop off his body and drop your knees in front of him.

holding his cock in your hands, starting to move them up and down. he's already hard. you strike your tongue along his length, hearing his throaty breathing. “put it in your mouth, yeah?” he urges you. your warm mouth receives his cock with pleasure. sucking gently and watching him stare at you while you do it. tongue going to the underside of his shaft before returning to the tip, swollen and red. inserting it with ease until it hits the back of your throat. “you're taking it so well,” he says, breathy. you hum with his cock still in your mouth, causing him to swear. watching him so needy and agitated for you. oh, you wish you were the only one who could see him like that. his cock feeling so good, his tip resting on your tongue as you stroke him. feeling his flavourful seed spilling in your mouth before you swallow it.

you get up from the ground wiping the corner of your lips, staring at him, seeking his approval. “have i done it right?” you wonder. his hand caressed your cheek before sliding into your mouth. “mmm,” he grants. he taste himself on your lips.

“now, all fours on the bed. i'd like to destroy you a few times more.” strocking his length.

you feel him settle behind you, and you don't have time to get ready when his cock buries inside with a hard move. body propelled forward. his hands hold you in place before he starts to smack his hips against yours, pounding at a slow and hard pace, making you feel demolished. gasping with each thrust, your body collapses between the sheets, before he uses his strength to make you arch your back. mumbling and babbling like a fool, brainwashed by the way he's fucking you. your whole body shivering due to the overwhelming feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your abused pussy. “fu-uck.” biting your lips and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, spinning. your pulsing walls wrapping him tight while he curses a lot.

a few more thrusts are done before you release yourself around him. your limbs numbing with a white feeling. mouth part open letting out incoherent words, mind going blank. you feel his grip on your legs, turning you around, now facing him. “want to stop?” he asks, hovering over you and leaving kisses on your neck and chest. his eyes meeting your eyes, watching you smile languidly shaking your head. he smiles before he pulls in. “good girl.”

[strwbrry-lmnade]

ℙℝ𝔼𝕋𝕋𝕐

⤷ Dabi - Touya Todoroki

x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➤ genre § fluff

✎ word count § 4.2k

⊱ warnings § mentions of alcohol

You carefully rotated the little whiskey glass, as you wiped. You were so focused on the way it reflected the unnecessarily bright, flashing lights surrounding you. You blinked twice and rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. You've been up all night, and everything was stress inducing. The blouse which had the first two buttons torn, or the vest you wore over it that suddenly became too tight. Maybe it's the tie you were wearing, it's incredibly annoying.

You put the glass down, next to the similar crystal pieces. Letting out another sigh, as you leaned on the counter, lowering your head to try and drown the music out.

Too much people. Too much music. Too little air.

You watched a man, slam on the chair in front of you, a lady on hand, flopping down on the chair next to him. Chuckling and giggling, swaying and shuddering, and the reddening tips of their ears couldn't hide how shit drunk they were.

"Two Mojitos!" The man said, and the woman just giggled.

You winked with an out-of-habit smile, snapping your fingers as you pulled out a bottle of rum, and some fresh limes. Hopefully, it's the last drinks of the night. 2 less individuals to worry about.

Your eyes were half-closed as you did a bunch of tricks with the fruit and mint leaves, which no one paid attention to, but it made your work a little less boring. You pulled out two glasses, as you shook the metallic container to mix the rum and sugar inside. Placing the mint leaves in the glasses, and tossing the metallic bottle from a hand to another, before pouring the liquid into the glass, finally cutting the lime into slices, placing a bunch inside the liquid, and a single slice on the tip of the glass for that dramatically decorative effect.

"Two Mojitos." You sang sheepishly, as he gave you the money.

"Keep the change!"

You walked to another empty part of the counter, starring at the blonde D.J. who couldn't possibly make the music any louder. You stared at the people dancing in the big nightclub, a redhead in a short silver dress, a blondie in a tight purple dress, a guy in all black, a guy in black and white, white and blue, too many colors. You briefly rubbed your eyes, and turned around, facing the dull colors of bottles of cheap alcohols, rum, wine and champagne, they made your eyes relax, feel a little more comfortable in their sockets.

"One Blue Blazer." You heard a whisper too close to your ear, it made your body jolt.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you turned around and stepped away, almost but not bumping into the other counter of glasses and a quick heater.

"Scared 'ya? My bad, sweetheart."

He leaned back to sit on his chair with a chuckle, as he placed a dollar bill on the counter, the tip of it between his index and middle finger.

"Right.. Blue Blazer.." You watched his hands, your cheeks slightly flushed as you rubbed your nape.

"In a funny glass, myeah?"

You coughed to fix your throat, closing your eyes for a moment to get rid of the fire on your cheeks, as you opened them and turned around to get his drink ready. You turned on the kettle on the inner counter to let the water boil, as you pulled out a whiskey bottle and two lemons. You skill-fully opened the whiskey bottle with one hand, poured some into a metallic bottle, added garnish then started playing around with the bottle to mix the solution while waiting for the water to boil. It was a habit at this point, even if you felt a certain pair of eyes on you, which wasn't a first, you were so confident with your skills.. mainly because you're bored.

"You enjoy what you do?"

You froze for a moment, and looked at him over your shoulder. You looked at the bottle, threw it in the air, nudged it again into the air with your elbow before catching it.

"No, just adaptive mechanisms." You giggled, pulling a funny glass to his request and poured the contents of the bottle in.

You added some boiled water, traced the tip of the glass with lemon nectar for the spice, and grabbed a platinum purple lighter.

"Flaming?" You lit the lighter and looked at him for consent.

He closed his eyes with one head shake, as he dragged the glass towards him by the base. You closed the lighter, spun it between your fingers before putting it back in your pocket. You watched him trace his fingertip on the tip of the glass, before dragging it across his tongue.

"You don't strike me as someone who smokes."

You raised an eyebrow for a moment, he must be referring to the lighter you tucked in your shorts.

"My co-worker keeps misplacing it and it sucks." You huffed and grabbed a nearby finished glass, taking the bill underneath and letting it join the lighter.

"So you don't like what you do."

He wants to chit chat.

You huffed, cleaning the glass in your hand with a cloth, as you chose your words carefully.

"Won't say no to income."

He hummed, taking a sip of his drink. He then placed it back down, letting his cheekbone rest on his knuckle as he watched you. You placed the glass next to it's clones, tugging the cloth in your empty pocket. You then leaned back on the counter, crossed your arms and held eye contact for a good while. His eyes were such a pretty shade of the sky, you could stare at them for hours. You've seen many colorful eyes, bright, deep, whatever, and you've held many intense eye contact, but oh boy, those pair of blues are definitely your favourite now.

"I love your eyes."

He gave you quite a sly smirk, your eyes were fairly pretty, but not enough for a stranger to compliment them. You dragged your index finger across your bottom lip, looking away for a moment as you felt your cheeks flush again.

"Get glasses."

"Don't do that."

You watched him lick the tip of the glass and take a sip with your eyebrows furrowed, one of your eyes squinting in a confused expression, much to your dismay he didn't elaborate.

You took a deep breath, your eyes making a triangle shape across his face, from an eye to another, a brief glance at his lips then slow repeat, and for just a moment you forgot how loud the music was, until he swiftly turned around, giving you his back as he set his drink down, letting you stare at his nape. You were surprised for a moment, but you've been here before, just never this lost. Another little eye flirt, another customer. You sighed, and moved to an empty part of the bar, waiting for the next customer, or perhaps the next guy to stare at you for moments before giving you his nape.

You gave the whole bar a check, collecting some change, cleaning glasses, giving refills and giving out a couple of orders. By the time you went back to where mister pretty-boy was, he was gone, with his glass empty resting on some change.

You grabbed the glass to clean it, and as you picked up the money, you saw a tissue with something written on it.

Meet me when your shift's over, pretty. -Dabi

Pretty, and Dabi. At least now you know the owner of your favorite blue eyes, but what the hell? No number, no place, no nothing, how would he even know when your shift ends? How would you meet him? The note was so messy, but something is incredibly hot about mystery. It's always the anonymous ones who are more attractive, as long as they're not a giant neon sign that screams kidnapper, you were in for a ride.

You spent the rest of the shift on autopilot, serving everyone while you questioned a literal paper tissue. You'd see a guy hit on a girl, and as they leave the bar together you think how this date could be a portal into something beautiful, but then you see a girl slapping a man, or a girl suddenly yelling at a man, and you realize, that this person, Dabi, should have made more effort. How will you even find him? What if you don't even want to date him? All these questions made you gaslight yourself into thinking you were just too pretty for him to ask you for a date up straight, and so you've decided to just go on about your everyday after shift routine. If he happened to be a part of it, sure, if not because of his misleading, info-lacking proposal, then it sucks to suck on his part.

Hours later, maybe two or three. The place wasn't any less empty, if not more crowded, but for the sake of your eyeballs, your shift was finally over.

You stared at the single tissue in your hand in the changing room, reading the words over again. Let's say for one moment you were oh so eager to meet him, your answer was an immediate yes, what are you to do now?? How would he even know your shift is over? Would he really be willing to wait for you for 3 hours??

With a sigh you threw the tissue away, removing your tie and unbuttoning your vest to disregard it as well. You wore a simple jacket over your white blouse and shorts, bid farewell to your co-workers, and slowly made your way through the red alleys to the back door. It may have been a staff-only area, but you have a couple making out, and someone smoking in the corner nonetheless. You opened the door, breathing in the slightly polluted night air, and letting it out.

"Good evening, sweet thing!"

You had pepper spray for a reason.

"Ohh, aren't you the bartender?"

It was one of those nights. You occasionally left the night club to be met with a person or two, who were just hanging, and wouldn't say no to fun.. or wouldn't take no for an answer either. You had security guards escort you out sometimes, but not all times, you should see what happens to the strippers or pole dancers in there.

With a sigh you turned around, eyeing over two men who weren't so awful looking, but reeked off of alcohol, and definitely some substances.

"Good evening to you too.."

You smiled, not so brightly, your hand tugging in your bag as your fingers wrapper around your precious can of pepper spray.

"You really shouldn't go home alone, you know!"

"Oh yeah, who's gonna take care of you?"

They swayed left and right, slowly walking to you. They must have been either throwing out whatever drunken leftovers, or just smoking more substances.. or possibly just waiting for the night club's employees.

You took a single step back, guarded. You have an idea how this scenario would go both ways, but they 2 pairs of eyes, not just one, and the moment you aim at one of them, the other would probably prepare to dodge your attack while you spray the first one. Maybe spray one's eyes, and kick the other's nuts? Yeah. That should probably be the safest-

"She's with me."

There it was again. That odd whisper.

A gentle hand wrapped around your hip, pulling you to the side. Your shoulder was pressed against someone's chest, and it made your breath hitch. You didn't need to look up to make sure he's the owner of your favorite blues, he smelled awfully nice for a man. Something sour, and something spicy, with the stinky sting of the scent of cigarettes.

"She doesn't seem to mind."

You hate men for a reason.

"She does, get lost."

It was just his fingers, his whole hand cupped the curve of your hip, his fingers grazing the belt around your shorts, and just one of them, touched your skin through the small gap between your shirt and your shorts. His other hand was out of your vision, because you were looking straight ahead, slightly downwards, but you were able to make out he must be smoking a cigarette because he was holding something to his mouth.

Your cheeks flushed, and your heart banged against your ribcage as your fingers trembled softly. You hate physical contact, you hate when someone touches you, especially without asking first, but fuck, what is this?

"Don't be so selfish, the pretty lady hasn't said a thing."

You can't-

"She doesn't need to."

With that, he flicked the leftover of the cigarette with his middle finger, letting it land at their feet, before turning you around and walking away. You implied. He may be doing this for selfish purposes for later, but for now, you needed an upper hand, and 3 against 1 or 2 against 1 is further from that.

The moment you got out of their sight, his hand caressed your back from your hip up to your nape, letting his arm rest around your shoulders. Your breath hitched in your throat at the closeness, your fingers still tight around the pepper spray can almost crushing it, as his heart bounded against your shoulder, and you hoped he couldn't feel the banging of your own.

He soon enough slowed down in front of a dark blue motorcycle, unwrapping his arm around your shoulder and walking to it. He grabbed the half-face helmet dangling from one of the bike's handles and held it out for you.

You stared at it for a moment, taking a half-step back, before looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He seemed safe, but this was all too suspicious.

After a moment of another intense eye contact, his smirk widened, before he stepped closer and held the helmet out above your head to make you wear it. You slightly flinched back from the movement, but slowly stepped back in place under the helmet so he can put it on your head, to which he did, and adjusted a strap under your chin.

"Relax, pretty. I'm no kidnapper."

You huffed, and pulled the glass thing up to glare at him. He just smirked at you, the way he would a child.

"Sounds like something a kidnapper would say."

"Would a kidnapper let you keep a pepper spray?"

You rolled your eyes and walked past him, hoping on the back of the motorcycle. Leaving him room to sit in front of you. The back seat was high, so you briefly placed your hands between your legs to hoist yourself up. He walked over to you, leaning back on the driver seat with his hands in his pockets.

"Where'd you wanna go?"

You moved your bottom lip, tilting your head slightly as you looked up for a moment.

"Not home."

He blinked, his smirk unfaltering as he stayed silent.

"Take me somewhere."

He smirked only wider, showing some teeth. As he hoisted himself off his bike, and threw a leg over it.

You slowly wrapped your arms around his waist, laying your palms flat on his trunk. You could feel he was toned as shit underneath that shirt, you can vividly imagine him shirtless which was quite unholy.

He started his bike and took off.

The air didn't hit you, but it blew his hair back and you caught more than a few glimpses of his sliver industrial piercing on one of his ears. You rested your head between his shoulder blades, your arms tightening for a second, with each bump, each turn, and each stop.

"Relax, pretty. You're not gonna fall." He yelled, and you groaned.

He must've felt the vibrations of your face against his back because he chuckled.

"Stand up."

"Are you crazy?!" You tugged on his shirt with your fingers, as a form of nudging him.

"Trust meeee, pretty. You can still hold on to me, but stand up."

You didn't comply, and just slammed your forehead on his back.

"Real cockblock"

"That's mean.."

"Then stand up, pretty. I promise I won't go so fast." His voice softened, the moment your hold on him loosened up.

You were into risky shit, but there's a difference between risky and deadly, however the line between them was extremely thin.

He stopped at a red light and you felt him let go off of one of the handles and pat your thigh. His hand was so cold, almost icy against your skin, his pinkie even caressed your skin under your thigh high for a moment.

"You'll like it."

You stared at his hand for a moment, taking a deep breathe before unwrapping your arms from around his waist. You held on to his sides before slowly standing up, resting your hands on his shoulders, or more likely holding on for dear life. He wasn't even moving but your heart was already pounding so fast. You leaned on his back, pressing your knees each against his side.

"Hold on." Just as the light turned green, he took off in the blink of an eye.

The momentum pushed you back, making you clench around his shoulders, and he used one hand to hold your knee till you leaned forward again and got used to the speed.

He was right, you liked it.

The air didn't hit your face because of the helmet, but it had your jacket flying around you almost like wings. You'd hang out of your friend's car window often, or so, but this was wilder. So much unsafer, but wilder, and somehow you felt safe holding on to Dabi.

"Told you, ya'll like it."

You broke out into a laughing fit, wrapping one arm around his neck from the back, while you stretched the other one above your head.

"This is amazing!"

He took a sharp turn, leaning left, dangerously a little closer to the ground, and you just wooed leaning right to keep balance.

He laughed, leaning back in place and speeding up out of the city.

"You better not take me somewhere haunted, I like you!"

You tugged playfully at his hair, as he drove through a road in the forest.

"Don't worry, if you liked that you'll love this!"

He laughed, and got on a mountain road. The air got colder, wilder, and so did his speed. You yelled into the air, making him laugh, and race against the wind to the top.

He started slowing down nearing the end of the road, as you were met with a white fence. He parked his bike, and got off, holding out his hand. You took it, in giggles and chuckles leftover from your laughing fit and the adrenaline, as you took your leg off the bike, taking his other hand when he held it out too as he helped you hop off. He had a wide smirk, as he watched you laugh off the adrenaline. He looked you in the eyes as he undid the helmet strap under your chin, his fingers caressing your jawline unnecessarily, which made your cheeks flush slightly, and giggle some more.

"What?" You asked.

He smiled, freezing for a moment before removing the helmet off of your head, and letting it hang on his bike handle, before walking to the fence and jumping over it.

"Whaaat!" You giggled again as you followed him, and he helped you get over the fence like he did with his bike.

"I don't see why you don't think you're eyes are pretty." He murmured.

After he helped you get over the fence, by holding one hand, then your other hand, letting you throw your legs over, he kept his hold on one of your hands as he walked down the leap, almost dragging you with him. He stood on the edge of a steep he needed to slide down, and looked at you.

"Com'ere."

You silently obeyed, taking a step closer to him. He slid down the steep, then held a hand out as he leaned close to catch you.

"I'm not jumping..."

You raised an eyebrow, taking off your jacket and wrapping it around your waist, to let it cover your butt and the back of your thighs as you slide down just like him, but in a more of a sitting position. He chuckled, as you stood up and almost fell forward from the moment but he caught you, of course he did.

"You're no better than an average man." You scoffed and nudged him off playfully.

He simply snickered in response, and walked ahead of you.

"Okay, pretty. Think you can close your eyes for your average black head?"

You stared at him suspiciously, and crossed your arms.

"Alright, just look at me then."

He stepped closer, filling your entire view on purpose, as he placed his fingers around each of your wrists. You hummed in disapproval as you stared at him, and he stared right back at you. His pupils slowly expanded, as he started walking backwards, and your eyes flickered behind him.

"Ah, eyes on me."

He tapped your temple, and you looked back at his eyes almost immediately.

"If you do end up kidnapping me, it'd make for a.. very interesting documentary.."

You whispered, staring at your reflection in his own orbs. His fingertips were so soft when they trailed down your temple, and pushed back a misplaced strand of your bangs back in place, before caressing your cheek softly. He smiled quietly, didn't even respond, just walking backwards, and you following on his trail.

"Gosh, your eyes are so lovely.."

He whispered, before turning around and stepping aside, to let you see a view of the city. He did this at that timing on purpose, to leave you speechless on both ends. It was typical, of course it was a sighting scene, but wow. Those are as lovely in real life, as they are in one's head when reading a book. The awful pitch black of the sky was a pretty purple because of the stars and moon, as the gentle city lights of a busy city twinkled on the ground. The breeze was just as great, and the smell of mud and leaves was so refreshing compared to the pollution of the smoke, alcohol and sweat you smell everyday.

"O-oh wow.."

You whispered, your hand still around his. As he stared at your face for a moment, before watching his step to pull you forward, and you just stepped towards him. Something about this creepy man was just so assuring enough to allure you.

"Watch your step."

He whispered so softly, as he pulled you to a bench and sat down, untying your now dirty jacket from around your waist and tossing it at the end of the bench before patting your hip, motioning you to sit down. You blinked, looking away from the city, to meet his beautiful blue orbs, they were a lot more prettier than any city lights. You stared at the bench before sitting down, right next to him, thigh to thigh.

His smile widened when his cheeks flushed so slightly, as he took a deep breathe and threw his hands behind his head, stretching one of them behind you, as he crossed his legs.

"You... want my jacket? It doesn't seem cold, but like..."

You giggled, and huddled up to his chest, the arm behind you just barely curling up to rest on your shoulders.

"Nah, the wind's amazing."

"Yeah... thought so too.."

You two just watched the lights sparkle, cars moving, or rooms turning on and off, and what not. More than strangers, less than friends, but this comfort was like nothing before.

"Dabi, huh?"

"It's a signature name, in case ya' didn't show up." He chuckled.

You turned to him then, and he was already looking at you with a smile. His eyes scanned a triangle shape on your face, from your right eye to the left, then briefly to your lips before looking back up at your eyes.

"What's your real name then?"

"Touya Todoroki."

"Hm... Touya.."

His eyebrows barely twitched when you said his real name.

"Touya... you do look like a Touya, Touya." You patted his knee, breaking eye contact to look back at the city.

"You're gonna make me ask?"

You turned back to him again, and he was staring at you still.

"I'm (Y/N)."

He used the arm around your shoulders to lay his hand on your head, his fingers stroking your hair gently although his palm didn't touch your head.

"A pretty name for a pretty girl."

"Oh shut up, it's not as pretty as Touya."

You huffed and crossed your arms.

"But it's pretty because it's yours."

You smiled again, a flush covering your cheeks, as you stared at his lips and he stared back at yours.

"Nice to meet you, Touya."

"Pleasure's all mine."

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ✧˖° ₊˚⊹ ᰔ༉‧₊˚.

[featherdixon]

nothing else matters

rockstar!daryl x leadguitarist!reader (rivals to lovers)

first part.

summary: you’re the lead guitarist in a band, and daryl dixon is the biggest singer of your generation. you were born to be rivals, but but you’re made to love each other.

warnings: rockstar!daryl x leadguitarist!reader, m!reader, rivals to lovers, abuse of drugs and alcohol, sassy!daryl, rock & roll, rough kiss.

words count: 2K+.

based on my headcanons and this ask. (thanks bro you’ve given me an incredible idea)

very proud of this work, i hope you all like it.

There’s a reason why the sun leaves the sky every night. Light isn’t meant for the darkness.

Daryl was smoking a cigarette, leaning against his motorcycle. The smoke filled his lungs and drifted out through his nose. His sharp eyes seemed to take in everything and yet focus on nothing.

Your world, on the other hand, was upside down. Nerves made your fingers tingle. You had a guitar slung over your back and a bottle of rum in your hand. Your heart was pounding so hard that you almost told it to calm down, or you’d both be stuck on the edge of success. Today was your first day with your new band.

When you got to the venue door, it was locked. You knocked a few times with your knuckles. Nothing. Not a sound inside. Frustrated, you turned around and saw a guy leaning on a bike, puffing on a cigarette. The smoke clung to his lips, and your body tensed. He brushed his hair out of his face and gave you a lazy, half-asleep look.

“They open in ‘bout an hour,” he murmured in a raspy voice. Suddenly, you heard something more—the tune that wouldn’t stop playing in your head. The one you couldn’t help but hum, even unconsciously. Whether you were showering or cooking, those lyrics and that addictive melody followed you everywhere.

That guy was Daryl Dixon. The lead singer of Arrows, the city’s hottest new band.

Your first instinct was to show your admiration, but you took a deep breath instead. You were in the same game now and had to make your own space. You took a swig from the bottle to get into character.

“So, what you doin’ here, then?” you asked, your voice a little rough from the strong alcohol. Daryl’s eyes flicked over you from head to toe and back up again. “You lookin’ to grab a seat at the bar?”

You laughed, but he didn’t. He just ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his mouth dry from the smoke.

“I’m playin’ tonight,” he said bluntly, cheeks hollowing as he took a deep drag. He looked at your guitar and nodded at it with his ring-covered fingers. You could’ve sworn you saw one with a skull and another with some kind of monster. "Ya even know how to play that thing, or is it just for looks?"

An immature thought flashed through your mind, and you stuffed one hand into your pocket. You knew how to play it all right; you’d practiced a bunch of his songs.

“I’m pretty good,” you said, holding his gaze. Daryl nodded, but his eyes stayed blank. Not even a hint of curiosity. It was a void you could either float in or drown in.

“I’m playin’ tonight too,” you said, gripping the neck of the bottle as you looked at him. It was impossible to look away from this guy, no matter how hard you tried.

He tossed the cigarette to the ground and ran a hand through his beard. He was wearing a leather jacket you’d seen at his shows.

“When?” he asked, stepping closer, his presence so intense it made you tighten your grip on the bottle.

“Nine,” you answered, and a smirk crept onto Daryl’s lips, making your jaw clench.

He was just inches away when he tapped you twice on the shoulder.

“Well, looks like you’re my openin’ act,” he said, licking his lips before unlocking the door with a key you hadn’t noticed. Standing in the doorway, he gave you a cocky smile. “Don’t put ‘em to sleep; I don’t wanna have to wake ‘em up.”

Before you could respond, Daryl stepped inside and shut the door right in your face.

Asshole.

A few more years and you were quite a celebrity. You enjoyed doing concerts in cities you had only seen on TV before, and women were crazy about you. You couldn’t take two steps without being stopped for an autograph; you were the sensation of the moment. And it was just as well that you couldn’t sing, or the spotlight would have been all yours.

That night, you were in Chicago, backstage at a festival. You were practicing some chords on your guitar while Glenn (your best friend) was arguing with the sound guy for not paying attention to something. You were murmuring a Nirvana song until you saw the guys from Arrows approaching you. It had been many years since you last saw them.

The drummer of the band walked up to you and offered his hand. He told you he liked the way you played a particular chord.

Daryl was wearing a vest with wings on the back, sunglasses that covered his eyes, and he had the same rings on his fingers. You remembered what he had said to you the day you met, and you couldn’t help but move closer to him.

"Now we're headlining," you said, making him turn around and take off his glasses. His blue eyes burned you.

"Congrats," he said, looking into your eyes and then at your lips. It was so subtle you didn’t know if it was just in your head or if he really did it.

"Daryl!" the guitarist of his band called out to him, and he turned his back on you again. His indifference hit you like an arrow.

"I'm havin’ problems with my wife, man," he confessed loudly enough for everyone to hear. “She saw some pics of me with another girl, and she's freakin' out. I gotta get home and sort it out.”

You shared a laugh with your best friend, who had grown tired of tormenting the sound guy.

"Don’t fuck with me, man," Daryl said, clearly frustrated, as he fixed his clear gaze on him. "We gotta perform in front of over fifty thousand people."

Glenn took a few steps forward and approached Daryl, placing his hand on his shoulder. You didn’t understand why he did it until he opened his impertinent mouth.

“My guitarist can help y’all out,” he said with conviction, and you felt your blood rush to your face. You kept your cool, lifted your chin, and crossed your arms.

“Why would I do that?” you asked, feeling Daryl's gaze slide over your body—your tense neck, your muscular arms crossed against each other, and your makeup that only deepened your features.

Your best friend didn’t expect your answer; he knew you were always there to lend a hand. He frowned and let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“You know their songs,” he pitched, making your heart start to pound. Daryl was surprised by this revelation; he didn’t expect you to know his songs. He placed a cigarette between his lips and looked at you.

“Ya don’t gotta do it, it’s no big deal,” Daryl murmured without giving it much importance.

You clenched your teeth and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “There’s a whole mess of folks waitin' on us.”

Daryl smiled, and you felt something deep in your heart. He was still your rival, but he burned you as much as a lover.

You let your bony fingers caress the strings of your guitar with expert technique as you played the opening chords of Metallica’s “Until It Sleeps.” Nothing else existed in this world but you and your instrument. You allowed the melody to seduce you and transport you to a new realm. You knew the lyrics so well that your lips moved almost instinctively. You lifted your smoky-eyed gaze and saw Daryl drinking a beer while watching you.

You continued playing, and Daryl took the opportunity to lose himself in the way your fingers moved, the grace with which you strummed the strings, and your feet keeping the beat. He found himself staring at the blackness that clouded your eyelids and the way you parted your lips every time the chorus came around.

He hated with all his soul that he couldn’t admit how amazing you were.

He hated with all his heart how you made it even more perfect.

He wanted to move closer to you and sing along.

He wanted so many things that he just stayed there, finishing his beer.

An up-and-coming band finished their set, and it was Arrows’ turn. You shot Glenn a death glare, and he just winked at you. You had no idea what that was about. You sighed and stepped onto the stage. The applause was so deafening it almost left you without hearing. Your anxiety turned into something almost surreal. Daryl kept his eyes locked on you and the guitar hanging from your shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked, and you nodded.

You were in sync with the band; you started right on cue and ended almost perfectly. Everyone supported you and trusted your technique, which made you shine on stage. But everything began to unravel when you heard his voice. His voice sank into your bones and made you feel so many things you couldn’t even name. You watched his hair, the way his body moved while he added his voice to your music, and your whole world seemed to tremble. Sometimes you had to play the strings harder just to remind yourself that you were there. Playing with him.

Daryl’s grayish eyes were locked on you during the solos. He parted his lips and smiled. You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or genuinely impressed.

When you thought the show was over, you took a moment to look at the thousands of people. They were pumped up, going wild for Dixon. Everything was going just as you expected until Daryl signaled his bassist and started playing a song. You gripped your instrument and swallowed hard. That song wasn’t on the setlist you’d been given.

That song was your favorite, but you’d buried it in the “forced forgetfulness” drawer after what happened with Daryl at the bar.

The idiot had released it a few months after you met. The song was about a night with a girl in a nightclub. She’d done her eyes up with dark makeup and had a tough attitude. The lyrics described how her hands touched him like guitar strings and how she straddled him, moving as if she were the star of a movie. It was about a girl he wanted but couldn’t truly have, because after their one night together, he knew they both belonged to the same sky, but at different points.

Click.

You looked at your hands on the guitar and remembered your own face. You heard every lyric, how it described her shining. You thought you were dreaming until he gave you a look that made you forget how to breathe.

You’re such an idiot, Daryl Dixon.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded as you barged into Dixon’s dressing room. You had a few minutes before it was your band’s turn.

Daryl was checking himself out in the mirror, and you were right behind him. You were wound up, your heart racing, and you couldn’t believe what had just happened—even if half of it was probably just in your head. He was your rival; you’d spent half your careers making each other’s lives miserable, trying to one-up each other. It wasn’t fair that, when you finally shared the stage with him, he sang that song.

“What?” he asked calmly, fiddling with his rings.

“Uh…” You swallowed and hesitated. No, it didn’t make sense to say what you wanted. ““You sang a song without tellin’ me. Y’all should’ve—”

Daryl unbuttoned his vest because it was sweltering in the room. You noticed his chest and a new tattoo on his abdomen. He scratched the back of his neck with a fake hint of embarrassment and gave a small laugh.

“Yeah, we shoulda told ya ‘bout that song,” he said, moving closer to you as if drawn by some invisible force. “What’s the deal? You don’t like it? If it makes ya feel any better, you played it real good.”

His condescension got under your skin, and you closed the gap until you were almost touching. You were fuming and couldn’t figure out why. Maybe you were still mad because Glenn had pushed you onto that stage with him. His eyes locked onto yours, and he raised his chin, challenging you to keep eye contact. His body was close, almost naturally dominating. In this game, no one was going to win.

“Who’s the song about?” you whispered near his lips. “Who is she?”

You pressed your lips to his, lingering to steal his breath. He tasted like alcohol and weed. Daryl froze. Maybe you’d made a huge mistake. You cleared your throat, shook your head, and started for the door.

Before you could leave, Daryl pushed you against the wall. The shove was unexpected, rough, and bold. You locked eyes, and before you knew what was happening, his lips were on yours. The kiss was fierce and hungry. His hand, covered in metal, wrapped around your neck and you let out a moan. His tongue danced with yours, and you both nearly lost your breath.

All your heat gathered in one part of your body, and you pressed your hips against him, making sure he felt you.

“Since I’ve known ya, all my songs’ve been ‘bout you,” he admitted, pulling away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still wet from you.

Your chest heaved as you looked at him.

Glenn knocked on the door and said it was almost time.

“I didn't like your song,” you confessed, holding his gaze.

Daryl turned around. You saw him laughing thanks to his reflection in the mirror.

“Maybe I’ll like it when you write about something real,” you said, making his mood shift completely.

He sat down on the couch, spreading his legs slightly, and you felt a rush of heat. He softly touched his thigh with his hand.

“Give me a reason then,” he murmured, drawing out the words.

“I’m sorry, but I have to keep being a star, Daryl Dixon,” you said firmly, walking away.

There’s a reason why there are stars in the sky. They’re meant for someone to look at in the dark.

[donteattheappleshook]

(not so) young, drunk and alone 1/1

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else. Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

(We'll give this a light M)

Oh hey, it's me, neglecting all the WIPs for something new.

This fic is a little birthday present to myself. It's completely ferral and I had very little control over it but I listened to Dial Drunk on repeat for 3 days and then this happened. This fic is unbetaed but thank you @the-darkdragonfly for answering all my texts and rambling calls while I was writing it!

A Silver hook story because apparently everything I write is now...

Read it on Ao3 (where my italics work)

******

(not so) young, drunk and alone

She shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that. Not with a smirk caught between her teeth in a way that makes his throat dry and his pulse race. Not with the barely restrained promise of a laugh he’s sure would come out in different company that makes his face burn and and his eyes unable to meet hers. He can’t look at her when she looks like that, and she’s looking at him like that, and he looks - he assumes not great. 

So he focuses on the floor instead. The floor is safe. The floor doesn’t stir up conflicting and confusing feelings he’s managed to ignore for the better part of a year. The floor doesn’t make him question every terrible decision he’s made in his life that led him to this exact moment. The floor is… moving. It’s not supposed to do that. Although that’s likely the booze, he rationalizes. But the floor isn’t interested in being rational so Killian lets his forehead fall against the bars he’s already holding onto in an attempt to stay upright. The bars are nice, they’re cool and solid and it slows the spinning in his head a fraction.

“Big night?”

He takes a full ten seconds, counted slowly, and a few deep breaths before raising his head again and facing that smirk. It doesn’t help. The absolute delight in her eyes delivers the same gut-punch it always does - even if it’s at his expense - and the soft blonde curls that have fallen from her probably hastily pulled up bun make him ache to reach out and brush them away from her face just so he can feel the strands between his fingers. 

He shouldn’t have called her. He knew it was a mistake when he did it. He should have just let the sheriff keep him in this bloody cell. It’s not as if he hadn’t slept it off a night or two in another cell in another town throughout his youth. But he’s not so youthful now and the sight of the cold, hard bench, the thought of his aching back and the copious amounts of rum still coursing through his blood had been enough to send him over the edge into madness apparently. So he’d pressed the blurry little “absolutely not” in his contacts and called the only person he knew in this whole bloody city.

“Swaann.” He attempts a smile but it turns into a wince as he manages to slur the single word. When he works up to meeting her eyes again - so green, like the sea glass he used to collect on the beach when he was a boy and that takes his breath away every time - there’s a bit of pity mixed in with the amusement. 

He feels pretty pitiful. Forty-five and so stumbling drunk that he’d been tossed out of the pub and into a police car, only to be forced to face the one person he’d hoped the rum would chase from his mind. He’s too old to be acting like this. Even with his wits sloshing around in the drink he’d tried to drown them with he knows he’s too old to be acting like this. When you’re young, it’s funny, an anecdote for another time - spending the night in the drunk tank. When you’re his age, it’s just pathetic. 

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Her voice is sweet, with a laugh still hiding somewhere behind it, and it’s the first sound since he was brought here that hasn’t made his head feel like it was being scratched at from the inside. 

“You shouldn’t’ve come here. S’the middle of the night,” he tells her. She doesn’t belong in this sad little room in this sad little jail with the lightbulb that keeps flickering in and out. Still, he can’t stop the stupid smile that finds residence on his face whenever she’s near - because she is here. She came to get him. 

Emma raises a brow in a way he thinks she may have picked up from him. “You called me three times.”

He blinks. Fuck. He doesn’t remember that. He looks at the sheriff waiting a little ways back who nods in confirmation, giving Killian his own pitying wince like he tried to stop him. Killian sighs. “‘Mm usually much more charming.” 

She rolls her eyes but smirks again as the sheriff slides a key into the ancient looking lock. “Yeah, I know. Come on, Graham’s going to let you off with a warning -” 

He nearly falls flat on his face when the door he’d been leaning against swings open. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay with him, Em?” 

Oh great, they know each other. He’d be more annoyed at her cozy relationship with the unreasonably attractive sheriff if he wasn’t a little bit grateful to the man who caught him and is still holding him up now. If he can just get his legs to go back under him where they belong… 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

Killian feels himself being passed from the man who smells strikingly of the forest, to the woman with the irreplicable scent of honey and drugstore soap that overwhelms him with the memory of every time he’s had his mouth or his hand on her skin. The fingers of his one remaining hand burn with the urge to feel her under them again so he balls them into a fist as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. “What about you?” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s who the question is directed at. “You going to be okay to walk out of here?”

Sheer determination not to make an even greater fool of himself than he already has in front of Emma Swan is the only thing he can attribute to both not falling right over with the nod of his head, and the steadiness of his first step as she leads him out the door. 

He stumbles three times between the building and her car. She catches him every time with a hand on his chest, her head turning so that her hair brushes his cheek and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t do it on purpose after the first time - though he can’t really trust his own thoughts at this point since they have to be yelled at him through an ocean of rum. 

“It’s your bug!” he beams at the old, yellow car. “I love your bug.”

“You hate my bug.” 

Oh, right. He does hate the car that broke down every other time they drove to his hotel in the middle of the night, the one that had broken down the night they met. ‘I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just my car is literally on the side of the road right now and the tow won’t come for another hour at least and there’s… smoke.’ 

It had been an interesting night, getting an Uber in a strange city to go pick up a stranded woman from a dating app who'd been on her way to his hotel for anonymous sex - a woman he found out had lied about her age when she pointed out that the 1993 beetle was older than she was. ‘I didn’t think you’d swipe right if you knew there was a whole high school senior between us.’ ‘Anything else I should know about?’ he’d teased when they were back at his hotel room where she’d managed to get him out of his shirt with impressive speed. ‘Is Anna even your real name?’ ‘Uhhh, about that…’

She leans him up against the aggressive yellow of the door as she fishes in her pockets for her key. Her cheeks have gone red from the cold and it reminds him of the flush that would sometimes come over her skin if he found the right words or the right touch. 

“You’re so lovely.” His thumb is tracing over her cheek though he doesn’t remember raising his hand or reaching for her. 

She snorts. “Yeah, okay, Jones. So not gonna happen tonight, but nice try.” This time her smirk is wicked and if he had any real control over his body or his brain he would kiss it right off her smug mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything!” he swears, prosthetic on his heart as she unlocks the passenger side door. “I’m just grateful you came all the way out here to rescue me. My knight in awful yellow armour.” He gasps. She rescued him from a dungeon. “Bloody hell, Swan -” He speaks slowly, managing to get almost every word out coherently. “I’m the princess.”

He’s waiting for her to come to the same mind-blowing realization as he has, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Get in the car, your highness.” 

It takes an impressive amount of self-control for him to sit still and keep his hand to himself despite his racing heart and thoughts as she leans over to help him secure his seatbelt. Because he’s not supposed to have those thoughts. And his idiot heart can keep its cruel reminders to itself. He shouldn’t have called her. He hasn’t called her - not in months. Not since he realized his mistake and knew this thing between them had to come to an end. 

He’s missed her so bloody much. 

“Killian.” She’s beside him now in the driver’s seat and saying his name like it’s not the first time she’s asked him this question. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I…” Shit. He knows this. He’s got this. Think. There was a hotel. A big hotel with really good room service. Maybe they could go there and he could buy her room service. She always liked that. ‘Listen, I know I came over here for sex and that was great and everything, but there’s a freaking lobster grilled cheese on this menu so do you think I could be here for sex and room service tonight?’ She’d looked at him with that same wicked, eager smile and he was already reaching across her for the phone. ‘I feel like I should be concerned that you seem more turned on by this sandwich than you did by anything else tonight.’ ‘Well, it’ll probably take them a little while to deliver it if you want another go at out-seducing bread and cheese.’

“A hotel,” he tells her finally. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which hotel, Killian? Which hotel am I driving you to?”

“Oh.” He knows this one! “Mine.” 

She sighs, forehead falling against the steering wheel for a long moment. He waits, not sure what he did wrong but positive that he did something. “Okay,” she says, sitting up and starting the car. “It’s late. You can sleep it off on my couch for tonight and I’ll drive you back in the morning when you’re less… wasted.” 

She sounds frustrated and he thinks it might be his fault. He looks at her carefully as she turns out of the parking lot, really looks at her for the first time since she walked back into his life a moment ago. Holding his breath against the eyes and hair and skin that always try to steal it away, he takes note of her messy hair, the lack of any makeup, the grey sweats he knows she likes to sleep in. He looks at the clock next, the late - or rather early - hour shining angry, bright and orange. He can figure this out. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s an idiot. She glances at him before turning back to the dark highway ahead of them.” “I shouldn’t have called you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not.” He hangs his head, hoping he looks sincere and not just as pathetically pissed as he is. “I woke you up.” 

“Really, Killian, it’s fine. I was just going to bed.” He looks at the clock again and he envies her youth not for the first time since meeting her. He supposes he’s up this late as well, but that wasn’t by choice. That was the rum’s decision. The rum always makes bad decisions. 

“But it’s cold.” She must be cold. She’s always cold and he made her go outside. She hates outside. She probably hates him now. ‘Listen, I’m all for this whole hooking up when you’re in town no strings thing.’ She waved a hand in his general direction. ‘Big fan of everything you’ve got going on here. But it’s cold as balls outside, so from now on you can come to mine and I can stay inside where it’s warm, or I’ll see you in the spring.’ 

The smirking curl of her mouth tugs at her cheek but he doesn’t reach for it again. “Yeah, it’s November.” 

November. The last time he saw her it had been the dead of summer, both of them hot and sticky and barely dressed, stretched out in front of the single standing fan by the bed in her little apartment with no bloody air conditioning. 

He misses that apartment. Misses being there with her and letting her make him boxed mac and cheese while he complained about her eating habits. Misses the ridiculous sheets with little Millennium Falcons on them that she’d found when he was running late to meet her that one time. He’d made her wash them before putting them on her bed - ‘fine, mom’ - and then listened to her make Star Wars puns from between her thighs until they tightened so hard against his ears he couldn’t hear anything at all. 

And he misses the way she would smile at him when she opened the door, just before she dragged him inside, asking about his flight between heated kisses and frustrated hands. ‘I hate your stupid ties’. 

He’s a bloody idiot and he should have never stopped calling. Or he should have stopped calling a long time ago, before there was anything to miss. They had a good thing going, an understanding, no strings. He’d reach out when he was in town for work and they would meet for one or however many nights he was staying. No expectations or dates or sleepovers, none of the complicated stuff. And he’d screwed it up.

His feet slip dangerously against the icy ground - at least he’s pretty sure there’s ice, or the ground isn’t staying still again - as Emma practically hoists him out of the car. “You remember the stairs right?” she asks, ducking under his arm again to steady him. She fits well there with her arm wrapped around his waist. 

He hadn’t remembered the stairs. Though he should have, he’d complained about them enough times. ‘What’s so wrong with an apartment with an elevator?’ ‘Aw, can your old knees not handle it?’ He’d caught her as she bolted up the last few flights at his glare, laughing the whole way, and he’d spent enough time on his ‘old knees’ to make her take it back. This time, he’s not so sure he can handle it as he looks up at the rotating stairs that seem unable to settle on a height. 

“It’s either that or you’re sleeping in the lobby, Jones.” 

He considers it. “Is that David guy still your landlord?” The one who was particularly hostile to the man in his forties coming over at random hours of the night to visit his twenty-eight year old tenant. ‘Give him a break, he still thinks I’m the sixteen year old kid he illegally rented to when I first moved here.’ 

In fairness, Killian would probably judge himself too if he were in the landlord's shoes. He has judged himself many times for becoming a stereotype of Dicaprio-sized proportions. But the alternative would have been resisting Emma Swan, something he’s incapable of doing - or at least had been until that morning he ruined everything. 

“Okay.” The stairs are still moving.

“Hold on.” She takes out her phones - there’s definitely two of them - and holds them in front of his face. “I just want to get you on camera saying that I’m not liable if you fall down these stairs and break your neck.” 

“Is that really necessary?” He got that whole sentence out in one try. 

“I know you have a lawyer.” ‘You have a what? Wow, I knew you were older but I didn’t know you were like, old old.’ ‘I don’t think it counts if you’ve stolen from parent’s liquor cabinet.’ 

“Fine. Don’t sue Emma if I die. She’s very nice and doesn’t have any money anyway.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’ll never hold up in court.” 

“That would be way more convincing if you could pronounce all your consonants.” 

The climb takes twice as long as it should and he’s forced to stop once when he makes the mistake of looking down and his stomach rolls violently. ‘I swear to god if you puke in my hallway I’ll leave you here to sleep in it.’

“I don’t remember there being this many floors.”

“It’s four floors. You’ve done two.” 

He might die.

He doesn’t die, but just barely, and when Emma leads him through the door and into the studio, she practically drops him onto the old couch. It’s not her fault; he’d made himself very droppable in the last few minutes. At least he landed on the couch and not the collection of wooden crates she’s glued together next to it. ‘That’s not a coffee table, Swan.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that or is that not your coffee cup on it right now?’

He doesn’t see her for a few minutes, his head too heavy to lift, but he can hear her moving around the apartment and he can picture her, walking through the kitchen on her toes. ‘It’s not weird, shut up.’ ‘I just thought you’d like to know that most people use their whole foot.’ 

When she finally comes back, he forces his eyes open, unsure who exactly glued them shut or how they did it without him noticing. Fuck she’s beautiful. Even through the boozy marinade he’s made of his head he can see that, and he wants to tell her. He could. He could blame it on the rum. But that would be a bad idea. Complicating things between them would be a bad idea. They’d already gotten complicated enough. God, he’s such a fuck up. Things were good, they could have stayed good. He just had to go and ruin a good thing with his stupid, greedy heart. 

“Here.” Two little pills and a frighteningly large bottle of water are set down in front of him. He’s not sure what the pills are but he’s also pretty sure she wouldn’t try to poison him even if he is an asshole who called her in the middle of the night after ghosting her for months. Pretty sure. The water sounds like a good idea. 

“Have you eaten anything or did you have rum for dinner?” 

“There were peanuts at the bar,” he tells her after guzzling down enough water to drown himself with. She shakes her head and walks out of his line of sight again. This time she comes back with a bag of crisps and he thinks maybe she doesn’t hate him as much as he thought because they’re the kind he likes most. 

“Eat that, drink that, and take those,” she orders, pointing to each with a stern look. “And then lie down on your side so I know you won’t choke to death in the night, and get some sleep.” 

“Yes ‘mam,” he salutes.

“Don’t get cute with me.” He wasn’t trying to be cute. But it makes him unreasonably happy that she thinks he is. She rolls her eyes at his probably once again dumb smile and repeats, “eat,” before disappearing where he can’t see her again. 

When she comes back this time her hair is down, falling over the shoulders of her oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt she’s apparently had since she was twelve, and he wants to whine or cry at how desperately he wishes he could reach for her and what an idiot he is for being the reason he can’t. She’s carrying an empty garbage can, a blanket draped over one arm. 

“Do not puke on my rug. It’s the only new thing in this whole apartment and I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” 

Killian leans over from where he’s stretched out on the couch that’s too small for him, running his fingers over the blue and white pattern and nods. “It’s lovely, very soft.” 

She’s silent for long enough that he looks up again, only to find her with her lips pressed so hard together against a laugh that he can see her chest lurch with the force of containing it. He frowns, looking from her to the rug and back again before realizing that he’s been stroking the rug with his prosthetic hand. 

“Emma… I might be drunker than I thought.” 

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and horrible and obnoxious and it’s the best sound he’s heard in a long time. He’s missed that sound, the one that had shocked him so completely the first time he heard it that they’d both ended up on the floor, stomachs hurting and eyes tearing, neither able to remember what had set her off in the first place and unable to stop giggling like teenagers. 

“Aw, babe,” Emma crouches down in front of him with a pitying look before beginning to work the straps of his false hand loose. Her hand settles soft against his cheek once it’s free, smirk still lingering on the corner of her lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been as drunk as you are right now.” 

Her face is so close to his that his heart forgets how it’s meant to work, stopping and racing of its own accord. He wishes she would close the distance, that he could feel her mouth against his for the first time in months, or that she’d simply stay here with him for the rest of the night because the distance and the silence between them has been more than he can take. He doesn't know how he ever convinced himself that staying away would eventually make the ache for her fade. 

She smiles at him again, giving his cheek an affectionate pat before draping the blanket over him, the soft one he knows had been her prized possession before the rug. “Get some sleep, Killian. I don’t think anyone’s ever been as hungover as you’re going to be tomorrow either.” 

He’s not sure whether or not the way his fingers close around hers before she can pull away was his idea or the rum’s, but she’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something and he doesn’t know what he was going to say or what he was thinking. He just knows that he missed her and he screwed it up - and then he screwed it up again, possibly beyond repair the second time. 

Being in this city that he managed to avoid for months in the hopes that he could forget about her has been one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. To think he really believed that he could live here, that he could take the job that was offered and not be haunted by her every waking moment, not dread and hope to see her around every corner. 

Being naive enough to think he could ignore the draw of her is how he ended up in that bar tonight. He’d tried to figure out how many shots of rum it would take to make him forget that he loves Emma Swan, but it seems there isn’t enough rum in the world for that - or at least not enough in that bar. 

She’s still looking at him and he wishes she wasn’t watching him with a hesitation and a carefulness that hadn’t been there before. It had always been so easy between them; he’d never felt less self-conscious with another person in his life and now it’s all consuming. She’s lost the carefree warmth he used to see in her eyes, like he took it with him when he left that morning and didn’t come back. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment in her sigh. “I already told you, it’s fine.”

He shakes his head. “Not for calling you tonight. For not calling you. Every other night. I’ve been an ass and I’ve been a coward. You didn’t deserve that.” By the grace of whatever gods might be listening to his poor apology, he doesn’t slur a single word.

Her pause is long enough that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he can’t read her expression through the haze of booze and exhaustion swimming around in his head. He should let go of her hand, but he’s painfully aware that this could be the last time he gets to touch her and she’s not pulling away. 

She sighs again. “Why don’t we talk about this when you’re feeling better?” 

He lets go. “Aye, Swan, whatever you want.” 

She walks away. Beyond repair then. 

***

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else.”

Killian jumps, heart pounding. He feels like he’s woken from a coma, body so heavy with sleep that parts of it aren't responding to him and never having been more confused than he is in these first few moments. It’s daytime, but it’s not morning, the light is too dim, and he’s asleep but not in his bed or in his hotel room, on a couch he recognizes but can’t really place. He has a vague recollection of things that may or may not have happened while he lay here; the sound of someone moving around the room, someone saying his name, a door shutting, an angry car somewhere far off and the bark of a dog somewhere close, the sound of keys and the strange sensation someone poking him in the face - hard. 

All of it feels like a fever dream now as he looks towards the tinny sound of the belligerent man’s voice coming from the phone in her hand.Oh no. Oh god what the hell had he done last night? He recognizes the room, the soft blanket he’s under, the long legs clad in grey sweatpants perched on the table in front of him. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to look at her.

“Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

If you’d like to save this message, press - there's a loud beep before another message begins to play. Bloody hell. He remembers the pub, and the cop - sort of - and he remembers that little line on his phone screen. ‘Absolutely not’. From the looks of it, he absolutely did. 

“Heey, isme again. I don’t think I told you where I am. Is’not great, Swan. They put me in the jail.”

He winces, sitting up carefully, head still light and disoriented. “Did I…”

“Mhm.” 

Another wince. “Are they all-”

“Oh yeah.”

“‘M not even that drunk. The sherfs just got a commpelex or something.”

“Swan, we really don’t have to -”

“Shh, this is my favourite part.” 

Killian hangs his head. “I - Oy, I’m on the phone, sherirff! Don’ they teach you manners at cop school? The cops in your city are rude, Swan. Hey! No - iss my phone. I can call whoever I want.” There’s a shuffling sound that stirs up a faint memory of trying to back deeper into the cell, then a small shout and he remembers why his ass hurts and that he’s probably got a bruise on his hip the size of the one on his ego. Emma has her lip caught between her teeth again, flashing him the same look she had when she arrived at the station. 

“Hello? Swan? Oh, right. Yur prolly asleep. You should be asleep, that’s good. I jus’ called ‘cus I…” For a blissful minute he thinks he might have had the sense to hang up, the silence on the other end dragging on and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then the message rings out again. “I can't remember why I called you. I think somethin’ made me think of you.” His voice gets softer and so does her expression for just a moment. 

“That happens a lot. I been thinking ‘bout you a lot, all the time, really. And not just in a sexy way and not just yer face.” Killian hangs his head. “Even though I’m a fan of your face. And all your other parts too.” 

He wishes he could just perish right here and now, wishes the dull ache in his head would become an aneurysm and take him out without a fuss. 

“I been thinking about those ridic’lus tiktoks you used to send me and when I was in meetings ‘n I jus’ wanted to be with you. I don’t know anything about Taylor Swift anymore, Swan - I don’t know how to find those myself.” There’s another pause but he knows better than to hope this is over, much of this coming back to him now in mortifying waves. 

“I’ve too many shirts in my closet now - It’s so many shirts. I always brought extra ‘cause I knew you’d steal ‘em an’ then you’d walk ‘round your kitchen in ‘em with no pants like yur a sexy Winnie the Pooh or somethn’ and I had to watch you climb yur counters while I had a heartattack  ‘cuz you wouldn’ jus’ let me get things off the top shelf for you. Bloody stubborn.” There’s a sigh over the machine. “I don’t want this many shirts, Swan…

‘Anyway I - What? Who does? Sorry, Swan the sherf is being rude again. He wants to know if yur picking me up. Are you picking me up?” There’s so much hope in his past self’s voice that he almost feels bad for him. But he also knows what a bloody idiot that man is and it’s hard to feel anything but the overwhelming urge to disappear into this couch and not have to listen to any more of his drunken rambling. “That would be nice. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. Gnight, love.”

To delete this message press - She hits a button. Message saved.

Killian braces himself for the next one. Gods, how many of them are there? But this time it’s not his voice that comes out over the speakerphone, it’s another man, Irish and vaguely familiar through the sleep and the unfortunately returning memories. 

“Hey, Emma, it’s Graham.” Killian’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of another man calling her in the middle of the night. Of course she wouldn’t have sat around pining like he did, not for a man who treated her as carelessly as he had. Of course - “Listen, I don’t know who this guy is but he says he knows you. I thought maybe he was one of your clients but when I asked him how he knows you he just asked me if I’ve ever been in love...”

The brow Emma raises at him is equal parts question, challenge and amusement and he feels the blood rush from his face. Fuck. He wonders whether four floors would be high enough for him to end this misery if he just went out the window. 

“Anyway, just let me know if this is another Walsh situation and I’ll make sure he stays in here, alright? Goodnight, love.” Killian can’t even begrudge the man or the endearment he adds to the end of his message when he’s only looking out for her. Probably a good thing she has someone to keep old, drunk dickheads away from her. 

He hears another beep of her mailbox and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “Hi, love, ‘m sorry for calling so much. I know I made too many ms’takes to be ‘loud to say this, but… I miss you, Swan… And I’d jus’ really like to see you again.”

End of messages. To - 

Emma shuts the phone off, setting it down next to her on the coffee table. She tilts her head to see his face which he’s currently trying to bury in his hands. “Sounds like you had quite the night.” 

“I thought I’d be more hungover.” His head hurts and he’s tired and his mouth is dry but he expected to be near death after the way he threw them back last night.

“It’s four in the afternoon.” Oh. He does the math of how long she’d let him sleep in her apartment after everything he’s done - after she picked him up. 

“At one point I had to make sure you were alive. But I figured if you were able to leave such eloquent voicemails last night that you probably weren’t in danger of alcohol poisoning.”

“Swan, I…” He’s fully aware that he deserves her mocking but he’s too humiliated to even begin to try and explain his behaviour last night. How can he without explaining everything right down to that morning in July where he messed up the best thing in his life.

She takes pity on him, giving a small shrug. “Forget about it. Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re hammered. Everyone calls people they know they shouldn’t.”

“No, Emma -” He finally lifts his head to look at her. “That wasn’t…” He needs her to know that wasn’t what this was, she wasn’t just some drunk dial in the middle of the night. He thinks of how many times in the last three three months he’s looked at that contact in his phone, her name replaced with a reminder that he should not and absolutely could not go there. She mistakes his hesitation. 

“You okay?”

“No.” He needs to talk to her, to apologize and beg her forgiveness. But he can’t find the words in his tired, muddled head to tell her without telling her everything. “I’m a bloody idiot.” 

Emma smirks. “Yeah, we established that last night - a bunch of times.” 

“I mean it. It wasn’t -” He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and avoid looking at her. “I didn’t just call you because I was drunk. I’ve wanted to call you. For months. Last night just gave me an excuse.”

“You needed an excuse to call me?” 

He sighs. “I was coward enough to convince myself I did.” 

When he finally forces himself to face her, he finds her watching her phone, fingers wrung in her lap and lips pressed together tightly the way they always are before she asks something that’s answer matters to her. 

“How much of last night do you actually remember?” 

“Most of it, I think.” It’s been coming back to him in increasingly horrifying details since she played that first voicemail.

“You said a lot of stupid stuff.” 

“I know.” 

“How much of all of that was true?”

“All of it.”

She raises a brow. “All of it?”

“Aye.”

“Sexy Winnie the Pooh?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I stand by what I said.”

He wonders which parts of what he said she’s focusing on as her silence stretches between them, heartbroken when he sees a little wall go up. This is why he stopped calling. He knew this would happen. 

“It’s fine. It’s not like you owed me anything. We weren’t -”

“Don’t do that.” His hand reaches out for her, fingers playing carefully with the fabric of her too-big sweatpants. “We may not have been in a relationship but we weren’t nothing.” He won’t let her excuse his behaviour, not after they spent over a year in each others’ lives only for him to disappear from hers. “I shouldn’t have acted like we were.” 

“So then why did you stop calling?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever heard her sound even though she hides it well and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “I liked what we had going. I liked spending time with you.”

“Aye, so did I.” Too much. 

“I guess I thought - I guess I thought we were friends at least.” 

“We were.” His fingers dance along her calf through the fabric he can’t stop fiddling with and he feels the muscle tense but she doesn’t pull away from him. 

“So then what gives?” The anger in her voice makes his gaze snap up to hers. Finally. He’s been waiting for her to be angry with him, she deserves to be angry and he deserves it too. It gives him that small flicker of hope he’d been unable to find until now, a hope that if she’s angry, it’s because she cared enough to be hurt. “Why did you just…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. Disappear. 

“Because I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“Do what? Hook up? Jesus, Killian, I’m a big girl. You didn’t have to run away because you were over the benefits part of this friendship.” 

“I wasn’t. I left because I broke our rules.” 

“What rules?” 

The ones they’d so carefully established when they decided to continue this arrangement beyond the first and second time he saw her. The ones that were meant to keep either of them from getting hurt like they both were now. 

“The last time I was here, we fell asleep and woke up in the morning still in your bed and I…”

“That’s why you freaked out? Because you accidentally slept over? That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?” He can hear the disbelief in her voice and also the relief but he’s not done. “It wasn’t like a hard and fast rule -”

His fingers curl around the back of her knee, squeezing as he draws her attention. “That’s not why.” He traces his thumb over the fabric covering her shin and he knows he has to tell her because he can’t do this anymore without telling her and he can’t go back to how things were. 

And he thinks that just maybe, she’ll want to hear it. Because as small and insignificant as it may seem, those aren’t her sweatpants, they’re his, lent - stolen - after a rather frantic afternoon in his hotel room six months ago where he may have torn her skirt in his haste to get it off. ‘You need better quality clothes, love.’ ‘Is this you finally offering to be my sugar daddy?’ They have his bloody initials on them - a strange gift from his lawyer friend. And she hasn’t gotten rid of them, didn’t toss them away when he did the same to her. She still sleeps in them. 

“I freaked out because I liked waking up with you, and I started thinking that I’d like to wake up with you every morning.” He’d been hot and sweaty and sore from sleeping on her old mattress but he’d looked down at the woman wrapped around him despite the stifling heat, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hair in his mouth and he knew that he wanted this, wanted her, maybe forever. He hears her small intake of breath, his thumb still stroking her skin though the fabric as though it’ll give him the strength he needs. “And I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since…” He can’t finish and so she does for him. 

“Milah?” 

“Aye.” His reason for never wanting anything more, love lost in the same instant that cost him a piece of himself. He’d told Emma about her, one night when they’d lingered a little too long entangled in the aftermath. He didn’t know the details of her reason, only that she’d been far too young and that he’d hurt her deeply enough to make her wary of anyone who claimed love or devotion. 

“I hoped that if I stayed away for a little while that it would fade away and that we could go back to how things were because I knew that if I told you I would lose you. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed you and the more I wanted you and I realized it wasn’t going to go away - because I loved you.” 

Killian watches her for a reaction as he tells her the truth he’d been hiding from her for months and from himself for far longer, but she remains unreadable, fingers still wringing nervously in her lap, breathing a little shaky. But there’s no abject terror in her gaze as she waits for him to finish.

“And by then I’d avoided you for too long and it was too late to tell you or try to go back to how things were and I lost you anyway. Then I managed to convince myself that it was for the best because this wasn’t what you wanted and you deserved better anyway.” Better than an old widower with a used up heart who’d run the moment things became real. “But I thought you had the right to know that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you. I left because I cared too much.” 

Fabric slips from his hand as she stands, circling the coffee table and leaving him feeling untethered without her and with a barrier set between them. He focuses on the rug, her reaction expected but no less painful, as she paces the length of her glued together crates a few times. 

“Okay two things.” Her tone snaps his gaze up to where she moves anxiously and restlessly in the small space. “First of all, that’s the last time you make a decision for me.” He hadn’t expected this reaction. “I don’t need anyone to decide what I do or don’t deserve or what I can or can’t handle. If you want to know what I want, you ask me. You talk to me like the grownup you keep pretending that you are.” That one hurts but he nods. It’s all rightly earned. 

“You’re right.” 

“Good.” She stops, shoulders squared as she faces him from across the table. “Second.” He waits, the anger from before no longer sustaining her as he sees the wall she hides behind slip just a little. “You said you loved me.”

He’s not sure what answer she wants, but he gives her the truth. “I love you, Swan.” Try as hard as he did not to, he knows it’s not going away. And he’s not willing to attempt another eight shots of rum a second time to make sure. 

She nods. He waits, or she waits, he’s not sure who’s supposed to speak here only that he needs to know how she feels and he’ll wait as long as he needs to. 

“Well? Are you going to ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” He’d give her whatever she asked for at this point as he watches her bite her lip and definitely doesn’t wish he was the one biting it.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Fair enough. 

“Look, I get running away from feelings - I’m very familiar with the concept. But the way you did it was really shitty and -” Her voice goes quiet, arms wrapping around herself in a move so full of self-preservation that it breaks his heart a little. “It hurt, okay?”

Her words, thick with betrayal and rejection, pierce sharp through his chest, painful and deserved as she avoids his gaze as determinantly as he’d avoided hers. God, he’s an ass. He’d pieced together enough about her past from the small glimpses she’d given him late on those nights where they were still tangled naked in her sheets and the dark lent them the boldness to be vulnerable to know that she’d been left before. 

He joins her on her side of the table, reaching to touch the soft, golden waves that he’s spent months wishing he could tangle his fingers in again. “I’m sorry.” He pushes them behind her ear, thumb stroking over her cheek like her skin could break beneath his touch. 

When she looks up at him her eyes are red and wet he pulls her to him without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, Emma feeling fragile in his arms for the first time since he met her. She’s a force, his Swan, a tempest that could devour a thousand ships and it hurts to see her storms wane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, pressing a kiss to her temple as he brings a hand to stroke the hair at the base of her neck, feels her lean into him. “I’m sorry,” he speaks against her brow. “I’m so sorry, love.” His lips brush over the crown of her head and he feels her arms slip around his waist, holding tight to the back of his shirt. He holds her just as tightly, nose settling in the crook of her neck where he presses another kiss and whispers a thousand more apologies. “I’m an ass.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Her voice comes muffled from where her face is pressed against his collarbone and he laughs in relief to hear her tease him. He pulls back enough that she can lift her head to face him, eyes still red as he wipes at the dampness left on her cheeks. All he wants is to kiss her and spend the night and the next day and every day after that making this up to her, but he knows better than to push her.

Her hands slide from his back to his chest as she meets his gaze and takes a steadying breath. “I still don’t know what I want. You’re not the only one who’s bad at dealing with feelings and you just put some pretty big ones out there.”

“I know.” He doesn’t expect to hear the words back, not after three months of silence. But if she gives him the chance to stay and try to win her heart then he’ll spend forever earning back her trust. 

“But maybe, if you’re still in town for a bit, you could stay for dinner.” 

It takes everything he has to contain the ecstatic smile that wells up from his chest, afraid he’ll scare her off. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” He’s not leaving her again. Not unless she sends him away. 

***

“When do you go back?” she asks when they’re sat at the kitchen island. ‘What, exactly, do you have against real furniture? Especially tables. They seem particularly discriminated against.’ ‘Do you see any room in here for a twelve-piece dining set?’ He swallows the bite of the boxed mac and cheese she’d made him cook ‘Because I’m still pissed at you and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer through this.’ ‘Sadist. Can I at least add -’ ‘No.’  

Killian looks at his watch. “My flight was an hour ago.”

“What? You should have said -”

“And miss all the delicacies that Maine has to offer?” he asks, lifting his mismatched bowl. “It’s fine, Swan,” he adds when she looks genuinely concerned. “I’d rather be here.” He can get another flight at the last minute before he’s due back in New York on Monday. Getting his things back from the hotel, however, may be a tad more difficult. 

“That’s sweet and all but I think you’d also rather be employed.”

“Aye, well, I may not be employed there much longer anyhow.” 

Her eyes widen. “Oh god, don’t tell me you left them voicemails too.”

Killian snorts. “No, I’ve just… had another offer.” 

His heart pounds frantically as she asks, “where?” terrified that he’ll scare her off. 

“Here.” 

“Here?”

He nods. “I wasn’t going to take it, not after realizing how much I’d miss you if I was here. But, well, that was before I drank a full bar. And this town does have its benefits.” 

She gapes at him and he can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. “You’re not moving for me, right? You want the job? Because I told you I don’t know what I want or if I can even do… whatever this maybe is and I -” 

He reaches for her hand, calming the rambling that had started. “I do want the job, but of course I’m moving for you, Swan. And I know you’re not ready to decide anything, and I’m not asking you to. But whether you do or don’t decide that what you want is me, I’m going to be right here while you figure it out. I’m not going to leave you twice, Emma. I don’t want to miss you like that again.”

Emma just stares at him, mouth opening and then shutting with questions that don’t find voice and he sits, stewing in the worry that he said too much, asked for too much. He swallows as she jumps out of her seat, his turn to ramble now as she rounds the island.

“I mean, I will have to go home and get my things and resign but I -” 

“Shut up,” she tells him, hands sliding into his hair and mouth colliding with his. 

He’s more than happy to do exactly that, wasting no time in gathering her up in his arms and pulling her close, returning the kiss he’d missed so damn much all these months, missed the feel of her soft and warm against him like this, for the little sound she makes when his own hand tangles in her hair just hard enough that he can keep he there a little longer.  

“Wait,” he breathes and her hands pause where they’d been working the buttons of his shirt free. “Maybe we should slow down.” There’s a part of him screaming at his stupid mouth right now for the words falling out of it. “You said you don’t know if this is what you want. So maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”

She barks out a small laugh. “You’re moving to another city for a ‘maybe’ and you don’t want to rush things?” He doesn’t really have an answer for that. 

Her brow and mouth quirk up in one devastatingly attractive motion that has him ready to go back on everything he just said. “This was never our problem,” she reminds him, fingers tugging the buckle of his belt loose. “We’re good at this part. Everything else is where we get messy.” She works the button of his jeans open next. “So just try not to make any more big confessions while you’re inside me…” She runs her teeth over the skin below his ear as she slides her hand into his jeans and he nearly chokes. “And we should be fine.” 

“Bloody hell.” His rational self may judge him later, but his current self has Emma Swan with her hand around his cock trying to get him out of his clothes and he’s already established that he’s not a very smart man. “I promise.” 

***

It’s a strange feeling to be laying here, wrapped up in an old duvet and Star Wars sheets with Emma’s head on his shoulder and her fingers drawing patterns over his chest. They’ve never done this part, never lingered beyond the time it took them both to catch their breaths before untangling themselves from one another and going about their day - or tangling themselves again. He likes it, but it’s strange, new, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Not with anyone. 

“This is kind of weird right?” she asks, breath warm against his neck. 

Killian laughs. Bloody mind reader. 

“Aye, a bit. I think I’m out of practice.”

“I never practised in the first place.” 

He presses a kiss to her hair. “But, it’s not bad, right?” She can probably hear his stupid heart racing as he waits for her answer. 

“No,” she shakes her head, sliding her arm around his waist and fitting herself more snugly against his side. “It’s not bad.” He can feel her smile against his skin, glad she can’t see the absolutely ridiculous one stretched across his own. They lay there a little longer, the room darkening with the earlier and earlier nights as he begins to dread the fast approaching hour where he’ll have to leave, until Emma shifts. “My neck hurts.” 

“My arm’s asleep.” 

She sits up and his arm is flooded with the sudden relief of no longer being squished, but he misses the warmth and the closeness of her immediately. He has two arms. Who really needs both? He’s done fine with one hand. “Where are you going?” he asks when she rises from the bed, reaching for his shirt that she tossed on the floor and he made himself leave there. ‘Do not fold your clothes while we’re in the middle of having sex or I swear I’ll put mine back on you fucking weirdo.’

“Thirsty,” she says as she finishes buttoning it. “You?”

“Aye, thanks.”

“Water? Or would you prefer rum?”

“Hilarious.” His stomach rolls, not finding her so funny. She certainly seems to think she is, smirking as she fetches two water bottles from the fridge. “You know you’re going to have to give me my shirt back this time. It’s the only one I’ve got.” At least until he finds out if the hotel hung onto his suitcase when he missed his checkout. “Unless you have the others squirrelled away here somewhere.” 

“I thought you had ‘too many shirts, Swan,’” she reminds him in a poor imitation of his accent and he rolls his eyes. She hops back onto the bed, climbing into his lap to sit astride his hips. His hand and wrist settle on her waist, the shirt in question riding up and making him groan at the feel of her pressed against him. 

“Aye well I’ve only got the one to wear out of here tonight and while you look infinitely better in it than I do -” 

“Like a sexy Winnie the Pooh, would you say?”

He sighs. “I’m never living that one down am I?”

“You want to show me your hundred acre wood?” Killian lets his head fall back against the headboard as she laughs herself silly. “I have another solution,” she tells him, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of his shirt. “I was thinking, maybe, since you’ve already missed your flight, and you probably don’t have a hotel room anymore, that you could stay here tonight. And maybe we could give that whole waking up together thing a shot.” 

Her cheeks are flushed, freckles bright against the soft pink as she looks up from her hands to catch his eye. He kisses her hard enough that she’d have fallen right off his lap were it not for his arms holding her steady and close to him. 

“That a yes?” she asks, mouth curling against his and he catches that smirking bottom lip between his teeth like he’s wanted to since she showed up at the station. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She nods and it’s him smiling against her mouth now. “For tonight at least. But I think there’s still a lot of grovelling in your future before it becomes a regular thing.”

He kisses her again, rolls her onto her back beneath him. “Then I’d better get started right away,” he says, lips finding the length of her neck as he begins to work free the buttons of his stolen shirt. 

“Well, you did promise you would write poetry about my boobs.” 

“I what?” He looks up only to see her wearing the same confused frown as himself before her eyes widen with laughter and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Oh my god. You haven’t seen your texts have you?”

Fuck. 

*******

Tagging the usual people but let me know if you want to be removed or added!

@kmomof4​​ @elizabeethan​​ @the-darkdragonfly​  @undercaffinatednightmare​ @jennjenn615​ @dramioneswan​ @gingerchangeling​ @gingerpolyglot​ @kazoo5480​ @lfh1226-linda​ @csalltheway​ @xsajx​ @xarandomdreamx​ @onceratheart18​ @ownedbycaptainswan @teamhook​ @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway​ @zaharadessert​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @spartanguard​ @jonesfandomfanatic @deckerstarblanche​ @jrob64​ @klynn-stormz​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @tiganasummertree​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian @snowbellewells​ @xellewoods​ @sals86​ @karlyfr13s​  @ouatpost @skairipakomtrikru​ @lonelyspectator12​   @anmylica​   @alexa-fangirl-forever @inspiredbystardust​ @marcella2727 @paradiselady19​​ @koryandr​ @killiansprincss​ @goforlaunchcee​​ @motherkatereloyshipper

[a-court-of-lust-and-stardust]

How many drinks would it take for me to hook up with SJM men....

(Keep in mind, I've never read TOG. Also keep in mind, this is just for fun. Don't take it seriously.)

Rhysand: 5 vodka cranberries. Enough that I can feel loose and giddy and flirty, but drunk enough that if it goes terrible, I would forget in the morning about how I disappointed my High Lord.

Cassian: I would have to be as drunk as he is so I wouldn't make a fool of myself. If Cassian has 10 beers, then I have 10 beers. I'd probably challenge him to drunk arm wrestling, too.

Ithan: 3 glasses of wine. Drunk sunball game anyone?

Ruhn: 12 beers. He's a major flirt and would make me nervous as hell. I'd also crush him in beer pong.

Azriel: He wouldn't hookup with me if I'm trashed. My respectful king. But he's dark and broody and mysterious and I would be intimidated, so I would need at least 5 shots of liquor to get me going.

Eris: Half a bottle of wine so I could drown out his arrogance and forget when he inevitably calls me ugly or a bad kisser.

Tharion: Oh he's a HUGE flirt and my shy self wouldn't be able to handle it. He would probably also ask for a threesome with Bryce. Bartender, please give me 7 glasses of whiskey.

Lorcan: This dude is ancient and has probably had a lot of hookups in his life and I would be scared to be compared to his past lovers. Gimme 9 margaritas for courage.

Dorian: Hm. I feel like he'd judge me if I was a bad sober kisser, but if I'm drunk, it's understandable. 6 frozen strawberry daiquiris.

Lucien: 0, so I can run away from him and not trip over everything, or 8 Long Island Iced Teas so I can forget about my bad decision.

Chaol: Apparently people don't like this dude and I don't exactly know why since I haven't heard anything bad about him. I'm taking 5 mimosas, but if he really is a jerk, we'll go up to 7.

Hunt: 3 shots of rum so I can feel confident and in control. He would go at MY pace and I love him for that.

Rowan: I don't like blond men, or men with light hair, so I probably wouldn't hookup with him, but 4 shots of tequila would do the trick!

Fenrys: Another blond dude I think? Sounds like he would be fun. 5 Jack and cokes.

Tamlin: All my drinks could be free and I still would never do it.

[music-drinks]

Marvin’s Marvelous Mechanical Museum as Drinks

Good Day: A lovely A dirty Chai to start off the day

Greener: A spinach Banana, pineapple, coconut and other good stuff smoothie for when you are feeling envious

Welcome to Tally hall: An Assortment of Red, Blue, Yellow, green and White Gatorades to make the other fans go ballistic.

Taken For a ride: Stewart’s Black cherry Soda for when you had an epiphany in a room full of animatronics.

The Bidding: A very expensive Bottle of Champagne which would undoubtedly be more valuable than an actual human man for sale.

Be born: Home made Cider for when you are convincing someone to exist.

Banana man: A banana smoothie, you like it until you realize it’s racist (not that banana smoothies are racist, I just mean the song)

Just Apathy: Grape Juice for having a mental breakdown musical number over a girl.

Spring and a storm: A matcha latte for when you break up with someone then become god.

Two Wuv: A cup of reality for when you are too obsessed with the Olsen twins.

Haiku: Tried to think of drink,

Could not think of drink because

I am out of words

The whole World and you: A sweet Lemonade honey punch for when you have feelings for someone and that is it, it’s just complete wholesomeness

13: A shot for what’s to come

Ruler of everything: What does it matter everything is meaningless and we will all die someday also do you hear the flibbitty jibbity jabber-?

Hidden in the sand: Rum with pineapple juice before you remember you are about to drown on a sinking ship (look up the hidden in the sand music video for reference)

Mucka Blucka: Chicken stock

Dream: I usually skip this one but maybe a watered down white wine, that’s all I can think of for this… should I even call this a song?

[anteroom-of-death]

Teacher's Pet part 4

(No gif today since I can't find one that fits)

Synopsis: Reader has a small mental breakdown over her developing feelings for the Doctor.

A/n: yall are the realest bitches I ever met for enjoying this. I love you. Also, I'm going to keep some things mysterious for now. But hey, I got a vague plot and I pound out these to keep the scaries away.

Stupid, stupid and foolish! Pig-headed! Dumb! Childish! Total Moron! You chastised yourself as you went into the women’s restroom and locked yourself in a stall.

Where did you get off developing feelings for a professor? Where did you get off by allowing yourself to get yourself to even begin that? Especially this fucking fast? You knew how men were! You knew that even the good ones weren’t ‘good’ in an empirical sense!

They lie, they cheat. They steal. They manipulate. They go on their phones and take hundreds from “Timmy’s uni fund” and transfer it to their private bank account (often that their poor, downtrodden wives didn’t see or have much access to!) to get their dicks fucking wet. They refuse to shower and they bullshit their way into places they really shouldn’t be.

But him? His smile? His poetry? The way he adored his wife even from a few sentences. Like every cell of his body belonged to this dead woman? The deep Scottish brogue? The way he was tender and cared for every single student? Including your dumb ass? The arch of his nose…and his hands?

It got inside you so quickly.

You continue to internally scold yourself, breaking down into tears.

It borderlined on cliché. Hot for teacher. Daddy issues. One man made you feel special so you got giddy and went and got yourself a crush. You truly were exhibiting what people called “Fatherless Behavior”!

You sobbed deeper into your arms, bringing your legs against your chest. Trying to keep balanced on the toilet, you gently banged your head on the wall beside you a few times. You had to meet with the accommodations people in about forty-five minutes. You had to pull yourself together. Even if it would demonstrate a point. You still had to retain some of your dignity.

Plus, you thought quite pathetically, what if he was out roaming and saw you like this?

You banged your head on the wall about it some more.

You let yourself cry for a few more minutes. Just to exorcize whatever was in your system. You weren’t going to allow yourself to cry over a man, even if that was exactly what you were up to!

After that little emotional outburst was over, you scraped yourself off the toilet and back into the general restroom area. You had to put yourself back together.

Splashing your face off with cool water in the wash basin, you noticed that your skin was inflamed and you had some pimples on your forehead.

“Oh, that’s attractive.” You muttered and started on trying to find the willpower to not pick at them. That’d make it worse. And would affect everything. No amount of makeup covers a sucking wound in a visible area.

You didn’t have much on you except for a medicated chap stick and some concealer, so you made do.

You really regretted listening to him and not smoking now…

Deep breaths, you told yourself. Just keep breathing. Healthy stuff. Plenty of people had told you before. 1, 2 3. Hold, longer 1, 2 3 release. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It worked a bit.

You didn’t work tonight, or tomorrow night. You could afford a bit of a drink. Tonight. Tomorrow would be too late and you’d have dry skin for Thursday night.

That’s what you needed. A night of shit TV, skincare and most of a large bottle of coconut rum drowned in a can of Coke Zero.

Would help remove the feelings coiled in your chest a lot.

Reset the system.

Remove ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ truly was…

You steadied yourself and went to the Disabilities Office and sat in the waiting room after signing in for your appointment.

You pulled out your phone and started flipping through a familiar social media site. The memes perked you up and put a smile on your face. Helped you keep composure. You even replied to a few mutual’s messages and congratulated the one on their new job.

Your meeting came and went. Apparently you could go to student-lead tutoring from people who already took the classes. You got signed up and thanked the councilor, taking the emails for the students to message them and get more in-depth about the struggles you were having

You’d do it later, once you got home…

Speaking of which, you stopped at the store and got a can of Coke and a bottle of rum before trudging inside of it.

You started studying and sending out the emails to your new tutors. Truly a task from hell.

You stopped yourself from having thoughts of another type of tutoring.

The drink you mixed was strong. Perhaps too strong. The show you put on in the background was harshing the vibes so you closed the tab it was on. You checked the site for your place of work. You scoffed at your photos and wondered how little you could pay to get a professional update to them.

Back to school work. Back to projects. You couldn’t afford to let yourself have a stray thought.

The liquor highlighted the slight soft pain you had on the side of your head from the pounding you gave it. You touched it gingerly and gave up.

You weighed your options, you could drop the class and take the failing marks. Or you could be brave and normal. And take the class, just skate by. Hardly ever speak. Take the lowest grade and still fail.

It was a matter of what left you with the most amount of dignity, but also didn’t waste your money or time.

Or heart ache.

Could you really spite yourself like that?

Or just cut off contact for good.

What would not break your heart nor your bank nor your ethics? Was there any option that left all intact and unscarred? Let alone your precious, stupid dignity?

You had too much on your plate as is, now this stupid crush?

And disposing of it?

You drained the rest of your glass and did the bare minimum in the shower. Mainly just let the hot water spill over your head while you stared at the wall.

You put even less effort in on your skin care and teeth brushing.

Just climbed in bed and let sleep find your semi-drunk body and fully-fucked up and over brain.

Your alarm shot you out of bed, leaving your heart racing and your chest heaving. You just didn’t go to get up, let alone do anything. You sent in a mass email from your phone saying that you were sick. You’d let yourself go to work tomorrow night. But you didn’t want to set foot on that campus until you had a better, more stable grip on yourself.

You had a hangover and a sore throat anyways, so it wasn’t a total lie.

Responsibilities be dammed. You chose to rot in bed and doomscroll on social media. It was your mental breakdown and you chose to make it worse. It was your right! And entirely your fault!

You kept yourself in that ball of blankets far too long. Going in and out of consciousness, phone in hand.

Before you knew it, it was Thursday. Late afternoon. You sighed and got up.

You were quite dehydrated and famished. Hardly leaving the bed and relying on the cups that littered the side of your table for your main sources of water for well over twenty-four hours had left you weak and you fainted upon leaving the coil of your bedding.

When you came to, you thanked your lucky stars and any God that may have been paying a half-lick of attention to you in that moment.

You kept it simple and reheated some Chinese takeaway you had in your fridge. It was edible. That’s all you could ask for at the moment. Edible and got you through the waking world…

You went into your bathroom and started not only the long ritual you did to prepare yourself for work, but also repair work for the past two days of neglect. It was hard work. Your face was inflamed, your left side had creases in the skin from the corners of your blankets bunched up.

You stretched out and did a bit of a warm up exercise.

After all of that malarkey, you started chugging a bunch of cold water. Then you started to get your work bag together.

This, this, that, that other thing there, you kept mentally chiding yourself. You were out of materials, hopefully one of your coworkers would be able to lend you some. Just enough to get you by until Friday when the shops would be open. You were pulling a double shift anyways, so what was a sneak out and in. Maybe you’d convince the owner/manager to let you work when you’re usually not on during Friday. Whatever little cash you would make would certainly be welcome, and certainly wouldn’t hurt. You could sleep between appointments or walk-ins!

Maybe you would break your promise to Professor Smith and get yourself a pack of cigarettes and to hell with the entire engagement!

You stretched again and got into street clothes.

You repeated to yourself that you had to keep your mind on money and money on your mind. That it came naturally. Whatever all those dorky manifestations you occasionally saw said. Anything. Just to keep your spirits up and get your mind off other subjects.

Money on your mind was a whole lot healthier than a certain silver-haired professor being in there. And his class you were skipping today…

Who knows, maybe something bad would happen to you and you would be sworn off men in any way except the bare minimum to survive this world for good! You thought catastrophically.

You slid on your street shoes and your coat, slung your work bag over your shoulder and made your way out your door.

What was that one song? And how did it go?

‘So for once in my life

Let me get what I want

Lord knows, it would be the first time…”

Yeah, like that.

[mirrorsblogs]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐄. 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙝𝙤𝙡, 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚

There was a certain energy that came from being in an environment like this. You stood off to the side observing the organized madness in rapture, people passing by, they paid no mind to your curious eyes. With a deft hand, you tried your hand over the various alcohol bottles present on the counter trying to decide on which concoction you wanted to drown in tonight.

Vodka, whiskey, rum-

“Did you want to stand there all day?” Someone shouted at you. Clumsily you poured the nearest drink bottle into your cup and hastily walked away from the table. You ignored the glaring eyes of those you kept waiting along with some jealous people lining the main room. These types of parties were never your scene but you decided to indulge your boyfriend’s wishes for just tonight though you began to regret that decision as he remained sparse. 

For a moment you contemplated throwing your drink away and going back to your apartment but decided to explore just a little more. The glares of either envy or jealousy followed you all the while you walked down random hallways. It felt as though you got more and more lost in your surroundings but it was exhilarating to lose yourself physically. Though that could have been the alcohol talking.

“Fuckin’ rich people,” you whispered as the hallways seemed to stretch on and on. How big was this house?

Stopping in a hallway you noticed a larger portrait with all of Eren’s family with Jean’s and Mikasa’s. They were old money, something you were so very not. The judgmental eyes of Grisha Yeager looked down at your scantily clad body. That man had never respected you, much rather preferring a wealthier girl for his son than you. These girls were effortless where you worked yourself to the bone, they were graceful where you were headstrong, they were everything you were not.

Why did Eren ask me out?

Why did he want me?

Vaguely you registered shouting coming from the end of the hall which would have steered you in the other direction had you not recognized the voice.

“What do you mean you lost her? She’s my girlfriend, how do you lose her? Find her or I’ll-”

“Eren,” you mumbled, going for a side hug. Instantly you felt his muscles relax as a scared Falco nodded in thanks before quickly fleeing the scene. 

“Where’d you go?” He questioned, placing his chin on the top of your head. His previously angered tone was nowhere to be found as he began to bask in your presence. You had this effect on him, he was always calmer around you.

“I walked around the house, and got lost.”

“Figures, did you want me to get you another drink?” Eren asked as he threw on one of his signature smirks.

“No I’m ok, I have work tomorrow anyway.” You could feel the frown on his face at your answer. Eren separated from you slightly to show you his expression but did not comment.

“Ok, let me bring you to the group then,” he whispered, leaning down directly into your ear. At his action, you nervously glanced around only to find that you both were in a secluded room far from any party-goers.

“Or we could stay here for a bit?” You slyly suggested, pulling on the hem of Eren’s shirt.

“Or we could stay here,” Eren confirmed, after a pause. He slid a hand to the side of your face and brought your lips to his. He tasted as he usually did, of cedar. Gently he guided you both to a nearby couch where you straddled him instantly. 

“I like looking at you like this,” you whispered, upper half upright so you could stare down at the man for once.

“Don’t get used to it, princess.” The nickname made your heart flutter as he was the only one in the world who would call you such. It was ironic considering how you managed running a club, academics, and a job which contrasted heavily with being an uptight princess. Eren had initially used it to piss you off but quickly found the effect it had on you to be different, more fluster-inducing.

“Jean is going to kill us if he finds us making out in his house,” you said. Eren laughed as he kissed you hungrily again, his teeth bit softly into your bottom lip. You rolled your tongue over the bit part enough for Eren to slip his tongue into your mouth. For a moment you gasped at the sudden intrusion but quickly adjusted as you both fell into a sort of rhythm. A little squeeze from Eren on your hip there and a roll from your hips there made the experience all the more intoxicating.

“What the hell!” Jean yelled as he burst into the room. You broke apart from Eren and with no shame began laughing at his reaction. Eren chuckled too but moved you away from Jean as he stood up. “You should go find them, Sasha said. Maybe they’re lost, Connie said.”

“Sorry, horse-face! We’ll leave,” Eren said with an air of humor in his voice.

“Shut the fuck up Yeager and get out!” Jean shouted, pointing at the door behind him. Eren’s smile widened as he began to leave but not before holding a hand out to you. Grasping his hand you both made your way down the hall, retreating from the angered Jean.

“I told you!” You whisper-shouted at Eren.

“I don’t regret it,” Eren whispered in the same playful tone. 

“Did you see his face? I swear it was red!”

“There was steam coming from his ears!”

After some more jokes traded between the two of you, the main party room came back into view. Instead of those glares that followed you everywhere, they were replaced with vying and impassive stares from everyone. You began to shy from it all until Eren kissed your temple.

"They're all jealous," he whispered.

"Of what?"

"You."

Eren instilled a confidence you never knew you could possess. Then there was the case of his smile that he never used to wear with pride as he did now. It was a newfound sense of happiness that you brought that caused it to form. Losing himself in the pleasures of life was something Eren was comfortable with until he saw you. Rather than drowning in alcohol he would much rather drown in the love you offered. Though you might have never asked him to quit his usual lifestyle Eren did, he changed. He did it for you.

As individuals we were hollow, together we are better, we are whole.

[wordy-little-witch]

Oh God Oh man oh jeez

Okay so. Angst. But like.

I'll put trigger warnings for it but this occurred to me at work and I'm just losing my MARBLES but-

TW for mental health issues, SH topics, hurt/comfort

Buggy growing up on a pirate ship probably lead to more than a few bad coping mechanisms- add in the sense of inferiority, his general anxious demeanor, etc, he probably hid a lot of things, even from the people he trusted most- especially from the people he trusted most.

Buggy likely had anxiety attacks or panic attacks fairly often - at first, it was handled with care, but when it became a recurring theme, some started finding it troublesome or obnoxious. When Buggy got to a certain point, he'd slip away to handle it on his own.

The only ones who really noticed or even cared enough to follow after him were Roger, who rarely COULD follow, Rayleigh, who was also often involved in the fall out, and Shanks, who would try but couldn't always get to him. Eventually Buggy, losing his shit and alone, accidently gets hurt during one of the attacks, either by nails or smth else. And suddenly things start... feeling solid. Less blurry, less frantic. Everything narrows down to the sharp-sting-hot lines and the red on his skin.

It becomes smth of a crutch to him.

He takes to wearing wrist bands, gloves, he is a bit more feisty about privacy, but very few clock something being wrong. Only Roger, Ray and Shanks feel like something is slightly off. They notice things going missing, they see how Buggy flinches sometimes with certain movements, but there's nothing concrete. There's red flags but they can't see the flagpoles to chase them back to the source.

Buggy gets in the habit of cutting young.

And then suddenly there is a Devil Fruit on board. A map, a chance, a fortune - he loves this family but he feels they don't love him. He isn't LIKE them. He's not strong like them, fast like them, he's just... Buggy. He's always just been Buggy, and Buggy has never been enough.

He plans to steal away in the night, under cover of darkness, leaving the crew short some money, sure, but they won't have the added weight of himself. He is just an anchor to them.

But Shanks finds him.

Shanks startles him.

Shanks slaps his back, tries to cheer him up, and the fruit goes down his throat, the magic explodes in his stomach, he gets angry, so so so angry, he is seeing red and he's raging and he's falling and-

And he's drowning.

Oh.

It was a real devil fruit.

Well... one way or another... he wanted to leave.

Shanks jumps after him. Shanks saves him. Buggy is soaked, cold, coughing and dizzy, and Shanks is beside him, is warm, and he's tempted, so tempted to lean into it and so he does-

And Shanks is pulled away. He opens his eyes, and the crew is there. Someone had wrapped Shanks in a towel, was fussing over him, someone was cheering for his "bravery" and Buggy-

He's cold.

He staggers to his feet, dripping, and he stumbles towards his room. Roger tries to stop him, grabs his shoulders, but Buggy is dripping with more than just sea water even though the steady streams are just as salted, so he pulls away and he runs.

He dives into their room, grabs his knife, his knees hit the floor and he moves and-

He lost the fruit.

He lost the map.

He lost his whole hand just now too.

No pain, just a split over his wrist, surreal and impossible and he can't- he can't breathe, he- what-

He drops his knife, the hand reattaches and he curls into a ball, hands burying in his hair, and he cries - silent as the grave, he is sobbing, hiccuping and sniffling, pulling his hair and he can't, he can't he can't-

Arms wrap around him, big, warm, the scent of sea air and rum and spiced strawberries, and Buggy clings to his captain as he simply shatters.

Roger sees the scars on his limbs, but he doesn't respond beyond hugging Buggy a little tighter. He doesn't react as he helps Buggy change, as he wraps his kid in his coat and holds him close, as he stares at the far wall and wonders how long and why and why didn't I know?

He doesn't say anything that night - not to Buggy at least.

He does talk to Rayleigh.

He leaves both of his sons curled up together in his own bed, tucked in with his own coat, and he meets Shanks' eyes, nods to the hardened little fire burning within them, a silent conversation of look after him and I Will echoing in the wooden walled room, and he goes to the only other person who will understand the rage, the fear, and they hug one another in silence.

Buggy is not okay. He hasn't been for a very, very long time, but they refuse to let him slip through the cracks, even if they have to chisel their way down to him themselves.

And this? This action, this choice? It changes EVERYTHING.

[bucket-barnes]

Memories: Harriet Hook

(This was an idea I had in my algebra class the other day so enjoy some brain vomit)

Harriet remembers her mother the most. She remembered the stories her mother told her about deuls with dark fairies and true love’s kiss, Harriet’s favorite story was the one about the one handed pirate captain who fell for the lost girl, how they’d do anything for each other, even go to hell and back for each other…literally

Harriet was eleven when her mother passed. Harriet became a big sister for the second time shortly before her mother’s passing, she loved her little brother and baby sister, all she wanted was to protect them. When her mother was dying, Harriet would distract her siblings by taking them to Ursula’s fish and chips, then Harriet wouldn’t have to see her father cry, CJ could be fed, and Harry could see the girl with the teal braids he had become rather fond of.

Whispers always followed Harriet and her siblings wherever they went

“Those poor hook children, losing their mother so young” the women at Lady Tremaine’s curl up and dye would whisper loudly, Harriet knew they didn’t care, they just liked the drama, she’d always hold Harry close and tell him it wasn’t true, they weren’t losing their mother…everything would be ok

“Wonder if Hook’s returned to the bottle” the men at the chip shoppe would laugh, Harriet would always shoot them dirty looks and tell Harry not to listen to them…those men don’t know what they’re talking about

The day Harriet’s mother died, she held her hand and promised she’d take care of her family, that she wouldn’t let Harry succumb to the voices in his head, that she wouldn’t let CJ grow up not knowing who her mother was, and that she wouldn’t let her father return to the darkness. Harriet was left one thing from her mother…a red jacket, her armor

Harriet was twelve when her life gained routine. She’d wake up Harry and tell him to get ready for school while she helped Mr.Smee carry her father, who had already made his way through a bottle of rum, below deck so he’d be out of sight and could drown his grief without shattering his son’s vision of him, then she’d make sure Harry ate and took whatever medication she found on the barges that week, if she was lucky, the voices in her brother’s head would stay quiet for the morning and he’d make it to school fashionably late, she’d give his shoulder a squeeze and remind him that if the voices came back to stay with Uma and come find her, then she’d be able to enjoy the respite from her home that school gave her…but she wasn’t often lucky.

Most days the mysterious medications only made the voices worse, so Harriet would sit with her little brother in their room, holding him close while he covered his ears with his hands and begged for the voices to shut up and for the visions to go away. She’d tell him that it wasn’t real, and then she’d tell him that he was ok after the medication inevitably made him sick…she’d stay home those days

Harriet did her best to make sure CJ knew who their mother was, she’d tell her stories of their mother, stories about duels with dark fairies and true love’s kiss…though CJ’s favorite was the one about Neverland, where the lost girl and the one handed pirate captain bested Peter Pan in an epic battle. CJ would ask why Harriet would always wear the same red jacket, and Harriet would tell her that it was her armor

Harriet was fourteen when she first joined her father for a drink. It was a warm summer night, and in between swigs of rum, Harriet and her father would talk about her mother, the stories of duels and true love’s kiss replaced with grief and quiet tears. Harriet truly understood her father the nights she drank with him, the world was cruel, and he just needed to numb the pain… the pain of losing his wife, the pain of his eldest daughter growing up to fast, the pain of his son hearing voices that had no source and seeing things that weren’t there, the pain of his youngest daughter never truly knowing her mother

Harriet would go to bed late, her mind numb with alcohol, finally taking off her armor. She’d sleep and dream of duels with dark fairies and true love’s kiss…and of the one handed pirate captain who fell for the lost girl, how they’d do anything for each other, even go to hell and back for each other…literally

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

<<Previous<<

**Masterlist**

>>Next Chapter>>

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Izzy contemplates the future and whether or not you have a place within his.

A/N: You didn't think I was going to make you wait until the voting was over for more content, did you?!

Content Warning: Alcohol abuse, mention of injuries, trauma, mentions of drowning, death and blood. I think that's everything. This series is 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. NOR DO I CLAIM THE PROPERTY OF TAYLOR SWIFT'S MUSIC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

=============================

'I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser.'

The silence was worse than the screams, he concluded, as he stared with troubled eyes at the still full rum bottle. His usual go-to method was drinking his problems away, and yet, this time, he could not even bring himself to bring the bottle to his lips. He knew the taste well. Knew the satisfying burn it would bring, as it slipped down his throat. Hurtful enough to numb to myriad of emotion that swelled and sloshed within him. Still, not a drop entered his bloodstream. Aside from the one glass he had shared with Edward, Izzy Hands was completely sober. Gods, it was tortuous.

'Midnights become my afternoons.'

Just a small sip. It did not even have to be the full bottle! Despite every fibre of his being screaming at him to partake in a drink, something deep within Izzy's consciousness willed him to remain alert. For once, it was not for the sake of the crew that he remained vigilant, as he so often did on moonlit nights upon the ocean waves, when he should have been fast asleep in his cabin. What could he say? He did not explicitly trust Stede fucking Bonnet's merry band of twats. On more than one occasion, he had discovered the nightwatch snoozing, instead of scanning the horizon. They had improved as a crew, no doubt about it but they still lacked the discipline of their more professional counterparts.

'When my depression works the graveyard shift.'

No, no, Izzy did not allow himself to succumb to his usual whim of finding solace in the amber liquid. He wanted his senses to stay sharp, not hazy with a rum-induced stupor. There was no horizon to watch, no threat of the British, no fairies- gods, the crew were obsessed with fucking fairies- to check for under Frenchie's bed each night. No, what Izzy was bracing himself for, was the eventual knock at his door.

'All of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room.'

Who would they send? Maybe Edward? Surely, not Bonnet. No, he would have his hands full consoling the rest of the crew. He could almost hear the sounds now, the wailing. The tears. The general cacophony of desperation. It would undoubtedly haunt him until the end of his days. On the quietest of nights,  when the crashing of waves were not loud enough to drown his demons, Izzy was sure the echo of grief would reverberate through his mind, forcing him to relive the moment his life came crashing down around him.

'I should not be left to my own devices.'

The silver-haired pirate had not been present when the crew had found you in the hold. It had only been after saving Pete from a the fearsome waves of Poseiden's wrath, that Izzy had stumbled below deck- water-logged and desperate to see you again. That was when he had heard the commotion and followed the sound of Bonnet's surprisingly commanding voice.

There had been so much blood. Too much blood. Izzy had seen enough gore in his lifetime. Hell, he had had to keep his own guys from spilling out of his body on more than one occasion. Heh, he would never forget the look of fear on Edward's face, when the First Mate had almost bled out there and then on the deck of the Queen Anne's Revenge. But the incident in the storage hold was a completely different matter. It was your- well, a mixture of yours and Frenchie's- blood, that had stained the flooring of the ship. Your blood that had drenched Stede fucking Bonnet's fucking linen shirt.

'They come with prices and vices.'

Gods, just the memory of it made him want to hurl. This, this is why he usually drank. With alcohol in his system, Izzy would be able to suppress the unwanted memories, even just for a short while. But no, no! He had to keep his wits about him. He had to! If...

Fuck, please let it be an 'if' and not a 'when', he begged to every, single deity he could think of in that moment. If you succumbed to your injuries, he wanted to hear the née stone cold sober. He did not want to booze to take the edge off the inevitable heartache he would feel, knowing you had died without knowing you were loved. By the grace of Calypso, that man adored every inch of your very being. Mind, body and soul.

'I end up in crisis (tale as old as time).'

He should have been there, he cursed himself. Guilt eating him alive from the inside out. He should have been there to keep you safe. Or at least, he should have been the one to find you. To patch up your wounds, keep you conscious until they reached dry land. Oh, how he would have forgone all his usual composure. Without hesitation, you would have been bundled in his arms, anything to keep you warm enough to stave off the chill that came with blood loss. Izzy would have kept you close, as he coxed you to stay awake for him. He did not care if the crew thought him gone soft. In that moment, he would had indulged you in your every whin, if it meant you keeping your eyes open for him. Hell, he would have sung you every melody under the sun, if you so wished it.

'I wake up screaming from dreaming.'

But no, it had been Spriggs of all people, who had been the one to discover you. Gods, Izzy might have held a particular contempt for the young man but in that moment, he had been glad that the Scribe had been the one to find you. Though the First Mate would never admit it aloud, Spriggs was one of the more competent pirates aboard the Revenge, he had done well alerting those below deck of your predicament. Hell, he had made a good call fetching Bonnet, of all people. Stede fucking Bonnet.

Izzy almost felt indebted to the twat for the way he had managed to stem your wound and stopped you from bleeding out there in the hold. He had even gotten Frenchie stable enough to survive the rest of the storm. Whether the man lived or died now was purely dependant on the doctor's skillset.

It did not matter. Nome of it mattered. The past could not be changed. All Izzy had was the present and all he cared about, was if you too had a future.

'One day I'll watch as you're leaving.'

And then it came. The dreaded knock on the door. The resounding thuds turned Izzy's blood to ice. He was not ready- he would never be ready- to face whatever news awaited him beyond the thin piece of wood. The chorus of cries has not begun to fill the air yet. Perhaps he would be the first to be told. Maybe they were breaking the news to everyone individually, to allow a gradual wave of anguish to sweep through the crew, as opposed to a sudden, blunt force inducement of suffering.

'Cause you got tired of my scheming.'

Ambling over to the door, Izzy knew it was only a matter of time before the truth would out. No matter how much he tried to keep the news at bay. Oh, how the silver-haired pirate wanted to ruminate in the pre-grief a little longer. To play pretend and lie to himself some more. To convince himself that you were still alive. That your heart still beat it's steady rhythm. A song he knew so intimately. But Israel Hands was a self-described realist. He could not continue to entrench himself in fictional delusions, it was time for him to face the heartbreak dead on. To be brave one more time. He could not love you in this lifetime. However, he could treat your death with the respect it deserved.

'(For the last time)'

So, he braced himself for the teary face of his messenger. Prepared himself to hear the voice break and the words, "they're gone." Izzy said a silent goodbye to the technicolour world because without your vibrancy, it would surely fade to grey in a matter of moments. Despite all his efforts to steel himself against the worst, nothing could have prepared Izzy for what happened next.

'It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me.'

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: Just Trouble Fandom: Pillars of Eternity Rating: G Status: One-Shot Characters: Original Character (Makali), Captain Aeldys Ships: F!OC/Captain Aeldys Additional Notes: TTRPG Character, OC Backstory, Flirting with Pirates Word Count: 1300 Summary: While at Fort Deadlight, Makali runs into an old flame. Between the rum on her lips and those taunting eyes, she just might give in to the temptation she brings.

read below or here on AO3

It’s already a rowdy night at the Deadlight Court by the time Makali swaggers in through the doors.

Yes, it's true that most nights on Fort Deadlight could easily be called rowdy- the combination of booze and bawdy music and bands of pirates will do that- but tonight, there’s something extra to the revelry in the air, and Makali senses it instantly. Cheerful shouts greet her as she steps inside, and she grins back at the familiar faces in the room as she makes her way to the bar. The music filling the room is familiar as well, and she hums along, her smile growing as she finally recognizes the reason for the raucous atmosphere. She glances to the corner of the tavern and sure enough, Benweth is seated at the harpsichord, belting out a drinking song with his crewmates, all of them already deep in their cups.

How’s that for a stroke of good fortune?

Makali orders herself a rum, then turns to scan the room. Benweth’s presence is a welcome surprise, though not really for his own sake. He does play a good tune, but Makali is far more interested in the company he likely arrived with.

And…ah, there she is, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, her mismatched eyes already fixed on Makali and a coy smile on her lips. Makali returns the smile with one of her own, tosses her long braid over her shoulder, and ambles over to the pirate lass she knows so well.

“Been a while, Sea Wolf.”

Aeldys laughs at the address, loud and brash as always. “You’re one to talk. Can’t even remember the last time you graced Deadlight with your presence.” She raises her own mug of rum and jauntily taps it against Makali’s in greeting. “Where the blazes have you been?”

Makali shrugs and leans against the wall next to Aeldys, smiling down at her as she knocks back her rum. “Where else? You know I can’t stay landlocked for long. Not as if you’re much different.”

“Aye,” Aeldys allows, tipping her head in acknowledgement. Her eyes- one icy blue, the other pitch black, both rich with mischief- flicker up to Makali. “But I still find time to check in at Deadlight every now and again. It’s just decent manners, lovesome.”

Makali barks a laugh and edges closer to nudge Aeldys’s shoulder with her own. “When have either of us ever been decent?”

“Ha! I did miss having you around.” Aeldys chuckles into her drink, her gaze roving over Makali in thoughtful appraisal. “You ever think of joining up with my crew again?”

“Sorry, Sea Wolf, but I’m on the Lady Luck now.”

“Any chance of jumping ship?”

“Aw, you know I can’t just up and leave a girl out in the cold like that,” Makali answers with determined casualty. Maybe she should have expected this question; she and Aeldys do make quite the team whenever their courses cross. They’re both bold, fierce, unpredictable- it’s what makes them both such damn good pirates, after all. It’s also the same thing that leads most of their affairs, fun as they are, to go up in flames. “Besides, the last time we worked together, I don’t remember it ending all that great.”

“Ah, you’re not still salty about that, are you, lovesome?” Aeldys waves a hand in the air with a shrug. “That was nothing. And besides, the things I could promise you this time around are well worth the trouble.”

“Sounds promising,” Makali admits. “Also sounds familiar. Last time, your trouble cost me half a ship and wasn’t worth a handful of gold.”

“But wasn’t it fun?” Aeldys prompts, taking a step closer. For a moment, everything else in the tavern- the shouting pirates, the bellowing music, the smell of rum- is drowned out by the look she gives Makali, a look that sends a thrilling jolt all the way down Makali's spine.

Gods help her, Makali did always love those eyes of hers.

“Yeah,” she says, brushing a hand through Aeldys’s dark hair and letting her fingers linger on the edge of her jaw. “I do remember the fun.”

“And don’t you trust me?”

Not in the slightest, Makali thinks, and she knows Aeldys knows that. But Aeldys’s smirk promises excitement, and Makali is horribly tempted by that prospect. She knows Aeldys knows that, too.

“I got plans, lovesome,” Aeldys says, her voice going low, barely audible over their surroundings. “Can’t spill ‘em all yet, but big things are coming my way. I need people on my side, capable people. I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but you’re capable. It’s a rare fleet that can boast their very own renegade watershaper.”

And there goes the mood. Makali frowns and pulls away slightly. “I’m not a watershaper. You know that.”

“Point is, I could use you. You’d get your own rewards, and it’d be a good time to boot.” Aeldys doesn’t even seem to notice she’s poked a wound; or, more likely, she just doesn’t care. It’s one of the things which makes her so hard to be around, that callousness. But it’s also one of the things that makes her easy- there’s no fussing, no overthinking, just the next thing on the horizon.

It’s the only thing that makes Makali relax just a little more and ask, “Just what would this good time involve?”

Aeldys grins wickedly. “I’m sure you could come up with some ideas, lovesome. And in addition to whatever you’re thinking of in that pretty head of yours, I’d be making some real moves in the Council. You could be my right hand, and you’d be raking in some real loot.”

Ah. The Council. Whatever Aeldys promises, there’s no smirk charming enough and no promise enticing enough for Makali to get involved in that mess. “Flattering offer, but you know I didn’t come all the way out here just to get involved in politics.”

Aeldys huffs. “You sure? If you say no, I’ll be stuck with this clown.” She nods her head towards Benweth, still showboating on his harpsichord.

Makali watches him for a short while, humming along to his tune. There’s a part of her that does want to jump in and take his place, though she can’t say whether it’s because she wants the rewards or the challenge or just Aeldys. But Makali has very, very few rules in life, and this is one of them.

“I’m here for adventure and gold,” she says, and takes another swig of rum. “Not a knife in my back in some council room.”

Makali is half-convinced Aeldys will do nothing but pester her about this for the rest of the night, but the other woman seems to accept her answer. She still pouts of course, huffing and reaching out to flick Makali’s braid in a petulant manner. “Pity. We could have really had some fun together.”

Makali raises an eyebrow, and she moves to face Aeldys fully. Aeldys grins and digs her fingers into the front of Makali's vest to tug her closer, leaning herself back against the wall as her eyes roam up Makali’s body. Makali has never regretted that fact that she easily towers over Aeldys’s elven frame, but she always feels especially grateful for her stature when under the pirate’s appreciative gaze.

“Well,” Makali says slowly, “just because I’m not sticking around for long, doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of fun tonight.”

Aeldys’s smirk grows, and her free hand curls around the back of Makali's neck, pulling her lower until their faces are level. “And here I thought you didn’t trust me.”

Makali tilts her head, an eyebrow raised as she hovers just beyond Aeldys’s lips. “Do I need to?”

“Maybe it’s more fun if you don’t.” Aeldys leans forward and closes the distance between them. Her mouth is rough and warm, and the taste of rum lingers on Makali’s lips after she pulls away. “Gotta keep you on your toes, lovesome.”

[meowww-ffxiv]

Dawntrail; veeeery mild spoilers up to the first split-quest.

Liios x Estinien || warning for extreme sappiness.

-

Estinien was already waiting on the cabin's sea-facing porch when Liios entered.

He had shed some of his armor. The gauntlets and greaves were set aside in the armory corner of the cabin, alongside his spear, though Estinien had not commandeered the mannequin that the staff had thoughtfully set up for Liios's own use. The man himself sat on one of the recliners on the porch, eyeing a pineapple with a straw poking out of it with something akin to trepidation.

At the sight of him, every ounce of travel-weariness in Liios's body seemingly evaporated. He broke into a helpless grin as he stepped over to Estinien. "It's a popular local cocktail," Liios said. "Rum mixed with sweet coconut cream and pineapple juice. You should try it."

Estinien grunted. He set the drink aside and rose to his feet.

They kissed, arms settling around each other like ships pulling home to harbor. The drink was entirely forgotten, as was everything else.

Liios pecked Estinien on the chin with another small kiss, then got off his tiptoes to pluck inquisitively at the straps of his armor. Estinien, expression soft as a cloud, nodded. And Liios set about undoing them.

The routine took less than six minutes. As Liios set the heavy breastplate onto the mannequin and straightened out the skirt, Estinien pulled his hair free of its binding and kicked off his shoes. These were also set aside, out of Liios's way, so Estinien could wrap an arm around his waist and pull him upright so he could begin divesting Liios of his belts and coat.

These were laid out on the nearby table, each one set down punctuated with a kiss -- pressed to Estinien's calloused palm, pressed to Liios's hair, the softest brush of lips on a long Viera ear that made Liios shiver in the warm tropical weather.

When they were all gone and Liios was satisfyingly stripped down to only his shirt and trousers, Estinien lifted him to sit on the dresser. He gripped the back of Liios's neck and tilted his head back so their eyes met. The other lance-calloused hand cradled Liios's face, fingers stroking strands of fur-soft hair.

Estinien simply studied him for a long, long moment, as though committing a painting to memory. Finally satisfied, he exhaled and buried his face in the crook of Liios's neck.

Liios laughed and stroked his lover's hair in turn. "It's been a month," he said.

"A month too long," Estinien grunted. He broke the embrace for a moment, if only to shift them both to a more comfortable position. His arm settled securely around Liios's waist. "I feared something had happened to you when I arrived and was immediately followed by that storm."

Liios quieted, remembering the force of that same storm when it found them out at sea. A shade of the hair-raising terror and panic reared its head inside his heart, for all that he had been the picture of calm decisiveness on the deck at that time. Ptolemy had been on the ship with him, and Ptolemy can most certainly drown.

As though sensing his lover's thoughts beginning to slide into darkness, Estinien tapped Liios's chin to bring him back around. "You're to aid the Third Promise in her claim to the throne?" he asked.

Liios quickly shook himself, and nodded.

"I'm surprised she managed to convince you, with so much on your plate in Razd-at-Han," Estinien mused. His smile was knowing. "And here you said you did not have itchy feet."

"In my defense, they only became unbearably itchy once Wuk Lamat made her request and told me that there are some candidates in the running who would turn the country towards expansionism," Liios retorted.

"And there you go again, waiting until something becomes unbearable before you allow yourself to act on it," Estinien sighed.

His words left Liios speechless. Shrived him clean of any possible retort, rather. As he continued to sit there and struggle for an answer or even just a follow-up, Estinien finally stepped away from him.

He returned with the drink-in-a-pineapple.

"Drink it through the straw," Liios advised him.

Estinien instead grabbed a bronze goblet and poured half of it in there, then offered the remaining half inside the pineapple to him.

Before Liios could protest or attempt to swap, he'd already sampled it. His eyebrows shot up. "Mm, stronger than I thought," Estinien mused. "And this comes with the free room service? Being the retinue of the Third Promise has fine perks."

"I ordered it," Liios shook his head and took a cautious sip as well. Estinien was correct; there was nothing mellow about the amount of rum in the drink, though it melded with the coconut and pineapple very well. "For us to share."

Estinien's eyebrows lifted a little higher, before he smiled.

Of course Estinien would find out which cabin was Liios's and come to wait for him. Of course he would enter through the balcony rather than the front door, thus avoiding awkward questions or burning curiosity from the cabin staff.

And there upon the small table at the porch was a fresh, cold drink that Liios probably ordered by sending words ahead the moment he stepped out of his audience with the Dawnservant, before he could even drag the rest of his tired body there.

"Are you bunking with Ptolemy?" Estinien asked.

"Nay, he is staying with the Sharlayan artisans and gleaners we came here with," Liios replied.

Estinien threw a look over his shoulder. "Then that's two beds too many."

Liios chuckled and set his drink aside. He leaned up, running the tip of his nose along the line of Estinien's jaw. "Wuk Lamat was only making a polite assumption. We can push them together."

He fussed with the collar of Estinien's shirt, suddenly unsure. Offered, a little shyly, "If you'd like to stay the night."

The way Estinien raised an eyebrow made that uncertainty shrivel and die away.

"Something to eat first," Estinien murmured, and squeezed Liios's thigh. He smirked knowingly as blood rushed up Liios's face, at the slight hitch of breath. He even had the audacity to remove his hand when Liios shifted his leg to encourage said hand to move upwards a little, the scoundrel.

"I'll warn you, I will be asleep after dinner," Liios said, stroking Estinien's neck. "So if you want to have me, you'd best ask now."

"Sleep sounds fine. You probably need it," Estinien replied nonchalantly.

"But you will be gone by morning..."

"I will stay for breakfast." Estinien caught his hand, if only to press Liios's fingers to his lips. "Nor shall I go far, while you are still here."

They got dinner.

(And it was exactly as Liios had said -- and as Estinien had promised.)