#claim so its still ‘his’ claim. in his head.

[rafayelxsylusho]

How the lads men eat your 🐱.

Zayne/Sylus/Caleb/Xavier/Rafayel

TW:SMUT

Xavier🌟

Xavier would eat your pussy in the missionary position, with you lying on your back and him positioned between your spread legs, head propped up slightly on pillows so you're not completely flat but can still see him between your spread thighs. This way, he can watch your expressions, your mouth falling open in soft gasps and moans, your cheeks flushing pink as he pleases you.

He'd take his time, starting with slow, teasing licks along your slit before focusing on your clit, circling and flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue. His large hands would grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he dives in, burying his face in your cunt and feasting on you like a starving man at a banquet. He'd alternate between long, slow licks and quick, hard sucks on your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge before pulling back to start all over again, determined to make you cum on his tongue.

Throughout it all, his deep blue eyes would be locked with yours, watching your every reaction as he takes you apart with his mouth.

Sylus 🐦‍⬛

Sylus would eat your pussy from behind, your hips tilted up and your lower half bared to him. He'd press your upper body flat against the bed, one large hand splaying between your shoulder blades to hold you down while the other grips your ass tightly, kneading and parting your cheeks.

He'd start by trailing teasing kisses along the back of your thigh, slowly working his way up until he reaches the crease where your leg meets your ass. His breath would be hot against your skin as he inhales your scent, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Then, without warning, he'd bury his face between your legs, his tongue delving directly into your dripping folds.

He'd eat your pussy with a hunger bordering on feral, his mouth and chin glistening with your juices as he licks and suckles your most intimate places. His tongue would plunge deep, fucking into your entrance, before dragging slowly upward to circle and flick against your clit. He'd alternate between long, broad strokes and targeted flicks, each movement sending jolts of pleasure shooting through you.

His fingers would dig into the flesh of your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth, grinding your cunt against his face as he devours you. He'd be relentless, determined to make you fall apart on his tongue, to feel you gush and quiver against his lips. He'd only stop when he's wrung every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body, leaving you boneless and spent. Throughout it all, he'd hold you in place, claiming you, possessing you utterly.

RAFAYEL 🐡

Rafayel would eat your pussy in a position that lets him get creative and playful, his artistic nature shining through. He might have you sit on the edge of a table or dresser, your legs spread wide and your feet resting on the edge.

As you sit there, he'd look at you with a mischievous grin, dark purple-pink eyes roaming hungrily over your exposed flesh. His hands would grip your thighs, thumbs rubbing teasing circles on your skin as he leans in. He'd start by just breathing in your scent, eyes fluttering shut in bliss before he's even begun.

Then, without warning, he'd bury his face between your legs, his lips and tongue immediately finding your clit and suckling greedily. His technique would be enthusiastic and passionate, almost messy in its intensity. He'd alternate between flat-tongued strokes and rapid flicks, occasionally dipping down to thrust his tongue deep into your entrance before returning to lavish attention on your aching clit.

His nose would nudge your clit as he licks, the sensation foreign yet incredibly pleasurable. Occasionally he'd pull back to blow cool air across your dripping folds before diving back in, his chin and cheeks slick with your juices. Throughout it all, he'd make appreciative noises, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation.

He'd be playful too, occasionally pulling away to admire his work, seeing how wet and swollen and desperate you look before diving back in to continue his feast. His goal would be to bring you to a messy, shaking, shouting climax, reveling in the knowledge that he did that to you.

ZAYNE 🥼

Zayne would have you straddle his face. He'd be reclined against a mound of pillows, head tilted back, hazel eyes dark with desire as he looks up at you. His large hands would grip your hips firmly but gently, guiding your movements as you position yourself over his face.

He'd start by simply inhaling deeply, the scent of your arousal filling his nostrils. Then, without warning, he'd lean forward and drag the flat of his tongue along your dripping slit in one long, slow lick. He'd take his time, savoring your taste, before focusing his attention on your clit. His tongue would circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, teasingly at first, then with increasing pressure and speed.

Zayne would use his lips too, suckling your clit as his tongue flicked and circled. Occasionally he'd dip down to thrust his tongue deep into your entrance, fucking you with it, before returning to your clit. His hands would squeeze your hips, encouraging you to grind down against his face.

He'd be relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure, determined to make you come undone. He'd feel your body start to tremble and tense, your grip tightening on his hair. That's when he'd double his efforts, tongue and lips and even the occasional gentle nip pushing you over the edge.

As you come, he'd hold you in place, refusing to let you pull away, forcing you to ride out the waves of your climax on his face. He'd lap at you through it, gradually gentling his touch as you come down. Finally, he'd release you from his grip, a smug smile on his face as he gazes up at your blissed-out expression.

CALEB 🪐

Caleb would eat pussy in a 69 position he'd be on his back urging your thighs to straddle his face, your dripping sex hovering just above his eager mouth.

His hands would grip your ass tightly, fingers sinking into the flesh as he pulls you down, the first intimate contact of your slick folds with his lips and tongue. He'd groan into your pussy, the sound muffled but still audible, sending delicious vibrations through your core. His nose would press against your clit as he inhales your scent, a shudder running through his long body.

He'd start by licking broad, slow strokes along your slit, from your entrance up to your clit, his long tongue delving between your folds to taste your essence. His technique would be sensual and almost lazy at first, savoring every inch of your most intimate area. Occasionally he'd dip the tip of his tongue inside your entrance, fucking into you shallowly, teasingly.

His hands would knead and squeeze your ass, occasionally pulling you harder against his face, grinding your pussy against his mouth as he suckles and licks.

He'd set a steady rhythm, thrusting his hips up to meet your bobbing head as he pleasures you. He'd be lost in the dual sensations of your hot mouth around his cock and his own mouth buried in your dripping sex. The combined stimulation would be intense for you both, the pleasure building rapidly.

He'd occasionally bury himself deep in your throat as he grinds his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent and moaning deeply, the vibrations adding to your growing ecstasy.

When he feels you are close, he would start sucking your clit hard as he thrusts his tongue deep into your spasming channel. His fingers would dig into the flesh of your ass, pulling you impossibly hard against his mouth, grinding your gushing pussy against his face as he devours you.

At the same time, he'd bury himself balls-deep in your throat, his thick cock pulsing and throbbing as he hits the back of your throat. With a guttural, muffled moan that you feel vibrating through every cell of your being, he'd explode, his hot seed shooting down your throat in thick, creamy ropes.

He'd continue sucking and licking as he climaxes, his hips jerking erratically as spurt after spurt of his release fills your mouth and throat. His grip on your ass would be almost painful as he holds you in place, not letting you pull away as he rides out the intense waves of his orgasm.

Finally, with a last shudder and a sigh, he'd relax his grip, his softening cock slipping from your lips as he gently eases you off him. But he'd keep your hips nestled against his face, his tongue lazing slow and lazy strokes along your slit, cleaning up every last drop of your release as you both float down from the incredible high of your shared climax.

[leighsartworks216]

Darlin' I'm Right Here

Sylus x gn!Reader

I wrote this at like 3am last night and because I wrote this at 3am last night and then went down a rabbit hole of rereading fanfics, I did not get enough sleep to do any work

Anyway I just think it would be neat if Sylus could carry me around please and thank you

Title from "Butterfly's Repose" by Zabawa

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic fluff, caretaking, kissing, cuddling, undressing (and redressing), casual intimacy, established relationship, crying

Word Count: 1,659

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third Love and Deepspace Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus looks over as the door opens and quietly shuts again. He watches you, a silent observer, as you drop your stuff to the floor and push it aside with your foot. Your movements are sluggish as you pull off your winter coat and the sweatshirt underneath. A low sigh passes your lips as you work at undoing the knots in your boot laces - and that's when he comes over.

You see his shadow, feel his presence, and stand up straight once more. He tilts his head, brow furrowed slightly; you look so tired, so worn out, and moisture is collecting on your lower eyelids. Your pitiful sniff only confirms his suspicions.

He doesn't say anything as he kneels down by your feet. He unties the knots you struggled with moments ago, undoes the laces enough for your feet to slip out easily. You use his shoulder as support when he lifts one foot and slips your boot off, then the other. Both are set aside in a tray where they can continue drying off without dripping melted snow on the wood floors.

You watch him as though in a daze. He stands and your eyes follow, lacking their usual vibrancy and life. They only shine now because of the tears you hold back.

He bends down, gently guiding your arms around his neck. "Hold on, kitten," he orders softly. Your hands lock together behind his head. Your face finds its place tucked in his shoulder, tightly so as to block out the rest of the world around you. His hands hold the back of your thighs as he lifts you, wrapping your legs around his hips.

He feels your breaths just as you feel his. Hears each shuddering inhale and shaky exhale beside his ear. He tilts his head to the side to rest upon yours, rubbing his cheek against your head affectionately. He hopes it really was just a bad day that is upsetting you so much. If he hears even a hint of a whisper that someone said or did something to his darling lover, he won't hesitate to deal with it, permanently.

Each step is a gentle sway, a soothing rocking. You feel like a child clinging to their parent, pretending to be asleep as they carry you to bed. You feel small, but not in a bad way. Small, yet protected. Secure. You cling a little tighter to him and he adjusts your hips higher against him to keep you there.

The villa you've practically claimed as a home is smaller than his usual estates, though still quite large considering only two people live here at any one time. It's much larger than your old apartment. At least here he can actually move around the kitchen comfortably and shower without needing to duck under the spray of the shower head.

He carries you through the familiar floor plan to your bedroom, and then further into the ensuite bathroom. He's immensely careful when he sets you down at last on the countertop beside the sink. Though, he doesn't pull away. Doesn't force you to, either. Instead, he holds your hip and massages at your lower back, giving you the time you need. There's no rush. There's never a rush with him.

With a small inhale to give you strength, you finally pull away. Tears make tracks down your cheeks. A wet spot stains his shirt. He brushes away the tears on one cheek, and kisses them away on the other.

"Do you want to take a shower, sweetie?" he asks. You shake your head. He kisses your cheek again warmly.

Instead of a shower, he reaches into a cabinet and pulls down a washcloth. One handed, he turns on the warm water and holds his fingers under the tap as he waits for it to get to the perfect temperature. The cloth's fabric turns dark once he holds it under the water, soaked through. He squeezes out the excess and turns off the tap, before brushing it gently over your cheeks.

You close your eyes and give in to his tender care. With no sound aside from a sniffle here and there, Sylus wipes away the sticky tear tracks. He soothes the cloth under your eyes, easing out the tension and tiredness with its warmth. You shiver involuntarily when the cloth touches your neck, lightly wetting your throat with enough pressure to avoid tickling you.

Once he's satisfied with his work, he sets the cloth on the side of the sink. His hands, warm and lightly damp, find your hips, then your thighs, wordlessly warning you just before he lifts you up once more.

He doesn't carry you far, just into the bedroom. He rests you at the end of the bed, your legs hanging off to the floor while the rest of your body is laid back against the plush bedding. He kisses your forehead as he gently coaxes your arms from around his neck. "Wait here."

You crack your eyes open to watch as he goes to your dresser. With familiarity, he pulls out a few things, chief among them two types of pants and two types of shirts. He carries them over and sets them on either side of you on the bed. He holds up the pants first.

"Which one?" In one hand is a pair of long pajama pants. In the other, a pair of shorts. You point lazily at one, and he sets them down.

Kneeling down by your feet once more, he removes your socks and your pants. Normally, on any other day, there would be a heat in his gaze. A dripping, dark lust in his eyes as they roam your legs up to your underwear. Now, there's not even a hint of such a thing. He looks at your legs in the same way he looks at his guns as he maintains them, with an undeniable presence of care and dedication, and the warmth of wanting to take care of you in the best ways he knows how. He always claims to be bad at comforting people, yet he finds the perfect ways to tend to you every time.

He slips the pants you chose on you, pulling them up along your legs. You don't even have to lift your hips up - he does so for you with a large hand under your lower back.

"Do you want your fuzzy socks?" He smiles when you nod. You're always so endearing to him. You've perfectly curled within his heart, laying claim to it as your own. Its beats change with your emotions and actions. Right now, it beats softly, but steadily, as your eyes follow him back to the dresser to retrieve a pair of your fuzzy socks and then watch as he slips them onto your feet. It will beat louder tomorrow, he’ll make sure of it.

He stands and lifts up the shirts. One is a baggy t-shirt you "stole" from him a while ago. ("Stole" because Sylus is not a man who often wears t-shirts. This particular shirt is one you bought for him and commanded him to wear for a couple of days leading up to your visit, whereupon you claimed it for yourself.) The other is a tank top. You choose which one you'd rather wear tonight and he sets them aside.

He playfully pulls you into a sit, tangling his fingers with yours and tugging you up to him. He leans down to kiss your head. Warm fingers brush your skin as he removes your shirt from today. It winds up in a pile with your pants and socks.

The shirt you chose is soon pulled over your head. Your arms are guided through just the same. He leans down to make sure it settles comfortably around your body, and you use the opportunity to draw your fingers lightly under his chin. All his focus is on you immediately.

He is completely pliant under your touch. You could do anything - have him do anything. He is at your whim.

With the barest pressure, you draw him in, meeting his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. His lips are always so soft and plush. They don't seek for more than you give, only taking what you decide to offer, without a hint of a complaint. When your fingers fall from his skin, he lightly pulls away, heavy-lidded eyes peeking open to search your face for answers, to know what you want. One more kiss, and one more, before you're satisfied. He pulls away.

Your dirty clothes are dropped into the hamper. The clothes you didn't choose are left on top of your dresser to be put away later. He goes to place you in bed properly, but is stopped by your slight frown and the flicker of your eyes over his clothes. He grins. He can feel your eyes on him as he changes his own clothes, trading them in for some sweatpants that rest low on his hips and a tank top that shows off his arms. You're smiling contentedly when he approaches this time.

He lifts you up, but does not set you down again. Instead, he slips into bed with you in his arms, holding you close as he ensures you're comfortable. Not that you complain; you keep him trapped there with the way your legs hug him and with your head tucked under his chin. He rubs up and down your back with one hand. The other holds your hand over his heart.

The day that upset you feels lightyears away as your body relaxes against Sylus's. The cold and snow outside don't exist as he kisses your head and stops rubbing your back in favor of massaging the back of your neck. No concerns for tomorrow. No worries about what will come next. Just the gentle coaxing of his breaths, luring you into a much needed nap.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Thinking about PHAINON’S cock being almost 7 inches, though its long enough for the head of his cock to reach your cervix. He definitely has the prettiest cock out of all of men. Its really pale and has a—lot of veins around it. Phainon is literally the best at fucking—you with his cock. His cock was just so pleasurable. A faint dusting of pale hair sits above the base of his cock, neatly trimmed and well-kept, adding to his effortless appeal. It's soft to the touch, smooth against your skin, just like everything about him—controlled, refined, and devastatingly perfect.

And then there's the way he fucks you. Not just with skill, but with purpose. Like he knows exactly how deep he needs to be, how slow or rough to take you apart. His cock stretches you in a way that borders on overwhelming, the thick veins pressing into your walls, the head of it brushing your cervix with every deliberate thrust. It's not just pleasure—it's possession, the way he claims every inch of you without a single word.

His breaths are heavy, low grunts escaping his lips when he feels you tighten around him. He watches you, eyes sharp, taking in the way you shudder, the way your body reacts to him alone. He knows no one else could fuck you like this, no one else could ruin you in a way that still feels so reverent. It's not just about taking—it's about making sure you know he's the only one who ever could.

Thinking about MYDEI’S cock It's the biggest one-thick, heavy, and a full nine inches of sheer, overwhelming size. There's nothing refined about it, nothing delicate. Just raw power, veined and flushed, built to stretch and ruin. His cock sits heavy between his legs, a perfect reflection of him—unapologetic, dominant, untamed. His pubic hair is just as unruly, untouched, dark curls framing his length. He doesn't shave, doesn't brush it down, because why would he? He's not the type to care about pretty appearances. He's the type to take, to claim, to make sure you remember exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him.

And when he's inside you gods, it's too much. The stretch is instant, a sharp, unbearable fullness that has you gasping before he even moves. He knows it, too. He watches the way your body struggles to take him, the way you twitch and tighten, barely able to handle his size. It's intoxicating to him, the way you clench around him like you were made for him, like no one else could ever compare.

His pace is merciless, rough and deep, slamming into you until all you can do is take it. Every thrust forces his cock against your cervix, dragging a mixture of pain and pleasure so intense it leaves you trembling. He doesn't stop-he never stops until you're shaking, until you're completely lost in him, until he's sure you'll never forget that he was here, that he's the only one who could ever fuck you like this. Because Mydei doesn't just want to pleasure you. He wants to own you.

Thinking about ANAXA’S cock It's not the biggest, not the thickest, but gods, does he know how to use it. Five inches of pure, aching need, pale and flushed at the tip, standing proudly against his smooth skin. There's no pubic hair—whether it's natural or something he takes care of, it's impossible to tell, but it only adds to the softness of him. He looks almost delicate like this, like something meant to be worshiped. But that's the trick, isn't it? Anaxa isn't just delicate. He's dangerous in the way he holds himself back, in the way his soft-spoken nature masks something deeper, something utterly consuming.

Because when he's inside you, it doesn't matter that he's not the biggest. He makes it feel like he is. He fucks like he has something to prove-slow at first, teasing, watching your every reaction like he's memorizing the way you fall apart for him. Then he picks up, hips snapping forward, angling himself just right so every thrust hits exactly where you need it. He's precise, controlled, relentless in his focus on your pleasure.

His breath hitches when he feels you clench around him, his hands tightening on your hips, keeping you in place. There's something desperate in the way he moves, like he needs you to understand that size never mattered-only this, only him, only the way he can make you shake with nothing but his cock and the sheer intensity of his devotion. Because Anaxa doesn't fuck to claim. He fucks to worship.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[not-neverland06]

𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝙻𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: Ah, we've finally arrived. The last stop on this journey. I honestly thought I would feel more relieved saying goodbye to these two but it's a little bittersweet. Arthur is such an important character to me and one I've always held close to my heart. Being able to write this series for him is definitely one of my prouder moments as a fanfiction author. Thank you all for staying along for the ride and all of the love and support you've given me 🫶

Hell Hath No Fury Series (complete)

Summary: The past is behind you, all you have to do now is choose which path you'll follow.

The door before you is covered in a fresh coat of paint. An attempt at erasing the past that almost makes you laugh. There’s no amount of polish that can scrub away the memories and lives embedded in its frame. This estate, once pristine, holds no warmth for you, only the echoes of a childhood so distant you struggle to remember it. 

Still, you know there were moments, brief fleeting moments of happiness before you knew better. Before you understood that love only had a place when it was currency, when it was useful, before you learned that you were just another debt to be collected. 

The door creaks open, and a pair of green eyes scrutinizes you from within. “Mrs. Rowe?” The maid’s timid voice asks hesitantly. 

You don’t know her name, after a while, they all blurred together. Each of them became the same spineless, faceless shadows that bent to your mother’s every whim. You consider correcting her, telling her to call you by your maiden name, but the thought goes sour in your mouth. That name was your father’s, and he had owned you just as much as your husband. 

“Please,” you lift your chin, eyes narrowing at her, “I’m not Mrs. Rowe any longer,” you tell her curtly. 

The maid frowns and the door opens a tad wider. Her nose wrinkles in distaste, but she says nothing, not bold enough to speak out against you. Instead, she bows her head and steps aside, holding the door open to you. 

The scent of overpriced cigars and aged whiskey is thick in the air. Breathing in is like being thrown right back to days of racing through these halls, avoiding your mother’s scoldings and your father’s plotting. You almost feel the twitch of a smile as you peer up the banister of the stairs, where you know your old room is. 

The house remains unchanged, the same ornate rugs swallow your footsteps as you follow the maid down the hall. Chandeliers drip with excess in a way that you always thought was gaudy but your mother claimed show class. 

The maid stops in front of a familiar oak door, bowing her head once more before rushing off like a frightened mouse. Behind it, he’s waiting for you. 

You push the knob down and step inside, your father sits at his desk, posture relaxed as if he were expecting you. A half-empty glass of bourbon rests in his hand, swirling it lazily as he watches you approach. You notice grays in his hair that you’d never seen before, signs of age, and the truth that even money can’t stop the relentless passage of time. 

The lines around his face are deeper than you remember, but his eyes, still sharp and calculating, assessing you for your worth, haven’t changed at all. 

“When I received word from my daughter after nearly a year of believing her to be dead, I certainly hadn’t thought you would have become an outlaw.” You don’t take a seat and don’t say a word. Standing a few feet back from his desk, you keep your face carefully blank. “Van der Linde gang, wasn’t it?”

You don’t bite and ask how he knows, demand for him to tell you how he’s keeping track of you. It’s better to know less about your father’s reach and influence. Besides, little tricks like this haven’t scared you since you were a child. 

He waits for you to speak, huffing out a forced laugh when you don’t. “Finally returned back to me. I can only assume you want something.” He sets his glass down on his desk and leans back in his ornate leather chair. “I presume it has something to do with that outlaw lover of yours?”

Hands clenching reflexively around your purse and the revolver inside, your jaw clenches, the first tell you’ve given him. His lips curl, something cruel dancing behind his eyes. “If you hadn’t already been tainted by that useless husband of yours, I might just keep you here. Sell you to the next highest bidder.”

You don’t flinch and give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But you know he means every word. If you actually still held value or standing in society, he wouldn’t hesitate to put you back under lock and key, using any means necessary to cage you. 

“You can try,” you say smoothly, tilting your head ever so slightly. “But that worthless husband you picked out for me has left me as quite the undesirable.”

Something flickers across his face, amusement, maybe even appreciation for the bite in your tone. That’s the game he plays. He has no tolerance for disobedience and no respect for someone who doesn’t fight back. Perpetually dissatisfied. 

He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking over you. “What do you want, little bird?”

You take your time answering, stepping closer to the desk, glancing over the neatly stacked ledgers and letters. An old pen rests beside his arm, but he doesn’t seem to notice the black ink staining his shirt sleeve. 

“I want Arthur Morgan and the others who escaped with him left alone,” you say, voice even. “The Pinkertons, Cornwall. Every last hunter that’s sniffing after them. I want them called off.”

He raises a brow, lips curling slightly at the corners. “What makes you think I have that sort of influence?”

Your lashes flutter innocently and a demure smile flits across your face. “I know about the deal you made last spring,” you tell him, watching as his face tightens with recognition. “The one that ended with all of those men floating face down in the bayou. You’re the one who taught me to be seen and not heard, father. I just learned to listen.” You let the weight of your words sink in, watching as something like a warning crosses his face. You lean against the edge of the desk, voice dropping to a whisper, “You’ll find the power, and you’ll get me what I want.”

A slow smirk tugs at his lips and you draw back. “I always knew you were observant, listening in when I should have stopped you. Call it fatherly indulgence, but I didn’t think it would turn you into someone so conniving. I could almost say I’m proud if you weren’t such a disgrace to the family.”

Fists clenching by your side, you bite your lip and keep yourself quiet. It’s a waiting game, drawing the prey in to get what you want. 

He drums his fingers against the wood, considering. Then, finally, he sighs, reaching for his bourbon. “Fine. The Pinkertons and Cornwall will lose interest in what's left of your little gang.” He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass. “But Dutch Van der Linde? The ones who followed him? I’m not lifting a finger for them.”

“Good, I wasn’t asking you to.”

That earns you a short, sharp laugh. “Cutthroat, I suppose becoming an outlaw finally gave you a spine. If only you discovered it sooner, it would have been much more entertaining to break you as a child.” 

You swallow hard, taking another step back from him before you feel the urge to put a bullet between his eyes. “What else?” He presses, setting his drink down. “I assume you didn’t come all this way just for that.”

“I need a few high-profile bounty hunting jobs- on paper.”

He arches a brow, “For Morgan?”

You shrug, not willing to give away more than you have to. “For a friend.”

Understanding dawns over his face, followed quickly by an all too familiar smirk. “The sheriffs won’t let a woman collect their bounties, is that it?” You don’t dignify him with a response and he hums, tapping his fingers against the desk as he thinks. “Done.”

Relief unfurls in your chest but you don’t give it away. Nodding, you turn away, but his voice stops you at the door. “You’re a fool for choosing this life,” he tells you, tone light but laced with something darker. “You could have had everything.”

You look over your shoulder, barely meeting his eye. “We have different definitions of what that means,” you tell him simply, “I’d rather be free than a miserable miser like you.” His jaw snaps shut, eyes going cold, and you walk out the door, leaving him behind. 

Arthur leaves Diablo to roam in the valley beside the cabin. When he’d gotten up this morning you were already gone, Lady nowhere to be found. He tried not to worry, he knows by now you’re smart enough to handle yourself. But there’s a lot of people who want to hurt you both right now. Not just the bounty hunters and the Pinkertons, but this land is infested with the Murfree brood. 

Coming back from his hunt now, he can already see Lady trotting up to Diablo, and there on the porch, you sit. Your back is to him as he approaches, fingers tight around a letter in your hand. He vaguely recognizes the handwriting, but not enough to identify the author. 

“Hey,” he mutters, taking a seat on the stoop beside you. You glance up at him, folding the letter away and smiling. “What’s that?” He asks, nodding toward the papers now tucked away. 

Your smile shifts into something a little sadder and you glance out toward the water. “Charles finally wrote me back,” there’s a tone to your voice he can’t recognize, it’s bittersweet. “I think it might be the last letter I receive from him. He has plans to move to Canada. To start,” you hesitate before smiling fondly, “he’s going to start a family.”

Sucking in a deep breath you shrug and look toward him. “How was your ride?”

“Fine,” he dismisses quickly. “Where’d you go this mornin’?”

Your face morphs into something careful, guarded. “I had some business in the city,” he knows you don’t want him to press you further. It’s clear that whatever you were dealing with was something personal. As much as he worries about you, he won’t press, even if the curiosity is gnawing at him.

“You know it’s risky to go out on your own right now.”

You smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Trust me, I won’t be taking any more risks.” 

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing beside him. Arthur lays on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling as his fingers drum a restless beat against his stomach. Moonlight spills through the window, illuminating the cabin with a soft silver glow. 

Sleep has been harder and harder to find. It’s never come easy before, but he’d hoped it might be different now. He’s spent too many years with one eye open, waiting for a knife in the dark or gunfire to crack through the night. Even now, with no enemies nearby, no barking orders, and no campfire flickering just out of reach, his body refuses to believe he’s safe. 

He supposes he isn’t. The Pinkertons will still be after him, he figures he’s probably got a hefty bounty on his head. Large enough for the more reckless hunters to go after him. Sometimes he thinks Dutch might even be out there, seething over Arthur’s betrayal, waiting to find him again. 

Arthur sits up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his tired face. He reaches for the sketchbook resting on the nightstand beside him and flips it open. A piece of charcoal is already wedged between the worn pages and falls into his open palm as he settles against the headboard. Idly, he lets his hand start drawing a far too familiar form. 

The curve of your jaw, the way your hair spills across your pillow, he barely has to look at you to draw it now. Still, he finds his eyes drawn toward your sleeping form, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. You shift, mumbling something incoherent, and sling your arm over his waist. 

Arthur huffs out a quiet laugh, the warmth of your touch grounding in a way. He runs his hand along your arm, lacing your fingers together as you shift even closer to him. There’s not long to savor the moment before a loud whooping laugh shatters the silence outside. 

His hand stills its idle sketching, body going rigid like a hunting dog who’s found his mark. He sits up straighter, ears straining to hear the night outside the cabin walls. The grating laughter moves closer, faster, and louder than he’s comfortable with. 

He hears the distant sound of a bottle shattering and a sharp crack echoing through the night. Arthur swings his legs over the side of the bed, muscles tense, and catches the flickering glow of fire through the window. It almost sounds as if the horses are screaming in their pen. 

He’s on his feet in an instant, rushing to the door and grabbing the rifle resting along the wall. You shoot up in bed, blinking the sleep out of your eyes, and watch him throw the door open. “Arthur?” You call out, voice thick with sleep but growing more alert. 

“Stay low,” he warns you briefly, already moving through the door. 

Heat licks at his skin as he steps outside. Wildflowers near the fence are ablaze, the flames stretching dangerously close to the horses’ pen. Lady and Diablo run around wildly, bucking at nothing as the fire stretches closer. 

A group of men holler in the distance, growing closer as they circle around the property like wolves. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, aiming the rifle at the closest one. Murfree boys, he should have known. 

“Should’ve never come on our land!” One of them shouts, lifting another fire bottle, his match dangerously close to the fabric inside. Arthur doesn’t hesitate as he pulls the trigger, the boy and the bottle falling harmlessly to the ground as he slides off his saddle. 

You rush past him, paying no heed to the men with their guns pointed at you. He tries to snatch your arm, but you’ve got a bucket of water in your hands and you’re trying to put the fire out. He sees the way you glance worriedly toward Lady as the flames consume more of the dry grass around you. 

There’s a moment of stillness, the men stop moving and simply stare at Arthur. “He killed Mitch!” One of them shouts, the rest shouting something incomprehensible in rage. Gunfire erupts and Arthur curses, grabbing you and ducking behind the wall of the cabin. Arthur peers around the side and takes another shot before he ducks back into cover, reloading the rifle. 

There aren’t many of them, and they aren’t good shots. But he’s worried about the fire, not the fools shooting at him. The fight doesn’t last long, a few more well-placed bullets and the last of the Murfree boys fall. The only sounds left are the frantic whinnies of the horses and the sound of water sizzling against flames. 

He grabs another bucket and dips it into the lake, stomping out dying embers and putting to rest the remaining fire. When it’s finally out, you slump against him, chest heaving. His heart is still pounding in his ears, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. 

“They’ll come back,” you mutter against his chest, voice quiet but sure. 

Arthur swallows, watching the darkened tree line. They’re not known for letting go of grudges or forgiving the killing of one of their own. “I know,” he tells you, arm wrapping around you and pulling you close. His mind is already made up, he’s taking you somewhere else. And soon. 

The wagon rocks slightly to the side as Arthur directs the horses over a small rock and you reach eagerly for the reigns. “Let me drive,” you demand, the same way he’s been listening to you do the whole ride. 

Arthur snorts, shaking his head and tightening his grip. “Not a chance.”

You lean back on the bench, crossing your arms with a slightly amused tilt to your lips. “Oh, come on,” you admonish, “you act like I’m a bad driver.”

He gives you a flat look, thinking back to the cougar that nearly had you running the wagon off the side of a mountain. “You are a bad driver.”

“Yeah?” You taunt, something challenging in the way you narrow your eyes at him. “Who was it that broke the wheel clean off the last wagon?”

Arthur refuses to make eye contact with you, steering the horses around a rut in the dirt path. He shrugs, “That was different.”

You scoff incredulously, shoving at his shoulder. “How?”  

Arthur shrugs, “That was Dutch’s wagon.”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head and leaning against his shoulder. “So? That makes it a bad wagon?”

“I ain’t sayin’ it makes it bad, I’m just sayin’ it don’t count.” You roll your eyes but he sees the fondness in your expression as you sit back. He knows you’re letting him win, you could argue with him for hours, running circles around him. Even though you are a bad driver. 

The thick line of trees lining the road slowly thins and opens up. A field of purple wildflowers stretching toward the horizon lay before you. A small stream glimmers under the light of the late afternoon sun and winds its way through. In the distance, at the end of the small trail, he can see John, Abigail, and Jack waiting for the both of you. 

Arthur makes his way up the rest of the off-road trail, nose already wrinkling in distaste at the spot John has chosen for him. He pulls the wagon to a stop and rounds the side, offering you his hand. You roll your eyes at the gesture, smiling playfully and letting him help you down even though you both know it’s unnecessary. 

Arthur adjusts his hat, leveling John with a skeptical look. “You sure this is gonna work?”

John exhales sharply, leveling Arthur with a flat look. He steps forward, holding out Arthur’s cut from what he stole from Dutch. “Why’re you always doubtin’ me?”

Arthur takes the money and crosses his arms, shrugging, “‘Cause most of the time, you’re doin’ somethin’ worth doubtin’.” Abigail makes a noise of agreement, cutting John a sharp glare. You shift uncomfortably beside him and he lets out a sigh. 

He’s never more grateful for you than when he watches John and Abigail interact. That woman wouldn’t be happy with him if he did do everything she asked him to, although he most definitely does not. She’s never going to trust that he can fully integrate into a normal life or make something of himself. Having someone behind you, always doubting you, always judging you, it would drive Arthur insane. 

As much as you’ve gotten angry with him over the stupid choices he makes, you’ve always trusted him. He’s given you plenty of reason to doubt him, and still, you stand beside him. Even when he told you he had some half-baked plan to start a ranch on some cheap land Marston found for him, you followed him. And you trusted him when he told you he could take care of you. There’s no constant scrutinization of the man he used to be. 

He lets Abigail and John bicker, looping his arm over your shoulder and leading you around them so you can get a good look at the land you’re about to be living on. You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him, and Arthur feels some of the weight on his shoulders ease. 

The fire crackles softly outside the tent, casting a flickering light against the canvas walls. This tent is bigger than the one he’d had in camp, more spacious, and with wooden poles to hold it up. It has to be better until the actual house can be built, it’s what you’ll be living in for a long while. 

You sit beside him on the cot, sewing up a hole in one of your pants while he looks through the plans for the house. The scent of lavender and honeysuckle drifts through the open flap along with the sound of the creatures in the forest beyond. 

“I went to St. Denis,” you tell him, and somehow, he knows you mean the morning you disappeared. 

Arthur’s expression pinches, he looks up from the paper, taking in the way your face is illuminated by the dim light. “Why?” He demands, frustration creeping around the edges of his tone. It’s one thing to have gone out on your own, it’s even worse that you went to a place swarming with Pinkertons and cops. 

 “I went to see my father,” you tell him, voice calm despite his tension. You place your sewing to the side and shift closer to him. “The Pinkertons, the bounty hunters,” you pause, eyes roaming over his face to gauge his reaction. “They’ll be leaving us alone now, all of them.”

Arthur rubs a hand down his face, biting back the urge to say something smart. It’s not as simple as that. Whatever you’ve done, whatever favor you’ve called on, men like your father don’t just let things go. He feels like he should be angry. Hell, a part of him is mad that you put yourself at risk. 

But he sees the quiet determination on your face. You reached into your past, took the pieces that could be used against you, and turned it into something that could finally give you both a true clean slate. Arthur exhales, shaking his head. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he reaches forward, tugging you closer to him. “A whole new life, huh?”

You smile at him, leaning in until your lips are nearly brushing against his. “Yeah,” you whisper, “A whole new life.” Arthur leans forward, lips catching yours as he tugs you onto his lap. Maybe you acted a bit like a fool, but he can’t blame you. He would have done the same thing if it meant another chance with you. 

A few years later

The morning air is crisp, as always it carries with it the distant scent of the animals around the ranch, and poppies and lilies. Boots creak softly against the wooden planks of the porch as you step outside, pausing for a moment to take in the sight before you. 

Arthur sits in his rocking chair, the slow, steady rhythm of its movements in time with his easy breaths. His gaze remains fixed on the pasture, watching as the horses move lazily through the field, the cattle grazing beyond them. The sun is already high in the sky, warming the porch under your feet. Its golden light spills across the land, lighting up the stream beyond. Every morning, he watches it rise. 

You move toward your chair beside him, settling into the familiar seat. He doesn’t look away from the horizon, but his hand finds yours, calloused fingers warm against your skin. His thumb drags slow circles over the back of your hand, a quiet steady reassurance. 

Neither of you speak as there’s nothing to be said. No threats hang over your heads. No weight presses against your shoulders. 

There is only this. The soft rustle of the grass in the breeze, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the gentle creaking of the rocking chair. And the two of you, the outlaw and the lady. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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[chilling-seavey]

I May Be Crazy, But I Ain't No Fool (ln4)

↳ Timeless: F1 Grid Masterlist

↳ Summary: With London still filled with horse-drawn carriages, Lando's most prized possession is his brand new Ford Model C...and he plans to use it to his advantage.

↳ Title Song: I May Be Crazy, But I Ain't No Fool by Bob Roberts (1904)

↳ Word Count: 1.0k

↳ Warnings: Smoking. 

June 1904

The sun was bright that afternoon, a rarity for London, when the smog from the factories seemed to take the day off. It was a Sunday, perhaps that was why; the labourers kicking up their feet for a measly 24-hours off the clock while the wealthy went by like any other day. Lando, privileged enough to be one of the latter, had perfected the art of looking busy over the years. In fact, it might have been his best skill. 

On this particular Sunday, he found himself out front of his family home, loitering around the front drive on which the shiny red Ford Model C sat in all its glory. Motorcars were still a rarity in London at the turn of the century and Mister Henry Ford was ever so gracious enough to provide some of his automobiles to the United Kingdom only as of the year prior. Of course, Lando needed first claim to whatever was available. With his father’s connections in the automotive industry, this was made all too easy. 

As much as Lando was proud of his automobile and the wealth of his family that backed it, he certainly wasn’t obnoxiously ostentatious about it. Instead, he let the specimen speak for itself with its crisp red paint glimmering in the bright afternoon sunshine while he lingered about like he wasn’t waiting for someone passing by to ask him about it. 

He sat on the front porch with one of his sister’s novels in his hands and pretended to read, he crouched by the garden in his slacks and blazer and pretended to care about the flora growing in the beds, and, when he got really desperate, he even took a cloth to the automobile to give it a little polish. It was around then that he noticed a group of young ladies meandering down the street in the distance. 

Now, Lando was absolutely no fool and, in that moment, he could see himself getting a right grand deal: a chance to show off his brand new motorcar and the swooning attention of women. 

With his sights set on the distant gaggle of females, he opened his jacket and pulled out his tin of Wills cigarettes, slipping one out and setting it between his lips. He hurried to light it and then stamped out the match on the side of his boot before casually leaning against the side of his automobile with the polish rag draped over his shoulder. 

The trio of women approached in their Sunday dresses and carrying lacy parasols, their attention drawn to the bright red machine on their way past. They slowed to get a good look, their eyes wide in awe. 

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Lando greeted with a handsome smile, pushing himself straight with another drag of his cigarette as he addressed them by name and a polite nod of his head to each, “Miss Ackerman, Miss Fields, Miss Hawthorne.”

The ladies bent at their knees just ever so slightly in response, their attention trained on the magnificent machine sitting in front of his house. 

“Mister Norris, my, my,” one of them spoke in awe, “I was not aware of your purchase of a motorcar.”

“Oh, this?” Lando glanced over his shoulder to the car, feigning modest ignorance, “Yes, it was a recent investment. Ford Model C; one of only ten in all of the United Kingdom.”

“Oh, how splendid!” one of the women gushed as the others nodded and praised in wonder.

Lando smiled back at them, “She’s a beauty, is she not?”

“Have you taken it around?”

“Yes. She rides much smoother than a carriage, I must admit,” Lando boasted modestly.

He walked around the perimeter of the automobile, allowing the women to follow in awe. Lingering to the side for a moment to take in their praise and intrigue, he finished his cigarette and put it out.

“Say,” he stepped forward, resting a hand on the rear of the car, “it’s awfully warm out here to-day; may I escort you home, ladies?”

The trio shared soft giggles amongst themselves at not only the offer for a ride in a motorcar but from the mouth of the handsome son of one of London’s most highly regarded families. 

“We dare not put you out, Mister Norris,” one of the ladies politely refuted. 

Lando waved his hand as if to physically brush away her reluctance, “Nonsense, it would be my pleasure.”

With the women in agreement, Lando smoothly stepped up beside the motorcar and opened the small rear door with a click before offering his hand out to the first of the trio. She smiled bashfully at him and set her gloved hand in his, using her other to hold up her dress and petticoat so she could step up into the back seat. 

“It is quite a jump,” Lando warned them kindly as he helped the next young lady up, “Mind those beautiful dresses of yours.”

With the last of the three taking his offered hand, she praised him adoringly, “You are such a darling.”

“You are far too kind, Miss Hawthorne,” Lando tutted and helped her up into the back of the car. 

Then, he closed the small door and made sure it was securely closed before hopping up into the front seat. The open top automobile, in its red-painted glory, housed luxurious black leather seats and gold metal headlamps and trim. As Lando situated himself in the front seat, he adjusted himself comfortably behind the steering wheel that was secured down to the front of the car by a long metal post. Sitting there, behind the wheel, something inside him stirred like this was where he was always meant to be.

With a choked rumble, the engine came to life and the giggling women in the backseat hooted in surprise. Lando grabbed his derby hat from beside him on the front seat and placed it atop his head of styled curls before glancing back to his passengers,

“Hold on tight now, ladies. I must get my precious merchandise delivered back to their fathers in pristine condition.”

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[muiitoloko]

Cinderella

Summary: She came to witness the grandeur of Versailles but left with the Sun King’s undivided attention—a dangerous prize for a girl who never meant to be noticed.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: none

Author's Notes: This isn’t canon at all; I just watched an anime scene and got inspired to write this 😅

Also read on Ao3

The Palace of Versailles loomed before you, its golden gates thrown open in a rare display of generosity—or, more likely, vanity. King Louis XIV had decreed that for the first time in years, the common folk were permitted entry to his grand ball, an unprecedented spectacle that had set the entire city abuzz. Some whispered that the Sun King merely wanted to flaunt his magnificence to those who could never hope to touch it. Others claimed it was a ploy to find a new queen, though it was baffling why he would look among the rabble when he had mistresses aplenty.

You, however, cared little for the king’s intentions. This was your one chance to see Versailles from within, to walk its mirrored halls, to breathe the air of those whose lives were spun from silk and gold. The palace had always been a distant wonder, admired from the fields where you and your brother toiled. But tonight, dressed in your finest—though still a poor imitation of true nobility—you would see it up close.

Your brother, standing beside you, adjusted the fraying cuffs of his borrowed coat, his expression a mix of wariness and reluctant excitement. “If we get thrown out, I’m blaming you,” he muttered under his breath.

You rolled your eyes. “Then don’t get caught staring at the food like a starving dog, and we might just pass for something other than beggars.”

He snorted but said nothing more as the two of you stepped through the towering entrance, swallowed whole by the sheer opulence of it all.

The Hall of Mirrors glittered like a dream, candlelight bouncing off its endless reflections, making it appear as though a thousand ghosts waltzed through its gilded expanse. The air was thick with perfume and intrigue, nobles eyeing the unexpected presence of peasants with barely veiled contempt. Though none dared openly sneer—the king had, after all, extended the invitation—there was no mistaking the lines drawn between silk and linen, lace and coarse wool.

You had never seen such extravagance—tables overflowing with delicacies you had only heard of in passing, strings of pearls glinting on the necks of women who seemed more like dolls than real flesh and blood, musicians playing a waltz so hauntingly beautiful that it made your chest ache. It was all too much, too magnificent, and for a moment, you simply stood there, drinking it all in.

Then, the room fell silent.

A shift in the air. A moment of stillness, as though the palace itself held its breath.

King Louis XIV had arrived.

He moved through the hall with measured grace, the embodiment of power and opulence, his black wig framing sharp features, his hazel eyes heavy with the weight of a kingdom. Without a word, he ascended the stairs to his throne and, in an almost lazy gesture, sat down. That was all it took—the ball resumed, conversations picking up in hushed tones, musicians finding their rhythm again, and couples sweeping back onto the dance floor as though nothing had happened.

You, however, could not look away.

Your gaze locked onto the Sun King, the man whose whims dictated the fate of France. He lounged upon his throne with the air of a man who had seen it all, who had nothing left to be impressed by. He watched the dancing figures before him with mild detachment, fingers resting against his knee, expression unreadable.

A nudge against your ribs startled you.

"Stop staring," your brother murmured, his tone both amused and exasperated.

Blinking, you turned to him, only to notice the women kneeling in perfect formation at the foot of the king’s elevated throne. They were beautiful, pristine in their silks and satins, their heads bowed slightly as they remained poised in eerie patience.

"What are they doing?" you whispered, frowning.

Your brother shrugged. "Noblewomen, I suppose. Perhaps they wait for an invitation to dance with the king."

The idea of it—women reduced to mere ornaments, kneeling in silent hope for a glance, a gesture—made something in you burn. It was foolish, wasn’t it? To expect anything different. This was the way of things. And yet, when your gaze drifted back to the king, when you saw the boredom in his eyes, the utter indifference with which he sat above it all, something inside you snapped.

Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the fabric of your dress, lifting the hem just enough to move freely, and marched forward.

You heard your brother’s breath hitch. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You ignored him.

The music, the dancing, the laughter—it all became background noise as you moved through the crowd, dodging twirling figures, brushing past the heavy perfumes and the lace-trimmed sleeves. You stopped at the foot of the stairs, between the bowing ladies.

And then, in a single bold motion, you extended your hand.

An invitation. No—a challenge.

The silence that followed was deafening.

All around, the ball came to a halt once more. The musicians faltered, the dancers froze, and a collective breath was held as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward you.

King Louis XIV regarded you with the slow, calculating gaze of a man unaccustomed to surprises. His hazel eyes flickered with something—curiosity, amusement, irritation? It was impossible to say.

For a terrible moment, you thought he might laugh, might cast you aside with nothing more than a smirk. But then, without a word, the king rose from his throne.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

He descended the stairs, step by deliberate step, until he stood before you.

You had to fight not to flinch when he reached out, taking your outstretched hand in his own. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and before you could fully process what had just happened, he was leading you onto the dance floor.

The nobles moved aside as though the sea itself was parting.

The musicians scrambled to recover, launching into a waltz fit for royalty.

And there you were, in the arms of the king, your feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music, your body following his lead as if drawn by invisible strings.

The two of you danced in silence.

Despite the music swelling around you, despite the fact that the King of France held you in his grasp, you felt your confidence waver. It was one thing to challenge him, to throw yourself into the center of the Sun King’s world with reckless abandon, but it was another to stand in the middle of his court, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand whispered judgments.

You could hear them—murmurs behind delicate lace fans, the barely concealed sneers of noblemen whose powdered faces betrayed their disdain. A peasant, in the arms of their king. A girl in linen and borrowed silk, daring to stand where only those with titles and fortunes belonged.

Your face burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. The sheer absurdity of what you had done crashed down on you like an avalanche, and your grip on the king's hand faltered. What were you thinking? What madness had possessed you to reach for something so unattainable?

You were just a girl from the fields. He was Louis XIV.

Your breath quickened, and your eyes darted around the glittering ballroom, searching for your brother, searching for an escape, anything to ground you. But then—

"Look at me."

The words were sharp, quiet, yet laced with undeniable command.

Your body stiffened.

His grip on your waist tightened, steadying you as he turned you in a slow, deliberate motion, drawing your gaze back to him. His hazel eyes burned with something you couldn’t place—something piercing, unyielding.

"Not at them. At me."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. You had broken so many unspoken rules already, but this? To meet the king’s eyes, to hold his gaze—this was defiance. This was treasonous audacity.

And yet, you obeyed.

Your eyes lifted, locking onto his.

His face was unreadable, carved from stone, regal and imposing beneath the candlelight. The powdered curls of his black wig framed his angular features, a stark contrast to the graying hair hidden beneath. His baritone voice had left no room for disobedience, and something inside you bristled at that—the way he wielded power so effortlessly, so completely, as though the world bent to his will.

Because it did.

Who was he, really, behind the embroidered silks and golden halls? A pompous man with too much power. A king who wore his arrogance like a crown.

And yet, as you stared into those hazel eyes, as he led you through the waltz with perfect, calculated ease, you saw something else flicker behind them—something tired, something worn. The Sun King, basking in his own light, surrounded by beauty and decadence, but impossibly alone.

You didn’t know whether to pity him or despise him.

So you did neither.

You simply danced.

The whispers faded, the watching eyes blurred into nothing. The music carried you both, and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, it was as though there were only the two of you, moving through the golden halls of Versailles.

When the final notes of the waltz faded into the gilded air, applause rippled through the ballroom like a distant thunderclap. You stepped back, bowing respectfully, your fingers slipping from the king’s grasp as propriety dictated. Louis XIV did not bow in return—kings did not bow—but he inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that carried the weight of acknowledgment.

Yet his hazel eyes never left you.

Your dress, though the finest you owned, was a poor imitation of the elaborate silks that swirled around the room. It was the single thing that betrayed you, that made it clear to him—you were no noblewoman, no courtly lady maneuvering through the hierarchy of Versailles with polished ease. You were a bold peasant, a reckless girl who had dared to reach beyond her station, and yet… you had danced as though you belonged.

Louis reached for your hand once more, his fingers warm as they wrapped around yours, anchoring you in place. A slow smirk played at the corner of his lips, something unreadable glinting in his gaze as he tilted his head, studying you like one might study an anomaly.

"Your name," he demanded, his baritone voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

You hesitated, your pulse hammering against your ribs. A foolish part of you wanted to refuse—to remind him that peasants owed kings nothing, least of all their names. But before you could decide whether to answer, a flutter of silken skirts interrupted, breaking the spell between you.

"Your Majesty," a woman’s voice chimed, honeyed and lilting. Another followed, then another. A small group of noblewomen, perfect in their powdered grace, had approached, their faces carefully arranged in expressions of expectation and adoration. Each one curtsied with delicate precision, their gazes flickering briefly to you before dismissing you altogether.

"Will you dance with us, Sire?" one of them asked, batting her lashes in a way that made your stomach turn.

Louis turned his head, his gaze shifting to them, and just like that, your hand slipped from his grasp.

He did not notice at first. He was the Sun King, after all, and the world revolved around him. Women bowed, men whispered, and the court ebbed and flowed to his whims like the tides obeying the moon. Why should he expect that anyone—especially a girl of no name, no title—would simply walk away?

But that was exactly what you did.

You turned, slipping through the crowd before he could realize his mistake, before he could demand that you stay. Your heart pounded as you navigated through the sea of nobility, ignoring the curious glances, the whispers that trailed in your wake. Your brother was nowhere in sight—perhaps he had already escaped, perhaps he was still lingering in the ballroom, watching in horror as you committed what was surely a dangerous act of defiance.

You did not wait to find out.

Your feet carried you faster now, urgency threading through your veins. The gilded halls blurred around you, the chandeliers above casting fractured reflections along the polished floors, but you did not stop. You did not stop until you reached the grand entrance, the towering doors that had once seemed impossibly distant.

Then, with a final push, you burst through them.

The cold night air hit you like a slap, stealing the breath from your lungs. You stumbled, your legs trembling, but you did not slow. Versailles, with all its gold and grandeur, loomed behind you like a dream you never should have stepped into.

A foolish, reckless dream.

You ran.

And inside the palace, Louis XIV lifted his gaze just in time to see the great doors swing open. Just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of you, disappearing into the night like a phantom. His expression did not change, but something in him shifted—something sharp, something that burned just beneath the surface.

Like Cinderella, you had fled from the ball.

Except it was not yet midnight.

And you had left nothing behind. No glass slipper for him to chase.

Only the echo of your defiance.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the Sun King felt the sting of being denied.

[asukaindetroit]

[[Trigger Warning: Frank discussions of racism, sexism, and the Civil Rights Era themes we all know Cage pilfered even though he won't fess up to it.]] Counterpoint: I don't think these scenes are meant to be a result of cognitive changes due to shifting nonverbal communication styles. Rather, this is what happens when your society is so entrenched in the idea of one race/class/caste being inferior to another that both parties have deeply ingrained behavior/reactions to the other. (Or programming, I guess). To bluntly talk about the elephant in the room, as much as David Cage would like to claim DBH isn't a Civil Rights Movement allegory, a lot of iconography from it sure did make its way in there with all the clumsy insensitivity of a white French guy googling how things went down fifty-odd years later… with that in mind, these gifs scream of the Jim Crow era South to me. Not the way it's portrayed in TV/films, but the simple, day-to-day racist acts that were just…how things were, as disgusting as that is. Which, at age 36, I'll say I don't have firsthand experience in since I wasn't alive then, and so I'm probably the wrong person to talk about this. Buuuuut my father was born in 1950s Atlanta, and then grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma through the sixties… his parents, my grandparents, were from 1930s dust bowl Kansas. I grew up hearing "how things were" stories that, in some cases, make me shudder. OK was still deeply segregated in the 60s, but where black and white populations did interact, it's my understanding that it was just… a given that black folks would yield right-of-way to a white person if they crossed paths. White boy needs to piss? He cuts in front of all ten black guys in line, even the elderly, assuming they were even allowed in the same bathrooms. White lady approaching the door? Back outta that doorway and bow your head, no eye contact, don't even breathe until she's through. But despite the Civil Rights Act passing in '64, and segregation outlawed before that, those kinds of societal expectations don't disappear because of pieces of paper. It continued, often unthinkingly, with the mentality on both sides being "this is how we act in society, this is whats expected." (Which, do not think for a minute that I'm implying any kind of "both parties at fault" thing; one side of this equation clearly perpetuated evil and the other was forced to internalize it.) Bluntly, the echoes of those attitudes exist even today. For a more recent comparison, though, consider the phenomenon of "manslamming"—that is, men today still expect women to yield if they're using the same space, and any woman who stands her ground is liable to get bodyslammed, then told to watch where she's going. This is 2025, and the sexist, subconscious assumption that women should defer to men persists. Most of those men would tell you they're not sexist, that they're all for equality, yadda yadda. But the behavior is so deeply entrenched in social norms that it doesn't even register as wrong, and the person who fails to comply with it, the woman who stands her ground expecting a man to yield, is seen as the oddity, the cause of the "conflict." And that's the problem. Bringing it out of reality and back to the fictional robots, though: Hank doesn't do that because he's impolite or bad at communicating. Hank shoves past Connor with the assumption that he'll make way because that's what androids do. Markus doesn't move out of the way to keep up an act—that's the reflexive behavior of a person that knows he is supposed to yield. That guy going through the door catches half a glimpse of a blue triangle and immediately, subconsciously, dismisses Markus because humans go first. Period. It's actually brilliantly done on the actors' parts, those subtle interactive cues that demonstrate how the androids aren't equal beings. Phenomenal use of body language to imply societal-level discrimination.

I've always found this article about the in-world phenomenon of "command-led communication" super interesting:

It's described as a verbal occurrence, but I've noticed it manifest nonverbally too in a couple scenes, which has increased my interest tenfold. The two I've found so far happen during the Nest chapter, and the Stratford Tower chapter.

When Hank cuts in front of Connor, there's no "excuse me" or attempt to walk around him first; he simply turns and starts moving with the expectation that Connor will step back and let Hank through.

Here, Markus really has to step back. Not just to avoid being bumped into by the NPC, but also to keep from getting whacked in the face by the door. He pushes by Markus with no hesitation.

If anyone else finds more, I'd love to hear about them!!

[nameless-jamie]

NOT LIKE HIM

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing, angst, crying

Y/N woke up to an empty bed.

At first, in the haze of half-sleep, she thought maybe Jamie had just shifted in his sleep, rolling away from her like he sometimes did when he got too warm. But when she reached out, her fingers met nothing but the cool emptiness of the sheets, the space beside her void of his warmth. She frowned, blinking blearily at the clock on the bedside table—3:27 AM—before sitting up and rubbing at her tired eyes.

It wasn’t unusual for Jamie to get up in the middle of the night. He had bouts of restlessness, times when sleep didn’t come easy to him. Sometimes, he’d go downstairs and watch old match replays with the volume barely above a whisper, analyzing every movement, every play, because his mind never truly shut off when it came to football. Other nights, he’d be stretching in the living room, claiming he needed to “stay loose” at all times, even at ungodly hours of the night.

But something about tonight felt different.

There was no sound coming from the TV. No soft grunts of effort from Jamie pushing himself into a stretch that most normal people wouldn’t attempt at this hour. No quiet rustling in the kitchen, no faint hum of a late-night snack being made. Instead, the house was eerily still, a suffocating sort of silence wrapping around her.

Then, she heard it.

A noise so faint she almost missed it—a quiet, choked breath, like someone was desperately trying to keep themselves together and failing.

Her stomach twisted.

Kicking off the covers, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, pulling Jamie’s hoodie over her head before padding out of the room. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she moved down the hallway, following the barely-there sound like a thread pulling her forward.

When she reached the staircase, she spotted the faint glow of the living room lamp, its dim light barely spilling into the hallway.

And then she saw him.

Jamie was sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the couch, his knees drawn up, arms resting limply over them. His head was bowed, his hands clenched into the fabric of his sweats, his entire body curled inward like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. His shoulders trembled with each ragged breath he took, and when she stepped closer, she saw the way his jaw was clenched, like he was fighting a losing battle to keep it all in.

Her heart ached at the sight of him like this.

"Jamie?"

The moment the word left her lips, Jamie stiffened.

For a long second, he didn’t move, like he was debating whether or not to acknowledge her. Then, slowly, he swiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, as if he could erase the evidence of whatever storm had overtaken him before looking up at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, and the vulnerability on his face was so raw that it made her chest tighten.

"Hey, love," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. "Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you."

Y/N frowned, stepping closer. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Jamie said quickly, sitting up straighter, shoulders pulling back. "Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Go back to bed, yeah? You need your rest."

That was when she realized—he wasn’t just trying to be strong for himself.

He was trying to be strong for her.

For their baby.

Her heart clenched at the thought.

"Jamie," she said softly, sitting beside him. "You don’t have to do this."

"Do what?" he asked, still holding onto that fragile mask.

"Act like you’re fine when you’re not," she murmured. "Not with me."

Jamie exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. "Babe, I just—look, I don’t wanna stress you out, alright? You should be restin’, not worryin’ about—"

Y/N didn’t let him finish.

She reached out, gently pressing her hand to his arm, her touch warm and steady. The second her fingers made contact, Jamie inhaled sharply, his whole body stiffening.

And then, just like that—

He broke.

A choked sound escaped him, and before she could say anything else, he was burying his face in his hands, his breath coming out in harsh, uneven gasps. His whole frame shook as he tried—and failed—to keep it together, and without hesitation, Y/N shifted closer, wrapping her arms around him.

That was all it took.

Jamie collapsed against her, his hands fisting the fabric of her hoodie, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. A strangled sob escaped him, muffled against her shoulder.

She held him tighter.

"I—" He cut himself off, swallowed hard, then tried again. "I’m scared."

She frowned. "Scared of what?"

His jaw tightened, his grip on her hand growing just a little stronger.

"I—I don’t wanna be like him," Jamie choked out, voice thick with emotion. "I don’t—I can’t—"

Y/N’s heart ached.

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. He was talking about his dad...

She just ran her fingers through his hair, soft and slow, grounding him. "Jamie, listen to me," she whispered. "You are nothing like him."

Jamie shook his head against her shoulder. "You don’t know that," he rasped. "I’ve got his fuckin’ blood in me, Y/N. What if—what if I end up like him? What if I—" His voice cracked. "What if I mess this up?"

Y/N pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, tilting it up so he had no choice but to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, filled with so much fear and self-doubt that it made her chest tighten.

"You won’t," she said firmly, her thumbs brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. "Jamie, you are good. And you try so hard. You are not him. I know because I see you, Jamie. Every single day. I see the way you love, the way you care about people. You are kind and thoughtful and so fucking perfect. And you try—every damn day—to be better than what he taught you. That’s who you are."

Jamie swallowed hard, his breath still shaky. "But what if—"

"You won’t," she cut him off, pressing her forehead against his. "Because you choose to be different. Every single day, you choose to be better than what he was. You’re already better than him, Jamie."

Jamie let out a ragged breath, his grip on her hoodie loosening just slightly.

Y/N softened, her fingers tracing soothing patterns against his skin.

"You think I’d have fallen in love with someone like him?" she murmured.

That made Jamie pause.

He let out a shaky, broken laugh, one that still had the remnants of his tears in it. "Dunno," he mumbled. "You are a bit of a bad boy magnet."

Y/N smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. "Yeah, but only the reformed ones."

Jamie huffed, but his body had started to relax, the worst of the storm passing.

Y/N brushed his hair back, her touch gentle. "Come back to bed, we miss you?"

Jamie hesitated, glancing at her stomach, at the tiny life growing inside her. Then, slowly, he nodded.

She led him upstairs, her hand in his, fingers laced together. When they reached the bed, Jamie curled around her, one hand resting over her stomach, his touch tentative but reverent.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice hoarse from crying.

Y/N smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I love you too," she whispered.

And Jamie, safe in her arms, let himself believe it.

[himluv]

Revelation

Chapter 33 of Say My Name (Say it Twice) is here!!! If I had to guess, I'd wager you'll like this one ;)

After being named First Talon, Lucanis and Rook need to talk. But first, coffee.

Read it on AO3

Read an excerpt below:

All the way through the Crossroads, Lucanis tried not to panic. In all his imaginings of how facing Illario might go, he’d never imagined that Caterina would name him First Talon there in front of all the Houses. But, of course she had. 

Lucanis was beginning to realize he was a terrible judge of character when it came to his family. That they both managed to surprise him so thoroughly showed just how vulnerable he was to them. He needed to do better, be better. 

Once they exited the Caretaker’s boat, Neve led the way toward their eluvian, while Rook fell back to walk beside him. He could practically feel her hand twitch with the desire to take his, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach out to her. He was too anxious, to wound up to allow for such comfort. So, he kept his brooding silence and she let him, her warmth beside him a comfort he couldn’t deny. 

Once Neve was through the mirror, Rook looked at him. She was worried, a crease in her brow he was beginning to think of as his. She was always so worried about him. But, there was that guarded look behind her eyes still. The one she’d had in the Opera House when she raised a glass in his name. 

Fear, Spite said. Afraid. Of. Us? The demon sniffed at her again. For. Us!

Lucanis sighed, but looked away from her. 

“Will you be up for awhile?” she asked. 

He nodded. It was late – all Crow business happened late at night – but he’d never be able to sleep after that.

“Do you want company?” Her voice was small, unsure. She wanted to give him space if that’s what he needed. Foolish, thoughtful woman. He never needed space from her. 

“Only if it’s you,” he said. 

She sighed and shook her head. “I guess I won’t go wake Bellara after all.”

He snorted at that, then stepped through the eluvian and back into the Lighthouse. Rook followed right after him. 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” she said. 

He nodded as they walked up the stairs together. As they reached the stairway to her room, Lucanis wordlessly took her hand and squeezed it once. She squeezed back, and he felt its twinge behind his sternum, as if she cradled his heart in her palm.

Then they parted ways, Rook headed upstairs, and he to the dining hall. 

He changed quickly, only sparing moments to stow his knives correctly. His leathers he left piled in a heap on the floor. He pulled on a fresh shirt and slacks, buttoned his waistcoat with the mindless ease of routine, then clipped his lapel chains into place. A quick comb through his hair and he looked like himself again – bone tired, but composed. 

Meanwhile, his insides still rattled with the night’s events. He needed coffee. He needed quiet and routine. And if he was honest with himself, he needed Rook. Her steadfast patience and relentless optimism might be the only thing capable of breaking through the gloom settling around his shoulders. 

Mierda. First Talon? What was Caterina thinking?

Did it, Spite growled. To hurt. Him!

“Of course she did,” he muttered. When had Caterina ever considered Lucanis before she did anything? With that bitter thought, he stepped out into the dining hall and started the soothing routine of brewing coffee. 

He’d just sat on the sofa at the front of the room, wondering if Rook had fallen asleep as he took his first sip, when the dining hall door opened and she stepped into the room. Her hair was up in a loose bun, strands falling around her face and neck in tantalizing chaos. She wore her usual linen tunic and leather leggings, and from the weight of her step she was just as tired as he was. 

She stopped and inhaled, a slow smile claiming her face. She turned, looking for him, and planted a hand on her hip when she found him. 

“Really? You came all the way back here for coffee?” Her tone was light, teasing him. “The stuff in your villa wasn’t good enough?”

He smirked at her. “It’s better when I make it myself,” he said. “And... I wanted some quiet.”

She sat beside him on the sofa, a careful distance between them. 

He sighed. “Fucking Illario.”

She asked, “do you regret giving him a chance?”

Lucanis heard her real question in the careful tone of her voice. Did she interfere? Did he resent her influence on his decision, now, after the fact?

He shook his head. “No. You were right. He’s family.” He gave her a a grim smile. “Besides, this wasn’t mercy. He’ll never live this down. There’s nowhere he could go to outrun being the Traitor Crow brought down in front of everyone. “

She considered that, looking down at her hands in her lap as she weighed her words. “I was surprised you spared him at all, really.”

“So was I. But…” He looked down into his coffee cup. “I don’t have a lot to lose. What there is… Illario, Caterina…” he looked at her. “You.” The weight of her gaze was too much, and he had to look away again. “This team.” He shrugged and then chanced a glance at her again. “I’m not giving that up.”

His proclamation hung between them for a long moment. Since they’d left Villa Dellamorte there’d been a wall between them, something neither of them seemed sure of how to overcome. He’d thought it was his foul mood, his anger and bitter disappointment that kept her at arm’s length, and perhaps that was part of it. 

But there, in that tentative quiet, Rook’s own uncertainty was clear. He just didn’t know what she was so uncertain about. He was about to ask, when she finally spoke. 

“So,” she said. “First Talon of the Crows, huh?” She looked down at her hands, forced their fidgeting to stillness in her lap. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us?”

Is that what had her so shut off from him? She thought he might leave her?

“No,” he said, then smiled. “We have a contract.”

Spite sniffed at her from where he perched on the arm of the sofa. Rook is. Scared! He spat as if her fear left a foul taste in his mouth. WANTS. To grasp close. Not. LOSE!

“Besides,” Lucanis continued, “she may have stepped down, but there’s no stopping Caterina from giving all the orders.” His tone was light, trying to tease her and ease her fears. “I still cannot believe she did that,” he murmured. 

She sighed, but the relaxation didn’t reach her spine. And she still didn’t look at him. “Well, that’s a relief. Because I don’t want to do this without you.”

He would never let her face Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain without him. That she thought he might abandon her now, that she still had room for doubt about him… Lucanis  couldn’t allow that. 

“Embria,” he said, setting down his coffee cup on the small table beside the sofa. 

She didn’t look at him, so he reached out and gently turned her face to his. Her eyes were wide and gleaming in the warm glow of the dining hall, but still just a little wary. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, reveling in the feel of the faintly raised edges of her tattoos beneath his skin. He held her gaze – he wanted to be sure he was heard and understood.

“I couldn’t leave this place,” he said. “Not with you here.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into his palm. She took a deep breath and let it out in a shaky exhale. 

“You have me, Embria,” he said. “For as long as I can put off the Crows, you have me.”

“Promise?”

Maker, her voice was so small. He would do anything to never hear that much doubt in her voice ever again. 

“I swear,” he said. Then, before he could overthink it, he pulled her face to his and sealed his promise with a kiss. 

It was such an innocent thing, just his mouth pressed to hers, but still, his stomach flipped and his pulse pounded in his veins. He pulled back just a little, his forehead pressed to hers. “You have me,” he breathed against her lips.

And then he kissed her again, slow and searching. It had been such a long, long time since he’d kissed anyone, that for a moment he worried about his technique, about being a bad kisser. But then their mouths interlocked, lips fitting together as naturally as their fingers intertwined, and a roaring heat climbed up Lucanis’s spine. 

As he’d told her, he had kissed people before, but, mierda, that had never felt like this. Those had been fumbling, awkward things with too much teeth and his panicking mind telling him to run. But, this? This was warm and soft, gentle and reassuring. This kiss felt just like Embria and he needed more. 

Almost on instinct, Lucanis tilted her head back and gently slid his tongue into her mouth. She tasted warm – like sunshine – all velvety heat, a hint of red wine, and something sharper, almost minty. 

Rook moaned, one hand reaching up to cling at his neck. She returned his passion, slightly gentler, mindful of his request that they take things slow. She only met him as far as he dared venture, didn’t push for more. Slow, just like he’d asked. 

Then, her mouth was open against his, her tongue slick and hot in his mouth, and he forgot the meaning of the word. 

Read the rest on Ao3

[gasogene]

as i don't want to completely hijack this post, i've decided to type out several of the letters in the book letters to sherlock holmes by richard lancelyn green in a post of my own. thank you again to @hesagoodone for the interest; i do hope the rest of the fandom enjoys these, as well! these are the five letters i had added to the aforementioned post but i will be reblogging this a few times over with more, so stay tuned... it's been so very hard to choose my favorites!

under the read-more you will also find a brief history from one of the many people hired to be sherlock holmes' personal secretary during a 50+ year period where 221B baker street was receiving an enormous influx of letters from those that hoped & those that believed sherlock holmes, the great consulting detective, was real—living & breathing.

Dear Reader,

Letters addressed to Sherlock Holmes have been answered by the staff of the Abbey National Building Society for over fifty years and I am the latest to serve as his secretary.

The head office, Abbey House, stands in Baker Street and includes the number 221 which many would say is the site of the rooms which Holmes shared with Dr Watson. The present building was opened in 1932 as the headquarters of what was then the Abbey Road Building Society, but which in 1944 took its present name following the merger with the National Building Society. In 1951 it housed the Sherlock Holmes Exhibition which was arranged by the St Marylebone Public Library as a contribution to the Festival of Britain. The Exhibition included a reconstruction of the famous sitting-room, which won wide acclaim, being visited by over half a million people, including Queen Mary.

Letters still arrive in large quantities, and during my time in office, Mr Holmes has received post from every quarter of the globe. There are fan letters, birthday wishes, Christmas cards (one each year is from Dr Watson), invitations to give lectures or attend weddings. Sometimes he learns that he is the potential winner of a fortune or that he has been specially selected to receive a trial subscription to a well-known periodical, but by far the largest number of letters contain details of intriguing mysteries. He is asked to trace, as it may be, a peanut thief in Kansas or to bring to justice the chopstick murderer of Nagasaki or to end the nuclear arms race. A few bring news of Professor Moriarty some claiming that he has been spotted boarding a train in Neasden or that he is responsible for the theft of a painting from the Dulwich Gallery. Others again wish to know intimate details of the detective's private life. Was he left- or right-handed? Did he dislike gooseberry jam? Did he once wound Mrs Hudson in the foot while cleaning a revolver? And did Mycroft Holmes wear glasses?

These and other questions are hard to answer, and I have to remind his correspondents that Holmes is now spending much of his time in Sussex and is rarely, if ever, on hand to deal with the queries himself. But I know that he appreciates all the kind comments made about him and is touched by the evidence of the high regard in which he is held.

He will always reside at 221B Baker Street, but if the Abbey National Building Society has been able to play its part in sustaining his tenancy then that is a cause for satisfaction. I certainly enjoy the work and could not wish for a better or more distinguished employer.

Best wishes.

Yours faithfully

Sue Brown

Secretary to Sherlock Holmes

A Bee-Keeper's Offer of Assistance

10 October 1904 W.B.C. Apiary Old Bedford Road Luton, Beds. Dear Sir, I see by some of the morning papers that you are about to retire and take up beekeeping. I know not if this be correct or otherwise, but if correct I shall be pleased to render you service by giving any advice you may require. I make this offer in return for the pleasure your writings gave me as a youngster, they enabled me to spend many and many a happy hour. Therefore I trust you will read this letter in the same spirit that it is written. Yours respectfully, W. Herrod

A Housekeeper for Sherlock Holmes

10 October 1904 c/o The Hon. P. Cranstoun Hurst Hill House Totland Bay, Isle of Wight To Sir Conan Doyle, Bart, Will 'Mr Sherlock Holmes' require a housekeeper for his country cottage at Xmas? I know someone, who loves a quiet country life, and 'Bees' especially, an old-fashioned quiet woman. Yours faithfully, M. Gunton

Request for an Autograph

18 November 1904 9 Eriswell Road, Worthing Dear Sir, I trust I am not trespassing too much on your time and kindness by asking for the favour of your autograph to add to my collection. I have derived much pleasure from reading your Memoirs, and should very highly value the possession of your famous signature. Trusting you will see your way to thus honour me, and venturing to thank you very much in anticipation. I am, Sir, Your obedient Servant, Charles Wright P.S. Not being aware of your present address, I am taking the liberty of sending this letter to Sir A. Conan Doyle, asking him to be good enough to forward it to you. Sherlock Holmes Esq.

Sherlock Holmes in Indiana

December 1954 Indianapolis, Indiana, USA Dear Sherlock Holmes, When I go to Europe, I want to see your house on Baker Street. My father read me 'The Speckled Band', 'The Six Napoleons', and 'The Red-Headed League'. I hope he reads me more. You're quite clever at solving cases. When I grow up, I'm going to belong to the 'Sherlock Holmes Club'. I read about you in the comics, in the newspapers, too. My sister and I play 'Sherlock Holmes', but I have to be Watson. We have two long-haired dachounds [sic] and when we play 'Sherlock Holmes', we pretend that they are bloodhounds. A magazine said you went to Indiana, USA. Did you? Sincerely, Betsy Rosasco

Lyn Satterstrom's Letter

September 1959 Richfield, Minnesota, USA Dear Sir, Although I have been told that you do not really exist, as have the other members of my English class, I still think that somehow you do. In the hearts of all those who read about your wonderful exploits in the world of solving crime, you do exist, as surely as the typewriter on which I write surely does exist — although my typewriting is a far cry from your great feats of crime detection. I realize you are shy when it comes to a lot of praise, so I will just say that you can never know how proud your readers are of you — that is, all but the detectives who read Dr Watson's stories just to help them solve their own crimes. Dr Watson said that you are — or were, as the case may be — a rather messy housekeeper. But even your messy stacks of news clippings have helped you to solve crimes, haven't they? There are suspicious-looking characters around all the time, and some people think you should come to this country to investigate. I have told them repeatedly, of course, that you are much too busy to bother with the crimes of America when you can help your own country. Well, actually, the reason I wrote is because I want to receive a letter from you so that I will know if you are still living and advancing the detective profession, or if you have passed on the road to happiness. If you are not living, would you kindly let me know? The rest of my English class is anxiously awaiting your letter also. Did you really do all the things that Dr Watson said you did? Some of the crimes and mysteries you solved seem almost impossible. Well, I must leave you to your work. In your next spare second or so, would you drop — preferably mail — me a note (by this I mean a letter, of course)? Thank you ever so much. Sincerely, Lyn Satterstrom

[apenitentialprayer]

Okay, time to reveal I am one of those Catholics, I guess, because I feel that this post is begging for a response. Because even if you kind of get it, the second paragraph shows you don't get all (or even most) of it. And before I continue, I want to say that the question of whether or not the Christian community should be affirming for the LGBT community is an important one, because this issue has real and concrete ramifications on people, some of whom I love personally and deeply, all of whom I am supposed to love compassionately. But this is really about a deeper issue that you sort of but unsatisfactorily touch upon in your original post. Because the Catholic Church makes an insanely high-stakes truth claim: that She is the institution founded by Christ, in which His Mystical Body subsists, who is indefectible in Her loyalty and inerrant in Her teaching. That does not mean, of course, that the Church's positions and stances cannot change. There have obviously been many times where the Church has clarified its position on something, which narrows the spectrum of stances that Catholics can take, even if it means excluding stances that were historically permissible; the Church can rearticulate its positions to make them more intelligible to new cultural contexts; the Church can even shift orientation in its policies to suit new social contexts so long as those policies don't violate the essential teaching; but what the Church is not supposed to be able to do is contradict itself on defined teaching. That's why, for example, I didn't think it was a big deal back in 2018 when the Church rejected the death penalty despite permitting it in the past; it expressed this teaching in such a way that it was clear that the death penalty still was not considered intrinsically evil, but the social conditions have changed enough that there are sufficient available alternatives that to make use of it is no longer justifiable. And, to put more of my chips on the table, that's why:

I would not be upset (I would even like it) if the Church was to soften its stance on no-fault divorce, provided it continued to be as equally stringent about the fact that marriage is indissoluble and that those who do divorce should not remarry.

I would not automatically leave if the Catholic Church were to start to ordain women, but I would need a really, really, really darn good explanation for it if I am going to stay.

I can foresee hypothetical situations in which a Catholic-Orthodox reunification could happen in a way that would require me to admit that I was backing the wrong Church.

I would have to leave if the Church ever declared that it was not sinful to have sex outside of marriage, as defined as one man and one woman in an indissoluble covenantal relationship.

And about the Church affirming homosexual relationships? I guess it depends on what you mean by affirming. I was happy to hear that the Italian Church no longer considers being openly gay an obstacle to entering the priesthood. I was incredibly delighted to hear that the Canadian bishops affirmed that love of whatever orientation finds its origin in God. I was also happy that the Nordic bishops said "in so far as [the aspirations of the gay rights movement] speak of the dignity of all human beings and of their longing to be seen, we share them." I loved Fiducia supplicans and the joy that I saw it brought to some members of the Catholic LGBT community. And when Cardinal Fernandez, the head inquisitor of the Catholic Church, suggested that part of pastoral responsibility for those living in regions where homosexuality is criminalized is "training [for] the defense of human dignity"? Elated. And in the realm of hypotheticals, I would even welcome a situation where the Church was to reintroduce adelphopoiesis as a liturgical pathway for gay couples. But if the Church were to declare that gay sex was not sinful, I would have to leave. Not because it would destroy all that is good and life giving and meaningful in Catholicism, but because it would mean that the Catholic Church is not what She claims to be. And whether that means I would be setting sail to investigate the viability of Orthodoxy's similarly high-stakes claim, or switching to a more humble branch of Christianity like Episcopalianism, I am unsure. But leaving would not be because I need gay people to suffer for my faith to survive (I would accept every action short of violating the Truth to eliminate that suffering), but because I had been wrong to have assumed the Catholic Church was the firm foundation set by Christ. Because if the Church were to completely reverse its stance on this issue, it would either have revealed itself to be defectible (if gay sex is sinful), or that its two millennia of unanimous teaching on this subject was errant (if it actually isn't). But, if the Church is what I think She is, this whole reply is a moot point, because She will not change her stance on this issue to the end of time.

lol I love when straight catholics are like if the church affirmed homosexuality i would leave bc she'd clearly be wrong and it'd undermine fundamental catholic doctrine cus like. I do somewhat get it. it'd certainly put a question mark over simplistic ideas of church authority. it does undermine credibility of the church and perhaps even of Christianity as a whole.

but also. the idea your faith is actively resting on not affirming gay people and would be destroyed if you discovered it was otherwise - that gay marriages would annihilate whatever else you found in Christianity that's good and life giving and meaningful - that feels a bit personal lol. and it's functionally saying 'I think lgbt peoples suffering is not just a sad fact of life but necessary for my own faith to exist; you need to be alienated from God so I can have my certainty Im doing the right thing'

[lunaatthezoo]

The Light Between Sin & Salvation: Chapter 18

Here we go. 95% smut. 5% fluff and plot. Every single bite is dedicated to Cha_Chai (IG, AO3)~ IYKYK 🫦

Chapter 18: Inside

Summary: Elain and Azriel cross a final line. Cassian is terrified of Nyx.

CW: Very brief mention of violence to animal.

Preview:

The pretty little tease only wiggled her ass on him some more, just to watch him squirm. Az bit the inside of his cheek as she pressed on his dick with her supple, supple ass. God fucking damn. He might not last through this movie. Elain found his calf with her hand under the blanket and started stroking him, her hand moving in languid, light circles over the dusting of coarse hair there. He shivered, becoming too consumed with the need to be inside her. To finally feel all of her. To finally claim all of her. 

He started wondering what she would feel like. How tight would she be? How warm? How slick? Jesus, he thought he could feel precum gathering at his tip. Elain’s hand didn’t let up, drifting back and forth over his calf. He wondered if she was getting wet too, thinking about taking him inside of her. Thinking about his thick, pulsing cock stretching her pussy to its limit. 

A chase scene was occurring on screen. It was loud. Very loud. Loud enough for…. Az leaned his head down to breathe, as quietly as humanly possible, into Elain’s ear. “You feel like you’re ready for me to fuck you, sweetheart.” She stilled, but then responded by arching her back just slightly, tipping her asscheeks up into his cock further. He groaned just a tiny bit into her ear. So she could hear how much he wanted her. How much he needed her. 

[heazueken]

Letting Go

*ೃ༄ summary: Jayce and Viktor have their part 2

warning(s): MDNI, explicit sexual content, oral sex, vaginal sex, ftm!viktor, knotting

pairing(s): Viktor/Jayce

w/c; 12.2k

a/n: i went a littleee overboard with this part 2 request of cured... did not mean to make it this long but! here we are! enjoy anon and everyone else! part 1 for those who didnt read :3

Translation list for Viktor:

Přesně tam - right there

Kurva - fuck

“Jayce, would you mind joining me later tonight in my chambers for uh…part two, if you will?”

The sentence played over and over in Jayce’s head like a broken record and he’s coming up on hour six of his work day. Viktor is still next to him, goggles on, focused and taking every few seconds to scribble down some runes and speak to himself quietly. He’s engrossed in his work and hasn’t spoken a single word to his vastayan partner in Gods know how long. Jayce is storming with more thoughts of nefarious things he could do to him, meanwhile Viktor sits there, earnestly working without so much as a glance towards the man next to him. Clearly he hadn’t been as affected by the events that transpired that morning.

Jayce had him on this very table just hours ago, fucking into him deeply, falling into the temptation of having Viktor all to himself and claiming him. When he glances over to Viktor he can’t help but be aware of the knowledge that under the clothing, there’s marks he left on his partner. It sends a shiver down his spine and he has to pull on the collar of his dress shirt to relieve the tightness of his tie around his neck. They’d been silent for so long that Jayce was too afraid to break it.

“Right, so, Viktor? When you said go to your place for part two did you really mean that? We have three more hours left and I just thought maybe we should go relieve some stress…” 

Well, that would just sound stupid and needy if he said that out loud. Plus, Viktor was never the type to leave his work ever. It’s Jayce who literally had to force him sometimes to go back to his apartment because he was not going to walk back into their lab to see the man slumped over a table and drooling on their research papers again (yes, Viktor has done that so many times now it was starting to be a daily thing). Jayce was hoping for once he could convince Viktor to sleep in his own bed tonight, he was only worried about his well-being after all.

Who is he kidding?

He wants Viktor on his back, wants to see him spread his legs and expose himself for Jayce. He wants to hold him down and fuck him like he’s never been before and hear his name fall from his partners voice in that soft, melodic tone. He wants to make him his, bite him and leave a scar that tells people he’s the property of Jayce Talis. He needs Viktor to know just how badly he wants him, his body calls to him like a moth to a flame and he doesn’t give a damn for getting burned because for Viktor it was worth it. Anything was worth fighting for when it came to his lab partner.

Jayce’s ears perk when he hears the grating sound of Viktor’s chair pushing away from the desk. He glances over to sneak a peek at him. He’s taken off his goggles, his jaw opening to release a yawn as he raises his arms above his head to stretch. Jayce can see just the edge of a hickey he left earlier on Viktor’s neck and it’s like something within him crawls its way forehead to the forefront of his mind.

Mine. All mine. 

Jayce has always been good at holding back the more undomesticated part of himself. It helped that there weren't many other vastayans in Piltover, or the fact that he didn’t really take any notice to anyone romantically. There was Mel Medarda, but that had faded so quickly he could barely remember the scent of her or why he had been so infatuated in the first place.

But Viktor…there was something about Viktor that made it so fucking difficult for Jayce to hold back. He’s almost scared of himself when he thinks back to that morning and the things he did to him. It wasn’t good for him to let himself be the beast that stirred inside him— that’s what he’s always thought. He had never truly let himself freely explore the animal side to him before, and Viktor had the makings to completely rewire his brain and bring forth the very monster he’d thought he conquered.

“You’re stiff as a board, Jayce. What’s with you?” Viktor’s creaky voice breaks his train of thought, and he looks to his partner who’s looking up at him with slight concern. Had he been standing here behind Viktor for that long for it to be weird? Oh, yes he had. He takes a step back and laughs awkwardly, his tail tucking between his legs slightly, the other taking notice with a glance downward before flickering back up to his face.

“Sorry, I— uh— lost in thought, I think.” 

He’d gotten a taste— no, not a taste— a mouthful of Viktor and he’s just supposed to act like that wasn’t a life altering experience? How could he go about the rest of his day normally when the man he had buried himself inside of sits in front of him like that didn’t happen and be completely normal about it?! Maybe Viktor just had more experience, maybe he just didn’t reciprocate the same intensity of feelings as Jayce did.

“You think…” Viktor trails, still looking at him like he’s hiding something from the older one. He points his chin in his direction. “What are you doing just lurking behind me?” 

“Nothing! Really! I was just…thinking…” He can’t stop himself from glancing back over to the table again and seeing Viktor’s naked figure laying there like he had been. Basking in the sunlight that drew its way into the room and highlighting the wonderful curves and moles riddled across his skin. Jayce practically begins to drool at the thought of it again. He doesn’t notice Viktor setting his goggles down and scooting out of his chair to get up. 

“I’m tired,” He announces, Jayce once again broken out of his trance just in time to see Viktor brush past him. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck and limps towards his cane. “Perhaps we should call it a day, hm?”

Jayce stares at the back of Viktor’s hunched over figure as he begins organizing a few stacks of paper and scraps of metal and gears that have yet to be sorted by size and usage. Something kicks within his brain, seeing him tired, drained, and messy with his wavy hair poking this way and that after hours of his delicate fingers running through it, setting Jayce in that classic “helper” mode no one ever needed from him.

“Viktor,” he gently says, and it sounds like warm honey on the other's ears, Viktor immediately turning to look at him. There’s a sparkle in his eyes like finally, finally Jayce is noticing him. 

“Uh,” Jayce falters, stopping himself from taking a further step towards his partner, but holding his hand out like he’s reaching for him. “I just—I wanted to—“ How is he supposed to even begin what he’s been ruminating all day? Walking Viktor back home, inviting himself into his apartment, helping him get undressed, bathing him, feeding him, laying with him, kissing him, feeling him up and spreading his legs and burying his—

“Sorry. Forget it.” He lowers his arm and his ears lay back into his hair completely hiding them from view. He ducks his chin into his chest and screws his eyes shut.

He doesn’t want to assume anything, doesn’t want to pressure or push too much. He knows they had just been close in the most intimate way possible and yet he couldn’t get himself to ask Viktor if he truly meant what he had said; “Jayce, would you mind joining me later tonight in my chambers for uh…part two, if you will?”

That had to be a joke, right?

Viktor’s jaw clenches and Jayce can feel the tension rise in the room. He can barely meet the older one’s stare but catches a glimpse of the harsh pain and disappointment that flashes across his eyes before he parts his lips to say something.

“Okay, well, I’ll be seeing you…whenever, I suppose.” He grabs his coat and only the sound of his shoes and cane clicking on the floor can be heard. Jayce waits until the sound finally fades to release his breath and let his tense shoulders fall.

He looks over to the clock and sees they still had half an hour before they were going to close up shop and head out for the night. He hangs his head in shame feeling like he’d done everything wrong, slumping into the chair Viktor had just been in. It’s still warm from his body heat and he can still smell his sweet scent. Jayce stuffs his face into his hands and mourns what could have been a good night. 

Later that week Viktor completely disappeared. On the first day Jayce wasn’t too worried, he was used to this sort of thing and Viktor never stayed away long enough for him to really grow concerned. But when he spoke to Sky on the sixth day his mild anxiety turned into full blown panic. 

“Hey, uh, Sky?” He starts as he hunches over some of Viktor's lab journals and deciphers the runes. Sky turns to him with files in her arms.

“Y-yes?” He rarely ever speaks to her, especially lately and since— well…what had now happened a week ago. 

His ear twitches as he forms his questions. “You…hang out with Viktor outside the lab, right?”

He doesn’t see it but Sky is perplexed by the question, her brows furrowing as she places her thumb and forefinger on her chin. 

“I mean,” she laughs awkwardly in a way where Jayce can practically see the blush on her face without even turning towards her. “Sometimes? He’s only asked me for some drinks like twice and every time he goes way too overboard and I have to take him back home.” Her words slow as she speaks, like shame creeping up on her. They’re both quiet for a little.

“He talks about you when he’s drunk…” She admits like she hadn’t wanted to say it and he knows why. It was clear to her that Viktor had no interest in her and he was probably just asking her to come along because who else would? 

Jayce’s ears perk and that’s when he finally tears himself from decoding to look over his shoulder at her. 

“What?”

Sky stands there and hunches her shoulders inward, her feet drawing close together and ducking her head just slightly to make herself look smaller. Like if she could, she would disappear right now instead of having to admit that the man she loved did not love her back.

“He only ever talks about you when he gets really drunk. Like—like last time, he went on and on about you and how…how much he likes you.”

A beat. Jayce has to take in the information and his tail swats to the right a few times, the gears in his mind beginning to turn and creak.

“That can’t be.” 

“Well, you asked.” Sky replies with a short tone, pushing her glasses over the bridge of her nose and making her way to the door. “I better go now. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Wait—“ Jayce has more questions and reaches out to stop her, but Sky is already slamming the door shut, her footsteps fading down the hall in quick succession. He lets out a loud sigh and slams Viktor’s journal shut. He runs his claws through his hair, vigorously messing up its clean cut look and ruffling it in frustration. What the hell was happening?

It’s the next day when Viktor once again doesn't show up that he finally decides to take action. Jayce had been all alone for a full week now, barely making any progress with their new project they’ve been tweaking for the upcoming Progress Day. The biggest day of their career and Viktor has still been abandoning his duties as Jayce’s partner!

He should be furious, he should be marching to his apartment and demanding an explanation— and if he’s not home, then he would have to storm around Piltover in hopes of finding him. Turn every stone in the Undercity to find his partner. He should grab him by the collar of his shirt and force him back to the lab. But Jayce isn’t capable of that. He’s not mad at Viktor in the slightest, he blames himself for it all. He gave in and put his friend in a predicament— it’s his fault something came between the two of them. He never meant for that to happen.

He needs to see Viktor.

It’s 7:30PM and Jayce is at Viktor’s apartment door. 

The welcome sign he had made for him still hangs outside and he smiles at it warmly. Viktor had mentioned once that he never had much of anything that gave his home a comforting feeling (perhaps that’s why he rarely ever went home after work and spent his endless nights in the lab). Jayce had listened intently and began his metalworking. He spent hours on many things; first— the welcome sign and he made a butterfly out of different colored metals that sits reverently on the ‘W’ of Welcome. Second— a pair of bookends. Viktor had mentioned his endless piles of books, journals and memoirs. Jayce thought it would be a good idea to make a few pairs of book ends in order to keep his books safe and secure. Viktor had mentioned his favorite bird to be a mourning dove and Jayce took that as inspiration for his hand crafted gift. Two mourning doves now frame and protect his precious readings. And finally the third— Jayce had meltworked a figure of one of Viktor’s childhood friends that he found in the Undercity one day; An abandoned, worn down golem that he had called Blitzcrank. He went off on a whole tangent once about the way he found it as a child, how he often dreamed of piecing it back together, making it new and finding some utilization for it to help the people of the Undercity. Jayce discovered a newfound admiration for Viktor that day and he spent two whole days perfecting a mini figure of the golem and gave it to his friend on his birthday.

He knocks a couple times and no answer. He waits the appropriate amount of time that he assumes it would take for Viktor to get to the door before he knocks again. Still no answer.

Jayce isn’t the type to give up that easily but if Viktor wasn’t answering him, well, he’d just have to pack it up and try again tomorrow. Worry nags at the back of his mind and he tries not to think of all the terrible things that could have happened to his friend during their— are they fighting? Quarrel isn’t the right word…perhaps avoidantness? Whatever this thing was. He tries to reassure himself that Viktor is more than capable by himself and Jayce just needs to back off and give him room to breathe for a moment. He’ll come back when he’s ready.

He heads back to his own apartment. Now at 8:13PM he gets his keys out in anticipation to get into his home when he sees a familiar figure standing at his door.

Viktor stands there, slumped with his forehead on the door. His mouth is moving and mumbling something while he tries to jam his key into Jayce’s lock. What is he doing? Jayce begins to make his way to him quickly. His tail begins swaying back and forth with hope. 

“Viktor!” He exclaims and his friend slowly turns to look at him. He looks…Jayce doesn’t want to say terrible but he’s never seen him so disheveled in such a way where he almost didn’t even recognize the man he spends most of his waking hours with. 

“Are you okay? What are you doing here?” His hand reaches out as a slew of questions pour out of him.

His hair is the messiest he’s seen it, chunks cling together in a greasy mess like he hasn’t washed his hair in days, his eyes are barely open and they’re bloodshot, purple smears across his lower eyelids in proof of his sleepless nights. His cheeks are sunken in, he looks ghostly pale and barely even registers Jayce and has to lean in close to get a good look at who’s speaking to him before he can reply. Jayce smells it then— the alcohol imbuing his nostrils, soaking into the roof of his mouth and down his throat. He can’t stop the scrunch of his face at the smell. He’s drunker than ever before.

“Jayce? What are you doing at my apartment?” His accent gets thicker the more he’s drunk— Jayce notices but can’t dwell on it for too long because what?

“Your apartment? Vik, this is my apartment. You’re sticking your key into a lock that doesn’t even fit.” He gestures to the uncoordinated way Viktor is lazily jamming his key over and over into Jayce’s doorknob. He looks down at what he’s doing and slowly pulls his hand away. 

“I…I hadn’t realized I walked all the way over here…I’ll…I…” He stuffs his key into his pocket and stumbles backward from the door to give himself enough room to turn towards Jayce. He trips on his own cane in the process, his right foot bumping into it and he releases a small yelp as he loses his footing.

Before he can succumb to the hard pavement below, Jayce’s quick reflexes catch him just in time. The cane falls with a metallic clang and it echoes through the corridors of doors. Jayce’s strong arm hooks under Viktor’s shoulders, the other wraps around the front of his torso and his large hand wraps around the entirety of his bicep. The adrenaline coursing through him isn’t enough to sober him up but his eyes widen as he locks eyes with his Vastaya partner.

“Careful!” Jayce exclaims. “My Gods, you scared me half to death.” He wants to ask him why he’s standing at his doorstep, why he’s drunk and alone, why his clothes look like he’s been wearing them for at least three days and why he looks so sad.

“C’mon,” He helps him back to his feet and pats his back gently. “Just come inside, let me help you.”

He lets Viktor step out of the safety of his arm and he shakes his head. “No, I…I shouldn’t. I don’t need you babying me like—“

“Viktor, you almost just bashed your head in outside of my place. I’m not letting you leave without at least sobering up a little.” He reaches back out and grabs his shoulder this time and pulls him to his side. He unlocks his door and pushes it open, letting Viktor go in first.

He’s slow to enter his apartment. They didn’t frequent each other's places often, he could count on one hand how many times he’s stepped inside Jayce’s home— being drunk, though, was a first. 

Jayce’s home is warm. Incredibly warm and he wonders how he could keep his place so fucking hot. He has carpets on wooden floor boards and Jayce insists he take his shoes off before he steps over the threshold of the step that leads into his living room. His socked feet pat over soft carpet and Jayce leads him to the brown cotton couch where he sits him down. Viktor knows Jayce always has a pot of tea ready to be boiled every time he comes home. He’s expecting to be handed a cup of warm tea but when his vastaya friend comes back with two cups he’s wondering what the contents are.

“Ice water,” It’s like he’s read his mind. He lifts his left hand holding the water and he hears the clink of the ice hitting the walls of ceramic. He sets it down at the coffee table in front of Viktor and then sets the other one down. “Coffee, with extra sugar and cream.” He turns the handle towards him.

Jayce is really good at remembering what people like and him remembering something as simple as Viktor liking his coffee extra sweet tugs at his heart strings and he feels sick. His heart rises to his throat and becomes frozen solid.

“Thanks,” he chokes and gently reaches for the cup of coffee first. It’s perfect and the warmth of the drink soothes the frozen heart in his throat, it begins to thaw almost immediately and he breathes once more. His mind is still muddled and his vision isn’t all there but he feels the dip in weight on the couch beside him. He turns to see Jayce sitting next to him.

“Make sure you drink the water, too.” His voice feels millions of miles away in Viktor’s ears but he knows he’s only a foot away from him. His vision blurs and he sees three pairs of Jayce’s ears, they turn towards him, erect and alert to any sound or word that comes from him. His tail is fluffy and makes a makeshift wall between their thighs, stopping them from touching. In his inebriated state, Viktor lays his hand over it and gently pets it.

Jayce, unsure of what to do, lets him continue his petting. It feels good, if he’s being honest and he’s embarrassed with himself over it. 

“Soft,” Viktor mumbles. It feels like the softest material known to man, he could sit here and pet it for hours. The other smiles gently and places his large fingers around his wrist, he lifts his arm to stop him.

“Drink, Viktor. You need to shower.”

Reluctantly, he takes large gulps of water and takes a few more shy sips of his caramel colored coffee.

Jayce is too timorous to begin asking why Viktor had been so avoidant for the past week and he decides to kick it into helper mode because taking care of his friend is more important than figuring out the reason for some quarrel of theirs. It’s easy for him to set aside any ill feelings and focus on the wellbeing of his drunk lab partner. He reaches over to pat Viktor’s leg.

“You well enough to shower by yourself?”

It finally registers in Viktor’s brain.

“Shower? Where? Here?” He points downwards, eyebrows hitched up on his forehead and eyes wide. Jayce gives him a firm nod and places a firm grip on his shoulder.

“You’re going to shower, drink more water and stay here for the night.” His cheeks immediately blush and Viktor’s shoulders shrug his hand off and he shakes his head. He begins to get up.

“Jayce, no, no, I’m not. I-I can’t do that— you…I know you’re just— oh, nevermind.” 

“Viktor,” He grips Viktor’s shoulder again and uses his animalistic strength to keep his ass snug on the couch. He feels bad using it but this is for his own good. “You’re drunk. You can’t go home like this and you clearly haven’t been caring for yourself this week!”

Viktor smacks his hand away instead and his brows furrow, his face contorting into one of anger.

“Quit pretending, will you?!”

Pretending?

“What?” Jayce is clueless.

“You barely even looked at me after we had sex! Barely spoke a word! You’re ashamed to be with me, admit it!”

Still clueless. “What?!” He says with more gusto. 

“Barely spoke a wo— ashamed? Me? Ashamed of you? I…I thought— how could you think that?”

Viktor can’t even look at him.

“After we…you barely spoke a word.”

“I was shy,” Jayce exclaims. “It had been awhile for me and…and you were… everything and when you invited me over I was waiting for you to mention it again and you never did!”

“Didn’t think I had to again!” Viktor spits out. 

Jayce, defeated, lets his head drop. “I’m sorry, Viktor. I just got overwhelmed and…and I guess I didn’t realize I had hurt you.”

There’s a long silence and Viktor sighs.

“No. It was me. I left you and avoided you for a week.” He rubs his thumb over his brow bone and contemplates his next few words.

“I’m sorry, Jayce. I guess I was scared you felt indifferent after our coming together.”

“I’d never. I…I had been thinking about it all week, actually.” He chuckles awkwardly, running a hand through his hair and daring to look back at his friend. They look to one another, cheeks blushing red and nervous clammy hands in their own laps. Viktor gives him a knowing smirk.

“Really?” His ears are flushed red from the alcohol and they only increase in intensity at the implication of Jayce’s words.

“Really.” He confirms. He thinks for a moment, Viktor is in his house right now. He’s sitting a foot from him, he might even spend the night and they could…No! He’s in no state!

“You need to shower!”

Viktor’s still inebriated mind jumbles and he was almost too caught up in the thoughts of Jayce taking him right on this couch to realize how badly he stinks after wallowing in his own misery for 7 days. He has to agree.

“Right. Sorry. Show me where?”

Jayce leads him to the bathroom and he even grabs a pair of his sweats and a shirt for Viktor to change into when he’s done.

He showers quickly, using Jayce’s shampoo in the process and it smells like cedar and mint and like Jayce. He thinks back to that morning in the lab and how deeply he was inside him that night. He could touch himself right in this very bathroom, rid himself of his arousal— but that was wrong wasn’t it? In Jayce’s home? It almost excites him further but he knows nothing could suffice except for his Jayce.

While Viktor is tormenting himself with ideas, Jayce is pacing his living room. His partner's scent is everywhere. It’s on the couch, on his clothes he wears, his hands, by the front door, it’s in his senses and it suffocates him. His sweet vanilla scent has taken over the glands inside him and something about it has his composure crumbling, his mouth waters and he’s ashamed to know he can feel himself grow hard in his pants. 

Being a vastaya has its perks, he can hear better, smell better, his reflexes are more refined than the average person, he has great balance due to his tail and his ancient senses can warn him of any nearby danger. 

But, there was one small problem and that was his libido.

Having animal-like attributes didn’t just mean his superior senses— it meant he had the sexual tendencies of an animal too. For a long time it was easy for Jayce to resist those urges, he had never found someone he felt compatible with to the point where he felt like…well, mating with them. But Viktor had changed all of that.

Having him in the man’s home, showering in his bathroom, wearing his clothes, sitting on his couch and drinking from his cups. It’s like a switch went off in Jayce’s brain and suddenly he was in full heat. He can’t say he’s ever felt this way about anyone and holding back these feelings are proving to be too difficult.

It only gets worse when Viktor steps out of the bathroom in Jayce’s clothes.

They practically swallow him whole. His shirt which has his high school crest on it is wrinkly and drapes over Viktor’s small shoulders like a sheet. His sweatpants are much too large and he has to grab a fistful of the fabric and hold it up so as to not expose himself right here in Jayce’s living room. His hair drips water and soaks into the shirt, discoloring it and he actually looks much fresher, like the life in his eyes finally came back and the heat of the water encouraged the blood flow through his cheeks. Or maybe he’s just blushing profusely— either way Jayce felt a sort of pride for being the one to help Viktor.

“Thank you,” is the first thing the older says. He pats his way closer to Jayce and can’t seem to make eye contact. Neither can the other. 

“I…I feel bad.” He admits and Jayce goes to ask why but Viktor continues. “I shouldn’t stay the night, Jayce.” He’s sobered up somewhat since his words aren’t slurring together anymore. 

“You can’t go home alone. I won’t let you.” He’s stern and it surprises both of them. Jayce’s back straightened and his hands curl into fists at his sides. He realizes his harsh tone almost immediately— he’s becoming too possessive again. He relaxes.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—“

“I get it.”

It’s quiet again. Both of them stand there awkwardly and Viktor shivers slightly at the water cooling in his hair. Not even the heat of Jayce’s home could diminish the inevitable shock of cold after stepping out of the shower soaking wet. Jayce notices this.

“Oh—! You must be cold!”

“Jayce, wait—“ He’s already gone into his bedroom and comes back with a large hoodie in his hand— another thing Viktor will be swallowed into. He can’t decline the offer now (not that he would be able to anyway.) “I really can’t stay.”

This crushes Jayce and it’s hard for him to not show it with the way his entire demeanor seems to shift. His body looks too heavy to carry all of a sudden, his tail curls between his legs and his ears turn downward with defeat. 

“I understand.” His ears perk up a little bit with an idea like a lightbulb shining over a cartoon character’s head. “I’m walking you home.”

Viktor takes a step backward and lets out a breathy laugh as he speaks, “That’s not necessary.” 

“No. It is.” It’s final. No arguing, no pushing back. Jayce knows what’s best and Viktor will not be able to have a choice in the matter. Something about his tone is enticing and excites the eldest in a way.

It’s a silent walk, much like most of their night and the palpable tension can be felt by the both of them like the fog that surrounds them as they round the next block to Viktor’s apartment. Viktor leans heavily on his cane, limping as his other hand clutches the waistband/fabric of Jayce’s borrowed sweatpants to keep them up. Jayce wonders how he managed to walk so far so drunk without tripping. Little does he know the amount of times Viktor had to pick himself back up because of  how often he stumbled over his own two feet in his drunken state. He’s much more sober now and there’s still a wobble in his step and his eyesight still isn’t all there but at least he’s not traveling the streets alone drunk anymore. He’s sober enough to be embarrassed that he walked all the way to Jayce’s apartment to be then escorted back to his own like some lost puppy.

It’s when they get to the door that Viktor suddenly feels his body start to give out. The events of the night have caught up with him and he leans his full weight into the door as he unlocks it. Jayce is preparing himself to catch him again if need be when he turns the doorknob but his partner’s got a good grip on the handle and uses it as a crutch.

He doesn’t usually flip the lights on but knowing his furry friend isn’t as familiar with the interior of his home, he does and he kicks off his shoes. Jayce, with politeness, sets his own by the door and steps further into his place.

The scent is the first thing he notices. Warmth, cider, cinnamon and that whiff you get of a new book you open for the first time. There’s hints of sweet vanilla coffee that he knows Viktor brewed just earlier that morning. It fills his chest with a rapture he can’t contain. It’s just so Viktor.

He’s pleased to notice the little figure golem he made right by the front door. It holds its fist into the air and Jayce can see Viktor has utilized it to hold his keys. He smiles towards it and his ears rotate towards the sound of his partner's voice.

“What’s got you so excited?” 

He tilts his head curiously. “Huh?” Viktor tilts his chin and his eyes drop to below Jayce’s waist.

“Your tail is wagging,” he laughs. Blush dusts both of their cheeks. He didn’t even realize it and he immediately stops the wagging then clears his throat.

“Sorry…”

“It’s okay. It’s cute.” 

He doesn’t know how to handle that comment despite knowing he was inside this man just a week ago. 

Viktor tells him to help himself to anything as he turns the corner into a hallway towards what he can only assume is his bedroom. Jayce does not follow but he stands at the entrance and notices that Viktor kept his bedroom door open.

Help himself to anything. He can’t assume that meant waltzing into his room, laying him down and burying his mouth into his cunt was considered anything even though that’s pretty much all he wants at the moment.

He turns towards Viktor’s living room to browse the bookshelves he has on display against his walls. They’re tucked into a corner and a dark red velvet chair sits with a small side table beside it. He notices the mug atop it with coffee staining the inner walls. His eyes trail over the wall of books and that’s where he notices the handmade bookends framing what he recognizes as the elders favorite books. He lets his tail wag freely knowing no one can see.

His eyes dart down to an open book on the seat and he barely takes in the contents before he’s letting them wander somewhere else— but wait— he does a double take and looks back down at the book.

A drawing is shown on the open page. A sketched drawing and color coded diagram of a species of a male vastaya lies on one of the pages. It’s Jayce’s species. Lines connect to body parts and point to a scientific word and Jayce’s eyes linger over a paragraph describing the workings of the body and how it’s different from the human body.

Then he glances to the next page.

Sex Anatomy of the Vastaya

A diagram of a penis is shown and Jayce’s cheeks burn hot like the fires of Ornn. It’s not like he isn’t familiar with what’s being shown! But this book is in Viktor’s apartment, open and on a seat which means he’s been reading it! Which means—

Jayce looks at the diagram. It shows the way a normal human penis becomes erect with a vastaya’s next to it. There’s one big difference between the two.

Vastaya’s penis’ become enlarged at around the middle point of the shaft. It looks sort of like a ball, like a hump and it becomes extremely sensitive. Jayce is curious to see what the segment says about it.

The knot becomes sensitive to the touch and is primarily used in cases of mating. This is when the male vastaya becomes aroused to the point where the goal of the knot is to ensure the likelihood of conception. The knot acts as a plug inside a vaginal canal to increase the chances of pregnancy. 

Now, Jayce has never experienced such a thing himself. He knew he was capable of it, but like the textbook says, it is only during mating or in intense instances of high emotions. Basically, if he’s horny enough he could produce a knot.

But one thing nags at the back of his mind as he reads; Why is this book in Viktor’s collection? Is this sort of thing like his morning paper? Surely not. He can’t even picture him sitting there with this book in his hand. What does he even gain from having the knowledge of the way vastayans mate? There’s no gain for him, is there? 

He shuts the book, unable to read any more (he already knows most of this anyway) and he looks back over his shoulder towards the hallway that leads to Viktor’s room. Worry suddenly bubbles up in his stomach and it churns into anxiety. He needs to check on him.

He makes his way into the room. The lights are off and the room pitch black, but Jayce can see enough. Viktor lays on his bed, eyes fluttering shut and hugging a stray pillow on his messy bed. It’s unmade and his sheets hang off the bed and pool to the ground- he didn’t even bother tucking himself in. The vastaya takes a quiet step forward, reaching his bedside and grabbing for the sheets. He straightens it and looks down at the lying figure.

He looks so cozy in his clothing. He’s let the sweatpants fall so now he’s just in his boxers and Jayce’s t-shirt that’s already ridden up his waist to expose the expanse of his back. He notices the metal following the path of his spine and wonders for a moment where his back brace went. He doesn’t wonder too long though because Viktor for once looks peaceful and he could never disturb that.

He lays the sheets delicately over Viktor and makes sure he’s well tucked before taking a step away.

“See yah.” He whispers affectionately and turns around to leave.

There’s a shuffle, limbs rubbing along fabric and all of a sudden Jayce is being tugged by the end of his tail. 

“Hey—!” His ass falls against the bed and he looks over to Viktor who’s got one eye open and looks up at him with a slight pout.

He parts his lips like he’s going to say something but when Jayce slowly pries his hand off his fur he shuts his mouth for a moment. 

“What’s wrong?” He whispers to his partner.

“Can…” Viktor looks uncertain and he hides under the covers. “Will you stay…?”

Gods, it’s cliché and Jayce shouldn’t spend the night. He can’t think straight with Viktor’s scent suffocating his senses and seeing him in just his shirt has already got him breaking into a sweat. He really shouldn't spend the night…

“Of course I will.”

Fuck, how can I say no to him?

Despite asking him to stay and clearly inviting him onto the bed, Viktor doesn’t cling to him. He’s never been a very physical person nor has he been very intimate. Even during their escapade in their lab he didn’t linger for any kisses, soft touches or any of that pillow talk. It’s just the way Viktor is. But Jayce knows he at least can be touchy with him. So, he wraps an arm around Viktor’s torso and tugs him close until they’re spooning and the smaller one can feel Jayce’s thumping heart.

It’s soothing and he’s already falling into a deep sleep.

Jayce is the first to wake up. He’s not very shocked to see Viktor still slumbering beside him, but their limbs tangling together has him pleasantly stunned. In the middle of the night Viktor turned over and wrapped his arm around Jayce’s waist and shoved his thigh in between his to perfectly shape his body against the other. 

He peels himself away from him even if it does emotionally hurt him to do so. But he needs to piss and he can’t linger here for long. Drunk on his scent and the view of Viktor’s torso half exposed to him to the point where he can see the beginnings of the scars on his chest has him already worked up.

It doesn’t help that he fell asleep half hard and it doesn’t help any further waking up with his lab partner curled into him and sleeping soundly. Something about seeing him so peaceful and knowing he’s the cause for it has Jayce feeling that possessiveness over Viktor once more. 

He finds Viktor’s bathroom and it’s unpleasant to piss when hard but he has no other choice.

Jayce quietly steps back into the room, Viktor’s back is to him and he assumes he’s asleep. He bends down to grab his sock that fell onto the floor— he’s always losing those in his sleep. He turns to leave then.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Viktor’s accent is thick and it's riddled with exhaustion but there’s that hint of amusement. Jayce gasps and his eyes widen, his tail sits perfectly still and stands to attention in shock. The man who he had assumed was asleep, turns over and rests on his elbow, he looks at Jayce with stern brows.

“You were just gonna leave me?” 

“I…” Yes he was but he can’t admit that now. They both know the answer to the question but Jayce still lies. “No, no, of course not. Sorry…” He takes a seat on the bed. His tail lays comfortably across the bed and it rests over Viktor’s legs atop the blanket covering him. His delicate fingers instinctively card through the soft fur and Jayce struggles to stop the love sick grin on his face. It’s intimate, the way his fingers feather the brown fur and how soft his eyes become when they look at each other for a moment.

There’s something unspoken between them, it doesn’t need to be said especially since Viktor made his feelings for Jayce very clear their first time together. But Jayce needs the confirmation again. He rests a hand on the bed and leans in a little to talk softly to the man beneath him.

“Did you really mean what you said back then in the lab?”

Puzzled, Viktor looks at him with a cocked brow.

“What did I say?”

He blushes and looks off to the side. “Well, you…invited me for…part two of our…part two of when we—“

“Yes, I did mean it.” Viktor’s tone is very matter of fact and holds no tomfoolery. He’s firm with his answer. There’s a nod from Jayce who still can’t meet his eye.

“Were you…wanting that?”

Jayce is a little too eager with his answer and his tail escapes from Viktor’s fingers to thrash back and forth. 

“Yes! I do want it!”

Viktor struggles to hold in a laugh, clasping his hand over his mouth. 

“Okay, well, we can do that—“ Suddenly the covers are being ripped off of him and Jayce is inserting himself between his thighs, both huge hands on either knee and separating them from each other to fit his large frame. Viktor looks at him with wide eyes and in the crack of light seeping in from between curtains he sees Jayce as the animal he is in this moment.

Ears flicker atop his head, angling downwards with a predatory look to them, his eyes gleaming with determination. He shifts so he’s closer to Viktor.

“We do this now.” He can’t wait. Not when his partner is still in his clothes, not when he’s inside his home, on his bed and taking in Viktor’s entire scent and consuming as much as he can as he loses control of his coherent self. 

“Yeah…alright…we do this now…” Viktor is too stunned to speak more. Curiosity gets the better of him and he inspects Jayce as he gives him the okay.

“Do whatever you need…” He says with a small voice, his words slurring together much like the night before only this time arousal is the cause. He has a slight headache and he knows if it weren’t for Jayce making him hydrate and relax he wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed, let alone engage in sex.

It’s criminal to be up this early, but anything is worth it when Jayce is this needy. 

Viktor watches Jayce’s moves with a calculation, he’s read up on some of these animalistic tendencies the vastaya have and he’s curious to see Jayce finally relent and let this side of him control him.

He does just that.

Jayce presses his hips against Viktor’s and they groan in unison of the feeling of his hard-on pressing into the other's core. He’s still just as large and Viktor’s still amazed for even being able to fit him inside. He doesn’t worry too much about that when Jayce begins grinding into him, his hips thrusting like a dog in heat.

A whimper drips from between Jayce’s lips and his eyes shut tightly, his hips move with expertise and he runs his length up and down Viktor’s clothed slit. The man beneath him lets his body go slack and he breathes heavy, his entire body submitting to the animal above him. His thigh is being grabbed and Jayce digs his claws into his skin so roughly that he almost draws blood. 

Viktor dares to look up at Jayce, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and barely seeing the red blushing his cheeks, down his neck and what chest is exposed. His arms are thick and veins travel up them, large and straining against skin as he gives it his all to thrust. Viktor can feel himself becoming wetter with each press into him and feeling Jayce’s girth. A growl comes from deeply within his chest and Viktor moans at the sound coupling with the sensation of his claws on his pale, soft skin. 

“Jayce—“ Viktor gasps, “Jayce…ahh…” Jayce drops to his elbows, his back arched and hips never relenting. He leans down and presses his mouth into the crook of his partner's neck, his scruff is rough against the other’s jaw and his eyes roll back at the sensation. Jayce’s lips part and his sharp canines press into the skin where his jaw meets his ear and he runs his teeth flush against the skin. Viktor begins gasping and he wraps his arms under his armpits and grabs fistfuls of his shirt on his back.

The room— despite always being freezing— begins to heat up much like Jayce’s apartment, only it wasn’t the heater. Their very bodies pushing together and hot breaths mixing and combining together cause their space to warm and Viktor was already beginning to feel his skin dampen with desire and sweat. He lets out a drawn out moan, high pitched and winey when Jayce clamps his teeth on skin and wraps his lips around to suckle on his delicate skin. It hurts but it hurts good, he can ignore the aching of his back and his leg cramping when he feels that thickness drag across his damp boxers. Gods, Jayce is as girthy as his thigh, perhaps even more.

Jayce’s chest rumbles with a growl of need, his mind becomes muddled with arousal and he can’t seem to stop himself the moment he’s gotten a taste of Viktor pliant skin. He soothes the harsh wound he’s left on his neck with his warm tongue, lapping at it like a dog drinking from a water bowl. His nose grazes over to a new spot where his neck meets his shoulder and in Jayce’s eagerness to have another taste, his canines bite down and this time he draws blood. There’s a yelp, tightening of limbs around him and Viktor’s sound of pain dissolves into another moan and he curses in his mother tongue.

Jayce pulls away enough to take a look at the damage to see two little holes that slowly ooze blood, he places his lips back over it and takes in the metallic taste with his tongue. He holds Viktor down with a strength he didn’t recognize and he pulls his hips away just to snap them back into place like he’s already fucking his partner into the mattress. He lets out another low moan from his chest and finally pulls away, his lips glistening with spit.

“I need to taste you, I can’t help myself.” He’s suddenly grasping at the elastic band of Viktor’s boxers and tugging them with fervor. The other watches this, leaning up on his elbows and lifting his hips as well as he can. Wetness sticks to the boxers in a bridge of clear and white to his forest of hair. His dick poking between the bushes, enlarged and red.

Jayce shimmies himself down further on the bed, he plants kisses down Viktor’s body, biting gently at his nipples and grabbing as much flesh as he could during his descent. His lips trail over scars and moles, kissing the constellations traveling across his body and fingers dancing on his skin like a pianist playing a slow ballad. Careful, calculated and passionate. He kisses down the trail of hair from his bellybutton to where he’s aching and his clit twitches when it feels Jayce’s breath.

He pushes Viktor’s thighs up from the back of his knees and raises them over his own head, his heels find purchase on the vastayans shoulders. He begins to dive in.

His tongue lays flat against the expanse of his dick, swiping side to side and letting his lashes flutter shut as the taste of Viktor spreads across the wet muscle. Satisfied when Viktor releases a sigh and moans, he takes his large clit into his mouth and suckles it. He flicks the tip of his tongue over his clit since he can’t get enough of the way Viktor’s hips buck upward with each suck. Jayce lazily laps at it, spit already collecting in his mouth and spilling out from the corners as he takes in a deep breath after holding it for too long.

“So good…you taste so good…V…” He huffs between lapping. He feels Viktor ooze more arousal fluid to the point where his face is practically drenched in it. He pulls away to take another breath in but Viktor is grabbing his messy hair by the roots and shoving his face back into the bush of coarse hair and his dick gets shoved back into his mouth.

“Don’t stop!” He says breathlessly, hands clammy and heels digging roughly into his shoulders to pin him down. “Please, don’t…keep going…” Jayce thrusts his face forward and backward, tightening his lips around his clit to jerk off the length of it. Viktor begins whimpering, his words turning incoherent and more words in his mother tongue gasp between his lips. Jayce doesn’t understand a word but he can read the tone. Don’t stop. He doesn’t intend to.

Jayce lets go of the man’s clit with a pop of his lips and he slips his tongue between his slit to dive the tip of it into his soaked entrance. His hands now slide to cup his ass cheeks and his thumbs rest on each either side of his dick to spread him apart. Sticky lines of arousal are stuck to hair and he watches Viktor’s hole clamp shut and open, fluttering around nothing and practically aching to be filled. 

His own hips begin to lazily buck into the sheets, his hard-on straining against his clothes and he feels it. He feels part of himself start to expand and pulse, blood pumping through it to increase the size between his legs. Jayce moans loudly, he wants to stuff Viktor full. He briefly thinks back to their morning together, how well Viktor took him and the bulge protruding from his lower stomach with each thrust. The thought alone would be enough for him to cum right there but he’s too determined to mate. An animalistic sound comes deep from his throat and it startles Viktor— a frustrated, rib cage shattering groan that vibrates the entire bed. His tail snaps side to side like a predator ready to pounce on its prey.

“I saw the book you were reading last night.” He says in a low tone, his mouth running along his slit teasingly, up and down, up and down. Viktor’s entire body shivers and he twitches with overstimulation. He takes a breath.

“What book?” He can’t even think right now. What the hell is Jayce doing by engaging in pillow talk in the middle of sex?

He smiles and runs his tongue up and down the shaft of his large clit. He expertly draws a moan from Viktor once more.

“About vastaya’s…” That’s all that needs to be said for Viktor to realize what he means. He goes bright red, ears burning hot and his eyes widen. He was not meant to see that and he’s a fool for keeping it out like that! But how was he supposed to know this would happen?! 

“I…well…”

“About knotting? You’re that curious?”

His confidence comes back to him, he can’t have Jayce have the upper hand like this, can he? He struggles to bite back a whimper when Jayce’s fingers circle around his entrance and barely inserts one finger before he finally dares to speak.

“Mmfh…Don’t you have something to show me, then?” 

Jayce shifts, lapping him up a few more times before he’s finally releasing himself and Viktor lets go of his hair. His fingers delicately rubs across his ears, something so soft and intimate that it makes Jayce’s chest ache with a fullness he can’t quite describe.

He gets up on his knees, Viktor’s legs still spread and he scoots to sit up against the headboard of his bed. He’s not going to miss a show like this— watching Jayce take off his pants and finally reveal his dick once more. Only this time he had much more to show.

His fingers drag the hem of his pants down, unzipping them first and sliding them down along with his briefs to the halfway point past his thighs. There’s an immediate relief as his cock springs forth from the confines of fabric and it bobs a few times, precum drips from the tip as he releases a drawn out sigh. 

Viktor had seen the diagrams, had seen vastaya porn (he could never admit that especially not to Jayce) but he wasn’t expecting such length and girth to come from this man. It truly is thicker than his own thigh. He knows for a fact that if he were to try and wrap a hand around it, his fingers would not meet each other. But still his curiosity gets the better of him and his hand slowly reaches out. When Jayce’s cock lays against his palm, he runs it down the shaft, then to where the knot begins, bulging outward, veins running along it. He can practically feel his heartbeat on the shaft and Viktor follows down and down the underside of his cock until his fingertips drags across Jayce’s balls. Heavy, warm and needing to be emptied. 

He looks up at Jayce then who’s eyes are shut and chest is heaving with deep breaths.

“Take your shirt off,” Viktor says, already stripping his own off, tossing Jayce’s shirt to the side. Jayce takes his off, hairy torso being fully exposed once more. Oh, how Viktor missed it, how often he would lay in this very bed and fantasize about it, touching himself until he was cumming on his fingers to the image of Jayce thrusting into him. Now he’ll once again get the real thing.

“Come here,” he says gently, laying back down and leaning against a pillow so he can have a good view. Jayce takes this moment to awkwardly kick off his pants, now both fully exposed.

He sits between Viktor’s legs, grabbing his dick in his hand and positioning it so his tip kisses Viktor’s. They both release a startled sound of arousal, Viktor already moving his hips to encourage more friction between them but the other falters for a moment.

He stops, looks at Viktor and there’s a hint of worry in his hazel eyes. “I might lose control on you…”

Bewildered for a moment, the older looks at him.

“Okay…and?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t think I really care if you do.”

His dick twitches in his hand and he has to physically bite his tongue to halt the moan.

“Don’t…don’t say that…”

“Jayce—“ Viktor reaches out to place a comforting palm on Jayce’s chest, he pets the hair soothingly and they meet eyes. “Let yourself go…give it to me. I know what I’m getting into.”

He really doesn’t. But it’s too late to back out.

Jayce doesn’t even acknowledge what he says, his ears pivot into a phase of concentration and he drags his large length up and down Viktor’s wetness. One hand grabs his waist, the other holding the base of his cock to steady it. His knot seems to grow in size and even he can’t believe his eyes to the sheer size of it. It’s so thick and he can barely get enough coating of Viktor’s arousal to even begin to think about entering him.

He looks up, desperate. “You have any lube?” 

Viktor is quick to grab some from his bedside table and Jayce puts a generous amount in his hand and warms it in his palm before he’s slowly jerking himself off.

That textbook wasn’t joking, his knot is indeed extremely sensitive but he makes sure to lube the base of it as much as he can before he’s aligning his tip to Viktor’s entrance. 

“Shit…stay still,” He warns with a softer tone, but that rumble in his chest still lingers. Viktor holds his breath, trying to relax his muscles as Jayce begins to insert himself.

He’s been fucking himself for a week now, he’s used to a girth but this one…this girth that’s pushing inside him hurts. He scrunches his face in pain and throws his head back.

“Agh….Mmmfhh…Jayce…m-more lube!” He chokes, the head of his dick splitting him so far apart he can feel the burn of it. He’s quick to slather more lube, pull away slightly to watch it dribble down his head and into Viktor before he attempts to enter him again.

It goes smoothly this time, he slides right in and there’s still the burn of the stretch but it’s pleasant enough for Viktor to release an aching whine. He swears under his breath, he cups his hands under his knees to hold his legs up and he lets his chin drop to watch Jayce force his way inside him.

His knot comes up fast, his stomach is already bulging in size and Viktor’s jaw locks open in an aroused shock. He slides his hand to his lower stomach and palms the length poking through. Jayce falters, his thighs tremble and his cock twitches at the sensation. His knot lays flush against Viktor’s fluttering hole and he can’t stop himself.

Jayce pulls back, witnessing his glistening length slowly pull out, and in the same pace he pushes back in. Viktor’s hand now grasps his pillow beneath his head and he gasps his partner's name. His knot slides in just barely, and he repeats the same slow thrust.

The bed begins to creak under their weight, Jayce is moving slowly and calculated so as to not hurt Viktor or stretch him too harshly. He’s patient despite the struggle already hold back filling him up with his seed and fucking it into him until his knot get stuck inside him. He’s a good boy and he’ll let it happen naturally.

That is until one simple word slips out of Viktor’s beautiful mouth.

“Faster.”

Jayce’s hips snap, skin on skin starts to rise in volume and he obeys, his thrust going a little bit faster. Just enough to cause Viktor’s body to lurch with each press into him. He’s fitting his knot half way now, just a few more thrusts and—

“Harder.” 

Jayce has to grab Viktor’s waist with both hands now, his thumbs dig into his hip bones, his gaze drops down to watch his stomach protrude and indent back to its normal state over and over again until finally he lets out a groan, a strained sound and he snaps his hips so harshly that Viktor cries out as he’s forced to take the entire knot.

He squeezes around it and Jayce barely feels it, he’s already so tight around him, any spasm around him barely flutters the nerves on his cock. He pulls out, both of them gasping before he’s plunging forward with such fierce strength that his thighs smack against the back of Viktor’s with a harsh sound that echoes in the room.

“Vik…fuck…!” His knot goes deep inside his partner and this time he feels his hole tighten around him. When he tries to pull out he finds he can’t. His knot is stuck and all he can do now is desperately rut into Viktor like a dog in a ferocious heat. 

Jayce lifts Viktor’s hips off the bed and the sound of their moans mix together in a filthy harmony of their carnal desire for one another.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He swears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Jayce whimpers, unrelenting with his thrusting, guilt trickling into his muddled mind as he uses Viktor’s body for his own pleasure.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I need this…I need you…please…” His lower abdomen begins to tighten, his balls smack hard and heavy into Viktor’s ass and Jayce’s tail wags frantically. He’s already getting close.

Viktor reaches downward, hand lingering on his stomach once more to feel the protruding cock in his stomach before he slides it further down to wildly jerk himself off with three fingers.

“Jayce…Aghh…cum in me…”

“I will— shit, V. I’ll cum in you again and again…I’m sorry but I need to—“ He chokes on a groan. “I need you to breed you…fill you up full and— haaah— fuck my cum into you…”

“Do it…I’m close…Jayce, just— přesně tam— make me cum…”

Jayce presses Viktor back into the bed and presses his chest against the other’s. He replaces Viktor’s fingers with his own and they lock eyes as Jayce gets him closer to his orgasm.

“I’m right there with you,” His voice trembles with each thrust, “C’mon, V…cum for me and I’ll cum for you…”

And that was enough. Jayce’s fingers quicken on his clit as Viktor cries out, his body begins convulsing as the tsunami of pleasure invades his entire being. Jayce feels him flutter around his cock, tightening and pulsing, his clit jolting as his body rides out his orgasm. He grabs for his partner's shoulders, digging his nails into him now and he lifts his legs, wrapping them around Jayce’s waist.

“Jayce…ngh…cum in me!” 

He gives one final thrust, his cock spurts out white ropes inside him, sweat gathers at his forehead and he rides out his own orgasm now. Viktor moans at the sensation, wetness increasing between them, feeling the head of Jayce’s cock press into his cervix, his knot stretching him so well and plugging him up so no cum can escape. 

Jayce ruts his hips harshly into Viktor’s, the ropes of his cum never ceasing. His balls tighten, thighs ache when the muscles contract and he can’t seem to stop filling him up. He knows it’s only Viktor who can make him feel this way, no other partner has ever been able to make him feel this strongly. He lowers his head into his neck when his dick begins to feel too sensitive and he lets out a strained groan when his climax finally begins to subside.

He makes sure not to let his entire dead weight lay atop of Viktor, he holds his upper torso above him and lets his head hang. His chest heaves with each heavy breath, the both of them attempting to catch it together. Viktor’s legs unwind around him and he flops them back down onto the bed. Jayce wishes he could he could rest, lay down next to him and relax in Viktor’s arms but—

“I think I’m stuck inside you…” He admits weakly, letting out a defeated chuckle and Viktor laughs hoarsely. He feels delicate fingers on his scruff, scratching under his chin much like he did a week ago and lifts the vastaya’s chin so they can look at each other.

“You haven’t kissed me,” Viktor says almost in a disappointing tone. Jayce does not hesitate to lean in and hook his lips in between the other’s. Viktor’s fingers instantly find themselves in his tousles of hair, thumbs finding the base of his ears instantly and rubbing them soothingly— massaging them and it draws out a broken moan from Jayce.

Their lips slot between each other’s, Jayce taking the lead for the most part and struggling to not devour Viktor right here. He cups a hand over his cheek, his hand so large that three of his fingers rest on his neck under his jaw and he slips his tongue out to taste the inside of Viktor’s mouth.

He still tastes the alcohol, the hint of coffee from the night previous. As for Viktor, he tastes that faint saltiness of his own excitement on Jayce’s tongue from when he went down on him. He can feel the desire, passion and need in the way his tongue invades his mouth and invites itself to run along his teeth and press into his own tongue. They both part their lips and let the wet muscles swirl together is a messy evidence of their dedication for one another. 

Jayce suddenly pulls away.

“I won’t be able to get out of you if we keep kissing like this…” He lets out a breathy laugh, kissing Viktor once more but on the cheek this time. The man underneath him shifts and tightens around him to feel that his knot has not subsided at all in the slightest.

“Hm,” He hums and wiggles his hips side to side. “Guess we’ll have to do a part three, won’t we?”

Jayce, in shock, lifts himself up on his elbows and meets Viktor’s gaze. 

“You’re insane. I could hurt you!”

There’s a pointed look. “Do you really think I care? Haven’t we gone over this?”

He’s stupid for still being concerned, clearly.

“Right. Sorry.” 

They catch each other's breath for a beat long before Jayce begins to try and pull out of Viktor. It’s no use, he’s bulging, still hard and being squeezed around so tightly he’s afraid he might tear something inside him. He can only move a few centimeters backward but it’s enough for him to rock his body into Viktor’s.

Instantly there are limbs wrapping around him.

“Yes,” Viktor breathes, “Right there…” His tip grazes his cervix, kissing it with each thrust and there’s a filthy wet sound between them. His partner is becoming wet again, lubing him up even further and his hole loosens with arousal and it gives Jayce enough room to pull out of him halfway over his knot and push back inside him with a great force. 

“Fuck,” Jayce releases with a bestial grumble, his cock already aching and sensitive, ready to fill Viktor even more with him. “So tight—“ He gasps, tucking his face into his neck and biting down hard once more and drawing blood. Iron spills into his mouth and nails dig into his back surely leaving marks in their wake. A whimper and cry out in pain comes from below him and he fucks into Viktor harder, voice shaking and headboard slamming into the wall. If the neighbors somehow didn’t hear them earlier then now they would. 

“Jayce…use me!” He cries. “You’re so deep— kurva— I can feel you—“ He lays his hand back over his stomach, the dick imprint protruding over and over. They both look at it in wonder, Jayce’s lips now tinged with blood.

“Look how deep you are…” Viktor says softly. Slack jawed and moaning, he lolls his head backward into his pillow as the pleasure and overstimulation haunts his nervous system. Viktor’s body trembles again, barely five minutes into round two and he’s already drawing closer to his second orgasm.

The larger man above him pins him down with his hand, grabbing his wrists and slamming his pelvis into Viktor, skin slapping together in a vicious sound and he feels his own cum begin to slip past his knot and dribble down the underside of his cock and down into Viktor’s ass. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” He asks with a harshness he doesn’t even recognize. His fingers are tightly wound around Viktor’s wrists and he knows he’s going to leave purple marks, possibly bruising. He knows he’ll feel bad about it later.

His partner can only nod, sucking in his bottom lip to chew on it, neck growing red in color and chest heaving as he struggles to hold back his wave of pleasure. He nods his head frantically and releases a gasp.

“Yes! Yes! I’m going to cum again!”

“Not yet— don’t…not until I do,” Jayce demands. He releases one of his wrists to push down Viktor’s leg against the bed and witness the way his cock slides in and out, it’s creamy and soaking, he see’s Viktor’s dick twitch and muscles tighten when he struggles further to hold back his orgasm.

“I’m almost there…let…ugh…let me bury my cum in you and then you can too, okay?” 

“Use my cunt,” Viktor cries out his plea. “Use me…Jayce…give it to me…”

He’s already cumming again, getting to the finishing line much quicker, his dick almost hurting with how overstimulating it all is but that doesn’t lessen the pleasure he feels when he shoots more hot ropes into Viktor’s pliant cunt.

It increases when he doesn’t stop abusive plunging and Viktor finally cums around him.

Once more Viktor cries out and his leg breaks free from Jayce’s grasp and they rise above his head as liquid pours out of him a violent spray, soaking Jayce’s lower torso and dripping down him and his partners thighs.

“Fuck, V—“ Jayce pulls out immediately and grabs himself at the base to grind his knot against his dick. More liquid sprays around them and Jayce does his best to help Viktor ride his orgasm out. 

Cum seeps out of his hole and into a puddle into the sheets, staining them and soaking them all the way to the mattress. His entire body goes limp all except for the final jolts of the residual climax causing his whole body to jostle as each wave dies down.

Immediately, Jayce begins after care, leaning down to kiss Viktor on his sweaty forehead. He brushes sticky hair off his forehead and kisses the skin exposed, salt tints his lips and he can taste it when he runs his tongue along them. He stops himself from calling Viktor beautiful, being too shy but knowing he has to later.

He’s handsome, laid out on the bed, eyes half lidded and flowers of bruises and marks beginning to bloom across his pale, beautiful skin. Moles frame the artwork left by Jayce’s fingers that he reaches out to pet and leans down to kiss each one.

“You okay?” He asks with a soft tone, his voice hoarse but fingers delicate and tentative to sensitive skin. Viktor nods, cracking his eyes open to look up at Jayce with a crooked smile, teeth shown.

“Yeah…I’m great,” He groans, his stiff legs moving to squeeze together and more cum oozes out of him like honey. “Achy…but okay…” He struggles to sit up on his elbows and Jayce scoots himself to help, wrapping an arm around him and their faces are inches from each other. They pause for a second, taking in the silence between them all except their huffs of breath that escape their lips. Viktor’s eyes glance down to Jayce’s lips, then back up to his eyes.

A beat. Viktor cups a hand over the side of his neck and follows his jawline with his thumb.

“Kiss me?” He asks with a knowing smile.

Jayce leans in gently, ghosting his lips over Viktor’s and pressing them together with a patience they lacked just minutes ago.

They’re like this for a while, in each other's arms, kissing and running their hands through their hair. Viktor massages Jayce’s ears at their base, rubbing his thumb into the cartilage and Jayce lets out a purr, rumbling into his chest and fluttering his eyes shut, rolling back into his head at the pleasure. Then nails scratch around the base of them and Jayce lets out another sound of pleasure.

“You really are like a dog, hm?” Viktor teases.

“I could bite like one too.”

“Oh, I know very well.” They chuckle and Jayce dips his face into Viktor’s palm that pulls away from his ear. His tail twitches, wanting to wag but not being able to have the energy to. 

More silence and Jayce slowly gets off the bed to begin the cleanup.

“Let me help you change the sheets. You got a bathtub?” Viktor hums a yes and points Jayce to the door where he walks in and already starts a bath.

“You take a bath while I clean, yeah?” He’s not going to give Viktor a choice in the matter but he’s still polite. Viktor blushes over the kindness of his partner and he nods.

“You’re too sweet, Jayce.”

He shrugs. “I just like you…a lot.”

He picks Viktor up like a princess and carries him to the bathroom. His arms are around Jayce’s neck and he smiles up at him.

“I like you a lot too…Can we do this again?”

Jayce gives him a side eye.

“Let’s take a break for a bit before we do this again.” 

[its-quiet-colter]

Mile High Club.

Agent Whiskey x Agent Pisco - Male! Reader

Word Count: 3926

Warnings: NSFW smut (18+), implied switch!whiskey & reader, friends with benefits, blowjob, handjob, thigh fucking, denial of feelings, semi-public sex (kinda) they b fuckin' in the plane.

Notes: this is apart of the Pisco and Whiskey series so i'll link part one. they're stand alones but meant to be read together :) i'm hoping for five or six parts in total !

| Part One | Part Two |

| archive of our own |

The Statesman’s private jet rumbles low and smooth as it makes its way towards Kentucky above the cloudline. It’s warm inside, with the faint smell of the distillery still lingering in the plane’s interior. The leather chair you’ve claimed as your own for the journey home is luxurious, the leather worn and high quality with its soft finishes and suede accents. The Statesman emblem embroidered onto the arm of the seat. 

Turbulence does little to unsettle the plane as its engine – high grade and expensive – keeps the ride graceful. It’s almost enough to lull you into a gentle sleep. And lord do you need it after your latest mission. There’s an ache in your shoulders that’s been there since this morning and a nasty bruise on the right side of your ribcage, left there from a chase through an underground marketplace. Turns out the selling of illicit drugs and illegal weapons was a high enough priority  for you and Whiskey to be sent out on a wild goose chase after the suppliers. But you were left empty handed, with nothing but battered bodies, bruised egos and both of your positions compromised to show for it.

You’re exhausted as you slump against the cushioning of the armchair, the scotch on your drinks tray having already been refilled twice over. You needed something to settle your nerves after such a long and grueling day out on the field. 

Ginger’s voice sounds muffled, distant and far away. Even as she only leans against the pool table in the middle of the room, folder in hand as she recites the debrief and talks you through the next steps. You fiddle with your tie again and look over to see Whiskey’s already pulled his free and has discarded it somewhere, undoing the buttons of his once crisp white shirt. It's there you realised he also stopped listening sometime between Ginger’s report of missing firearms and the serial numbers you found on the crates. 

Whiskey’s always been a little bit restless, always wanting to get out into the field and fix things himself– to not get bogged down in the paperwork and the meticulous details that Statesman requires of their agents. And he certainly never entertains Ginger when it’s her turn to run the post-mission debriefs.

Being an agent, much less one with a partner like Whiskey, has always been a cause for trouble. You’re exhausted and wrung out more often than you’d like to admit. But you love him, in your own fond way. Even if he landed you in Champ’s office more times than you can count for cutting corners and not listening to the intel provided. Convinced he can do it all himself. You remember Champ’s clear advice on the day you two were first paired together. Back when you were fresh out of the academy without the slightest idea of what Statesman had in store for you.

“He’s your responsibility, Pisco. Kid’s as reckless as you are. And I can’t have both my young bucks in trouble. I need you to be the level headed one– watch each other’s backs and keep the other out of trouble. Do that, and I think you two will do just fine here.” Champ had said with his classic southern drawl, rolling a vintage cigar in his fingers as he had gestured to the seat at the table that would always be held for Pisco. 

You’ll never forget the fond but expectant look he had given you when he welcomed you to the Statesman and told you Whiskey was yours as much as you were about to be his. Champ hadn’t meant it like that, of course. Partners in crime, the one to keep each other safe. Statesman could provide all the surveillance and intel you needed, but out there in the field– where explosions and bullets are occupational hazards rather than one-off incidents, it’s you who’d be out there covering his back. Partners, but not of that kind.

But then again, Champ didn’t think you two would end up frotting in the back of Tequila's jeep not even a year after being assigned together.

Lost in the thoughts of the good old days, you’ve completely given up on trying to pay attention to Ginger’s speech. I’ll apologize later, you think. Ginger’s always been a friend, and she puts up with your and Whiskey’s bullshit more times than either of you can count. You watch the jet pass through a thick layer of clouds, idly noticing the dew on the outside window and the way the landscape below disappears and reappears in quick succession. It’s rhythmic and soothing and enough to take your mind off things for a while.

Whiskey watches from his own seat opposite you. 

He notices the slight scuff on the side of your cheek from the chase during the mission, the way your suit is slightly askew and wrecked, and the way you’re reclined in the soft leather of the armchair– exhausted under the guise of being relaxed and boneless. He knows your appearance is due to the fact you’ve been running around all day, narrowly escaping every dangerous threat thrown at you. But in the soft lighting of the jet, he can’t help but think you’re not too far off from the dishevelled state he often leaves you in. When you’d both sneak away from those dry and boring meetings. Hidden amongst the barrels in the cellar that hoards Statesman’s finest collection of bourbon, Whiskey would be down on his knees, your cock taken down his throat as he milked you for all you had.

The sight of you now is all but a reminder of the taste of you.

It’s only been a week since you fucked him over the couch in that Seattle hotel, your hands holding onto his sides as he took all of you with his back arched and mouth left open in a drawn out moan. He can still feel you, the way you tugged on his belt to pull it loose, your hands moving him in whatever way it suited. He remembers the feel of your lips around the base of his cock, and the way you nailed his prostate which never failed to send him over the edge. 

Any other man would be flushed and embarrassed by the memory. But not Whiskey. All it does is serve to make his slacks grow tighter and his eagerness for you all the more intense.

You watch as he glares at Ginger, almost bothered by how methodical and well rounded she is with her research. Like he can’t wait to be done with this meeting and you wonder what’s gotten him so restless. It can't just be boredom, he’s always found a way to entertain himself through debriefs before. But then you notice it.

There it is. The slight shuffle of his body across the armchair as he tries not-so-subtly to hide his hard on by crossing one leg over the other and placing his hat over his lap. It takes all that’s in you not to laugh at the sight. Whiskey doesn’t know what subtlety is if it hit him square in the face.

You watch with satisfaction as Whiskey shifts, and then shifts again. The slight squeeze of his thighs and the way his ankles lock together. Awkwardly, he tries to alleviate the pressure in his pants, the faintest hint of friction enough to bite his top lip and lick the bristles of his just-barely overgrown moustache. He’s overdue for a trim, you think idly as you watch the movement of Whiskey’s mouth. The smallest of movements is more than enough to flood your mind with thoughts of him– lips around the head of your cock– and suddenly he’s not the only one suffering through Ginger’s debrief.

By the time she’s finished, clicking the off button on her clipboard and standing up straight, it feels like hours have passed. In reality, it’s more like twenty minutes or so, but it’s enough for you to settle your arousal and not embarrass yourself in front of your colleagues. Whiskey on the other hand has no such luck with his predicament, and you watch with a bitten back grin as he bolts to the bathroom the second she’s done talking. Almost tripping along the way as the door slams a little too harshly in a desperate attempt to separate himself from the rest of the plane.

“What’s up with Whiskey?” Ginger asks, standing beside you as she watches him go in slight confusion. There’s a gentle curiosity in her voice, along with an underlying tone of concern. She might not always see eye to eye with Whiskey, but she does care about him. You all do.

“No sé,” You say softly with a shake of your head, your hands stuffed in your pockets to hide the urge to fidget uncomfortably. “He’s probably just got flight sickness.”

She knows you’re lying. 

Ginger’s always been the perceptive one and it’s so blatantly obvious you’re not telling the truth since Whiskey has never been known to get sick whilst flying. Hell, he’s one of the few Statesman agents who is qualified to fly their F-22A Raptor Fighter Jet, Silver Pony. Something that Tequila never lets any of you hear the end of whenever he’s in a bad mood from having failed another pilot’s test.

The sound of a thud comes from the direction of the bathroom and you take it as your que to leave.

“I should check on him,” You say, the concern in your voice is only mildly convincing. You know exactly what’s wrong with him.

“Alright.” Ginger says with a final nod of her head, her fingers holding her clipboard like it’s suddenly become more interesting. She’s read the room, and she knows whatever is behind that bathroom door is a Pisco problem, not a Statesman one.

You watch as she makes her way to the bar, taking a seat and reaching over the counter for the closest bottle she can reach. She knows, you think. You have half a mind to ditch Whiskey and turn to her. Maybe you’d defend yourself, deny it. Try to assure yourself and Ginger that there’s nothing going on between you two. Nothing serious anyway. This thing you have with Whiskey– it’s professional. It won’t compromise either of you. You swear it. But even as you think the speech over in your head, the words sound unconvincing even to yourself.

The tick of your watch goes off. Another hour passed, and another hour closer until you’re back in Kentucky. It’s distractingly loud for such a small device as you shuffle your weight from one foot to the other. But maybe you’re just hyper aware of every little sound on the jet, too worked up to focus on just one thing. Undecided which direction you should walk as the silence rings out heavy in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, considering both options before another thud is heard from the direction of the bathroom and your mind is made up for you.

Before you know it, you’re knocking on the door of the bathroom as you swear and fuss under your breath.

The lock clicks open, and Whiskey’s hand reaches out to tug you in with a handful of your shirt, shuffling awkwardly against the small counter to make room for you.

“Coño, could you have been any louder, Whiskey?” You grumble half-heartedly but he’s quick to bring you in for a searing kiss, well past the point of wanting to hear the lecture about public decency and professionalism in the workspace. Not when he’s preoccupied with the feel of your tongue over his teeth and your hands sliding up under his shirt to feel hot skin.

“Pisco.” Whiskey groans your name, bottom lip caught between his teeth as his head falls back against the bathroom wall. You go with him, following the movement until he lets your lip go as his mouth falls slack in a moan. God, he wants you.

It’s the first time you’ve taken a decent look at him since entering the bathroom. His suit’s ruined; blazer discarded against the lid of the toilet, his shirt rumpled and untucked with only half the buttons undone. Whiskey’s slacks are undone, belt still left in the loops as they rest around his thighs along with his underwear. One hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking himself desperately as he bucks and hisses into his palm. Desperate, you think. His eyes half-lidded and wanting as he looked at you expectantly.

Whiskey’s always been a show off. He’s come more times than he’s willing to admit, showing off for you. He loves to lay back and stroke his cock, arching and moan as he almost dares you to come over and make a mess of him. Whiskey is a man that loves to rile you up and play dirty, but you’ve seen how his own arousal betrays him. When his eyes widen and he tenses up when he realises he’s come too early and left spoiled in front of you.

“Pisco–” He moans again, this time his voice carrying a slight whine. Impatience is getting to him after being so worked up for a majority of the plane ride.

Whiskey reaches out, grabbing hold of your lapel. His thighs part as much as they can underneath the fabric of his slacks, wanting you closer so he can feel the press of your body against his own. He abandons his own leaking cock, needing both hands to tug at your belt and tug at the offending fabric keeping your arousal hidden.

“Come on, sugar.” Whiskey urges you on, tugging on the waistband of your to pull your member out from its confides. His hand, calloused and warm and already coated in his own precum, strokes you with a long drawn out movement from your base all the way up to thumb the tip.

Your head falls on his shoulder, groaning into the fabric of his shirt as your hips jut into his fist. It’s hasty and hurried, but the heat around you both from your breathy moans and body temperature has your head feeling light.

The bathroom is relatively simple, barely enough room for one person. There’s a small shower, a sink with a washer and cabinet mirror and a toilet in the corner. Everything is the same cream colour, but with the light off it's hard to notice so much– such an afterthought compared to the rest of the jet’s luxurious amenities. But you distinctly remember overhearing Champ telling Ginger all the planes are due for a remodel soon anyway.

“Switch with me,” Whiskey moans against your cheek, his hand moving fast around your cock. His own desperation making him more than eager. “Please darlin’.”

With a nod, you pull back enough to let Whiskey shuffle awkwardly around you. Trying to step over your leg without banging his tailbone against the counter. He can’t help but buck his hips when the movement has him grinding his oversensitive cock against your hip and he has to take a moment to just grip your shirt and stave off his orgasm. You can feel his hands flex as he clutches at your clothing, the way he tenses and he grinds his teeth together with his eyes squeezed shut. Frustrated at how close he is already as his hips roll forward.

“Steady.” The confidence in your voice surprises even yourself, sounding more put together than Whiskey, even if you feel just as riled up. “We’re good.”

You both shuffle around until your back is pressed up against the wall, your slacks down around your ankles. Whiskey spits in his palm, heavy and warm, his tongue lolling out lazily as heat pools low in your stomach at the sight. He rubs the insides of your thighs, feeling warm skin and strong muscle as he takes his time with all of you on offer.

Whiskey moves forward, his chest flushed against your own as he puts his cock between your thighs and thrusts languidly.

“Squeeze 'em for me, darlin’.” He moans, head tipped forward against your neck with his forearms planted either side of you.

The feel of Whiskey all around you, the smell of arousal and the warmth in your gut. It’s everything you love about him. How you two fit together perfectly. You do as you're told, thighs squeezing around his leaking cock as he bucks forward and thrusts against you frantically. His pace set early as he chases his own pleasure.

You can feel the weight of him against you, the way he thrusts into the heat between your thighs and you’re reminded to let him fuck you again the next time more space allows for it. He’s left you sated and properly wrung out more times than you can count.

“Yeah, so good, sugar.” Whiskey huffs under his breath, the praise delivered right against your ear. You can feel the brush of his moustache, the warmth of his soft little pants as he kisses down your neck and sucks a dark mark.

“Whiskey– below the collar.” You complain, pulling him into an open-mouthed to keep him from making it any less obvious between you two. Tongues roll together and the bristles of his facial hair against your top lip have you shivering as he whines into your kiss.

“You know that’s not how this works.” You’re left panting when you pull away, looking at him as your noses bump against one another.

“I heard ya, darlin’,” Whiskey says, his voice wrecked and as equally disheveled but the slight undertone of disappointment is there. You know him too well not to notice it.

You press an apologetic kiss to his lips, something soft and tender to cut through all the arousal and heat. His breath gets lighter, caught by something in his throat as you tug his buttons open and reveal his collarbone.

Whiskey’s cock twitches between the warm press of your thighs as you bite at his collar and leave a sprawl of little hickies and love bites. There’s the distinct taste of his sweat, his skin warm and smooth under your lips. If you could, you’d lay him out on a bed and kiss over every little bit of skin offered.

“Happy?” You ask, and his triumphant grin tells you all you need to know.

“Course I am, sugar.” Whiskey purrs against your lips as his eyes flash with excited arousal. His hips pick up their pace and he’s moaning against you. Precum beads from his tip, making the slide of his cock between your legs feel that much better.

Your hands move down his back, making him shiver as you brush against his waist. He thinks you’re going to settle on his hips, ease the movement of his thrusts– he loves when you set his pace, making him thrust at the tempo you want. a real cowboy through and through as he rides his stallion– but no. Your hands slide lower, down to Whiskey’s cheeks where you cup warm muscle in your palms and squeeze.

He moans, loud and filthy. 

Whiskey bucks forward into the tight heat of your thighs and then pushes back against your hands. The soreness in your bodies and the bruises littered all over you both are forgotten in the hazy fog of arousal. All he can think about is the heat of your muscled thighs around his cock and the way you hold him open. Whiskey can’t help the choked noise that falls from his lips at the brush of cold air against his hole. 

You kiss his temple, his cheek, whatever you can reach as his head rests against your own– almost like a warm and intimate embrace. Whiskey moans against your skin as he feels your finger against his entrance, not pushing inside but merely as a reminder of what will come later.

Heat coils low in Whiskey’s gut and he tries to push back on your fingers, wanting you. Needing you. Whatever you can give him. 

“Pisco–” He groans, his body tensing as his hips stutter forward and lose their rhythm.

Whiskey’s eyes go wide and he watches you, mouth slack as his orgasm hits hard. You feel warmth between your thighs, his come making a mess of you as he rides out his pleasure. The heat in his gut finally gives way as he calms down.

He’s boneless against you. Dishevelled and messy, Whiskey slumps forward so his chest is pressed against yours and his face is tucked against your neck.

“Mh,” He hums happily, eyes closed in blissful afterglow. “That was good, darlin’.”

Your hand finds its way to the back of Whiskey’s head, fingers sliding through his short sweaty hair on the back of his neck. Both of you stay like that, wrapped in a half-embrace, pressed together in a little bubble where the outside world is long gone.

As you’re catching your breath, Whiskey’s hand falls from your waist down to your neglected cock. He thumbs the tip, dragging his hand down in a languid pace now that he’s come. There’s no rushing in his movements.

It's here where you two forget you’re not a couple. Whiskey is your partner in everything to do with Statesman. But at the end of the day he heads to his own apartment, and you go to yours.

Sometimes you wonder if you two should just rip the bandaid off and talk about it. But that would mean talking about this. All these intimate little moments where Jack’s cocky persona is gone, his eyes half lidded as he watches the way you grind against his palm and he collects the precum leaking from your tip like it’s his prize for making you feel good.

“Jack.” You moan softly, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck as you twitch in his hand. He’s moaning too. Quiet little noises as his soft brown eyes are glazed over and his gaze is trained to the movement of his hand over your cock.

Your orgasm rolls through you, easy and relaxed as pleasure washes over you. Jack brings you in for a kiss as he strokes you through it. A soft, intimate gesture as you both hold each other.

There’s a long beat where neither of you move. Your back against the wall as your hands rest on his sides. Both of you are content to stay where you are despite the drying come on your thighs and the state of your crumpled suits.

It comes as a startle when there’s a rapt knock on the door. Two quick taps.

“Plane’s landing soon.” Ginger’s voice calls out, curt and quick. Like she’s practiced it in her head and now she can’t wait for it to be over with. You can hear the embarrassment in her voice. Apologize later, you remind yourself for the tenth time today.

Whiskey chuckles quietly against your shoulder, looking up at you with a raised brow. “Come on, sugar. We can’t keep 'em waiting or Champ’s going to chew us out again.”

Your eyeroll is to be expected, but so is your playful grin as Whiskey gives you a chaste kiss and pulls back to try and make himself look presentable again. Lord knows how difficult that will be, but a part of you– that quiet little part deep within your thoughts– honestly doesn’t mind the idea of you and Whiskey being seen like this together.

[justbelievinginmagic]

omg literally was kicking my feet reading your comments!!! i sincerely appreciate and enjoyed it!!!!

i'll place my response under a read more bc i got so much to say hehe

im so flattered you fell asleep while reading!!! its mean you really wanted to read it!! ive fallen asleep to my fave fics so it really made me smile!!

and yes!!! i've been waiting to see if someone noticed hehe. I was so happy you did! the pineapple scent fits him too i feel! ive actually looked into their real perfumes/colognes (from what google says is their perfumes/scents) and referenced what they actually wear! apparently hongjoong does have a pineapple undertone perfume o_o <3 i love him. hes the sweet tangy boy lol. im happy you like their scents!!

SAN IS SO SOFT. i love big strong men who are soft sweethearts. he isssss so soft for all his loves. youll see how the others want to wrap him up in pillows and blankies soon! ateez loves him.

and omg everytime i write san drinking im just like hes a lightweight. hes giggling. hes blushing. hes just keeping it under control. hes gotta be Cool.

Alleyway Scene!! Mingi is right!! but if its hwa or joong.... that'll have to be seen.

i do have to say i thought about yn remembering their voices. For both jongho and the alley scene men. but i eventually was like ehhhh lets have drama lol.

JONGHO IS BABY. he deserves a meetcute. and im happy that the maknae whisper was a good leeway!! I didnt want him to give away his name for a while but eventually thought JH would introduce himself.

I wanted her to freak out - i think she was kinda in her head so she was more ready to get out of there. but i wanted her to notice that he knew her name before she gave it!! spooooky.

woo is just so downbad in love. hes like ill do anything swanette. i really liked that angel between two demons line too!! i also think its fun bc hongjoong's lil nickname for her will be angel (like we saw in the chpt 3 flash to the future bit)

aw im happy you like her fidgeting! i try to make them feel as real as possible. people fidget and self soothe and have tells for when they lie. body language is hard to get across in writing imo but i hope these help to show how she is feeling to the people around her too.

san icing her legs will be pEAK. it was a spur of a moment idea and i was liek i gotta write this or else ill go insane!

thats an interesting point!! do they want her to need them - want them?? i feel like its definitely good and toxic. bc they are totally pushing limits to see what she is comfy with.

i read yandere fics and im like this is fine, knowing like no its not lol. right now there are totally red flags from all of the boys but woosan feels sweet rn still. so much is still blurred i feel that i dont blame yn for being swoonful.

wooyo is a softie jokester. he wants to live life comfy, casual, worryfree.

tall and taller, my boysssss!! its totally yungi! theyre planning something that definitely is setting butterfly effects off.

wooyoung being just a tease is my fave thing. he wants attention from everyone lol.

ooo s rings for seonghwa is a fun idea but i will reveal the story behind this one lol. this was to allude to it being mingi. i took inspo from the S/$ necklace he wears in the MV and the line that says "Draw a line on the name and take the won and dollars" for his name sake S/$ and M/₩. i thought an $ necklace would be a bit tacky lolol so i made it a ring instead to imply Song Mingi.... though there is more to this story i'll keep quiet for now haha.

BUT CLAIMING THINGS FROM SEONGHWA IS A BIG EYES IDEA.

Jongho loves the arts! he wanted to see what was up!! hes just a bit more suave - he knows she'd be checking out the box if he sat there.

Julia is definitely showing the more give and take of the boudoir. she wants to be more than the system she is locked into but was mean about it for sure to yn. its good advice but said badly i think. and for sure yn thinks woosan and her are different!

aaa i like that you noticed that about introvert/extrovert/outings/privacy! and also wy loves yn he loves that shes clever and caring and listening!! hes really whipped.

jooongie will make it known for sure one day! and its an interesting idea! hes been very private so far in the story - canonically he hasnt even been to the show yet (if im remembering my own writing correctly lol). why would he give her a coat? is it just a coat or is it more? why is he letting all of the boys be so captivated by her?

the necklace being tugged was a comment reply!! someone said it made them think of a collar which was not the initial implication - but then ...

i was hooked on the idea and had to add it!

I really love reading the comments you are sharing!! im literally giggling and clapping my hands!! it made my night!! i appreciate it so much!!

«hes mine just as wooyoung and you are mine» that is the dream. oh to be sans and be wrapped up in his big ol chest.

yeosang is going to be featured more heavily next chapter and im like metaphorically glaring at him likes hes a bad cat rn haha. hes unhinged but also same. i need a soft hug from good cat yeosang.

and gosh this is so sweet im so happy you are enjoying!!!!!!!!!!

san is Gentleman. He likes the glitz and glamour and pretty things on his arms.

YN just wants to be star

i love love love strong yeosang, doberman yeosang. hes got an aura around him even if he is soft boy

like hes got an intensity even if hes gentle/cutesy/demur

yeahhhhhhh san wishes it was an easier answer than prima.

she is very innocent. i try to balance it so people arent annoyed or think of her as a mary sue. BUT i dont think she'd assume mafia first and foremost. there isnt really that in this town. small town gangs, rich conglomerates, ateez is a new force.

lolol about the newspaper guy!

ys just wants to spend time with heeeeeerrrrrrrrr and it got all messed up later. he will spend more time with her for sure!! like i said hes wild in the next chapter imo.

mingi my shaylllaaaaaaa. hes soooo alrfafgvafnvlnaflv i want to squeeze him. i LOVE cute mingi. i love bashful kind silly smile mingi beneath his sexy aura!!!

matz my loves. i wanted to include them in little ways this chapter. next chapter might not feature them yet depending on pacing but i love and miss them. im a matz girlie through and through.

aaaa oh my gawddddd thats all im saying about the tooth gems hehe!!!

everything reminds me of him. i love mv san.

i loved throwing in the kitty hehe. its just a strange thing in the mv to have this kitty prowling about imo. shes jongho!!

oooo im excited for an ask if you are still curious!!!

Yeosangs flower outfit!!! hes so cuteee and soft boy. i wanted him super soft before we see him ever in his sharp pinstriped suit.

i take a lot of things from the mv lol or the behind the scenes or the teasers!! they give me so much inspo!! im happy you are spotting them!!

wy and mg's scene in front of the desk is totally derived from mingi's moment at the desk in the mv!! a lot of people got confused thinking mingi was yunho/seonghwa since they've been delegated as higher in power buttttt mingi is at a desk in the mv... mingi has his ring kissed in the mv.....

hongjoong in iomt was first goofy looking and then I LOCKED THE FUCK IN. hes so fine. i love the hair. i love his cocky vibe. i love him FLOATING LIKE AN ANGEL. i just have to try to include those vibes from him and i thought a portrait painted in a Renaissance style would fit that!

im glad!! that gives me the ick too!! another ick that i get is when wooyo blows smoke in the butlers' faces as theyre walking in the foyer. i wanted to show that they really dgaf with other ppl.

he did say that >:((( he keeps calling her a doll and nows he like liking her. wooyo and san will tease yu haha. though i will note 1910s/20s doll was common for a girl as a nickname. i think he did mean it like "this doll, this broad *raised eyebrows*" though so the growls are warranted still.

yunho is the guard dog totally. hes here to sniff out trouble and set records straight! we can trust him...right?

i love yeowoosani! i love them theyre babies!!!!!!!

mingis just a boy, surrounded by boys. hes like "shit a lady is here and now i said shit oh shit i said it again D:<"

kitty z is precious and has done no wrong yn is just going through it.

im hoping to get another chapter out faster (even if my brain is like sludge with writing rn). these comments really inspire to me keep writing and get it out faster so thank you so much!! it really brightened my day!!!

like a waltz⎯ part 4: piqué.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter focuses on all the boys & reader except my beloved matz :(( (their time is coming.) series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: As trouble arises and your patrons spend more time with you, more attention gets locked on you. Their interest is thoroughly piqued by you. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e rule of cool), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, MATURE topics, canon typical violence (choking, fighting, punching, etc), canon typical gore, blood, death, guns, explicit language, stalking, alcohol, smoking, bribery, lack of privacy, allusions to exploitation in ballet, implied sexual themes, suggestive themes, kissing, intimacy, angst, fluff, voyeurism sort of, obsession, infatuation, sugar daddy themes, unequal power dynamics, food descriptions, missing people, polyamory, pain, medical drug usage, traumatic injury, injuries, reader discretion advised & 18+ readers only! Let me know if I should tag anything else! word count: 20.4k previous chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

piqué ; french pronunciation: [piːk], ‘pricked’… or to stimulate interest or curiosity.

Creeping out of the stage-door hours after a performance was a normal thing for ballerinas. The alley way was something all the girls were familiar with just as they were with the foyer de la danse. Its damp cobblestone, nearby rotting trashcans, and the barely lit path was their red-carpet entrance. They were not allowed the luxury of entering through the grand doors of the opera house with its tall columns, brightly lit lamps, and the many steps towards its shiny, gold-painted extravagance The only days they were allowed to enter through the front doors were when the opera house was closed and they were rehearsing. The petit rats were only welcomed with glamour when the rich weren’t nearby. They had the back-entrance. This was the ugly underbelly of the pretty façade.

Dressed in her pretty coat and her warmest layers, she had said goodbye to San and Wooyoung ages ago. But then, the Madame had spoken to her and a few ballerinas in her office, relaying some notes, insisting on the girls performing the rectifications immediately. So, there they stood in the rehearsal room, satin-ribboned shoes laced up over thick winter stockings and their day-dresses on. The ballerinas repeated their motions: turning in pirouettes, performing jetes, and piquing across the hall. It was only after the city’s clock tolled twelve times that the Madame allowed them to stop with a slam of her cane into the wooden floorboards. Then, after confirming each dancer had paid their weekly bill (YN smiled, wiping sweat from her brow as she was told her patrons paid once more), they were allowed to leave. The other ballerinas had all scurried home by the time she had gathered her bag and coat once more.

It was late into the early hours, past midnight and not yet morning when she finally left the opera house and crept out into the alley.

Pushing the heavy door open with her shoulder, the chill of night soaked into her bones with a whoosh. Shivering a bit, she adjusted her pretty coat closer to her body and prepared herself for the walk home. Her boots click clacked on the icy pavement as she exited the mouth of the alley. Looking this way and that, the streets were abandoned. Seemingly abandoned. Some of the candle-lit lamps even had fizzled out in the evening with no leeries about to relight them. She continued to walk along, humming softly until she heard the noise. Loud panicked whispers. A crackling fire. The crinkling of a tin-barrel. The smell of smoke. Ahead of her, dark smoke was tumbling out of a nearby alleyway, firelight lighting the brick-walls. She paused, her foot-steps slowed.

Click. Clack.

“You fucked up the deal?” It was frightened.

Click, clank.

“I didn’t mean to; I didn’t mean to. Johnny stole some cash from them, and then-“

“I don’t care! We needed this deal – the money, before he arrives – before we all lose –“

There was the squealing of car wheels and the smell of hot gasoline in the air. YN froze, her footsteps stopping. A car door slammed open, and there was a new click-clank of boots. A startled yell, a shuffle of footsteps, voices overlapping; there was a thud of a body hitting the icy ground with a yell. YN held her breath.

“Gentlemen,” the newcomer’s voice was gravely. There were heavy footfalls and a scrambling sound of someone walking backwards. Something hit a tin-can.

“B-B-Boss.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, about that –“ the other chuckled. 

“My money isn’t no laughing matter.” There was a thud like someone being shoved into a wall violently. The man groaned in pain. “You think I’m someone to be crossed? Where. Is. It?” the intimidating deep voice asked, lowly.

YN swallowed, frozen at the alley way’s entrance just out of view. When would she be able to pass? She needed to get out of here quiet and without being noticed. Or else… she was scared what would happen. This wasn’t the usual gang-dealings. Gangs would fight back, fist with fist. These men were scared.

“We can get it to you- We can- just give me some time, boss!”

“This is the second time,” the graveled voice grumbled; there was a low whistle, sharp and piercing.

And then it was quiet. There wasn’t even pleading, no whimpering.

Silence.

YN’s breath was held as she tentatively peered out from her spot. A sliver of her face was visible against the brickwork wall of the alley way. Smoke hazed the figures, but she could just make out the broad shoulders of the deep-voiced man, cornering another man to the brick wall. The man’s hand scratched at the many-ringed fingers that grasped his throat mercilessly. A gagging sound was heard. Not one of the gang-member’s allies moved to help them. Instead, they were all staring at the automobile.

A truck was reversed into the alley way. Black and large, it shined and flickered in the firelight. Its back-doors pushed open with a click, and men in dark masks tumbled out. Large, intimidating suited figures held bulky guns she had never seen before. YN had seen muskets, shotguns, and even a revolver once. These weren’t that. These were heavy, mechanical, and dangerous-looking. They piled into the alley, the metal of their weapons glinting in the firelight of the makeshift-barrel fire. The frightened figures strewn about the alley way were frozen-still; a few on the ground pleaded, praying. The masked men pointed their weapons at them warningly.

Her heart rate jumped.

This was more than just a gang fight – this seemed methodical. Frightened, her eyes darted to the other side of the alley, her path home just a few steps away. But she’d have to reveal herself… While they were distracted, she’d run. She would. She needed to get out of here quick. Like a mouse, she’d escape when the cats played with their prey.

There was the clink of a car door opening and a metallic thunk of it shutting firmly. A sigh echoed out into the air, disappointed.  

“Please, boss.” The figure held to the wall managed to splutter out.

His captor pushed him up the wall with a violent thud before finally letting go. The man gasped and gaped like a fish as the dark figure took a step backwards to look towards his accomplice. The figure exiting the car didn’t have the dark masks like the others. In this light and smoke, she could only make out the shape of him. Clean cut short hair, the trail of cigarette smoke, the gleam of his teeth. He tossed the cigarette to the icy floor.

Click, clack.

Click, clack.

Click, clack, BANG.

A gunshot went off. His hand was outstretched in a flash; the pistol in his grasp smoking. A man on the ground let out a yelp of pain; his blood splattered against ice and stone. His hand grasped at his leg helplessly in agony.

“Shall we send a message to your pals?” the new man insisted, cocking his red-hot gun again and aiming it at the man his companion had just released from a chokehold.

There was pleading; names babbled over one another until they were unrecognizable. “Sir! Mercy please!”

“I think we should,” the deep-voiced man commented, nearly growling out his words. “We knew you scum thought this was some game. And here you made it all messy.”

His teeth gleamed and glinted with his snarl.

“Let’s make it messy in return.” He finished, nodding at the other.

There was a signal, and the men fired at the others at the two tall figures’ command. Gunfire, loud, fast, and hot, blazed out across the alley way. Her voice escaped her, screaming out. Hiding quickly out of danger, YN jumped back.

“What’s that?” a voice bit out. “You got some dame in this? Find her. Get her!”

They had heard her. Ice flooded her veins. She turned to run, only to run face first into a broad chest. She screeched out again, her hand raising to muffle it. By the looks of his attire, he wasn’t one of the gang members from the alley way. No, this gentleman was dressed nicely in a midnight-black tuxedo with a black cummerbund sash around his waist like he had been at the opera house. His face was firm, almost furrow browed as he righted her with a careful hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t be in this mess; he looked so polished and unaware.

“Mis—” He didn’t get to finish his statement as she interrupted him. Her hands shoved unlady-like against his sturdy chest, wrinkling what had been previously a fine-pressed white button-up.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” She hushed. “Now!”

Her eyes dripped of innocence, of protectiveness. Her fear was palpable. His intense brown orbs met hers and, without hesitation, he nodded. Surprisingly, despite his height and stature, he let her push and pull him away from the alley way and back towards the front of the now-abandoned opera house. She tugged him by the hand up the stairs, so they could stand hidden by the columns. 

Her boots click clacked with each step of the stairs. More gunshots rang out; footsteps followed after them. She stumbled a bit, yelping; the mystery man’s free hand reached out to support her waist before he pulled her into the cover of the tall columns.

She could hear gunfire echo through the street, and she jumped with each bang, bang, bang. The stranger’s hand rose to duck her closer to the column rather than hide against it himself. Curling into herself, into the man’s side, the column, her eyes shut tight. This was a nightmare. The masked figures would surely come after them. They’d pull him away and then her, and what would happen next? She was shaking. There was yelling, shouting. She flinched. A loud whisper.

“Maknae?”

No reply. There was a crunching of snow, the moaning of men in pain. There was a long pause; she didn’t dare open her eyes. And then, there was the sound of footsteps walking away, heaving and thuds of something, and finally the squeal of car wheels going far away from the scene. The smell of gun-smoke and burnt rubber and gardenias (her rescuer’s cologne she realized) was all that was left.

A silence tumbled over the square like the cold water of an ocean’s tide, overwhelming and discombobulating. She stayed frozen for a long until a single finger poked at her shoulder.

“Miss?” he prompted softly; he shook her shoulder firmly then.

His tone sounded nervous, almost afraid. Of course he would be; she was afraid! It was frightening to almost be caught up in trouble. They had been so very close to being looped into a gang fight. She swore she’d never go down that alley or any alley again - ever. Shortcuts home be damned.

“It’s okay. You can open your eyes.” His voice was melodic, soft. Warm in this icy cold.

Her eyes opened tentatively, and she took in the sight of the gentleman in front of her.

He looked down at her with those intense deep-brown eyes, his dark hair mussed over his forehead. She could see his brows furrow at her in concern; his tongue peeked out to swipe over his top lip. His clothes, presumably for the ballet, were wrinkled by her man-handling.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, glancing her over with a quick look.

He didn’t let his gaze linger, but he hadn’t let his hand up from her shoulder either. She swallowed and shook her head as she shifted her shoulders, physically gathering herself as she replied.

“I’m okay, sir. Are you?” she asked politely. Her voice trembled still.

His face smoothed into something she’d almost call relief before he nodded. “I am.” He glanced out at the road. “They’re gone.”

He spoke to reassure her, the tone firm and resolute.

“Do you want to go to the police?” he asked slowly.

He seemed not too disheveled as he took a few steps away from her. His eyes remained on the nearby street, monitoring it. There was no sounds of moaning or pain. What had happened to the gang members? The gun fire was horrible; she hadn’t seen much. Except for red, red, red. No. No! She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want any reason for those men to come find her! They heard her. They had. Her hands rubbed over face; hours old makeup and sweat was sticky against her palms. It felt like blood for a moment.

It sent chills up her spine.

“Miss YN?” her rescuer prompted again, dragging her attention to him.

“No, sorry,” she babbled out. “No.” she confirmed firmly. Her arms wrapped around herself, tugging her coat closer.

“Are you sure?” the man’s brow raised.

“It’s easier to ignore these things,” she muttered out. “Safer. To not get involved.”

The man hummed low in his throat, melodically.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, trying to shake off her fear. “For shielding me up here. And running away.”

“You warned me. You saved me I guess,” he chuckled. “Thank you.”

She smiled shakily before glancing back at the now-quiet streets. Her hands clutched her coat closer.

“Will you be alright, Miss YN?” he asked.

Her nod was preoccupied.

“I will be,” she told him, glancing up at him. He fit right in with the glamour of the opera house. She wondered why she had never seen him before. He was memorable. His face was handsome; his form strong in a different way to San’s but still imposing.

“I’ll be on my way. It’s late and I don’t want trouble. I’m glad that we are both aliv-okay.” she corrected.

“I understand,” he said. “You don’t want a chaperone?”

She didn’t even know him. She wished Wooyoung or San was here. She shook her head, and she took a step away, fiddling with her coat.

“I’ll be okay. Good night…”

“Jongho,” he answered, even if she wasn’t asking. “My name is Jongho.”

“Jongho,” she repeated. “Thank you again.”

He nodded, bowing at the waist.

“Good night, YN.”

He’d whisper, “stay safe,” but he knew he’d be following after her in just a little while. After all, her designated shadow was busy tonight, too busy taking care of business to watch over her. So, the once-street-mutt Jongho had been sent in his stead to watch over his lady. And Jongho couldn’t help but be curious about her. Even more now that he had held her in his arms and seen the sweetness of her soul in her eyes.

YN was safe in her bed that night when she realized she had never told him her name.

And yet he had said it.

-

Her motions were sloppy. Her pointe was weak. And her mind lost. She plied.

“Are you alright, honey?” San asked.

It was the next night - before showtime. San and Wooyoung somehow weaseled themselves into the boudoir before any other patrons could. Sometimes she wondered how much coin that costed them. The Madame had been strict with no patrons before shows – allowing the fragile privacy to warm up and prepare for the shows. It was so easily broken by the two men, but their eyes were only locked on her. And when she turned away to shimmy into a costume or fix a corset or a loose ribbon, they’d respect her. Glancing aside no matter how much temptation itched at their hands.

Wooyoung had offered once to lace her up, and he was met with a look of sharp disbelief – even if it was shadowed by a sweet blush. He hadn’t asked again, but he looked forward to the day he would be able to lace her up… and unlace her.

Tonight, they stood leaning against the barre as she continued to warm up. But, of course, San had caught her shakiness, her focus weaning.

His hand slide across her waist slowly, thumb caressing up and down.

“I’m okay,” she said honestly, leaning into his support as she lowered her leg off the barre. She flexed her feet and rose up on to a pointe for a moment before sighing out and turning to face the two men.

San’s hand ghosted after her waist, guiding her close as she came to settle between her patrons. She rested her bum on the barre between San and Wooyoung. Her pristine white costume made her look like an angel between two black-suited demons. Wooyoung flicked his cigarette bud into an ash tray he’d stolen taken from the front lobby of the opera house.

“I’m sensing a but,” Wooyoung teased. His fingers trailed lower that they had before, grazing over her the small of her back closer and closer ‘til… San slapped his hand, albeit lightly. She didn’t chuckle at his joke. In fact, it was almost like he didn’t joke at all. He frowned.

“Hm, swanette?” he encouraged again.

“It’s—things have been different around town recently. I just got scared last night,” she admitted, fingers trailing back and forth over the barre pole supporting them. Restlessly. “I think its just shaking me up today.”

“How so?” San asked inquiringly.

“I don’t know. I’ve seen two gun fights in the past month while walking home. That’s not normal. There’s all sorts of kidnappings or disappearances. It’s just,” she shivered, thinking of the fear that had clung to her bones since last night. “Scary.” Her arms wrapped around herself.

Wooyoung frowned, his thumb going to rub at her arm soothingly. He didn’t like her fear. He liked her smiling far more.

“You didn’t go to the police, honey?” San asked, brow pursing. Wooyoung glanced over at San.

“No,” she admitted. “It’s—not my business.” She shook her head a bit, not agreeing completely with her phrasing. “I mean, that’s how it’s always been. Ignore, walk faster, try to get away before being seen. If you mind your business, they’ll mind yours… unless you’re involved. I’m not. Never have been. But… there have never been gun fights. I’ve seen fist fights, even switchblades being pulled.” She shook her head again. “I sound silly. But I know there were gangs around town – I know the familiar faces of troublemakers, their tells – and they’re afraid. And if the monsters are afraid--”

She trailed uncertain. She sighed out again before her hands went to squeeze both of their hands that rested on the barre.

“Sorry, I’m just shaken up, that’s all. I’m spiraling a bit,” she reconciled. “Sorry.”

Wooyoung was first to cut her off. “No, no, pretty girl. Don’t apologize.” He soothed. “We don’t want you scared.”  

“You weren’t hurt,” San clarified. It didn’t even sound like a question but still he said it.

She nodded in agreement. “Nope,” she showed her bare arms and twisted this way and that. As if it’d prove she was unharmed.

“Someone helped me,” she admitted.

San raised his brow at Wooyoung before the shorter began to fuss over her.

“My scared swanette,” Wooyoung pouted, huddling close. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he wrapped her in his arms. “Shall we walk you home from now?” he murmured. “San and I will be your personal bodyguards.”

“Uh, huh,” she teased lightly. “I’m sure you will.”

They’ve only walked her home on occasion. She knew it was in the opposite direction of the Ateez House. She didn’t expect them to walk her home. She wanted them to.

“Trust me, you’ll never get hurt around me if I walked by your side,” San promised, pressing a kiss to her cheek as well.

“I’ll make the ground you walk and dance sacred.” Wooyoung whispered. “Drench it in holy water for you.”

She laughed at that.

“Stop teasing me,” she giggled. “You’re being mean.”

“We’re not teasing, honey.” San pressed another kiss to her cheek.

“I’m sure.”

“Shall I carry you home instead? Like a damsel.” Wooyoung teased, arms sweeping underneath her legs.

Wooyoung was growing bolder by the day, and it made her cheeks flush. She let out a shriek of laughter, dragging the eyes of the other ballerinas their way. San raised his brow at them. Unbeknownst to YN, San seemed to harden when looking at anyone other than Wooyoung or her. He spun her playfully. Her mind rightfully distracted from her fear finally.

“You’ll never step foot on ground again while I’m around, Miss Swanette.”

-

It was dark in the restaurant’s backroom. Smokey and lowlight with flickering candlelight. The servers, the cooks, everyone had been pushed out, locked out. The long table was bare of any meal. Water in crystal glasses sat in front of each man. At the head of the table, there was a decanter of amber liquid with two empty pristine glasses. It was quiet, so quiet that the squeaking of rats could be heard in the floor board. Nervous eyes looked this way and that; bodies shifted and fidgeted. The door opened, and all eyes were sucked to into their orbit.

Two figures stood side by side. Matching Rolexes glimmered on their wrists as they both adjust their suits. One shoved their gold-lined, midnight-black suit’s sleeves up with little finesse while the other took his time, slowly peeling off his suit jacket before rolling his white button-up sleeves up. Slinging his discarded jacket across one of his broad shoulders, he then adjusted his black tie, a long silver ring encompassed his pointer finger of his dominant hand. It almost looked like a claw. The other rolled his neck, the glimmer of multiple gold and pearl necklaces matching his sneer. 

Tall and taller glanced down the long table. Young and old sat there; most didn’t look like they had much. Fake luxurious hats with feathers, rings that didn’t sparkle quite right, and sweat-stained pinstriped suits. Some did have money. Their fat fingers rubbing their gold necklaces nervously. All of them shifted in their seats as the duo approached. One on each side of the table, they prowled.

“Gentlemen,” the one who spoke out first nearly growled his words in a snarl.

Rather than walk with his chin high like his companion, he tilted his chin to glare down the table. Dark eyes made darker still by anger. There was a laziness in his swagger as he walked behind one row of chairs; a hand trailed over each leathered chair.

“We have some… requests,” the taller one stated, a smile coming to his glimmering mouth.

 -

YN watched as Imara grab Dohyun’s hand. Her words were hushed in the loud boudoir, unreadable. But she could see the panic, the tears twinkling on her lash line.

‘Don’t do this please.’

She could read the pretty dancer’s lips.

The bank owner yanked his arm away, harshly. As if they hadn’t touched Imara’s body up and down like it was his for over a year. He glanced about as he spoke, mouth moving too quick for her to catch any words.

He shook his head again as he turned and left the boudoir.

Imara had to pay for her dues the next day for the first time in over a year.

-

Wooyoung stood by his promise. Each night since, he or San walked YN home, winding through the streets with their fingers interlaced. Most nights it was him. He liked the shared time for just them he said. Sometimes, he grew daring and would wrap his arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder. Like two lovers taking a stroll.

The following nights had been relatively calm; there were no gun fights, no gangsters. In fact, the streets seemed boring. Not a soul was seen around them except for, of course, her loyal following shadow. Not that she’d know. He was like a ghost, sneaking around the corners and alleys to keep them in his sight.

From the darkened corners of the streets, the figure followed after them night after night. His annoyance only growing as Wooyoung’s touches grew bolder in the solitude of night. With no one there, the idea of public decency was lost to the second-youngest. It wasn’t anything explicit. He just was touchy. Touchier than if it were daylight. Holding her closer, his touches longer, longing.

Longingly, he wanted to hold her; he wanted her to curl into his arms. Her shadow-man scowled deeply. Wooyoung truly was a brat he decided. Still, he continued to trail them from far away. But every now and then, Wooyoung would turn and give him a wink over his Swanette’s head. His hand sliding up her back, slow and teasing; his fingers tickled and trailed lower and lower on her waist. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled.

Wooyoung’s smirk was triumphant as his eyes flickered over to the shadow in the alleyway. Wooyoung was teasing. Teasing both of them.

She’d huddle closer after, and the stalking figure would whisper out a curse. Jealousy itched at his stomach, and he was sure to return home with a scowl. He wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted, and, while he was a gentleman, his thoughts felt not-so gentle. He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. Have her love him. He’d give her anything she wanted. He was already so weak for her, and they hadn’t even met.

He buried himself in the work that was piled on his desk, thanks to Hongjoong. Still, he’d get distracted, imagining fantasies of him and her. He spun a ring on the desk, the ‘S’ emblem on it taunting him.

Would he be able to see her perform soon? Seonghwa and Yeosang had visited. Even Jongho had. Maybe he’d convince Hongjoong to let him go to the foyer de la danse like Wooyoung and San were able to. Why couldn’t he?

The young man knew the answer like a bitter liquor.

Later that evening, Wooyoung and him would meet face-to-face. A smirk on his kiss-swollen lips as he popped his head into the higher-rank’s office.

“Had a nice stroll?”

-

It was a Friday, and Julia with the red hair had been given a private dressing room. That was all anyone could whisper and gossip about.

It wasn’t large. It didn’t even have a mirror or dressing table yet. It was a small closet of a space. But it was hers - exclusively. Her name on a golden plaque had been placed on the door with the title ‘Featured Ballerina’ etched below it. There was space for more.  

The entire ballet troupe knew it had been paid for by her patron and wasn’t a result of any promotion amongst the troupe. She wasn’t prima; there was no way for her to achieve higher with no new show to audition for. It was all an act. It wasn’t talent. It was money and favoritism.

Meanwhile, Imara was despondent, cold as ice to anyone that gave her a pitying look.

Patrons came and went like the seasons – even if one thought they’d last forever, winter always came.

It made talking to either woman difficult. Julia was high on her excitement. The way she walked was like she owned the world. She would run off to her closet the moment she came off stage, even if there was hardly room for two people in the space, let alone warming up or staying warm. But, as YN exited stage left, she and the red head stumbled into one another with a clank.

They both yelped, flinching at the pain that radiated up their shoulders.

“Sorry,” YN apologized before her gaze rose and realized who it was.

“Hey Julia.” Her tone was sharper, less friendly than. Almost icy.

The red-head rubbed her shoulder scowling at the other before her own face dropped into an attitude of sorts.

“YN.”

It wasn’t said fond or with blooming respect like it had been before. Where was the respect that had been trickling down with San and Wooyoung’s support? Was it because Julia was still ever-higher than her? Was it because she had a dressing room now?

Maybe it was because they spotted one another outside of the ballet with their patrons by their side.

“Why did you lie to me?” YN spouted out, brows furrowing.

The other ballerina laughed out, too loud. She was almost heard over the orchestra playing a lofty tune as the White Swan jete’ed about on stage nearby.

“What are you talking about?” the other replied, dramatically hushing her tone.

“You said your patron never invited you out of the ballet.” YN stated. “But I saw you at the tennis match.”

There was a condescending tut that escaped the other, and it made YN’s eyes fall into slits.

“Oh, honey,” it was said cruelly. “You need to catch up. If you want to be like them, not be theirs, you must play like them.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve gone on plenty of outings with my patron.” She stated, fixing her hair.

“So, you lied,” YN clarified again, simply. What wasn’t clicking? She lied to her.

“I’m not invited; I’m expected,” she said. “I go where I want.”  

Semantics. It made her roll her eyes.

“He pays for you just as mine pay for me,” YN commented. “Why didn’t you just tell me it was normal? I was worried.”

Julia finally sighed out.

“Listen, YN. Liars are the only thing that fill those rich homes. Even your boys.” She bit out. “You better learn the game, how to play it, and how to tell if someone is lying to you if you want to be upper-class so badly, YN. Otherwise, you’ll just keep playing pretend, and nobody wants a pretender.”

Then, without another word, the red head pushed past her with a huff.

-

The game. Julia had called it a game.

YN had always looked at the boudoir as a show. A performance between patron and protégé. Usually explicit. But Julia saw it as a game. What type of game YN wondered?

Was it chess? A game of wits? A game of checkers? A game of hopping to the next best thing?

Wooyoung and San didn’t see her as a game. This she knew in her bones. Their sweet words were too sweet. Their genuine excitement and care were a balm to her. But then, she glanced aside at Imara who was like a lost sock without her patron, use ambiguous and left lonely in the corner of the busied boudoir. She had thought the same thing about her patron.  

Doubt crawled in. Trickled in her veins. Even as the pair of men strode into the boudoir after the show per usual. San fixed his vest, the white button up loosened and less appropriate, but pleasing to the eye. Wooyoung finished his drink, handed to him by the bulkier man obediently as they walked.

“Hello you two,” YN greeted.

“Hi, pretty lady,” Wooyoung replied. “How was your evening? You were lovely as always.”

“It was good.” she said.

Wooyoung presented his cheek to her, expectedly. With their increase in dates and walks home, he’d become openly affectionate now. Not that she fought against it. If she didn’t press a kiss, he’d pout but when she did a pleased hum would reverberate through his chest like a cat’s purr. It made her beam; his happiness became her pleasure.

She pecked his cheek, quick. He grinned and quickly engulfed her in an embrace. His lips danced over her face. Tiny millions of butterfly kisses were pressed over her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Giggles consumed her; his quirking lips hummed as he worked his way down to her jaw, underneath it, her neck, to her collarbone, before he was pressing fond kisses over her pearl necklace and up the column of her throat. Each one sent a tingle running through her.

“No pain?” San questioned, aware of how easily she bruised and ached.

She shook her head distractedly.

“Only a few more shows left anyways if so.” She commented. He gave her a scolding look. “Training will be less strenuous than performing. Surprisingly.” She chuckled, gasping out as Wooyoung pressed a deep kiss to the spot beneath her jaw. Not quite a hickey but close.

“Good,” the man replied. She needed a break San thought. He saw how her toes were a bright red through her tights.

“It’ll be nice to dance something new soon – but it’s bittersweet.” She just managed to get out.

San hummed out in agreement, pressing his own kiss to her forehead as he wriggled Wooyoung away from his honey to let her begin to dress into every-day clothing once more. She gave him a thankful look as she quickly went to change nearby. Her face was flushed, and her heart raced. How was her hair even more mussed from her bun? He hadn’t even touched it.

“I know,” San replied. “You must be excited?”

She smiled as she shed out of her feathers.

“Closing night is always such an experience,” she taunted.

It was. Full of celebrations, champagne, and influx of patrons spending their last pennies of the season.

“Will you be there?”

“Of course, baby,” Wooyoung cooed from San’s arms. She saw him ghost a kiss across his neck.

“We’ll be there for every closing and opening from now on.”

-

Wooyoung sat by her side, her hand in his as he gestured to the menu about this tea and that americano and this croissant. Their spread was already far more than either of them could finish. Large oozy cookies, steaming croissants with chocolate fillings, savory bite-sized tarts, and a large sandwich Wooyoung had already cut in half. One for him and one for her.

They had begun to have more dates like this; Wooyoung favored more intimate places such as cafes where they could cozy up close and share treats and talk while San liked to show her off at tennis matches and outings of public attention. She had liked it – but she couldn’t help but hear Julia’s voice in the back of her head.

Did she know her patrons?

Wooyoung smiled brightly and talked easily with her now; an air of comfortability was palpable as his fingers played with hers.

“Wooyo,” she prompted tentatively, interrupting his yapping.

“Hm?” he looked up from the menu, his face inquiring. Brows raised, and mouth squeezed shut.

“I have a question.”

“Ask away, swanette.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly before letting go and flexing his arms to resettle his sitting form to look at her more attentively.

“Why is it you introduced yourself as a Jung? And not a Kim?” she asked.

“Force of habit, really,” he admitted. “Hongjoong insists on us sharing his name.” He raised his coffee to his lips, taking a sip.

“Because he helped you when you needed him?” she recalled.

His grin grew wide, amused. “Yeah.” He paused, biting his lip for a moment before he scooted closer. “He took me in basically. Which is why I consider him family, close as thieves just like Yeosangie and Sannie.”

“He’s at Ateez House?” she queried, fingering a cookie. Tearing it up but not really eating as she thought.

How many were at that mansion? Yeosang, San, Wooyoung… Hongjoong and Seonghwa as well?

“There’s a lot of you there.”

He nodded as he picked up one of the crumbs she was making and pressed it to her lips. His fingertips were warm from the hot ceramic of his coffee cup. He smiled fondly as she nibbled at it. Before raising the rest of the crumb to his mouth, licking at the chocolate melting on his fingertips.

She licked her lips as she watched, chocolate fragrant on her tongue.

“There are eight of us,” he told her. “Eight men in one house, you can imagine the chaos.”

He spoke as if they shared an apartment and not a grand ‘haunted’ mansion.

“What does he do?” she mumbled, half focusing on her attempt to solve the mysteries that had plagued Ateez House’s occupants.

“Eh, a lot of things,” he sucked at the crumbs on his thumb before reaching out a wiping a smudge at the corner of her lips. “This and that. Loves art and shows and spectacle. Is a bit of a collector, more than Sannie is – you know, San loves pretty things.”

She already knew where this was going.

“Like me, Wooyoung?” she teased, beating him to his flirt.

“Just like you, Swanette.” He nudged her tea her way, urging her to drink before it went cold. “C’mon, try this too.”

And like that, her mind was sucked into his fancies as he fed her a warm tartlet that tasted richer than any food she had ever had.

-

It was the first night Wooyoung and San would be unable to walk her home. Wooyoung was good at keeping his promise; he walked her home for many many nights. His babbling softened with his sleepiness which was cute. It was worth it to press a kiss to her lips before she went inside, and even more worth it when he caught the shadow of a figure watching them. He’d blow him a kiss – behind her back that is.

She was anxious to walk alone. Her stomach churned at the though. Wooyoung had apologized as they rushed off to something that needed their attention – him and San. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, promising she’d be okay. He’d see her tomorrow. Walk in the light and you’ll be fine, little bird. As if she walked anywhere else anymore – all her shortcuts scared her now.

It was too late to call for a carriage or a buggy to take her home, so it was the only way. Unless she wanted to sleep on the uncomfortable settee in the boudoir (and most likely be kicked out by the janitor early in the morning. She could hear the Madame already. “This isn’t an orphanage, Miss YN.” Despite the selection of orphans that made up their ranks.)

So, YN hugged her jacket around herself and began her trek home.

And it was so peaceful. Not a whisper, not a fight, nothing. The streets were abandoned – even the men who were stumbling home drunk were absent. It was absolutely empty. Except for her.

And her stalker, of course.

-

San was early at the opera house the next day– so early the doors to the boudoir weren’t unlocked yet. Instead, he lingered out front, pacing this way and that.

“Sannie,” she exclaimed at the sight of him.

How did he know she was going to practice early today? The question was quickly forgotten as she hugged him. His arms wrapped around her in a warm bear hug before he pulled back to press a kiss to her nose.

Sweet, that’s what San was.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, smiling affectionately up at him.

They hadn’t shifted in their embrace; San kept her close to him as he looked down at her. There was clear fondness there. His fingers rubbed up and down her back, over her warm winter coat.

“I wanted to see you,” he admitted. “You look so cute in your coat.”

His words brought a flush to her cheeks. This was what she imagined when she thought of Julia’s words. No way could this be false. He was cooing over her, his touch reverent. It was different.

“I love it,” she replied. “It keeps me warm. Just like you.”

He laughed, warmly. He brought her close to his chest again, hugging her. It was funny. For as much as he claimed Wooyoung was touchy, San loved skinship. He liked to keep her close.

“I got you something,” he whispered after a moment, shifting one arm to reach into his pocket.

“What’s this?”

In his small hand (well, small compared to his broad form) sat a beautiful bracelet, teardrop-cut diamonds were linked together into a delicate yet unbelievably expensive gift.

“For you.”

San smiled like a content cat as he watched her fiddle with the pretty diamond bracelet. His dimples were deep in his cheeks. Her fingers brushed over the jewels admiringly. He loved pretty things and seeing her openly awe made him buzz with excitement. Carefully, he linked the clasp over her wrist and turned her hand over in his, watching the gems glimmer and shimmer in the gas light. He grinned.

“What’s this for?” she asked, brows crinkling curiously.

It wasn’t like Wooyoung’s gift – a month anniversary gift – or even San’s gift of the coat, something she had needed in all honesty. This was sudden. Strange.

His fingers brushed over the jewels before he spoke again.

“I was jealous that Wooyo had this pretty necklace around your throat.”

He leaned forward, fingering the pearls around her throat before tugging experimentally at them like it was a leash. They tightened with the pressure, choking her lightly and forcing her to lean closer to her patron. YN’s breath stolen, not in pain but in a flicker of excitement, surprise, pleasure. Her head tilted back to smile up at him. His fingers tightened around the pearls ever so.

“Oh, honey,” San cooed soft and sweet as he continued to tug her up by the collar of her necklace to capture her lips in a kiss. One kiss that devolved into many as he pushed her up against the door to the boudoir, lifting her lightly into his arms. Pressed against the door, her bejeweled hand tangled in his hair, tugging him ever closer.

They were lucky no one passed by as they devoured one another.

San may have been a gentleman, but his greed and power revealed itself slowly but surely.

-

Another man was missing. He had been a regular in the boudoir. A young man who spent his spare pennies to leer at them. He wasn’t missed by any of the ballerinas, but it was frightening. Too many people were disappearing or getting into trouble.

Her mother and the other ladies at the factory walked together now. To and from work, in case trouble arose. She had even pushed for YN to walk with someone to the Opera House for once.

“Your boy is a good one,” she appraised. “That Wooyoung walks you here every night now. Like a gentleman. Stick around him.”

-

San had invited her out to another tennis match. Wooyoung had been caught up in business (business she still didn’t know of, she lamented as they walked along the cobblestone streets. San had whispered in her ear that it was boring. Wooyoung was unlucky to not be here with her. And he, in turn, was ever lucky.)

She wore his pretty diamond bracelet on her wrist, and, every time he stole a glance, his face curled up into a pleasant happy grin. He looked sweet like a kitten.

His arm wrapped around her waist as they sat and watch Yeosang’s match. Drinking champagne, he’d offer her his flute every so often, and she’d sip away. It was an expensive brand, far more easy to drink than the piss-poor alcohol the ballerinas could afford for their own celebrations away from the leering men of the opera. Drinking the expensive liquor the men offered was never a good idea – it led to worser things.

Yeosang looked as pretty as ever. He reminded her of a ballerino the way he danced about the court.  Somehow both pretty and masculine as his form bent and stretched. Muscles rippled, leaner than San’s but not any less bulging. His arms flexed and she held onto the shared flue of champagne tighter.

San’s fingers stroked over her hip.

“You’re staring, honey,” he teased.

It wasn’t the tone of a jealous lover or a scolding of a respectable man. It was lilting, gentle. Her eyes looked away from Yeosang and rested on her date. He sipped his champagne, lips pursing and brows dancing. San’s lids were heavy as he grinned. Just as cat-like as earlier but more cheshire. Like he knew a secret.

He glanced away from her and looked over the athlete. His gaze mirrored hers, she realized. A fondness… no, an attracted air radiated in his deep brown orbs.

Was he teasing her? Was he genuine?

“Now, you’re staring,” she teased in return.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he replied coyly. He glanced back at her as he leaned in. “He’s handsome, hm?”

Her cheeks flushed at that and she looked away.

“San!” she exclaimed.

His laughter rumbled in his chest as he held her closer. His lips pressed to her ear intimately. 

“It’s alright, honey. He’s mine. Just as Wooyoung’s mine.” He replied easily. “Just as you are mine.” His lips kissed her skin before he pulled away. Her hand shifted to grasp his in hers. His thumb grazed over her bracelet lovingly.

-

Yeosang greeted them after his victory; the zing of celebratory champagne on his breath stinging her nose as he leaned forward to wrap her into an eager hug. Daring for a second-meeting. It made her worry she had been too obvious with her friendliness, her intrigue… her interest in the athlete. She did like him after all.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he beamed.

The smell of his cologne mingled with his sweat. Masculinity mixed with the soft thyme and tea of his perfume. It made her want to hug him closer. He pulled back, his eyes burning with the same intensity beforehand. A straightforwardness. He wasn’t afraid to meet her gaze. His honeyed eyes were sweet and inquiring. Taking in every feature of her – the dark coat, the pearls, the diamonds. He smiled.

“Hello Yeosang. Congratulations,” she returned.

The man nodded respectfully before he glanced over her shoulder at the tall muscled man, eyeing Yeosang with clear adoration.

“San,” he greeted.

“Yeosangie,” San replied with a fond grin. His cheeks were blushed, maybe from the champagne they shared?

The athlete rolled his eyes lightly, playfully, before he settled his gaze on the lady.

“Did you make any bets?” he asked curiously, leaning into her with intrigue.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed. She hadnt even thought of that; she was a guest after all.

“You know what? Yeosang’s right,” San retorted. His hand squeezed her waist. “Next time, you should bet some coin. We do all the time.”

Her brows crinkled, doubtfully. Not because she doubted Yeosang’s abilities. He was a powerful athlete. But betting… she swallowed a bit. She didn’t have much money to risk in general. She had just gotten used to having extra coins in her coinpurse. Her embarrassment burned at her ears.

“I’m not sure,” she said softly.

Yeosang eyed her before he hummed lightly. His gaze settled back on San, firmly.

“I’ll do it for you,” San said instead, downing the rest of his drink. His eyes reopened from the gulp and he shrugged. “I’ll buy you anything, honey. Everything.”

Yeosang laughed, lips curling. Pleased. He leaned in to whisper close. 

“You’ve got our San, sweetheart. Wrapped around your pretty finger.”

The athlete’s fingers were close by still, and they tickled her fingertips playfully. If he was any bolder, he’d be holding her hand. But instead, like a tease, he pulled back. Licking his lower lip and flashing a charming smile that only a socialite had. Easy and well-practiced.

“I’ll buy you anything, too, baby,” San purred towards Yeosang. He looked at the buff man with a raised brow. He always looked so sharp, in a delicate way despite his rippling muscles.

“I know,” he teased.

Yeosang raised a hand to squeeze the younger’s cheeks fondly. San smiled, pleased, a mirror of the grin he gave her earlier. His cheeks looked plump in the other’s lean long fingers. Yeosang chuckled, squeezing them again before his hand dropped and he turned.

“Come with me,” he nodded over his shoulder. “We can talk in the shade – the weather is horrid.”

He was right; the clouds were whirling and swirling into what was sure to be a downpour soon. They walked further into the tennis court’s shaded areas – the betting shop in the corner with a long line. People, mostly men, were cashing in their rewards. San’s hands went to rest on the small of her back; if she had glanced aside, she’d see he did the same to Yeosang, guiding the pair of them this way and that.

A rush of reporters, dressed for the weather with raincoats and large brimmed hats, flooded towards the winner. Yeosang slung his black tennis racket over his shoulder, smiling and waving at the flashing paparazzi’s cameras. Her eyes shut at the bright lights. San’s hand squeezed her waist and tugged her closer.

“Sir, congratulations!” There were cries of celebration and excitement. “Good show! Good show!”

YN wasn’t used to such fanfare, and it made her fantasize of the flashing lights she was hopeful for. One day… she glanced over at Yeosang. She’d be like him. Successful. In his own right. He grinned politely at a reporter, waving with a tight structured wave.

“Mr. Kim! Is it true you know Kim Yunho?” she heard over the chatter.

Yunho… she had heard that name before. But where? She didn’t have time to think as San guided them throughout the crowd, his hand curling over her hip to keep her closer with the writhing crowd jostling them this way and that.

The athlete didn’t reply, and he let his friend guide him through the swarm until they entered a tented area. Once the tent’s curtains were tied together, Yeosang huffed.

“I despise paparazzi,” he admitted, scuffing his feet against the concrete as he walked.

The space wasn’t special, but it was private. Scattered about were a few folding chairs, a wrought-wire bench, and a grey-green locker. Yeosang went to it, and opened it with ease. Within it wasn’t much. A folded assortment of clothes, a letter plastered to the locker’s interior, an extra racket, and a water jug. He placed his dark racket within and picked up the water jug. Raising the glass jug to his mouth, he took a big gulp. San patted her hip encouragingly as he moved away going to sit on the nearby bench. YN tentatively took a seat in a folding chair.

“Your performances of Swan Lake are coming to an end, are they not?” Yeosang queried.

“Oh, yes. They are; will you be able to attend closing night… or any show anytime soon? I’d love to see you there.” she admitted.

Yeosang’s lips quirked against the water jug’s rim before he pulled it away. Swallowing, he nodded. “I would love to see you once more, Miss YN. In your element.”

“You must encourage him to come backstage,” she turned to San. Less asking and more pressing.

He nodded in agreement. Easily swayed by his lovers, he leaned back in his seat casually.

“Is it like this?” Yeosang asked; a hand went to push back his locks, sweatied and damp.

The sight of his sharp brows quirking in curiosity sent a flare of excitement through her. He was so handsome; she couldn’t help but awe. San chuckled at her ogling.

“It isn’t, Yeo.” San admitted. “The backstage is grand and too open with too many girls running about half-dressed and men staring at them.”

Yeosang’s eyes flickered to him. “Even our girl?”

San glanced at her, head tilting. “Not as of late.”

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it in between his lips. The look he gave Yeosang confused her – sharp, dark, and biting as he bit down on the cigarette before fiddling with a silver lighter. Yeosang hummed lowly.

“San and Wooyoung are polite,” she said, as if that would help the conversation. As if that was the topic at hand. “They’re the best gentleman in the boudoir. Honest.”

San grinned around his cigarette as he finally lit it. He knew she spoke the truth. She always did around him now. It made him happy to know she was so comfortable around them that she didn’t even notice the glares he sent the way of any man that dared eye her as she switched costumes.

Little did she know what would happen to one if they did. 

He puffed out smoke.

“I’d rather see you outside this boudoir then,” Yeosang commented, closing the locker’s door. “I don’t wish to see you improperly, sweetheart. I wouldn’t put you in that situation.”

“We don’t mean to either,” San coughed out, the smoke scattering about bashfully. He turned to look at her with the gentlest of eyes. “You’re painting me to be a villain, Yeo.”

“No, I know,” she interrupted. “I know San and Woo mean well.”

They had said so since the beginning. Wooyoung claimed he didn’t even know he was playing as potential patron until San said so. And now, well, she felt safe around them. When she was with them, when she was introduced to Yeosang, it made her feel permanent. Not a doll on a music box to show off around the right clientele.

Imara never had this.

“Still,” Yeosang tutted. “I’d hate that. If I had those reporters watching every little move I made back here.” He bared his teeth. “I’m sorry you have to suffer that, sweetheart.”

-

“Do you want diamonds?” San asked.

This was the fifth time he had asked if she wanted some grand gift as they walked home. The umbrella San had kept them mostly dry in the drizzle. YN knew he felt bad about the boudoir. Especially at Yeosang’s commentary.

“No,” she let out a chuckle.

“More pearls?” Not his favorite thing, but they looked pretty around her neck and they were useful.

“No,” she giggled, swinging their conjoined hands.

“Then what, honey?” he whined a bit, sounding childlike as he squeezed onto her hand.

She was surprised this bulky beefy man was acting so openly whiney in public. He didn’t need the illusion of masculinity to cling to; there was an element of strength in him deeper than attitude. Even if he was acting like a child.

“I’m okay,” she said. 

He licked the back of his lips. Doubtful. He frowned before stopping in the streets. The lamplighters were out and about, lighting the last remaining candle lights amongst the new gas-line lamps. He didn’t falter. He didn’t care if they were intimately close. His hand around her wrist as he pulled her close in the wet setting sun.

“What do you truly want, honey?”

What did she truly want? She smiled up at him. All her life she had only wanted and yearned for one thing – til Wooyoung and him and Yeosang all tumbled into her life that is.

“I want to be a ballerina. The ballerina prima,” she told him sincerely. Her hand rose to pat his cheek softly. “You are helping me get it.”

His lips pouted as he looked down at her. He didn’t like that answer. That was a harder request. But he wouldn’t tell her that. Instead, he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to her lips, so quick one would’ve missed it if it hadn’t tasted of champagne and cigarette smoke. His sweetened coffee cologne wafted over her soothingly like a chaser.

-

“Extra edition!” a newsboy cried out.

YN had been walking towards the newest restaurant that San and Wooyoung insisted on trying. It was expensive. Far too expensive for her, but San insisted per usual and Wooyoung pouted that without her he’d be bored. So, here she was walking the streets towards the richer side of town. The richer side of town where all the newsies made their routes; the rich had money to spare.

“Star tennis player Kim Yeosang associated with Kim Yunho, the man released on 1 million coin for murder in broad-daylight! Shocking details revealed.”

Now, that caught her attention. Her feet slowed until she came to a stop. For once, it felt like the newsies had given just enough information to lure her in. Her coin purse pressed against her thigh was heavy. Heavy enough to spare a few coins to buy the paper.

“I’ll take one, Jack,” she told him, digging into her pocket to hand him the necessary amount.

The younger grinned up at her. “Thank you, Miss YN.” He shuffled the heavy stack around, untying the twine to present the fresh-printed and warm newspaper her way.

She nodded in thanks as she unraveled it and began to read.

-

San and Wooyoung sat in the corner of a restaurant, talking lowly in the shadows as they waited. Only to be interrupted by a newspaper being plopped down on the table. Their eyes shifted from one another to the newspaper. Doubtful, almost darkened looks were engrained in their faces before they glanced upward to see their swanette. Haloed by the light pouring into the café, her arms were crossed; brow raised. Their expressions softened immediately like butter.

“Hello, honey,” San rumbled. He tugged the chair out for her.

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung added.

They hadnt looked at the paper yet.

“What the fuck is this?” she murmured, taking the seat easily as she shoved the headline their way.

Wooyoung licked his lips at her expletive. She didn’t curse much in the boudoir. Hearing it made his cell burn, biting at his lower lip after a moment. He glanced down at the paper; that hot feeling fizzled at the headline. He sighed, head rolling back, before he glanced San’s way. San’s expression hadn’t shifted; not even a twitch of his brow as he looked over his glasses at his partner.

“It’s a long story,” Wooyoung replied.

“I’ve got time,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “Start with the part where Kim Yunho is living in your mansion. Kim Yunho, the man who shot a near-billionaire, dead, in broad-daylight after a supposed bet gone wrong.”

Her voice raised as she retold what the inky print said. She didn’t look intimidating in their eyes. Especially with her pout. San wanted to kiss it off her. Instead, he offered, “Yunho’s got a complicated past, but he only acted in self-defense.”

“He shot a man in broad daylight. Is Yeosang safe? Are you?” she worried. “Hongjoong?”

Wooyoung scooted close at that, hating the way her voice accelerated. San chuckled lowly, shaking his head.

“Oh, little bird,” Wooyoung hummed, taking her hand. “We are safe. We are safe. You don’t need to worry – is that why you are so upset?”

She frowned at them, her furrowed brow deepening. Wooyoung cooed.

“You are, oh, baby,” he hugged her, nearly joining her on her chair. “You are sweet, YN.”

“I’m worried; you are with a criminal,” she mumbled out, making sure her words were too loud. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Wooyoung stole a kiss. “You really are a doll, an angel. We are okay I promise.”

“You can’t just kiss me and tell me it’s okay. How? How is it okay?”

“Yunho is a free-man,” San reminded. “He didn’t break out of jail; he served his time; he paid his fees; he was let go. But apparently caught the attention of the press while doing so.”

“Poor Yeosang,” YN lamented suddenly. “He hated the paparazzi and now-“ she buried her head into Wooyoung’s shoulder.

The younger cooed. His hand going to pet at her back as he glanced over at San while her back was turned. There was a rustling of the newspaper, the crinkling paper being folded over.

“Yeosang will live. He’s been reported on his entire life. Yunho will not hurt us, promise, honey.” San replied. “You’re working yourself up. I’ll get you tea.”

There was a snapping sound of his fingers. A waiter obediently came. The man whispered his order as Wooyoung murmured to YN.

“It’s alright. It really is. You’ll see.”

San and Wooyoung’s eyes met once more.

They should’ve let Yunho meet her before this all happened; their shared grimaces said so.

-

Not even a day later, there were rumors about town. That night whispers about her patrons were all about the boudoir. The Ateez House truly was haunted some said. It had a killer living there. It made her scoff. There were seven others in that house – how could you build a house to be broken and haunted by one person?

The next day, a man from the newspaper company, the Cromer Chronicle, was missing. He had disappeared in the night without a trace. Or well, there was a trace. A letter saying he was going on vacation for a while. But few believed it.

Gossip roared. What was even more interesting, was that the newspaper headlines the next day were completely free of any mentions of Kim Yeosang or Kim Yunho.

But on her vanity, a letter rested with her name in an elaborate script signed by a certain man. The seal was the same ‘A’ emblem that both San and Wooyoung wore on a gold ring.

Miss YN.

You are cordially invited to join Kim Yeosang at the Ateez House estate for a night of fine dining. Casual attire permitted. I am so excited to see you again – if you will join me!  

Yours,

Kim Yeosang

“Did you place this on the vanity?” she asked the two men who sat side by side on a sofa. Sometimes they looked too close for comfort; tonight was one of those nights. Wooyoung was nearly draped across San’s chest, his head cradled on his muscular shoulder as he stared up at her.

“No, swanette,” Wooyoung claimed. “Our hands are clean in this.”

He raised his hands in surrender, wiggling his fingers playfully at her.

“Yeosangie must’ve liked you,” San added with a smirk.

“You’d know,” Wooyoung muttered; San grasped the other’s hip warningly.

Wooyoung giggled out almost like a hyena, head tilting back in mischief.

“You should’ve seen how he looked at her, Wooyo,” San continued, his gaze flickering towards YN from over his spectacles.

“I know,” the other giggled.

“Will you be there?” she asked tentatively.

Her fingers fiddled with the corner of the thick cardstock Yeosang’s handwriting graced. She was used to their presence. They felt safe to her. They glanced at one another. San’s fingers trailed up and down Wooyoung’s waist. Wooyoung went to interlace their fingers smoothly. Squeezing it once and then twice.

“I’m not sure, honey,” San said. “We have business to attend to this weekend.”

“Sorry, pretty,” Wooyoung pouted at her. “We may see you in passing? If you miss us so much, we can meet you here early the next day. I want to hear all about you and Yeosangie.”

She smiled sweetly at them, flushing at the idea that the pair of them encouraged her to dine and possible flirt with another. It was strange but not… unfavorable. Yeosang was handsome. He was delicate but strong. Eloquent and interesting. Understanding. She liked his company. Despite the company he kept… her mind flickered back to the elephant in the room… or yesterday’s newspaper in the nearby waste basket.

“Is… Yunho –“ she asked, shifting this way and that. San couldn’t help but think she looked so sweet, so innocent, so naïve in her little feather tutu, all virginal white. “Is it safe for me - with Yunho there?”

They didn’t even need to look at one another. Wooyoung’s hand held San’s tighter as he shifted his gaze to simmer on her.

“Yunho would never hurt a lady, honey,” San replied, sincerely and instantaneously.

His hand outstretched for her to take. Which she did. It was San after all. Secure, sweet, strong San. He’s been so straightforward. She trusted him. His fingers caressed over her knuckles, “Especially you.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “I believe you.”

“Yeosang will be excited.” San promised, raising her hand for him to press a kiss to her knuckles. “We can deliver the news to him when we get home.”

He pressed a peck to each knuckle before continuing up her hand to press kisses over his bracelet. He placed a final sweet kiss to her pulse before pulling away, and pulling her towards their embrace. San could hold both of them in his lap after all. Wooyoung slid further down on the settee until his head rested on one of San’s thighs. His lips curled.

“I will send a car for you, swanette. You won’t have to lift a foot,” Wooyoung promised, reaching a hand up to tuck hair aside as she sat on San’s rippling thigh. “Easy-peasy.”

-

It was her first time in an automobile. She had traveled in carriages and open buggies but never something so expensive as a brand-new automobile. Something so polished and metallic and rich. Her excitement was almost like a child’s; her smile was bright at the sight of the car sitting curbside. Its lacquer was a deep-olive color, gleaming in the golden sunlight peeking out of the rain-heavy clouds. The chill that nipped at her heels and the rain that itched at the sky made her thankful that Wooyoung had sent a car for her – even if every single one of her neighbors were being nosey. She could see their faces pressed to their windows with curtains shoved aside haphazardly. No cars came here. And certainly, no car like this.

The driver was tall and handsome, his dark brown hair styled sharply across his forehead. A multi-layered suit with shimmering gold detailing looked expensive on his form, a long-coat making his appearance look clean cut and sleek. Just like the car.

His entrancing eyes were dark, siren-like as they locked onto her form as she hopped gracefully down the icy steps. He felt his breath catch. A mix of excitement and fear tumbled through his stomach. She looked so pretty. Her hair was done nicely and modern. Her day-dress was a pretty (if a bit washed out) green color, complimenting the car’s hue perfectly. The sparkle of her pearls around her throat and her diamond bracelet peeking from beneath the sleeve of the dark fur coat made him smile. His full lips quirked into a smirk of a close-lipped smile.

His eyes haven’t left her form yet. Not even when her mother stepped out to awe at the car and the man waiting for her on the curb.

“Hello, doll.” He greeted her, polite with a deep-voice.

His hand, covered in multiple rings, opened the passenger door for her.

“Hi,” she smiled at him, and he wanted to swoon then and there. But he stayed firm, icy, tall. It wasn’t his turn. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. But he knew the way to her house; he had a car. And he was higher than Wooyoung or San in the hierarchy. He’d do what he wanted to do… as long as the Captain allowed that is.

His eyes didn’t leave her as she entered the automobile, tucking her dresses beneath her lady-like. He closed the door behind her and circled around the car to enter the driver’s seat. He took a shaky breath before entering; he felt like a school boy. When was that a feeling he’s felt recently? (The Ateez House would say every time he whined and pouted at them like a princess.)

The interior of the car smelt expensive, too. The well-taken care of leather, the wiped down metal accessories, everything reeked of rich maintenance. Her eyes ate up the new machine, looking at the gearshift, the polished controls. There was even a record player in the dash.

She never realized how rich they were. It surprised her. He ate up how her eyes widened, and she sat so delicate, hands in her lap as if touching something would bite her. She was so cute. His lips curled into a smirk as he turned the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and she let out a little sound of surprise.

He chuckled low, the sound reverberating around her. She glanced over at her driver. He looked casual in the driver’s seat. One hand was on the wheel; the gleam of an expensive watch shone at her. He was leaning back, his hand cupping the back of her car seat carefully as he began to pull the car away into the street.

He didn’t want to intimidate her. Wooyoung had said she was already so nervous about Yunho. So, he didn’t speak, didn’t tease, didn’t do much except drive. He enjoyed her gaze on him though. He watched her so many times that it made the back of his neck and the tips of his ears burn pleasantly. He tongued at his canines, hiding his smirk. His plush lips pursed instead.

Her awe shifted as he sped up, her eyes flickering to the streets that passed by, faster, faster, faster. Faster than any carriage or bike or trolley. It sent a whirl of excitement in her stomach.

“This is my first time in an automobile,” she admitted into the silence.

“It is?” his voice was deep as honey, and it made her spine tingle.

He glanced over at her. He wanted to show her so many new things. He was glad to have one of her firsts. Wooyoung had stolen so many. Her first date, her first kiss, her first embrace. He’d at least be her first car ride – one of many. He’d take her in any of his cars – if they were in the countryside rather than the city, he’d show her how fast these automobiles can go. He’d impress her. They’d go one day, he imagined. They’d go all sorts of places together. He’d show her the world if she wished it.

She hummed out in agreement, pulling him from his daydream.

“It’s nice,” she complimented, shifting her seat.

A flood of rose-petal aroma consumed him. Her perfumed skin. She put so much care into this; into them. It was intoxicating. His eyes locked on the road, his fingers trembling lightly. He flexed his hand and gripped the leather of the wheel tighter.

“Thank you, darling.”

The car ride was a quick one. Ateez House was on the outskirts of the city but not too far away to be a long journey. Just far enough to be private amongst the trees and rolling hills. It looked more alive than it had ever been in all the years she lived in Cromer. While the estate was sprawling and the mansion itself large and imposing with a complicated layout, it always looked abandoned. But now, there were crystal windows gleaming with light, gardeners trimming bushes, and luxury cars pulling into a nearby car garage. People tended to the large fountain in the center of the roundabout driveway, despite the threatening rain that rumbled in the sky. The mansion’s greyness seemed to fade with the orange-light the windows poured into the evening.

It was a phantom resurrected; the flame of life was burning within the house once more.

Mingi cleared his throat. “Welcome to Ateez House, YN.”

Her eyes were locked on his home; winding over the overlapping rooftops, grazing the glowing windows to see if anyone was looking out at them. Two figures, dark silhouettes at most, stood on the upper floor, one short and the other tall.

Her head tilted in curiosity before they walked off.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him before going to open her door. “And thank you for the drive.”

There was a squeak of leather as he shifted closer suddenly. His arm outstretched over her, bracing over her chest. Her gasp was all the sound that filled the air between them. Her head turned and they were nearly nose-to-nose.

He was so close. The blood-orange of his cologne licked at her senses, mingling with the polished leather so refreshingly. He smelled intoxicating and sharp. His face was only inches away; the fabric of his long-coat brushed against her. His hand closed around the metal handle of the car door, gently nudging hers aside. He laughed out nervously. His eyes were wide and gentle. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he flashed the sweetest grin she had ever seen, all toothy and bright. It sparkled… wait, he had diamonds on his teeth. His canines were adorned with gems that gleamed in the setting sun.

“Let me,” he bumbled out. He opened the door from within, before pulling his arm back. His cheeks were painted a rosy color that only made his flustered appearance look more sweet.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a grin of her own.

She hoped he wasn’t too surprised by her own initial surprise. He was just trying to be a gentleman she realized. Bowing her head, she quickly ducked out of the car, closing the door behind her with care.

The only thought that filled his brain – besides the intoxicating smell of YN – was ‘damn you for winning, Yunho.’ After a long moment of breathing the remains of her deep into his lungs and watching her form walk towards his house, Mingi restarted the automobile with a rumble to guide it back to their private car garage. 

-

Everything reeked of extravagance. Tall walls with recess ceilings and wainscotting details. Gilded gold and glowing gas-lamps. Italian-Renaissance inspired tiles of saints, angels, and the Heavens were inlayed in the ceiling. The floor was patterned, a rich expensive textile making up the carpet.

There were butlers lining the walls of the foyer; all in matching midnight pin-striped suits. It was almost eerie. They were like statues, repeating over and over and over. Expressionless. Each face was stoney, eyes ahead. It reminded her of when the ballet troupe lined up in their matching leotards and were separated by height; row after row. Slicked back hair, delicate body lines, starving ribs. Identical and indistinguishable until they reached prima title.

None of them acknowledged her except for one, a rogue, that walked up and nodded at her politely.

“Welcome to the mansion, Miss YN. Please, come.” He outstretched his hand to encourage her further into the lavish space.

She curtsied, uncertainly. One of the many ghostly butlers took her coat as she walked down the foyer’s hall. Her kitten heels were soft against the carpet flooring until they rounded a corner. They click-clacked across marble flooring, polished ‘til she could see her reflection.

“Mr. Yeosang has requested a meal to be prepared at the West Wing. Please follow me.” The same butler spoke once more before he turned to lead the way.

Following after him, she was awed by the space. The very place that had been teased and taunted and ghost storied about was a gleaming jewel. As they walked, she realized how each hallway, each living space was opulent. The current path had walls that were painted an ice-cold baby-blue. Yet there were touches of warmth everywhere. Fine art in gold-leafed frames, elaborate trims around columns and the floor were the same shining gold. The art was all heavenly. Literally. Gods, angels, and disciples portrayed in blurred brush strokes, painted with colors that ached of softness. Everything was all gold, fluff, and magnificence.

The ceiling had multiple heavy hanging chandeliers of pure jewels. Diamonds dripped from its wire frame and sparkled in the gas-light. Everywhere was gaslit; she was surprised. No one had notice workers here and yet it was modern. Not a speck of dust or age present anywhere – besides the ancient art she supposed.

She slowed as she passed a large Renaissance-esque painting full of cherubs with feathered wings and glowing haloes. Squinting, she saw one figure wearing a ski mask. Huh? A cat meowed nearby. Her attention was caught, her head turning to the sound.  She stilled as she glanced down a nearby hall, one that seemed darker than the others. Doors lined each wall; all shut except for one at the end of that hall. It was opened just a crack, the siren call of a piano trickled out, and a little cat peered around its corner. The sweet cat was a midnight-black, almost blue-ish in tone; her tail twisted behind her as she meowed out again.

YN’s eyes lit up at the sight; the cat meowed again as it wiggled itself out of the doorway. Its paws and claws clinked against the tile, almost in rhythm with the piano music playing. Large green eyes peered up at her curiously as the cat approached; the collar around its throat was expensive – a leather thing with jewels, pearls, and a large silver bell that jingled out the closer it got.

She meowed at her again.

The piano stopped; the reverb humming out discordantly.

“Z?” a voice called out before a gentle melodic whistle chimed out.

The kitty’s attention was caught again, its ears perking up and meowing as if answering the call of its owner. It began to stroll back where it came from.

“Miss YN,” the butler’s monotonic called out.

Her head snapped towards him, answering his call immediately. She stood from the slight crouch she had taken for the kitten’s approach. Her butler stood some feet away, arms behind his back. She expected a disapproving look, but he provided none.

“Please follow me, Miss. We wouldn’t want you disappearing.”

That was almost worse! It sounded so ominous coming from his stone-faced mouth. She swallowed.

“Sorry,” she apologized before she quickened her pace to catch up to him.

“We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

They continued to walk down this hallway and that hallway. Someone could easily get lost here. It was like a grand castle. Finally, after crossing some carpeted stairs, they were in front of a grand hallway of windows. As they passed, she could see a dreary exterior. Rain had begun to pour, fogging the outside in grey. But she could distantly see a maze of hedges, rose bushes, apple trees, and all sorts of gardens awaiting. She awed at the sight as they continued down the carpeted hall to come to a set of dark oak doors.

“One moment, Miss,” the butler warned as he entered the room quickly.

“Boss, er, sir – “

The doors shut behind him before she could hear any more. She was left alone. YN glanced aside at the wall opposite of the windows. There were inlayed gas lamps, glowing a soft yellow. A portrait hung nearby, painted in a similar style as the painting she saw before.

It was of a young man, a handsome one at that. His inky-black hair was slicked back in shiny waves, a singular strand curled over his forehead daintily. He was in all white, soft silken tunic and oversized bowtie of virginal white. Despite the softness of his attire and of the atmosphere surrounding him (he was almost painted with his own divine halo as if he was an apostle), there was sharpness to his midnight-black eyes and the smirk of his mischievous smile. His ears were pierced up and down, pearls and fine metals looping them in sparkles. A twinkle was shining at the corner of his grin as if his teeth gleamed in the heavenly light around him. He was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel like his dark eyes were staring her down.

The tall doors opened behind her suddenly. YN turned to see the reveal of a dining hall as luxurious as the rest of the mansion. But the aroma that wafted from its interior was far more intoxicating.

“Enter, Miss YN.” The butler encouraged, beside the door.

He held them open for her as she took a stride inside. Her lips widening into a smile as she prepared to greet Yeosang at the head of the table. But this was no Yeosang she realized as she gazed down the long, lavish table to meet the dark gaze of a stranger.

With a calculated look, he stared at her from the head of a ten-chaired, decadent table of hot food. It was more than she had eaten in months even with San and Wooyoung: sizzling side dishes, steaks covered in thick luscious sauces, cracked fruits that had a sweet nectar gleaming on them, chocolate-oozing pastries. An open bottle of red wine rested in a frosted chest of ice; eight crystal glasses sat upside down. One glass of red wine sat in front of her spot; the other in the grasp of the man’s hand. The ruby liquid gleamed like blood. A sea of lit-candles decorated the spare space of the table; the chandelier above keeping the candles instead of trading them for their gas-lit counterpart. The orange glow illuminated the intimate room in a hazy feel. Smoke trailed out of his mouth in a long plume, perfuming the delicious air with the heady scent of tobacco.

“Hello.”

His voice was a soft drawl. His close-lip smile was the same. Soft, slow, and confident. His eyes were illuminated by the flickering candles, making the darkness there look like a night sky spattered with stars rather than with blood. He tapped his cigarette into a crystal ash tray with his long fingers. Rings after rings curled over his knuckles; some sharp and some with the emblem ‘A’ just like San and Wooyoung shared. He raised the cigarette back to his lips to take another drag into his lungs.

“YN.” The smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke her name tenderly.

She should’ve left then, knowing it was different from what she had agreed to. She should’ve asked him where Yeosang was immediately – and who was he? But she already knew, didn’t she? She had worried about this man since she read the newsprint that bore his name.

She shifted, fingers tugging at her skirt as she heard the heavy wood doors shut behind her. The butler that led her here disappearing, leaving her with him. Her fingers pressed into the door behind her, tentatively. It didn’t budge beneath her. In the shadows of the room, she saw there were men lining the wall. Like ghosts, they didn’t speak or move – they simply stood like gargoyles surrounding a castle. One broke the line to pull out her chair opposite of her dining companion. Her eyes flickered back to the man at the head of the table.

“Hello,” she said instead. “Yunho.”

It wasn’t a stutter, but there was a pause in her words. Yunho’s laughter was almost fond as he chuckled out a plume of smoke before she was urged forward with a flick of his hand. Ashes splattered across the white dining cloth, sizzling burns into the fabric. She sat down in the chair pulled out for her; the servant pushed her in towards the table with a screech of the wooden legs against the wood.

The silverware in front of her was polished, gleaming in the candle-light. A perfectly folded napkin rested on the center of her gold-lined plate. The initial ‘A’ in a circle was embroidered fancifully in shiny black thread on the pristine white fabric.

Her fingers flexed against the wood arm rests of her chair as she looked down the table, over candles, meats, cheese, and vegetables at the intimidating man. He was far away, but perhaps that was the safest option for her.

“I like you already,” he proclaimed, his words solid and confident. His smile simmered.

“Please,” Yunho gestured to the piles of food in front of them with a hand, swinging the cigarette and a trailing path of smoke about. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Her stomach felt tight with nerves, but even so it grumbled at the sight before her. Everything smelt so nice and rich and oily. Decadent. She licked her rosy lips, dragging her eyes up to look at him once more.

“Where’s Yeosang?” she asked finally.

He smiled, a peak of glimmering teeth shining in the candlelight. No, it wasn’t his teeth that shined – it was the inlayed diamonds on his canines that twinkled. Just like the driver. Just like the painting.

“He’ll join us,” Yunho reassured. “He’s running late from a previous engagement. I promise.”

Her gaze was doubtful. Why didn’t he just tell the driver to alert her? She could wait. She was used to waiting upon rich men.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I was curious of you.” He stated as he raised his cigarette to his mouth once more. As he breathed out, he gestured again at the food. “Please help yourself. Wooyoung told me some of your favorites.”

There were her favorites; steaming and hot. Some tartlets from their recent date sat on a pearlescent serving tray. Tempting. Her stomach grumbled. Watching him carefully, she reached out a fork to stab into a piece of meat and plating it.

“I’m just a ballerina,” she claimed, eyes flashing to look at him as she picked up her utensils to cut at the singular item on her plate.

Yunho’s lips quirked up on one side before he glanced aside at a man. He nodded towards her and she couldn’t help but jump as a suited butler approached. Yunho’s gaze took in the small tension that rippled through her.

The butler began to pile up her plate with this and that. Steaming vegetables, savory pastries, fluffy mashed potatoes scented with garlic, sticky soy-sauce braised meats, pasta with a rich cream sauce, seafood with clarified butter. It was more food than she could finish. The amount of food laid out was enough to feed eight men.

“You’ve entranced my brothers for being more than just a dancer,” Yunho commented. “I wanted to see what was so special about their swanette.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. She felt like a trapped bird in a zoo being observed. She tried to imagine the boudoir around her rather than the intimacy of a dining table.

“I’m a good dancer,” she told him boldly. They like bold, an older ballerina’s voice was in her ear once more.

Yunho smiled. “I heard. I apologize for never attending a performance.” He said.

“You’ve been… busy,” she said. But not too bold. Another ballerina warned.

It was a dig, and Yunho knew it. She knew it too with how wide her eyes became. And still, his lips curled into a smile, his eyes simmered.

“Its no wonder Wooyoung took to you,” he breathed.

He raised his glass of wine to his lips and took a long sip. At the mention of Wooyoung, he saw the way the muscles in her face flickered. Lightening. Interesting. Placing the glass down, he leaned forwards, hand resting under his chin as he stared at her, intrigued.

She was intriguing. She had four members of the family wrapped around her little finger and here she was in his sticky webs. Yunho ached to figure her out, dive deeper. The vein in his forehead bulged a bit with his intensity.

His eyes felt magnetic. She had cut up her slice of steak into tiny bites at this point, but all he had done was stare at her. He had not a lick of food on his own plate. It felt more like an interrogation than a meal at this point.

So, she stared back. Her eyes met his, swallowing down her fear. The twisted mangled amalgamation of fear, intrigue, and something else. She was safe, she chanted internally. Wooyoung promised. San promised. He hadn’t done anything to her…yet.

She took in his appearance. While his eyes were a hypnotizing thing, his entire face was like one of a siren’s. Handsome with chiseled features. Sharp cupid’s bowed lips, sharp brows, sharp clean lines of his suit. A pair of glasses were tucked into his pocket… he needed glasses just like her Sannie. Her eyes darted up the line of his throat. His hand rose to bring his cigarette back to his lips. He tilted his head, the midnight-black hair swaying over one eyebrow smartly.

How were all these men so handsome? The driver, her patrons, Yeosang, Yunho. All breathtaking compared to the oil-grubby handed rich men of Cromer. It made her soften just a smidge, guard walls lowering as he breathed out smoke once more. Lips pursing delicately. Cheeks soft, she noticed. It was quiet. The clinking of her utensils against her meal was the only sound in the hall.

“Do you like dancing?” she asked. Dancing was safe. Dancing was all she knew.

“Enough,” he said. “My brothers like it more than myself.”

Brothers he said again. It was strange. Wooyoung spoke of the others as friends, dear ones – explained that the shared last name was something pushed upon them. Yunho embraced it.

“Then, sports?” she countered. “Tennis perhaps?”

Yunho chuckled lowly, and it felt like a tiger’s rumble. “No,” he laughed. “Not particularly – though, I have good hand-eye coordination.”

Her mind flashed to the shooting the newspaper relayed – a fictionalized imagining in her head bloomed. Him and his gun aiming and firing with ease, just like that man in the alley way.

“Oh,” she breathed.

He wondered if she knew how blatant her face revealed things. Her fear, her thoughts, her soul. It was strange though. Yunho didn’t want her frightened.

“I play against Yeosang often,” he clarified.

“Oh,” she repeated, a different tone trickling into her exclamation. Her knife scraped against the plate’s china, screeching out suddenly like a soprano at an opera house. Her gaze turned to it, surprised.

Her meat was completely shredded now. Almost inedible with how much she had sawed into it over and over.

Yunho laughed again, the sound warm and full. “Darling,” he cooed out, soft. “Please relax and eat. I insist. Yeosang won’t mind.”

Yeosang. Of course, that’s why she was prolonging it. Her smile was bashful and Yunho’s eyes swallowed it up just like she bit into a piece of her meal finally.

“Will you not eat?” she asked.

Innocent, sweet. Yunho’s eyes simmered as he reached out to grasp a fruit from an intricately weaved wired basket. He bit into a red apple, sharp and vicious. Juice dripped over his fingers, down his chin. He raised a black napkin to the corner of his lips wiping it away. His eye contact never ceased. Did he just wink?

“How long have you lived in Cromer?” he asked.

“My entire life,” she admitted.

He hummed out. “And the ballet almost as long I suppose?”

“Ballerinas are taught young,” she said.

“The best way to shape someone.” He snubbed his cigarette out in his ash tray.

“I suppose,” she admitted. “But I love dancing. Truly.”

It was spoken sincerely, passionately. He nodded. “It’s been mentioned. They say one can tell by just the way you breath. You are full of it.”

“D-dancing?” she queried.

“Love.” he countered. “Passion.”

Her eyes blinked owlishly. “Oh.”

“Do you love them?” he asked directly. His head tilted curiously.

The topic had shifted in tone dramatically suddenly. Her heart raced to its hummingbird speed once more. Her face blushed. Yunho drank it all in like the wine in his glass.

There was a clambering down the hall way, muffled by the oak doors. Her gaze broken from his, and she looked over her shoulder at the doorway.

“Here he comes now,” Yunho whispered.

As predicted, Yeosang came busting through the doors. His hair askew, his eyes burning with the cruel fury she had only seen on the court. His elegant clothes looked rumpled; the softness of his sweater that cut into a deep v revealed more skin that she had seen of the sportsman yet. A rose was pinned on his chest, gentlemanly, and yet somehow tempting her to stare at his chiseled chest more. A decorative scarf wrapped around his throat, disheveled.

He glared at Yunho with such contempt before it was washed away at the sight of her. He glanced her up and down, quickly as if his lingering gaze would be scolded. Appropriately for such an inappropriate action. His lips parted gently; his rounded face soft with a gentle blush.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he immediately apologized, head bowing.

The long strands of russet-brown hair that framed his face swooped over his cheeks. His hand rose to tuck one strand back. “I was caught up with something unexpectedly.”

With little show, she stood, discarding her utensils to greet him. Her smile was soft, reassuring, genuine. She ducked her own head to catch his gaze – he was still glaring through his lashes at the man at the head of the table she noticed. But when he saw her own face come into view he straightened sweetly, awkwardly. But in such a charming way somehow. Yeosang was so charming even in his anger and discomfort. She didn’t want him to be in discomfort.

“Its alright,” she reassured him.

“We’ve just been chatting,” Yunho chimed from the end of the table. Unhelpfully.

Yeosang adjusted his leather gloves nervously, tugging them off finger by finger.

“I see that.” Yeosang rumbled.

His eyes settled back on her like she was his seas’ moon.

“You look lovely, YN,” he complimented. Her smile lit up the room, he swore.

He licked his lips, deep voice humming out as he looked over the table.

“I-I,” he gestured to the table, the meal he had ordered the chef to prepare, “I have those tarts you liked at the café on Riverfield Street.”

She smiled at him; he was so cute.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “And I saw. They look perfect.”

He breathed out a little, fixing his clothes once he tucked his gloves into his back pocket.

“It’s been perfect,” she tried to reassure him, sensing his anxieties. His blooming nerves. Her hand reached out to squeeze his.

He jolted at her touch, just enough for her to catch it. His ears were red. Yunho’s grin was wide, sparkling.

“Thank you for the invite.”

“Of course, I wanted –” he glanced at Yunho’s leering gaze. “I wanted to get to know you better, sweetheart.”

“And we shall,” Yunho agreed. “Sit, Sangie. Let’s eat.”

A butler appeared to pull out a seat for him. It wasn’t near either of them, in fact. It was the third seat to the left side of the table. Yeosang glanced at the butler silently before pulling out the chair directly beside YN and seating himself.

He was served a selection of the meal, silently. She went to break the silence.

“How are you?” The headline still brandished itself in her mind. His words about paparazzi left a lasting impact.

Yeosang huffed out. “Well,” he replied. “News articles come and go. I’ll remain on top of my game regardless.”

Yunho nodded steadfastly from across the table. “It’ll be nothing by the next game.”

Yeosang offered her a smile. “Thank you for worrying about me. I’ve survived worse.”

She nodded solemnly. “I don’t like it still.” Yunho watched the interaction carefully. His brow quirked.

“How are you liking Cromer?” she asked. She was used to asking men how they enjoyed the show… but that wasn’t an option here when the room lulled into silence.

“It’s different. But I’ve seen places as beautiful as Aurora, as desolate as the Strictlands, and as rural as Paradise. Cromer reminds me of Aurora in a different way.” Yeosang explained. “It feels homely.”

She smiled. “Ateez House is yours, correct?”

“Its in the family,” Yeosang replied.

“What do you think of it?” Yunho queried.

“Its very nice,” she politely said.

Yeosang tilted his head fondly at her. “Meaning?”

Her brows crinkled in surprise. “Its—nice?” she repeated.

“Shall I remind you what San encourages you to do, sweetheart?”

To be honest. How did he know about that? Her neck and ears became a soft pink in the candlelight. Swallowing, she glanced to the side.

“It is genuinely nice – its just… this house has been called haunted my whole life,” she told them. “There are ghost stories linked to this mansion. It’s strange being here and seeing that it is, in fact, not rotting or some supernatural force of nature.”

Yeosang chuckled out, smiling sweet.

“There are stories?” he leaned in. “Do tell!”

“I love a good gruesome story,” Yunho commented.

But for some reason, the way the words lilted in his tone didn’t make her flinch like before… in fact, was he teasing her? Her eyes flickered from Yeosang’s open form to Yunho. His cheek rested on his hand; elbow pressed into the table as he eyed her with Yeosang.

He smirked at her as they met one another’s eyes. He nodded, urging her. And so, YN went into the ghost story she had been told as a little girl, sitting among the tutu’ed training ballerinas while her mother did alterations on the prima’s show-stopping costume.

“The story goes that this house was home to a Captain,” she started, twirling pasta about her fork as she spoke.

Yunho and Yeosang’s eyes locked.

“The Captain was no ordinary captain; he was the fiercest pirate king of all. With his crew, the Black Pirates, they terrorized the seas and reaped countless treasures. When he grew old and hoarding like a dragon, he docked at Cromer under a false name. Ateez House was built upon blood-soaked jewels and coins; they say the pirate captain passed in his vault, hidden deep in the mansion’s basements. His bones are still there, unrested. His ghost terrorizes the house and refuses to let any soul except his pirates’ prowl.” She dramatically told.

Her fingers wiggled sensationally. “Or that the treasure was haunted by those they robbed and killed mercilessly. Their ghosts remain and haunt these halls.” She shrugged her hands landing back in her lap. “The story changes every so often.”

“What a story,” Yunho breathed. “Do you believe it?”

“It’s just a story. Maybe there are some real parts but… ghosts aren’t real. I’m not that silly of a girl.”

“You aren’t,” Yeosang commented immediately.

“But everyone in town knows it, so it sticks,” she told them, reaching out for the glass of wine in front of her and taking a sip.

“Cromer loves its gossip.” Yeosang commented.

“They’re stuck in their ways,” Yunho added.

“What do you think of Cromer?” she redirected to Yunho.

He took a small breath in. His previous grimace faded and his brow crinkled as he looked at her thoughtfully. His lips pressed together before replying.

“At first,” Yunho said, tilting his chin. “I did not like it… but now…”

His gaze felt hot, ever present. There wasn’t a barrier of modesty she often felt with other men. Yeosang’s was intense. San’s was careful, observant. Wooyoung’s eager and challenging. Yunho’s was steadfast. Confident. Even the men in the boudoir knew there were limits. They had their wives. They had their image with the other men within the boudoir itself. Here she felt both hunted and examined. Admired but equal. He was looking at her soul.

“Now, I like it.” Yunho purred. “Very much, darling.”

He placed his silverware down with a clink. He leaned forwards, hands pressing into the table.

“There’s more to you that meets the eye,” Yunho commented. “I see that, so now I will let you speak your mind, truthfully.”

Her heart nearly stopped. Was he going to ask her about her love again? In front of Yeosang?! Her eyes remained on him steadily. Her ears burned.

“You’re frightened of me, yes?” he said.

It was strange to feel relief at the confirmation of something so horrible. Because she was still nervous around him, for his boldness frightened her just as much as his previous actions. Yeosang’s eyes shifted to her, widening as he watched her nod.

“Sweetheart,” he reached out for her hand, petting her phalanges but not grabbing it. He simply wished to reassure her. Just as she had done for him earlier.

“San and Wooyoung said I didn’t have to be,” she replied. She licked her lips.

“Ask me what you want to know.” He stretched back into his chair, neck flexing as he met her gaze.

“Is it true? Should I be frightened?”

“That’s not it,” he laughed a bit, lip curling almost scornfully, scoldingly. He raised a brow, head tilting as if weighing his options. “But no, you don’t need to be frightened. Ask another.”

“I don’t have another question.” She countered, only to state simply and firmly. “You shot a man.”

And he smiled. “I did.” Yunho confirmed.

“On purpose?” she asked.

“Yes, darling.”

Her blood felt cold. She hadn’t met someone like him and it sent her stomach into a cramping mess. Yeosang did take her hand now. Interlacing his fingers softly. He glanced over at his elder as he rose from his chair. Oh, Yunho was tall. Very tall, in fact. With them sitting, he looked giant. His heels thudded against the floor.

“Why?” she asked. Yeosang felt her hand tighten in his grasp.

“He tried to fool me, steal from me,” Yunho stated, walking towards them. “Lied to me. I don’t like being played.”

There wasn’t a moment for the words to sink in for YN. Instead, like a game of tennis, she shot back.

“So, you shot him? Just like that?”

“For your information, yes.”  

“That’s frightening.”

“Yes.” Yunho was beside Yeosang now.

“But!” Yeosang was the next to interrupt. “If you must know… Yunho isn’t some cruel man, sweetheart. It was done in self-defense.”

“Self-defense?” she asked doubtfully. Wooyoung and San said so themselves as well.

The air that Yunho carried seemed to be more than that. He wasn’t exactly proud, but he was at peace with what he did. Yunho’s face pulled into a tight thing as he rested a hand on Yeosang’s shoulder. They both looked at her inquiringly.

“He pulled a blade on Yunho,” Yeosang interjected. His gaze flashed to her. “He has the scars to prove it.”

They had an answer to everything. It was self-defense. Not a thing of violence. Of necessity.

She stared at them

“It wasn’t… he struck first?” she repeated slowly.

They glanced at one another before smiling at her with dual grins. Yunho tapped his fingers on Yeosang’s shoulder before he pulled back. A hand went to his chest, gentlemanly and earnest in nature.

“Yes.” He ensured.

Her eyes flickered to Yeosang. He had been a sensible figure – likeable, nothing formidable. If he trusted him, if her Wooyoung and San did. Yunho spoke with such authority. He valued truth just like San did.

Her defensiveness, something she didn’t even see in her body language, softened. Yunho’s sigh was one of understanding as he walked back to his seat, stealing a glance at her. He smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the cande light.

“YN.” He spoke her name luxuriously. “If there is one thing you should know about me. I don’t do mess.”

He plucked a dessert from his plate, biting into the chocolate with slowness. Calculated. He kept her gaze. It sent a thrill through her; he sent a thrill through her. Swallowing together, the corner of his lip curled. He raised a napkin to his lips, gentlemanly.

He was a gentleman, straightforward and powerful. He had to be telling the truth.

“I’m not a messy man, darling-doll.”

The dinner didn’t last much longer. Yeosang encouraged conversation; Yunho threw in some topics, mostly of things she had mentioned to San and Wooyoung. It struck her then that they shared many stories about her. They must’ve talked about her a lot. It made her cheeks flush as red as the chocolate strawberries Yunho ate.

Their eyes were hot on her; it felt like they were captivated and it made her heart race. Like she was on the stage.

She liked it.

Surprisingly, her two patrons made an appearance at the end of the meal. Wooyoung, of course, was the one to pop his head into the grand dining room.

“Swanette!” he beamed at the sight of her.

Yunho took in how her shoulders softened and her chest heaved at the sight of Wooyoung, at his voice. He smiled, softer and truer than any other smile he shared tonight so far.

Wooyoung was dressed the most casual she had ever seen him. A fashionable patterned white-and-black button-up shirt was barely buttoned, revealing a black ribbed tank-top beneath it. His hair was pushed back casually and messy; a rolled cigarette was behind his ear. His slacks were a deep black, loose and flowy rather than a structured fabric.

“Woo,” she barely got out, her mouth dropping at the sight of him.

He smirked, arms slinking over the chair and over her shoulders.

“Hello hyungs,” he greeted the others, barely glancing at them before ducking his head and pressing a less-than-decent kiss to her mouth. Smothering and all consuming. She squeaked into it. A ringed hand rose to cup her guide her head in the kiss, icy cold against her flushed red cheek.

Yeosang and Yunho chuckled out. The sound was a mixture of fondness and annoyance. Yunho’s brow twitched. Yeosang’s hand held hers tighter… he hadn’t let go, of course. But YN hadn’t noticed the entire dinner and dessert. ‘Til now. Her fingers flexed in his as Wooyoung swiped his tongue across the seam of her lips.

“Alright,” San scolded Wooyoung, his hand going to the back of the shorter’s neck. He nearly pried him off her. “Wooyoung!”

“I missed her,” Wooyoung said simply, flushed face and breathless.

His hot breath fanned over her rosy face; his lips were spicy and left hers burning. Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he stole another kiss from her lips. San pulled him back again with a harsher hand.

It was then she got a glance of her other patron. San had freshly washed hair, the locks combed out and dripping over his forehead. He wore a similar tank top to Wooyoung, but in a white shade. Shockingly, he had a pair of workman’s light-washed blue jeans hugging his thighs. Thick thighs, muscular shoulders, tawny honey skin. It was tantalizing, tempting. But when she looked over his face, her mouth dropped in surprise. A bruise kissed at the corner of his lips; his sweet smile tarnished with a purple-red watercolor splotch.   

She couldn’t help stand immediately, half in the clutches of Wooyoung. Her hand rose to cup San’s cheek.

“Honey!” he exclaimed out in surprise.

He didn’t shift away, actually bending at the knee for her height, but San was certainly surprised. He had taken the lead between them often. YN rarely made the first move with either of her patrons. But what he had mistaken for sexual tension only led to pain. He was shocked when her thumb’s brush against his lips made pain radiate up his face.

“Ow,” he whimpered, frowning. His brow furrowed.

Yeosang laughed nearby. “He forgot he’s hurt,” the athlete commented.

“It’s been a while,” Yunho added, finishing his drink as he watched the interaction play out.

San’s lips pressed together, blinking rapidly before taking in the concern look on her face.

“Oh, honey, I’m okay,” San tried to reassure. His hand rose to cup her hand that was pressed to his jaw, thumb brushing over it soothingly. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“You just said ow, you liar,” she scolded him, brows furrowing. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine,” he swore, tilting his head to press a kiss that stung his mouth to her palm. “Promise.”

“This town is getting more and more dangerous,” she breathed out.

Her thumb brushed over his cheek softly. His pretty face marred. Without his glasses on, she could see how his eyes sparkled in the chandelier’s candlelight. Soft and starry, as if she hung the world.

“You are an angel,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I’ll live.”

“Wooyoung, will you tell me what happened?” she prompted, not moving. Wooyoung pressed to her side made a humming sound.

“The streets are rough around here,” he said. “Someone really ought to fix that.”

Yunho huffed from across the long table.

San smiled at her again, eyes falling into half-moons. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips stung to do so, but she was worth it. “Thank you for worrying.” He told her. His stomach did somersaults at the thought of her jumping to his aid.

“Shall we walk you out, swanette?” Wooyoung directed instead, head tucking over her shoulder to look at the table. “Yunho has a meeting to attend unfortunately.”

Yunho hissed in through his sparkling diamond-inlayed teeth. “Does the—”

San nodded.

He breathed in through his nose before offering YN a simmering smile. Full of warmth. “It was lovely meeting you, Miss YN. I hope to see you very soon.” He bowed politely before with long-legged strides left the room. Wooyoung winked at him as he passed.

“I’ll join you,” Yeosang offered YN. “You must come visit again soon – in the spring, the gardens are beautiful. We could have tea or -”

“Yeosang likes to take long strolls through the gardens – even if it’s raining,” Wooyoung revealed, finally peeling himself off her back to look at the selection of food laid out. He plucked a grape from a platter.

“You gossip like the upper-class now,” Yeosang commented, raising a brow.

Wooyoung laughed brightly at his friend before popping the fruit into his mouth. “Eh, they rub off on you – I had to keep up with you, Sangie.”

Hmm, it was an interesting interaction. Playful but also… strange. She knew their pasts implied they hadn’t always been wealthy… Yeosang had been a protégé tennis player at a young age but how did he meet Wooyoung? Was it all because of Hongjoong?

San’s hands squeezed her waist. When had both of his hands shifted there? “You sleepy, honey?” he asked.

“Too filling of a meal,” Yeosang complained as he rose to his feet.

As if the food was her reason to getting lost in her head.

“It was perfect,” she countered, taking a step back. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“Thank you for gracing us,” Yeosang replied, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A picture of a gentleman. But he was quick to wrap her arm up into his, pulling her into his side now. Surprisingly daring for the Yeosang she knew.

“Shall we?”

Their exit seemed to take forever just as before. Yeosang lead her down hallway after hallway after hallway. It almost felt like they were navigating a maze. San and Wooyoung framed the two in; Wooyoung on her side and San on Yeosang’s.

“How was Yunho?” San prompted, tentatively. “He didn’t scare you?”

“Did he frighten you – when you were alone with him?” Yeosang repeated, arm tightening around her.

“No, no, he wasn’t frightening,” she reassured them. “He was a surprise certainly.”

“Ah, Yunho was sneaky. He doesn’t like the opera, so he found his own way to meet you,” Yeosang sighed. “I feel like he caused the trouble for me on purpose, so I’d run late. You’re popular around here, sweetheart.” He squeezed her arm teasingly.

“Who else here?” she chuckled. Seonghwa? Hongjoong? She hadnt yet to see either of them – like they were ghosts.

“You’d be surprised,” Yeosang commented before leaning in and admitting. “I quite like you, too.”

He made her cheeks burn red, and Wooyoung giggled.

“She likes you too, Sangie,” he crowed out, fingers reaching to tickle her waist. “I’ve seen her blush over San, over you… Do you like Yunho as well?” Wooyoung queried, his words becoming less and less playful. They were almost inquisitive, as if testing the waters instead.

There was a crack as he lit a match across a gold-leafed frame. He placed the cigarette that was behind his ear to his lips and lit it.

“I did,” YN told him, honestly, as they continued through the foyer. Wooyoung chuckled out, smoke puffing out in front of his face in surprise. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so fast.

“Not like that,” she interrupt his giggles, face burning. “I just—”

Looking down another hall they, she made out Yunho’s form, tall and slim walking down the hall with purpose. His back to her as they turned into the foyer finally.

“He was kind. Even if he was a bit intimidating… he wasn’t cruel or harsh. Just… confident.”

Yeosang smiled close-lipped. Wooyoung blew out his smoke to the side, the plume passing over the butlers’ faces. Not one flinched or coughed.

The smell of expensive tabacoo wafted over her face warmly as Wooyoung walked in front of them to push open the large heavy doors of the mansion.

“So he wasn’t so scary after all?” he teased. “Wait ‘til you meet Hongjoong and Hwa-hyung. They’re properly-”

“Wooyoung, don’t tease her,” Yeosang defended.

The younger raised one of his hands in defense as he held open the door for them. “I’m just saying – she got pass the guard dog.”

“She hasn’t met Jongho yet,” Yeosang giggled lightly. “He’s truly got a bad case of looking gruffer than he is. He’s our baby.”

Jongho. She had only heard that name once, and it was that night. Her ears rang.

“Jongho?” she queried softly.  

He had been at the opera! He was one of their ‘brothers’.

“Or Mingi--Ah, here he is now,” San commented, smiling over at the man standing in front of the green-painted car.

“Hello,” the driver greeted, voice as deep as earlier. His eyes flickered to her arm in Yeosang’s.

Wooyoung smirked at him. “Mingi, I didn’t know you were driving today,” he said.

“I thought you and San were doing business today.”

“It was a fast deal.”

Mingi looked unamused, his siren-eyes looking him and San up and down. “Uh huh.

“You know a Jongho?” she turned to Yeosang as they spoke.

“Jongho is the youngest of us. You’ll meet him soon, sweetheart,” he reassured, squeezing her arm. “He’s busy too often. I think they overwork him; he’s just a boy.”

“He’s only a year younger than us,” Wooyoung commented with a pout.

“He’s a baby,” San agreed offhandedly.

“I think I—"

“Is she going the hell home or not?” Mingi bit out. Before looking bashfully at her. “Sorry, doll,” he apologized for his gruffness. “I’m not used to a dame being around.”

“Its okay,” she mumbled out. Her mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out why Jongho was at the opera… without his supposed family knowing.

Mingi pouted at that. “No, its not.” He admitted. “Don’t take disrespect.”

Her distracted gaze rose and nodded softly, not really processing his words.

Wooyoung tsked out. “Here he goes about respect,” he sighed out. “Hurry up, swanette, or else we will be here for hours.”

There was a rumble of chuckles in the group. Yeosang squeezed her arm once more before pressing close to her ear, cheek to cheek. A whispered “next time it’ll be just you and I, hm?” was hushed into her ear before he unwound himself from her and allowed the others to hover about. “I’ll see you next time, Miss YN.”

San pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. “And again, I promise you, I’m fine.” He pressed another kiss to her hairline before guiding her into Wooyoung’s arms.

He was warm and smelt of smoke. His grin was playful, wolfish as he leaned down and stole her lips into a kiss. He was getting bolder and bolder. His kiss was hot, a lick of his tongue into her mouth this time. She squeaked and he chuckled deeply.

“Mmm,” he moaned as he pulled away just a fraction. Wooyoung smiled as if he was innocent but his teases were devilishly. “Perhaps I should call you little mouse instead of swanette.”

She pushed at his chest, playfully. Wooyoung tugged her closer, grinning. Her face was akin to a rose.

“Let her go, Wooyoung,” Mingi said from the side. His face was sharp as he glared at the other. He didn’t appreciate the teasing. “She must be tired.”

Wooyoung heaved a sigh as if this was the hardest thing to do. He pouted at her before stealing a kiss, pressing a peck to her nose. “Fine,” he relented, unwinding her from his spider web embrace.

“See you soon, pretty. Mingi will make sure you get home safely.”

Mingi nodded steadfast before he offered her his hand.

“Shall we, baby-doll?”

-

Next time, when she woke, it was to a cat’s sandpaper-esque tongue licking her cheek. Little tiny licks with the familiar nuzzle of her wet nose, Z investigated her like any other day. The little more-blue-grey-than-black cat sniffed at her, the talkative pet meowing loudly. Her green eyes blinked slowly at her before she nudged her cheek with her forehead once more.

Her body didn’t burn. It didn’t ache. It didn’t feel like anything. Whatever drugs she was on, they were good. She blinked at the kitten, slow to do anything once more.

She was still in Yeosang’s room. The smell of him was all around her, Jongho’s familiar gardenia aroma mingling in the sheets. YN tried to move. Pushing herself upwards was easier than before but the slightest shift in her legs reminded her of the heavy casts that wrapped her ankles. The pain nothing like before but there was still the zing up her knees that made her pause. Her breath caught as she stared at her limbs before her.

Her reality. Bedbound, grounded. It was a depressing thought. Even more depressing when she realized she wasn’t sure what day it was nor what hour. How many shows had she missed? Did her mother know she wasn’t well? Was she just the same as those folk written about in the papers? Missing and forgotten.

She let out a shuddering breath as she laid back into the fluffy luxurious pillows, contemplating what to do. Should she cry out for them? Hongjoong was the last face she remembered but she didn’t want to see him. Or Seonghwa. Or any of them. Really. Anger burned her throat like the nearby fire place. Z’s whiskers dusted over her arm, nudging at her for attention as she let out another inquisitive meow.

“Leave me alone, Z,” she mumbled into her pillow. The little tongue peaked out to lick her again. “Stop, Z; go away.”

Her tone was raising with her rising grief. That was the only way to describe what she was feeling grief – a mixture of hoping, pleading, that everything had been a dream only to be reawaken to reality. Anger and sorrow clashed like cymbals in her head.

The cat nuzzled her again, and she snapped this time.

“Z, go!” Her hands shifted the quilts aside in a huff, making the little cat hop away, back arched.

“Z, come here,” a voice, melodic as it was masculine, called. The doorway creaked open, the gaslight in the hallway illuminated his figure, bulky in the best way. “Love isn’t in the mood to play.”

She frowned over at him, even if Z hopped off the bed and went towards Jongho eagerly. Her little body pressed against his leg as she passed him, purring softly. He smiled after his kitten before his gaze settled back on his love bed ridden.

“Hi love,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” she told him.

“But not in pain,” he smiled.

The youngest crawled up onto the bed, sheets rustling and ruffling as he settled beside her. Jongho wasn’t one to be silenced by a glare or dirty look. He was made for this world – his hyungs’ beloved aegi was used to getting what he wanted. And she was his baby. His love. He wanted her.

She turned her rageful eyes his way. He simply smiled just like the others. “I know,” he hummed. “I tried to warn you.”

He had. He cried to her last night… or a few nights ago? Her anger was quenched by those tears now. Her eyes softened just a smidge, and Jongho took a mile. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss. His arms wrapped around her ‘til she was caught in his embrace, warm and coddled.

He indulged in the way she didn’t pull away or yell. He had heard her shouts at Yeosang’s attempts at affection.

“What happened? I remember waking up in pain – why?” she murmured into his chest. Trying to gather information from when she was asleep.

Even now, she felt safe in his embrace. It caused a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

He heaved out, her head rising and falling with his chest. “You had an infection – the doctor said it was possible dirt from that alley way. It entered your injury for too long. He fixed it.”

“Is he alive?” she mumbled.

“By Yunho’s grace.”

She felt the ebbing and flowing rage, the despair rush over her again. Almost as if sensing it, Jongho shifted, his chin tilting into his chest to look down at her. He moved to tilt her own chin to meet his gaze. Fiery passion burned there. He liked it better when her passion burned for her dancing… but he supposed it had to go somewhere while she was incapable.

“It’s the way things are,” he told her. “Stop fighting it.”

Stop fighting and give in. Look what fighting did. Just let them control her…

YN scoffed. “I’m not some doll,” she bit back. “Or some—"She wriggled like a worm on a hook. Jongho’s eyes ached, and he reached for her hands. He cupped them in his. His bloodstained ones. How many time had he scrubbed away ichor? Dug it from under his nails? Her hands were dainty.

“It’ll never touch your hands,” he interrupted earnestly. “You’ll never bear it. Our work. Our lifestyles. If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m bearing it now,” she whispered to him, voice breaking. “I’m afraid of you.”

He frowned, his face firm and thoughtful. He was always thinking her Jongho. He never stopped. His thumbs brushed over her palms, his forehead pressing to hers intimately.

“You tried to leave,” he said. “I didn’t want this. None of us did. If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You understand what that means – I’m just something you control like your butlers and your members and your-.”

“No.” Jongho interrupted soft and earnestly.

“You are no pawn, my love. You are our priority… our treasure. Always.”

[sebastianswallows]

The Little Death — 14. The mental and physical settings

— PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Bene Gesserit!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: A Bene Gesserit gets left behind in the Arrakeen palace. When Feyd becomes the Planetary Governor, he finds her there in hiding. The Harkonnens don't traditionally keep them as truthsayers or concubines like other Houses do, but Feyd might have a use for her. After all, he's never had a Bene Gesserit of his own before.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2k

— A/N: I'm back again! This chapter immediately follows the previous one, and a plot is forming in this lady's head. She just needs to convince Feyd to play along 😅 Enjoy reading, my dears! 💗

— TAGLIST: @elf-punk @lowlyloved @pomtherine @slytherins-heir @babyofneptune @localravenclaw @missbingu @wo-ming-bai @torossosebs @mrsjobarnes

What social inheritances went outward with the Scattering? We know those times intimately. We know both the mental and physical settings. The Lost Ones took with them a consciousness confined mostly to manpower and hardware. There was a desperate need for room to expand driven by the myth of Freedom. — The Scattering: Bene Gesserit Analysis

She found Feyd by following the troops. He was in the command room, pacing along a shivering holo-map. The mentats, relieved of their posts, were muttering among themselves in sparse syllables in the back of the room. They turned quiet when she entered.

“You,” said Feyd, calling her to him with a curl of his pale finger. “Come here.”

“Yes, my lord na-Baron?”

“You remember that advice you gave me once?”

She did… She suggested he pull back the attacks, just enough to bait the Fremen into exposing themselves. “Yes,” she answered as she stopped beside him, her hands folded at her lap.

“I don’t suppose you have a follow-up plan in the event that it worked?”

“I’m glad to hear my words bore fruit.”

“Don’t try to be funny,” he grumbled.

“I’m not.”

“We’re about to send in an echelon of 60 units but the scouts we sent ahead never returned.”

“Then it might be a bad idea to send in the echelon.”

“But we can’t just leave them there,” said Feyd, pacing up and down the length of the long holo-map.

She stepped softly behind him, watching the way his shoulders tensed beneath the pauldrons, the trembling in his spine, his restless legs.

“They would’ve gone in knowing the risk. If they’re lost, they —”

“I mean the Fremen,” he growled. “We can’t let them think they can crawl across Arrakis whenever they please, not anymore.”

Her instinct was to advise against it. It was not in Feyd’s interest to conquer Arrakis, not really. He was just trying to please his uncle, she realised, which was why he was so tense, so scared even with an army all around him. But there was no use trying to explain that to him. It would be too blunt, too clumsy, and have the opposite effect. Feyd, in spite of what he claimed, desired a gentler hand.

“Why not post new scouts?” she offered, walking to his side. “Feign retreat and follow these rogue Fremen. See where they come from, where they hide. Then, you might eliminate the lot.”

“They live in colonies, like vermin,” said Feyd, shaking his head. “They could slip through underground tunnels to fuck knows where.”

She cast her eyes over the map, its surface bending in thin threads of light. Behind her, she could feel the stares of the Harkonnens, all of them suspicious of a ‘witch’ and unhappy to see her at their na-Baron’s side, but too scared to speak.

“I still think it would be pointless to strike at them impulsively,” she said. “If you never know how many occupy the planet, how can you plan for further attacks? How can you calculate the cost of the reserves and equipment you’ll need? How can you forecast economic costs or surplus? Even your mentats could tell you how futile it is to engage in large-scale combat in these circumstances.”

“Which is why I’m not asking a mentat,” he hissed, cold eyes sliding to her.

She chewed on her lower lip as she thought. “You say they are like vermin… They do behave more like the Arrakis wildlife... But they have the reasoning abilities of any conscious being. They are trying to wait you out, encircle you, pick away at you, and use what they have available to them — which is the environment, and specialised information… You must cut off at least one.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the table. “Any other advice you can offer? Try something a little more vague this time.”

She treated him with a cold look yet couldn’t help but smile. He was endearing when he was acting like a bratty little boy.

“You could make the environment less recognisable to them. Cut off their usual pathways, destroy, construct, expand. Or… you could find out the information they keep from you, such as what their true numbers are, where they hide, how they use spice, how they use worms, what technology —”

“They’re savages, they don’t have technology.”

“Everyone has technology. Especially people who can survive in a place like this.”

She could tell Feyd wanted to say something sarcastic again, but instead, he turned his gaze upon the map and thought about what she said.

“Sir?” mumbled one of the men behind him, a commander by his uniform. “What should we tell the troops?”

“Send more scouts,” said Feyd at last, turning away from the map and putting distance between them with long strides. “Would be stupid to risk our numbers blindly.”

“Yes, sir.”

She followed him quietly out of the room and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. He’d actually listened to her… Perhaps saving herself from that cursed planet wasn’t so unlikely after all, and she might even save him too.

“Do you want to have dinner together?” she asked, falling in step with him.

“You’re not protecting them, are you?”

“Who?”

“The Fremen.”

“No,” she frowned. “Why would I protect them?”

He didn’t answer, but his silence spoke. He was conscious of the difference between them — not only that between a Harkonnen and a Bene Gesserit, but that between a Harkonnen and anyone else. They were a House isolated by their culture, their toxic planet, even by their appearance… And so he naturally saw her as having more in common with the natives of Arrakis than with him.

“The sooner you defeat the Fremen, the sooner things normalise,” she quietly said. “But you can’t defeat them with brutal methods. Their whole culture was shaped by brutality.”

Feyd didn’t look at her as they walked together, swift and remote. “So you want things to relax enough that you can finally escape, is that it?”

She grew cold at his implication. Had she not indulged his every mood? Had she not forgiven him his aggressions, violations, absorbed them within herself to let them bloom? He was being an ungrateful boy — but he was not completely wrong.

“I know I can’t escape,” she said, somewhat resentfully. “No Guild transporter is going to come down here just for me, and I mean nothing to the Sisterhood. Nobody is coming to save me. But…”

“Yes?” he said, turning to look at her as they reached the dining room.

“But don’t you too want to escape from here?”

He scoffed. “I can’t escape. I rule this planet.”

“And, you don’t want to escape?”

He evaded her gaze and walked into the room, closing the wide doors behind them. The stomping of the troops became a distant echo. He kept her at a distance as he went to sit down and angrily rang the bell that called the servants in. She sat opposite him while they filled the table with small dishes carrying elegant meals, and poured the both of them tall glasses of water — enough for an Arrakeen family to live off of for a month. Feyd watched on with pale furrowed brows, and she watched him. She knew her words had woken something in him.

As soon as the servants were gone, she rested her wrists on the edge of the table and leaned forward.

“What did it mean to you, when I asked you that?”

“What?”

“When I asked if you wanted to escape.”

“It sounded like treason,” said Feyd, gazing from beneath his lashes as he cut into his food.

“It’s only a question.”

“It’s a suggestion. I’m not stupid.”

“It’s not a suggestion,” she said, leaning back and nearly slouching. “I can’t do anything on this planet without you.”

“Ah,” he chuckled. “So is that why you want to escape? You don’t want to be mine anymore?”

“If that were so, why would I ‘suggest’ that you escape, too?” she countered with a smirk.

Feyd frowned at her again but kept on eating. He twirled his fork around a spread of moss, oily and black with stars of golden spice shining on its surface, and dragged it through a verdant sauce of pickled seaweed. He ate delicately, reminding her of how different he was from his uncle.

“If you were so upset with me because of it, you’d have killed me already,” she muttered, finally turning to her plate.

“Maybe I want to enjoy you one last time.”

She sighed. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me. You’re the one who wanted to know what I was thinking.”

“And this is it?” he asked, looking at her again. “You’ve been thinking of running away?”

It was tempting to say yes and be done with it, to bear the brunt of his anger, which was already bubbling to the surface. But she remained in her relaxed pose and brought a small morsel of food from her plate to her lips and let the fork linger between them.

“If I did, would you chase me?” she asked somewhat playfully.

And just as she expected, a flame flickered in Feyd’s eyes. Because he was a bratty little boy, and he liked playing, and he resented having to manage Arrakis when instead he could enjoy himself… The prestige in the eyes of his uncle mattered less and less to him each day, and no amount of tall glasses of water, however luxurious on that planet, were enough for him when there was a whole universe out there.

“Flirting won’t save you,” he managed to say.

“Are you suggesting I need to be saved?”

“I am.”

“From what?”

“From me.”

She smiled at him as she twirled her fork across her plate. “I would’ve thought it’s from this planet. Just like you.”

He sighed and tried to distract himself with drinking, gulping half the glass of water in one go. “I regret ever asking you about it,” said Feyd as he slammed it back down. “You’re just lucky I’m the one in charge here. Anyone else would’ve had your head cut off and hung you upside down to drain the blood for moisture.”

She could have chuckled if she didn’t think he’d take it the wrong way. Underneath his threats was a genuine concern and hurt at the mere suggestion of her leaving him one day. He couldn’t even look at her while he mumbled his threats. In fact, he’d never seemed more harmless.

But she was certain her words had set his imagination going, a welcome respite after the troubles of the day. She would have to be on her best behaviour that night to let his thoughts and feelings settle, to make him sweet toward her again, and bring him back to her. It wouldn’t be difficult, it never was.

Although he seemed not to enjoy it much, he finished his dinner, and she did too. And as they walked together to the bedroom they shared, shadows dancing on the walls, she wondered if the spice melange was playing tricks on her, making her dizzy and giddy and almost self-destructive around him. She had had too much that morning too, she recalled, and her meditations had been troubled afterwards. But if she was struggling, how must Feyd feel? He had less of a capacity to modulate poisons in his system… And yet he indulged in it. Perhaps he’d used so much that he’d gained a tolerance for it. He was more at ease after dinner than before it, but his eyes were darkened, his lips a little red, and when she took his armour off that night his skin felt hot and sticky.

Was he seeing things too, she wondered… Did he have the same sort of visions she had had — of white shores and crashing waves and pale sea spraying on his skin? He looked at her with the same sort of longing he did when he felt loneliness threatening him, as if he were at once in the comforting present, with her arms around him as she pulled him down to bed, and at the same time in a horrible future with all of its uncertainties.

“It’s alright,” she whispered as her warm hands cupped his cheek. He curled up by her side and laid his head down on her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”