#cleaning out the rooms of my mind in regards to this fic

[rubyklaasje]

this, to me, is klaasje at the end of roadtrip fic

[senualothbrok]

Hello my friend!! Regarding your amazing “Tight Fit” fic from @daisyofwaterdeep’s 10/10 scenario, I’m obsessed with how Gale would act around Tav after the whole debacle:

Just adorably a mess. Shy, flustered. Stumbling over words.

Trying not to mention it in conversation. Trying to act normal. Occasionally failing on both counts with verbal flubs: “I wholeheartedly support whatever Tav decides. Our leader knows breast—BEST! I mean best!” etc. etc.

Praying Tav doesn’t hate him. Trying not to get aroused every time Tav smiles at him.

Going out of his way to be extra kind to Tav while simultaneously trying to avoid her.

Forcing himself not to daydream about it during the day, thinking about it literally every night. Reimagining every detail while in his bedroll. Instantly so hard he has to finish himself off or he won’t be able to sleep.

Climaxing so hard he’s legitimately concerned about his orb.

Berating himself internally, reminding himself he needs to learn some damned self-control…but then recalling Tav’s breath on his neck, the feeling of her fingers eagerly stroking him, and any hope of self-control is instantly lost

Would love to hear your and/or @daisyofwaterdeep’s thoughts 💖

Hello my dear friend! I 1000% agree with your thoughts on this and I have written something to describe how I think it might go. Hopefully this is enjoyable!

A Generous Portion

Summary: Gale is a flustered mess after you are locked in a room together. Sequel to A Tight Fit.

Set in early Act 1. Featuring matchmakers Karlach and Astarion, gentleman hero Wyll, I've-had-it-up-to-here Shadowheart, and oblivious Lae'zel.

Word count: 1.7k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Blushy, flustered, awkward Gale. Sexual tension.

****

“Gale.” Wyll's voice is warm with delight. “You've outdone yourself.”

Gale beams as he passes a steaming plate to Wyll. The stew Gale ladles out is thick and rich, and your stomach rumbles at its buttery fragrance. He grins as he hands out generous portions to a nodding Shadowheart, a grunting Lae'zel. 

“It’s not every day that we cross paths with a butcher.” He bobs his head. “A good cook makes the most of every opportunity.”

You see none of the uneasy stiffness of the past few days, none of the squirming mania that has possessed Gale whenever your eyes have met. Karlach claps before she takes her plate from him, and he gives a playful half bow that makes you smile.

“Besides, a hearty meal is the best cure for a weary body and mind. And as far as hearty meals go–”

Since the last time you were alone, Gale has been avoiding you. He has fled from every look and conversation, as though it were a matter of survival. And yet, you have often felt his attention on you, stripping you bare. You feel it now, as his focus flits over your outstretched hand, as he serves you.

“–There’s nothing like some good Waterdhavian sausage.”

His eyes meet yours. Panic flares in his face. He jerks his head, a grimace clenching his features as he flinches away. You settle back in your seat next to Astarion, feeling strangely guilty. Astarion's smirk does not escape you. Nor does the bright flash of Karlach's eyes.

For an eternity, there is only the scraping of plates, the soft stirring of bodies. The sizzle and hiss of the campfire, punctuated by little hums of satisfied chewing. The stew is exquisite, and you almost forget the crackling tension around you as you devour it. It spills from your lips, trickling down your chin in your haste. You wipe it away with your fingers, sucking them clean, wasting nothing. 

When you look up, Gale is staring at you. He spins away, clearing his throat as he examines his stew with obsessive intensity. The flush of his cheeks makes your core swell with memory. The ghost of his hardness twitches against your fingers. You shift awkwardly.

When Wyll breaks the silence, you look at him with a newfound appreciation. 

“This is delicious, Gale,” Wyll says politely. “Truly delicious.” 

Relief surges in Gale’s frame. “It's my pleasure.” 

“We're spoiled to have you cooking for us.” 

You have never been so grateful for Wyll's courtly upbringing, his natural tact. You send out a missive of frantic admiration with your eyes. Wyll’s gaze flickers to yours for the briefest instant before returning to Gale.

Gale is chewing his lip, composing himself. His furrowed brow eases. He waves his hand in an approximation of dismissal.  

“I try my breast.”

You drop your spoon. Astarion bursts into laughter. Shadowheart buries her face in her hands.

“Best!” Gale is fully crimson now, his pitch higher than you have ever heard it. “I try my best!”

“I can't watch anymore,” Shadowheart murmurs under her breath. Karlach jostles her quiet. There is an excruciating pause. You glance at Wyll, pleading.

Wyll's jaw feathers as he leans forward, his smile tight and wide. 

“And tell us, Gale, where did you learn to cook?”

Gale combs frenzied fingers through his hair. His gaze darts around like a fish evading a net. 

“I learned from the best.” His words are slow and strained at first, snowballing as he recovers. “My formidable mother. A master cook, who could work miracles with modest and extravagant ingredients alike. She taught me everything I know.”

Wyll hums approvingly, patiently. You are beyond thankful to see Gale’s breaths levelling, his voice lowering to its usual timbre.

“In fact,” he draws himself up, “the last time I made her a meal, she said my food might even match hers.” 

Wyll lets out a courteous titter. “Well-deserved praise.”

“Your food is pleasant even to a Githyanki palate,” Lae’zel remarks matter of factly. She seems oblivious to tonight’s disasters - or perhaps indifferent to them.

“Awesome grub, mate.” Karlach gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Can't get enough.”

With each affirmation, Gale’s body uncoils a little. The alarming scarlet of his skin is fading to its usual golden bronze. You are desperate to give him relief. You nod furiously. 

“I love your food. I’d eat anything of yours.”

All heads turn to you – vistas of disbelief, delight, despair. Karlach lets out a guffaw as Astarion snickers. Shadowheart and Wyll press their hands to their temples. Lae'zel stares at Gale with disdain as he begins to cough, clutching his chest. He hacks and heaves, until you are genuinely concerned that he is choking.

“Are you alright, Gale?” 

“Fine!” he gasps, his hands whipping around him in frenetic arcs. “Absolutely fine!”

Anxiety seizes you as a flash of lavender peeks through the opening above his chest. Hurriedly, you pour him a glass of wine, moving forward to kneel beside him. 

“Well.” Astarion springs up, gesturing to Karlach pointedly. “This is as good a time as any for that thing you mentioned, Karlach.”

For a second, Karlach looks just as confused as you feel, her brow scrunched as she considers. The recognition that blooms on her face is like victory. She leaps up to join him.

“Right! That thing! That I wanted to show you. And Shadowheart. And Wyll. And Lae'zel. Right now! Somewhere else!”

She pulls them up in turn. You stare at each of them, bewildered, imploring. Gale wheezes beside you. 

“What are you–”

“Must dash!” Astarion calls out, grabbing and jostling at arms and elbows. “Places to go, people to be!”

You glare at your companions’ retreating backs. When Gale takes the glass from your hand, his fingers brush against yours. He looks away as he throws the wine down with a groan.

*****

“Are you sure you don't need anything?”

“Yes, I'm fine, thank you.”

“Because if you need anything, I can–”

“No, I'm quite alright, Tav. Thank you very much for your kindness.”

The politeness between you is painful. Gale’s hands jolt from his lap to his sides, his fingers rippling and fisting. You suddenly realise how close you are, your face an arm’s length from his knee, your eye line parallel to the crook of his…

You lurch back, perching on the log opposite him. Gale’s features writhe as he fumbles at his robe. He looks absolutely miserable. You cannot help but feel stung. Your friendship and affection for him had come so easily. You cannot say you do not miss it, and the promise of what it might become.

“Would you rather I left?” you ask finally. “If I'm bothering you, I can go.”

Is it shock in his widened eyes? Disbelief? You cannot tell. He shakes his head with surprising force. 

“No, Tav. You never bother me. You could never...”

He trails off, gaze fixed on the campfire with a fervour like fear. You sigh. You cannot skirt around the edges of it any longer.

“Gale, have I done something wrong?” 

He looks up then. His eyes quiver, sunlight on a brown sea. 

“Have I upset you in some way? Because if I have, I apologise. I never meant to cause you any distress, or any kind of offence–”

He winces, as though you have struck him. 

“Of course not,” he exclaims, a little too loudly. He bites his lip. A stray strand of silver falls over his eye. You ignore your urge to brush it away.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You could never do anything to upset me. You're...”

Something in his tone simmers beneath your skin. It is breathy and hoarse, and you are reminded of the way he had moaned over your parted mouth as you grasped the bulge rising between you. Your skin throbs as your gaze drifts over the fullness of his cupid’s bow, the hard curves of his chest, the shadowed dip between his legs. You swallow.

He whirls away from you, as if he can read your thoughts. It is your turn to clear your throat now, to stare into the campfire as your face burns and you battle against the images that flood you. When, without warning, he jumps up and bounds away, you do not have words. Rudeness is a trait you did not think Gale possessed. You sit, stunned, wondering what to do with yourself.

You are taken aback when he returns from his tent. He stoops and stumbles slightly as he takes a seat beside you, close enough that his scent of sandalwood and sweat sends your head spinning. With gentle deliberation, he places a basket in your lap. You marvel at the peaches that fill it, sunset-blushed and plump, ripe to bursting. 

“Gale,” you breathe. “What is this?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “Forgive me… but I couldn’t help but overhear you and Lae'zel the other day.” His throat bobs, his crow’s feet crinkling. “You were telling her about the food you love most, so when I saw these peaches at the market, I couldn’t help but…”

It takes all of your self control not to throw your arms around him. You press a peach to your nose and close your eyes, breathing deeply, savouring its fragrance, sweeter than the sweetest wine. The tickle of its down, the feel of its flesh, firm and soft at the same time. A little gasp of joy escapes you.

When you open your eyes, he is smiling - beaming - at you. He looks away quickly.

“Thank you, Gale,” you manage. “This is incredibly generous. How can I ever repay you?”

He dips his head. There is the hint of an arched eyebrow, a sideways curl of his lips, as his dark eyes flicker back to yours.

“Your pleasure… is all I desire.”

For a while, you simply look at him, speechless from relief, beauty, gratitude, yearning. The air around you is taut to snapping, the space between your bodies at once too much and too little. You open your mouth and sink your teeth into the peach in your hand. It bursts into a spurt of nectar, coating your lips and chin and fingers, sticky and smooth on your skin. You let out a small moan.

He trembles. A purple haze flares as your tongue follows the trail of juice winding down your fingers, catching the drips on your wrist. You lick your lips as he watches, still and rapt. Laid bare.

You hold the bitten peach out to him, an unspoken offering. He hesitates for an eternal moment before he leans forward, bathing you in his indigo glow. 

He holds your gaze as he bites down.

*****

Liked this fic? Check out my other work

[hhoneyhams]

I Despise You - Chilchuck/F!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Features: Jealous Chilchuck, Fighter class Reader, size differences, and workplace crushes.

Warnings: Entirely SFW with some slight language :^)

The reader is referred to with she/her pronouns and descriptors, wears a dress in the fic, is a tall-man, and fighter within the party. There are no real specifics for appearance other than that.

Songfic based on "Daft Pretty Boys" by Bad Suns

Author's Note: This is my first time writing fanfiction for others to lay their eyes on in a very, very long time. I've had a blast writing this for the last few days and I'm excited to write more for Chilchuck and Dungeon Meshi!

The dwindling embers of the camp’s fire lit the dungeon with a warm, orange glow. A sense of electric excitement had infected the late-night conversation amongst the party members, some chattering excitedly about their plans for the next few days on the surface and others silently planning their next moves. 

“Laios and Falin are planning on heading up to go take care of some business, but I think I’m ready for some pleasure!” you laugh out, taking the last swig of the drink in your glass. You set it down with an aggressive click, the sound jerking Chilchuck from his reverie beside you. The two of you had grown rather close over your shared drinking habits, often staying up into the wee hours drinking and chatting amongst yourselves. 

Chilchuck furrows his brow at you and scowls slightly.

“You can keep that to yourself,” he scoffs, turning back to the meager portion of food he had been chasing around his plate for a while. 

“Wellllll…you of all people should know there’s no greater pleasure than a cold drink and some hot, greasy, fried food,” you relent. Chilchuck’s stomach growls and he groans. “Other pleasures usually follow~”

“Like being chained to the toilet and dealing with your needy, drunk ass all night?” he questions, brushing off the last comment with a sense of disgust. Your nose wrinkles in response.

“Well, hopefully not at the same time!” This causes him to snort out a semblance of a dry laugh. 

“I’m hoping we’ll wind up at different taverns anyway, I need a break from all of you,” the rogue raises his gloved hand to gesture around the room. Just as you start to jokingly pout at him, he points straight at you. “Especially you.”

Despite the two of you growing close after drinking together, he’s become exponentially rude towards you. You find it a bit confusing and heartbreaking at times but understand that it’s not like him to get personal with party members. 

“Jeez, ‘Chuck, tell me how you really feel,”  

—

The party disbanded early that morning. You and Namari pair off together to explore the town as the Toudens take care of their prior engagements. The two of you regard Chilchuck warmly, but don’t bother to invite him along.

Instead, he went into town to a merchant to sell some of the odd treasures he had picked up in his travels in hopes of procuring a bit of extra copper to fund his big night on the surface…

He examined the money he had on him and sighed. It was more than enough for him, but he wanted the extra… ‘for what?’

‘Surely not for…?’ He’d put the thought to rest as soon as it crossed his mind. He stuffs the heavy bag of coins back into his satchel and heads back into the town’s square. 

—

“Oh Namari, this would look perfect on you!” you gush over an embroidered cotton tunic that you found hanging in the window of a storefront. “I think they even do alterations here if you really want it,”

Namari shrugs, brushing off the idea altogether. 

“I’ve got a clean set of casual clothes in my bag so I don’t really need to spend what I’ve got on that. We’ve still got to get a room, eat, and drink tonight,” she reminds you.

“Ah, yeah,” you respond, a little disappointed that you couldn’t go shopping for new clothes with Namari. She’s very practical as you’ve learned. “I still want to try to find something nice for tonight, if that’s okay with you?”

She agrees to go on and book a room while you go inside the store and shop around. As a fighter, your clothes have been torn up quite a bit from the countless dungeon brawls you’ve been in. Your pants are torn at the knee, armor rusted and dented in places, and anything white holds the telltale brown of blood. As your calloused hand snags against the soft sleeve of a light olive green dress, you find just the thing to wear.

You find yourself hoping you both chose the same bar.

—

Namari moans in relief face first into the down-y pillow. Her freshly washed red hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts her head up to turn towards the bathroom door as you walk out in a towel.

“What’s nicer, having a bed or a real bath for once?” you joke, flopping down on the bed situated opposite of hers.

“Both are pretty damn good, honestly,”

“I’ll drink to that,” 

There are the telltale signs of a band warming up downstairs and the unmistakable smell of food that wafts up. She peels herself up from the bed and makes the descent downstairs to scope out the festivities for the night as you take the time to get ready. 

Your body is still riddled with cuts, bruises, and broken skin, all of it superficial. Sometimes you just don’t have the tolerance to sit still and let someone heal you. The dress’s sleeves are long and off of your shoulders, and the skirt is long and flowing. There was nothing flashy about it, but it still made you feel confident and pretty. 

You haven’t felt that way in a long time.

—

It’s no surprise that Chilchuck found his way to the tavern, the promises of music and the inviting smell of the food from outside drew him in nearly immediately. There were loads of people, a clear view of a dance floor, and plenty of patrons lined up along the bar. He was ready for his good time, sauntering in with a cool and calm stride right up to the bar to secure his order for the night. 

His mind wanders to relaxation and the array of activities available to him tonight. With enough drink coursing through him, he’d take a shot at cutting up the dance floor. His eyes bounced between the locals and other adventurers that were passing through, not recognizing most. His eyes lay on a mess of red hair hunched over a table in the corner and he breathes a relieved sigh. 

…didn’t he need a break from his co-workers?

“Oi, Namari!” the half-foot calls out, showing off a full bottle of wine and a food ticket detailing his dinner order. Namari waves him over excitedly and kicks out an empty chair for him. “You’ve got the right idea, tonight!”

“Damn straight! Got a room here and everything,” the redhead gloats, finishing off the last little bit of ale in her own mug. As she smacks it down on the table, she jerks her head to the side to gesture towards the other end of the bar that was in eyesight. “Someone needs to let ‘miss priss’ know that I’m not third wheeling tonight, no matter how drunk this guy gets her!”

Chilchuck raises his eyebrow and glances towards the scene in question, almost expecting an entirely different outcome even though he knew that you and Namari were sharing a room tonight.

You were perched at the bar on a high stool, your new dress draped down to flutter around your crossed legs. Your toe tapped along to the music as you were locked in conversation with a fellow tall-man. The guy was above average in the looks department, giving off a clean-cut vibe that you normally would not go for at all. His copper got you drinks, and drinks got him a conversation.

…NOT companionship.

He sees the way that you smile at this guy and he immediately knows it's disingenuous. In the dungeon, the smile you have as you fight alongside him is cracking and goofy, but definitely not tight-lipped and wry. Anyone who knew you would know this was some act.

Laios would call it akin to a mating ritual. Chilchuck calls it bullshit.

Your nervous glances as the blond touches your arm are darting yet subtle enough to be mistaken as butterflies. Your skin was flushed because of the amount of drinks you’d already had, not because you were flattered by any of the drivel this guy spoke to you.

‘If he calls you ‘beautiful’ one more time, things might get…ugly?’

He couldn’t tell if he wanted to smack you or the pushy guy that’s taking all of your attention. Chilchuck would never participate in the active harm of a party member, his job is obviously to prevent it, but GODS did he want you to get a grip.

Was he…jealous?

“Well, that’s annoying,” he says, not only saying it in reference to you, but to the nagging feeling now bouncing around his thoughts. He didn’t get into the personal lives of his fellow party members, openly detesting the idea of interpersonal relationships taking place in the dungeon.

But, this isn’t the dungeon…and you’re not working…

He takes a loooonnng sip from the bottle. Namari chuckles and claps a hand down on his shoulder as she scoots past him to go get another refill.

“If looks could kill, huh?” she teases.

—

The mask was truly coming off as the night dragged on. Jaunty music played as the bar-goers swung each other around. Every time the music dipped to a slower song, you were clearly not having it.

The ‘it’ being anything else to do with this guy. Dinner came and went, a meal that would have been picked clean by now was left growing cold on the bar as you dizzily weaved through the dancers to get back to your spot. Quickly, you scooped the plate and utensils into your hands and tried to make a break for Namari’s table. A hand skirts along your lower back and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Need some help, beautiful?” Chilchuck sneers from your side, offering to expertly guide you through the crowd without much incident. You roll your eyes and glance down at the smaller man. 

“If I hear that word one more time, I’ll probably go insane,” you complain, glancing over your shoulder for the creep in question. “You know, he tried to read my pulse to see if I was nervous earlier…”

“He was probably checking to see how easy it would be to skin you alive later,” Chilchuck says dryly, wiggling his fingers in a mockingly menacing way. You groan in response and wipe the sweat from your brow. Your fingers pinch it slightly in frustration as you begin to recount the events of the night.

“Too bad you didn’t want me to spend time with you, I’d much rather have been with you instead of going through all that,” you say, flopping into the chair Namari left behind and kicking your feet up. You end up digging into your food voraciously, the temperature is tepid but not entirely cold and inedible. 

You get a bit of barbecue sauce on your chin, but not enough to where it would fall down onto your dress. 

Were you really that tipsy?

“You realize that was a joke, right?” He looks away from you and out towards the crowd, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink in embarrassment. Your confused look was too much, an innocent shock washing over you as if you thought it was the truth.

“Well, you’ve been real rude to me lately, I figured you ACTUALLY had a problem with me!” you argue between bites, your tone indignant like a child’s. He scoffs and bites back a laugh, actually trying to fuck with you on this one. 

“Yeah, I despise you!”

“I’m getting mixed signals here,”

“You’re a liar, you kick ass all the time in the dungeon and then try to act like a lady the second you step foot out of it. I’ve seen you covered in monster guts, and this is scarier to me,” He gestures to the outfit.

“Shit ‘Chuck, forgive me for wanting to wear something pretty for ya…”

“Well, you’ve already got my attention, you can drop the act now.”

You look at the way his face is completely flushed and it all begins to make sense. You distracted yourself from the half-foot’s hot and cold treatment, you curbed your expectations within your working relationship and completely ignored that even though he wasn’t one to share his feelings…he still had them.

“So, when I said that thing about ‘pleasure…’”

“I didn’t want to wind up watching someone else take you home…or to Namari’s room…or whatever! I wanted to hang out, to drink, and things to just stay the way they were,” he fusses, getting up from his chair and walking towards you. He tenderly grabs your chin and turns your face up towards him. Between him standing in front of you and where you sat at the table, you were nearly eye to eye…

Surely, this wasn’t…!

He takes the cloth napkin and wipes the sauce from your chin. 

“I care a lot about you…and I don’t like seeing you make stupid decisions,” he confesses, still holding your face in his gloved hand. You find yourself having a hard time keeping a straight face. “...What’s that dumbass look on your face for?! I like you, I swear!”

“I’m drunk and this is hilarious,”

“You could say it back!”

“I like you too, ‘Chuck…I swear,” you reply, placing your hand on top of his. Your face cracks into that goofy smile he likes so much and he can’t help but to sigh. 

…If only you weren’t in public.

The crowd at the bar had dwindled down to only a few remaining patrons, some at the bar were still engrossed in conversation with the bartender and others were finishing up their rousing and complicated game of cards. Namari was still nowhere to be found and Chilchuck shrugs as you look around the tavern for her again.

“She’s outside, surely,” he says, pushing his chair in. As you get up, you stumble slightly and grab onto the chair for support. “I’ll help you up. You’re still pretty tipsy, huh?”

“Yeah, but that’s what I get for trying to keep up with you,” you chuckle, reaching out to him for support. His arm supports your lower back, his hand is on your hip as he walks you towards the stairs. You were all legs and curves to him, but he didn’t mind as long as you didn’t fall on top of him…

…without his consent of course. 

The other key to the room was tucked haphazardly into your brassiere. How it hadn’t fallen out onto the dance floor at any point was so beyond you, but you were just happy you weren’t locked out after all.

“I’ve still got to find a place for tonight,” Chilchuck realizes, forgetting about it altogether in all of the excitement.

“Honestly, I could probably hide you under the covers,” you joke, albeit rooted in truth. “I’d really like it if you’d stay though…”

“And incur the wrath of Namari? I like you, but not that much,”

“Fair enough,”

—

The two of you spend the night chatting and sobering up in each other’s arms. You fall asleep first, Chilchuck shortly after. The oil lamp’s glow lights the room dimly, neither of you had made a move to turn it off. 

The door’s lock unlatches and Namari flings it open excitedly, a new longsword glinting proudly in her arms. “--oh you TOTALLY owe me now, but I got a great deal on the perfect longsword for-” 

Her voice trails off as she sees you stir and another body that follows suit…

End Notes: I hope you enjoyed the fic! I've got some ideas for a continuation in the future if folks are interested teehee

I'm still working on becoming a more confident writer, so I'm hoping y'all will stick around for my growth! Minor edits will be made if I find any mistakes and constructive criticism is always appreciated! (Just don’t be an ass about it 👀)

Credits: Dividers by @/cafekitsune, cover art from 'Daydream Hour' scans

🖤 Rules | Ask Box | Masterlist 🖤

[lucijawriteswords]

head canons | quinn hughes

summary: in which i discuss my silly little ideas and fantasies regarding everyone’s favorite canuck.

warnings: 18+!!! SMUT. quinn hughes x fem reader. pre-established relationship, fingering, p in v, marking/possession

a/n: a quick midnight rambling to tide us all over until my next real fic. thank you for your patience.

18+ below cut

sweet

- the thud of his bag on the floor when he returns home late from the rink. the scratching of his shoes as he toes them off onto the mat by the door, the rustle of his jacket as he hangs it up. perhaps the clatter of keys or the smart tap of a baseball cap thrown haphazardly upon a table.

- the soft pad of his footsteps across the rooms of your home, his fingers brushing against the door handle to enter your room. his hushed curse as the door creaks.

- his lazy smile as you lift your head from the pillow, his tired gaze meeting yours as he whispers a hello, peeling off his dress pants and dress shirt. his mumbled thank you as you point to the clean t shirt and boxers you laid out for him on the chair.

- his warm body, soft breaths, whispered questions as he climbs into bed. his strong arms around you, holding himself to you. his head on your chest, his soft hair tickling your chin and you card your fingers through his hair.

- his muffled words becoming slow breaths, his back rising and falling deeply. his slow heartbeat on top of yours. the feeling of him on top of you, sleep stealing your both away.

- his bright laugh bouncing off the walls of your home, the smile pulling at your face as he tells you about his day, the concentration and attention on his as you tell him about yours.

- dancing with him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, all sleepy eyes and mussed hair and incoordination and stubbed toes.

- soft kisses to wake you up when he has to leave early.

spicy

- the feeling of his fingers inside you, pushing against that spot that makes you writhe, makes you scream his name. the pressure against your clit from inside your core, begging to be released. the throb and ache and tease of orgasm right on the tip of your tongue as his fingers and mouth render you senseless.

- his cock dragging along your walls, every ridge and vein felt when you clench on him like a vice. his groaned curse, his flexed arms, the sweat dripping off his nose and catching on your chest, seeming to sizzle.

- his teeth digging into his lip as he pounds into you, every inch of him slamming into you, your mind muddled by the taste and smell and feel of him.

- his hot tongue dragging along your body, his lips leaving soft kisses all over. his teeth leaving marks, leaving small red nips in the shape of a “Q” on your inner thigh.

- the flare in his eyes when, a few weeks late, you show him a small “Q” tattoo in the same place he left his mark. that same flare when his eyes meet yours as he devours your cunt, worshipping you.

- the way he revels in your praise when you make those pretty little noises for him, his breaths coming a little more ragged, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter.

- the bruises on your hips and thighs that you wear like a badge of honor.

[dulc3vida]

you.

rafe cameron x bunny!reader

part 1. this is my au so don't think too much about canon lore. characters, times, events, ect... might not match but PLEASE JUST ENJOY THE STORY PLEASE JUST GIVE IT A CHANCE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASe

warning: 18+ read at your own risk. this is a dark fic loosely inspired by the tv show you. dubious content lies ahead, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

UNC Chapel Hill: September, Sophomore Year

there was nothing rafe cameron hated more than being tutored. it made him feel stupid, needing someone to explain and break down concepts that others understood easily. ward used to lose his mind trying to find rafe new tutors because in all honesty, when rafe felt cornered or helpless, he got nasty. saying the rudest things that made these well-paid, private tutors basically discard a paycheck, was one of the first times rafe ever felt true power. the first time he ever came close to knowing what his dad felt like, even though his dad had a much better reputation than rafe ever would.

rafe especially hated english. the books were boring and he could never be bothered to sumbit more than a half baked essay regarding the text. that's how he ended up in the study room in the library sitting across from you. he remembered you from class, the TA. you always sat besides prof. callahans desk and you looked younger than any TA he had ever had, probably even his age. your face was familiar but rafe couldn't put his finger on it. you were clean, you smelled good, and your nails were done which meant you had the time and money to take care of that kind of thing when most college students forget to feed themselves. you occasionally looked up from the signup sheet as the minutes ticked 5 past 3pm, where only rafe's name was signed.

"i guess we can start now." you mumbled, flipping your notebook open. "this weeks quiz is going to cover part 1 of crime and punishment. have you... started the reading?"

rafe's hard gaze bored into yours and he shook his head without another word. he was thinking about how cute and neurotic the way you had your notes organized was and how soft you spoke to him. were you scared of him? rafe was intrigued.

"okay, no biggie. we can just start there. did you check out a copy of the book?" you asked, pulling out your own copy that was bursting at the seam with sticky notes and colored tabs. again, rafe wordlessly shook his head. "good thing we're in the library. come on, let's go see if they have any left."

rafe followed close behind you, you could practically feel him breathing down your neck as you walked through rows of books before finding the one you were looking for. you showed rafe how to check a book out before returning to the study room. "okay. let's start."

you began dissecting the book from the very beginning, soft voice describing the historical context of the book. rafe was surprised at how well he was keeping up. it didn't hurt that you were cute, nose all blushed and button, scrunching up whenever you couldn't read your own handwriting in your notes. a pair of clear framed glasses sat on the bridge of your nose which you constantly adjusted due to your eyelashes hitting the glass. you had a habit of licking and biting your lips, applying lipgloss on every "brain break" as you called it. maybe all this time, all he needed was a cute tutor that he could stand looking at.

in between writing notes and flipping through the book, he caught glimpses of a "j" necklace dangling in your cleavage. did your name start with a j?

"what's your name?" rafe asked once the two of you began packing your things up. it was now 7:30 with the sun beginning to set. you told him and he repeated it under his breath.

"my friends call me bunny though." if you're bunny, who is j? you tossed your bag over your shoulder and let your hair down from the claw clip that was holding it up. it billowed over your shoulders and you tucked a few stray strands behind your ears after taking your glasses off. you weren't the shy good girl he met at the beginning of the session, no, you were different. good girl in front of everyone but he knew there was another energy in you that he wanted- no he needed to see. rafe watched you leave, staying a few steps behind, where he could comfortably watch you and before he knew it, you were jumping into the passenger side of a beat up old brown van that pulled up, and leaning over to give whoever was driving a kiss.

rafe felt a familiar, red hot anger wash over him. the first time he felt that anger was when sarah was born and ward wouldn't stop fawning over her. ward basically forgot he had a son when sarah was born which made rafe incredibly insecure. that insecurity built a home inside rafe's heart, where any little inconvenience could turn it into an ugly monster with sharp teeth and a desire to tear everything in sight into fucking pieces. this time, the monster was awakened at the reality of you having a boyfriend.

against his better judgement, rafe ran to his truck the second you took off, speeding down the road he saw you drive down. it took him a minute, but he managed to find the shitbox on wheels you were riding around in. he made sure to stay far enough away to where it didn't seem suspicious, but close enough to where he wouldn't lose you again.

he wouldn't lose you again.

he repeated that phrase to himself as he drove into jacksonville and while he parked his car a few spaces from the van in a place where your little group was fully visible. you came to the beach. there was 3 guys, 1 girl, and you. gone were your leggings, tank top, and cardigan. instead, you donned a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a bikini top, and a huge smile on your face as you settled yourself in the blonde boys lap.

rafe thought he recognized the group you were with, but he was hoping his eyes were just playing tricks. of course, it could never be that simple because rafe did know them. the pogues. what were they doing on the mainland? he hadn't seen them in a while and was getting used to not having to see or smell them other than when he went home for holidays.

jj, he knew worked in the cafeteria ever since he graduated earlier in the spring, which is probably how he met you. rafe had never been fond of jj, in fact, rafe lived to antagonize jj back on the island (if he cared for the cafeteria food, he would probably be in there a lot more to mess with him) so him having you felt like poorly timed karma. to be completely honest, rafe hadn't expected such a dramatic shift of power dynamics when coming to college because now there was at least 10 other rafe's who were dating the girls he should have been dating. he did just fine at parties, more than fine, but he was starting to get tired of drunk girls who just lied there all limp and sweaty or threw up on his dick (happened twice freshman year and he didn't enjoy it like he thought he would). the first decent, eligible girl he meets is getting her pussy dug out by jj maybank of all people and it felt like someone, somewhere was laughing at his misfortune. it almost made him want to give up on you.

almost.

he would never let jj maybank win at anything, let alone your heart. there was just something about you that he couldn't let go. the only thing he couldn't figure out was why everyone else was here too? none of them had a chance of getting into chapel hill. you either had to have perfect grades, be incredibly wealthy, or be a legacy student. thankfully, rafe managed to be 2/3 of those things.

rafe sat back in his seat and just observed you. he cracked his windows open and tried to listen to your conversation but he was too far to hear anything other than laughter and unintelligible voices. he pulled his phone out and typed your name into instagram, easily finding your very public page.

rafe decided to do some digging. he would start at the bottom. scrolling all the way back through a very curated feed (rafe could tell you pick and choose which of your old posts get to stay up and which ones ruin the feed) rafe felt his heart sink.

he knew you.

OBX: Summer 2018

"come on, bunny, i don't wanna go without you." your friend, esther, pleaded. she had been invited to rafe camerons party, a coveted event where anything and everything happened. esther was dating rafe's friend kelce, who invited her to the party.

"you're not even gonna talk to me so what's the point in going." you responded, filing your nails while you laid in bed.

"honestly, when's the last time you really went out? you only ever go to the country club and don't say your parents make you because last time you weren't even with your parents."

"well, the old men buy me drinks if i talk to them and make them laugh. sometimes they give me money. one of them gave me this tiffany bracelet." you stuck your wrist out to show off the silver bracelet with the heart tag which was branded with the company's insignia.

"that's kinda gross." esther scrunched her nose. you only shrugged your shoulders.

"so is going to a party at rafe camerons house. jungle juice is probably roofied" rafe had been the stereotypical jock douchebag who only hung out with other jocks, cheerleaders, or other impossibly gorgeous girls. you saw right through him which is why you never caved. not when he invited you to his lunch table, not when he asked you out, not when he tried to grind against you on the dancefloor at junior prom and called you a bitch when you pushed him away. at some point, rafe stopped trying trying with you and turned his attention and "where my hug at?" energy towards other girls who were much more susceptible.

"so we'll pregame. just please don't make me go alone." in a flash, esther sat on top of you and pinned your arms down while a string of "please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top!" tumbled out of her mouth.

"OKAY!" you had enough, but were still giggling. "i'll go, just get off of me so i can change."

"yay!" esther rolled off of you. "wear the black one, the one that makes you look slutty."

"aren't we supposed to be getting you laid?" you asked, looking through your closet that was practically overflowing with expensive name brands.

esther looked down at her hands. "me and kelce already..."

"no way. really?" she nodded and you squealed rushing over to hug her. "babe i'm so proud of you! wait- why do you need me there then?"

"its the first time i'm meeting his friends and i'm nervous." she explained, now looking through your clothes with you. "i need a buffer, yknow, a cute friend who can keep my boyfriends friends occupied."

you blinked. "so basically, you're whoring me out?"

"you just told me that you talk to old men for money and gifts."

"yeah and they don't even get to see me in my little black dress."

when you arrived at the party, it was in full swing. rafe caneron's parties had a reputation. booze flowed, drugs were shared, and there were enough rooms in the house for every couple to get busy in. it was the perfect haven for teen delinquency.

you were unimpressed, as per usual, with rafe's antics. he had been in the pool when you arrived, a girl on either side of him while he smoked a joint.

"how long do i have to stay?"

"until you start enjoying yourself."

you went to the bar. grabbing a red solo cup, you mixed yourself a drink of cherry vodka and coke. you chugged it, always having the attitude that when it came to alcohol you had to get right to the point. when you finished it, you made yourself another one.

"excuse me." a hand gently placed itself on the small of your back which made you jump. "my bad, didn't mean to scare ya- hey you're esthers friend right?" it was topper. "i just saw her with kelce. i'm topper." he stuck his hand out.

"bunny." you took it.

"whatcha got there?"

"chery vodka and coke."

"nah nah nah- you like the cherry vodka?" you nodded and he took your cup from you. "let me make you a drink."

"okay." you watched his every move as he fixed cherry vodka, cranberry juice, and lime in a brand new cup. "thank you. what is this?"

"it's called a cherry bounce. cheers to you, bunny. hopefully this isn't the last time i see you."

you only smiled at him, tight lipped and gently tapped your cup against his before taking a drink. "topper, this is really good. make me another?"

"you're not even done with that one yet." with that, you drank the rest of your cup. "okay, party girl." he took your cup back and fixed you another. "you wanna dance?"

you hated to admit it, but you actually were having a good time with topper. he was funny, kind, nice to look at, and he was a good dancer. the night was going so good, until esther invited you and topper to sesh with her, kelce, and rafe as the party died down.

it wasn't the sesh that was bad, no, you even managed to be polite and sociable with rafe. it was after the sesh when your drinks had caught up with you and you needed to pee. "esther can you show me where the bathroom is?" you asked but it fell on deaf ears as esther and kelce were mouth fucking.

"c'mon. i'll show you." rafe got up and began walking inside the house without another word. you quickly followed, only wanting to relieve your bladder and be alone for a few minutes to gather yourself and your thoughts that were racing on account of the sativa blunt you had just smoked.

rafe walked up the stairs, basically torturing your bladder with every step until he got into his room. "just use this one."

you were too desperate to argue about whatever his intentions were bringing you here so you went in and almost tripped over yourself getting to the toilet. you made it through, no accidents happening and feeling a lot more gone than when you walked up the stairs.

you stepped back into rafes room and he was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for you. "you okay? you were in there for a while."

"yeah." you stumbled over to sit next to him but he got up and went to his window. "just a little dizzy."

"everyone fell asleep." rafe watched his friends make themselves comfortable on the outside couch on this hot summer night. you climbed over his bed and looked out the window at the sight of your friend asleep on her boyfriend's chest and topper asleep, hugging a pillow.

"do i get a prize?" he cocked his head at you. "for being the last one awake at a rafe cameron party?"

"what do you want?" rafe asked you seriously and you sighed, lying back against his navy blue sheets.

"for you to not be such an asshole." you murmured and stared at the ceiling. "i mean, you're really cute but you ruin it by being... you."

"i knew you had a thing for me." rafe must have only heard half of what you were saying because he was taking his place back next to you on his bed. "c'mere." he patted his lap and it didn't take much more coaxing than that to get you crawling into his lap. he positioned himself the way he wanted you, straddling him with your crotch right on top of his. "been waiting for you to finally come around." he trailed his hands up and down from your waist to your ass. "y'gonna let me inside that pretty pussy babe?" rafe whispered in your ear, sending all your intoxicated arousal straight to your core.

if you had been in a clearer state of mind, you would have never even been in rafe's room, but here you were letting him guide your hips to grind against you through the thin layer of your black lacy panties. your short dress had already ridden up your thighs, exposing you even more than you already were.

unexpectedly, rafe tugged the top of your dress down and leaned down to take a nipple into his mouth. when he grazed his teeth against your sensitive, hardened peak, you gasped and jolted against him. "rafe." you whispered, trying to get his attention because your head was spinning. instead, his hand found a place between your legs and pushed your panties to the side, dragging his fingers through your folds and spreading your wetness. he used it to rub your clit in circles, encouraged by your whimpers in his ear. "oh rafe..." you felt your orgasm building quickly due to your drunken state, but you also felt a pit building in your stomach. this felt wrong.

you blinked and you were on your back. your dress had found a place across your stomach and your panties were torn off of you without your knowledge. you closed your eyes, hoping if he thought you were asleep that he would just stop.

of course, things would not be that simple.

while your eyes were closed, rafe got undressed and slipped a condom over his cock. he grabbed a pillow and placed it under your hips to prop your pussy up for him at the perfect angle. he took his cock and tapped it against your clit. "wake up, sleepy girl." you only whined and tried to close your legs but he forced himself between them so you couldn't.

your eyes snapped open when you felt the intrusion of his cock. "uhhh..." you let out a mixture of a moan and a whine. the stretch burned because no matter how wet you were, rafe was objectively big, especially the mushroom tip of it. you didn't know if it was the liquor, the weed, or what, but you could basically picture what it looked like based on the way it felt inside you.

rafe gave you no time to adjust and set a punishing pace off the bat. he had one of his large hands splayed over your stomach, pushing down and making you let out a short, loud moan. "let me hear you. wanna hear how good i fuck this pussy." rafe grunted while thrusting in and out.

you, in your state, were incredibly embarrassed no matter how good he hit your spots so you were barely letting any noise escape your mouth.

"always playing hard to get... you're gushing around my cock... and making a mess on my sheets... but you still act all stuck up..." rafe spat at you through his teeth and you let out another high pitched whine. he punctuated each word with a hard thrust, his balls now slapping your ass with vigor. "gotta put you in your place, huh?"

he flipped you over and pulled you onto all fours. his hand splayed across your back this time and pushed your chest into the bed, creating a beautiful arch to your back. "so fuckin pretty." he moaned when the slid back into your tight warmth. the change of position did nothing to help you hold onto the little composure you had as he was now deeper than before, mushroom tip generously rubbing against your g-spot and his balls now smacking your clit. you were too far gone to care how you looked throwing your hips back against his. "fucking slut." he grunted, grabbing a handful of your hair. "y'wanted this huh? yeah, yeah, you been needing this huh?"

you could only moan as he painfully gripped your hair and pushed himself balls deep, rolling his hips against yours. "you like the way i fuck you baby?"

"mhm..." you had your eyes closed as you focused on the tension building in your stomach. a heavy hand landed a smack against your ass.

"use your words. you like my cock?"

"i love it..." you desperately moaned out.

"good girl." rafe pushed your head back into the bed and drilled his cock into you brutally. you were struggling to hold your hips up, but rafe held you up with one arm. "fuck... m'gonna cum. y'gonna let me cum in this pussy?" rafe grunted and pulled out, sliding the condom off before thrusting back into you. "there we go." he spoke through gritted teeth. "thatagirl, pussy feels like heaven."

you felt the difference and opened your mouth to protest but all that came out was unintelligible pants and moans.

then you saw white.

your orgasm washed over you, making your pussy clench and flutter and cream around rafes cock. you felt rafes hips stutter against yours and then you felt hot ropes of cum paint your insides. you couldn't stop moaning because rafe was still inside you, slowly thrusting and rubbing your clit. "so fucking tight..." he commented as he watched the way your pussy suctioned his cock and pulled out.

against your knowledge, rafe had been recording since he got you in doggy and was still recording. "shit..." he groaned as he focused the camera on your glistening pussy. a drop of his cum came dribbling out and he pushed it back in, earning a soft "ahhh..." from you. he played with your sensitive cunt until you came again for the camera and passed out.

when you woke up, you were alone. for a brief moment, you hadn't remembered what happened and were just confused as to where you were. you peered around the room and saw your dress and torn panties and it all came rushing back. the drinks, the sesh, having sex with rafe cameron. he must have changed you because you didn't remember putting on one of his shirts or sweats.

you checked your phone and your parents had been blowing you up since 8am. it was noon. you had missed calls from esther and a series of texts that said she couldn't find you in the morning and hopes you made it home safe. "shit." you groaned and got out of bed, legs sore from the sex you could only remember flashes of. you tidied the room up and changed back into your clothes before walking downstairs with your heels in hand. you slowed as you reached the foyer, hearing voices from the parlor.

"i don't know dude, doesn't feel right to watch this."

"she was totally cool with it, c'mon."

"you're gonna wanna see this."

you recognized the voices as topper, rafe, and kelce. then a video began playing and at first it just sounded like porn, then you realized it was your moans streaming through rafes phone.

"you like the way i fuck you?"

"mhm..."

"use your words. you like my cock?"

"i love it..."

"good girl."

you felt sick to your stomach as you heard the boys commenting on the video. how could you be so stupid? of course rafe would record you without permission while you were off your ass last night. you only blamed yourself as you walked home from tannyhill.

the video followed you around over the summer and you only managed to escape it when you went off to college.

rafe never thought twice about you after that.

JACKSONVILLE: Present.

rafe stared at your instagram feed in utter disbelief. he hadn't thought about you or the video since that summer. he honestly forgot it even happened. he wasn't a douchebag, he was a handsome young man who took all the opportunities presented to him (as he told himself). was sending the video around immature and stupid? probably. he was a kid though. everyone makes mistakes, or at least that's what he tried to tell himself as he looked through old pictures of you. did you remember him? you must have. you looked different from the last time he saw you but he looked the same. you definitely knew who he was the second he came into the study room and he didn't know how to feel about that. it made his job easier and harder. he already had a connection with you, but he would have to go through a grueling apology process that he really didn't care for. he just needed to have you.

as he scrolled into the more recent stuff, he couldn't help but notice that you didn't post jj on here at all. the page was a monument to you, all the better, and you were gorgeous on here. 2k followers with 1k likes on every post you made and comments that varied from "you're so gorgeous" to "just give me one chance." you had a highlight titled "my <3" and there was only one picture of you holding jj's hand with the song "melting" by kali uchis which was posted only a month ago.

he left your profile and went into his camera roll, into the hidden folder and scrolled back to 2018. he found the video and pressed play, his cock getting hard immediately and straining against his pants. soon enough, he had his phone pressed to his ear and his hand down his pants as he watched you and kie gathering firewood. soon enough, he was cumming in his hand to the sound of you saying that you loved his cock.

rafe managed to clean up a little and continued to watch you, well into the night as you and your friends built a bonfire and smoked a joint. it was midnight when you all had decided to leave. he followed the dirty old van back to campus and learned where your dorm was, watching you and jj head in.

rafe made it back to his dorm at around 3:30am. the more he learned, the more questions he had. rafe fell asleep with only one thing on his mind.

you.

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— just for tonight, i don’t hate you + katsuki bakugou.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — when there’s a bounty over your head and a reward for your safe return to your soon-to-be husband and future king, touya todoroki… you should be mindful of who you fall for. you should pretend to hate the man who seeks the prize money you’d bring. and the dragon prince, katsuki bakugou, should probably do the same.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up, smut, angst, arguments, one-bed trope, enemies to lovers, love confessions, arranged marriages, fingering, marking, biting, scratching creampies, hair pulling, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, slight!infidelity, fantasy!au, fem!reader, dragon prince!bakugou.

⭑ words — 2.8K.

⭑ notes — happy valentine’s day my sweets!! here’s a precious little fic for you, a commission from the darling @peonies-and-teacakes and beta read by @yuki-no-akumu !! i hope you guys enjoy and remember that ily <3 mwah mwah !! - m.list ✩

“s-sir…i am so sorry.”

don’t. 

“t-there’s been some kind of mistake!”

don’t you say it.

“unfortunately the room at our inn you’d requested for tonight has been double booked…”

don’t you dare say it.

“we can only offer you the alternative which is a single bed, again sir, i-i’m so sorry.” 

it’s not the clerk’s fault, it’s a simple mistake that anyone could make at an inn located in one of the busiest travelling towns in all of Aethopia— but it shouldn’t have happened to katsuki bakugou. it’s the worst thing that could have ever happened to katsuki bakugou. “you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” the dragon prince snarls, almost resembling the mystical creature acting as his tribe’s crest— teeth white, sharp and menacingly on display. “all this fuckin’ coin spent on a useless, shitty inn ‘nd you can’t even book the right room?”

the clerk shrinks back, visibly shaken as they hand over a set of room keys to the blonde. “s-so sorry! s-sir!” they add timidly, flinching as they clatter into bakugou’s palm and he snatches the metal away from them.

“sorry ain’t gonna cut it, what a waste of my coin! i ain’t ever comin’ back to this shithole.” he continues to snap, and with a swish of his red woven cape, bakugou’s gone— storming away and outside of the reception, filled with enough rage to fan the flames of a dragon’s fire. you’re waiting for him with his horse, tending to it as he steps into the cool outside. the forest trees sway with the prince’s arrival but don’t do anything to distract you from running your fingers to the snow-white coloured steed. 

you’re beautiful and that angers katsuki. you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen in all of the moons he’s existed— you shine under the light of the silver crescent, as if glitter is speckled all over your skin or you’re covered in a layer of diamonds.

your smile as his horse chuffs and nudges you with its head is precious, more valuable than any gem found in this world’s greatest mines. your dress isn’t made out of the finest materials, but it fits perfectly around your sweet dips and curves— it’s pretty. you’re pretty. there’s something about you that makes a mess of katsuki’s pulse, that steals his breath away and he hates you for it. 

you’re supposed to be an ordinary girl, you’re supposed to be just a pile of coin to him— a reward for returning you, prince touya of Ignis’ runaway bride. there was a hefty bounty hanging over your head for your safe return to his royal highness’ side, for you were to be the tool that helped to clean up prince touya’s act and get him prepared for kingship. again, you weren’t meant to be anything more to katsuki, in fact, if he had to he would force himself to despise you— you make him miserable, he has to remind himself that you’re just a prize. nothing more, nothing less. 

despite the blonde’s plan to have you back in the hands of the todoroki family— he’s had his doubts. rumour has it that touya todoroki, better known to lesser folk as dabi, is an evil brute. one with little regard to the women he’s kept or invited up to his royal chambers. other whispers on the street have mentioned that you were a spoiled little village girl from within their kingdom, refusing the life the todoroki’s were to offer you. 

that was another reason for bakugou to hate you— you were a brat that ran away because touya wouldn’t feed you with a silver spoon, because he was the first man in your existence to be unkind and you couldn’t find it in yourself to put up with it despite being set for the rest of your life. 

katsuki bakugou of the dragon tribe had found you just outside of his territory— half dead, your clothes torn and a second away from being hunted by the mythical monsters that prowled them. you resented him, for what he did next. you had the audacity to be mad at the dragon prince for saving your life and nursing you back to health. you blame him for the miserable outcomes of your life and for having his heart set on returning you back to touya todoroki, blaming him for it all.

at the time, the pair of you had argued. bakugou had called you a stupids and naive little girl— who wouldn’t want to be married to a future king? you wouldn’t have a single thing to worry about if you did, your every need would be taken care of without you even asking. you wouldn’t have to kill for your next meal, worry about when or where you could sleep next, spend every day fighting for survival. clearly you both had different views on the world, and what should have been gratefulness turned into hatred.

bakugou had tied your wrists, dragged you kicking and screaming back on the route straight to the todoroki castle— reuniting you with your Prince Charming. so far, you’d made this journey hell, almost cost him fights and got him in trouble with clients or employers. you were embarrassing.

and in your eyes? katsuki was your fairytale villain. he was a selfish, ugly bastard who wouldn’t let you steal your freedom, all for some money. you hated bakugou with every fibre of your being and every ounce of your heart and he knew. he knew this, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle when you look at him like his every step scorches the earth.

scowl at him like you do now.

like he was the most awful man in the world. like he was touya. who he had heard from stories didn’t handle women in the best of ways.

“what, ya still mad at me, princess?” bakugou asks as he approaches you, the twigs snapping under his boots grabbing your attention. 

before arriving at the inn, the dragon wielder had told you that you were a useless airhead— one that couldn’t survive on her own and needed a man to save her. you’d slapped him hard without hesitation and neither of you’d spoken until now. “of course i am, don’t ask stupid questions, you barbarian,” you spit harshly, turning back to the horse at hand. “did you get the room? i’m tired and sick of looking at your face.” 

he almost flinches back to avoid being hit by your venomous words but instead retaliates. “i did ‘n yer stuck with me, sweetheart, there’s only one bed.” 

“you’re kidding, right?” your eye twitches as you spin on your heel to face katsuki once more and the blonde braces himself for an onslaught of your slander. “oh! bakugou. you��re such an incompetent fool. you can’t even book an inn on your own, so you need a woman to do that for you?” you throw his words from earlier back into his face like an acid burn that’s been waiting underneath your tongue.

“i didn’t wanna be stuck with your ass anyways! quit complainin’!” 

“well, if you insist on not being stuck with me, perhaps releasing me before we reach the todoroki’s is a good idea—“ 

“— fat chance, princess.” bakugou scoffs back. “not with the bounty over your head. puttin’ up with your shitty attitude will be fuckin’ worth dealin’ with until you’re back with ‘em.”

he doesn’t give you a chance to retort, heading back into the inn whether you follow him or not. 

katsuki is glad that you don’t, at least not straight away— wanting to calm down the ache you’ve inflicted upon his hatred-blackened heart.

though he might hate you, katsuki can always tell when you’re crying.

around the same time every night and throughout your travels, your shoulders shake as sobs rack your body while you think he’s fast asleep. of course, the dragon prince feels bad— he’s practically handing you off to the devil in exchange for a lump of cash. you’ve been down on your luck and the blonde feels partially responsible for that. 

rolling over to face you, bakugou watches with a deep frown as you keep your eyes on the wall opposite you— not daring to acknowledge him. “‘m sorry… about what i said,” he feels guilty but only just, unsure of his next words. “‘bout this touya thing… and all the men that have hurt you. i’m—” he takes a breath. “sorry about everything. i only treat you that way ‘cause i don’t want ya to end up lost like me…” he doesn’t want you to fall for him, to stay with him.

silence echoes between you both but katsuki can tell that you’ve calmed down from the way your body stops shaking and your hiccups quieten down. “you care about me, bakugou?” rolling over, the blonde finds himself lost in the sparkle of your galaxy eyes yet again— hating you for it, fighting down his love for you.

you’re close, way too close and everything beneath the sheets is hot. “shut up, princess.” bakugou whispers, not realising that the warmth of his breath is coasting over your lips wetly. before either of you know it, you’re kissing— mouths slotting against one another, tongues rolling over each other sloppily as you swap spit and pour undisclosed feelings into one another. his hands slip under your flimsy excuse for a night-gown, trailing up the good meat of your thighs, the soft curves of your waist and hips. you have him in shambles, with the way you gasp quietly at his thumbs swiping at the swell of your breasts— just brushing over your pebbling nipples. you coo and cry and he takes more from you, tugging on your lower lip with shining rows of pearly whites and licking into your mouth to swallow your whistle-tone moans.

“quiet, princess,” bakugou’s mouth is hot, blisteringly slow— his tongue leaving trails of clear, thick saliva along the planes of your skin. “gotta be quiet, baby, can’t wake anyone up, yeah?” the sharp edges of his teeth just graze your salt-licked flesh, barely nipping it. katsuki knows better, he can’t leave marks. he can’t return damaged goods to the soon-to-be king. to the touya todoroki. “so good, such a good girl.”

“o-oh! k-katsuki!” you stutter out, eyes rolling to the back of your skull and locking away the stars as the dragon prince’s hand fumbles between your hot and heavy bodies. he finds your clit, swollen and sticky— pulsating beneath rough fingertips. “p-please, i need you. please, katsuki. n-need–!” you sing your praises to the high heaves, the letters of his name rubbed into your pretty pussy as he plays with it between your slick, doughy thighs.

a single finger slips past your fluttering entrance, but he doesn’t dare let up on your pleasure nub— circling it diligently. “shut up, yeah?” the man slurs into your neck, spreading your pussy lips apart to finger you deeper, faster— losing his sanity listening to the sound of you squelch. “i hate you…r’member that. h-hate you— fuck…” 

“hate you, s’much. o-oh, right there!” your own set of fingers curl in sandy blonde locks tightly pulling him back up to your face for a kiss. but his eyes, your eyes, they both speak forbidden and unspoken love. your other hand grasps at his throbbing cock, arousal spilling over your knuckles and straight from the tip. his chest rumbles in pleasure, hips rutting into your closed fist languidly before he swoops down to lure you into the forest of temptation, the haze of another uncoordinated, messy kiss.

you mewl into one another’s open mouths, swollen and cherry lips meshing together— this? whatever you’re doing together, a pile of sweaty limbs moving in sync with one another…it’s everything either of you have ever wanted. playing pretend, hating one another face to face and loving one another in secret. katsuki curls his fingers, pressing down on your g-spot and you run your thumb through the seedy slit of his cockhead…eager to please one another. to love one another.

“put it in, katsuki.” gasping but demanding, you call to him— hungry for more, to have his everything. he wants to, god he wants to. but what if he hurts you? what if you fall apart like fragile glass? what if touya—? you grab at the blonde’s chin, guiding his gaze up to yours and his thick girth to your clenching, unfilled hole. “just for tonight, one night. show me how you truly feel about me katsuki…make love to me.”

you’re giving him a chance, giving him this one last night to deflower the prettiest, most beautiful thing katsuki bakugou has ever held in his bare, monstrous hands. wrapping your legs around the slenderness of his waist, you lock your ankles at the small of his back and squeeze to draw him closer. his milky shaft pushes through your arousal soaked folds, clear strings of it clinging to every vein that decorates the length of him.

both of you shudder once he’s bottomed out inside the warmth of your velvety, silken walls. he’s as deep as he can go, stretching you over him with slow rolls of his hips and his balls heavy with cum, seated at the curve of your ass. “f-fuck, you’re tight, princess,” katsuki whines, wrapping his arms around your head to pin you to the bed beneath him. he fills you to the brim, brings tears to your eyes as he splits you apart and pieces you back together with every single thrust. your g-spot is a victim to endless ectasy given to you by his mushroomed tip as it rams against you, desperately. 

rolling your hips up to match his pace, you swallow the saliva pooling on the palette of your tongue— skin buzzing with lust while you mark up the blonde’s back. you leave tiger-claw patterns across his tanned back, red and raw before mussing up his hair pulling him closer until either of you have room to breathe. his breath is ragged against the shell of your ear, thrusts rampant each time he plunges into your souse, salacious pussy.

katsuki drowns himself in you, and like an alcoholic reaching for another drink— he’s addicted. he groans pathetically when you bite him, kiss him and spit into his mouth until he’s babbling and brainless. you bite his shoulder to keep quiet but the bed creaks loudly enough to cover your harmonised moans and the sound of skin slapping on skin harshly. 

“i love you,” you breathe weakly, body wracked with shakes when bakugou slips out of your cunt from how fast he's pounding you into the sheets, tied to you only by strings of slick.

he says it back, instantaneously while forcing himself back into your addictive heat, desperate to get you both to your highs. “i love you.” next he finds your clit again, using three fingers to tap at it so that you tremble cutely beneath him. “hold it, princess. hold your orgasm. p-promise it’ll feel good, kay?” the dragon prince pulls back only just, dragging his seedy tip along your insides and you whine at the loss of being so full. “promise me that when he’s fucking you, when touya makes you his bride a-and weds you, his pretty virgin bride…that you’ll think of me ‘n me alone.”

“i-i promise,” you murmur, playing with the baby hairs on the base of katsuki’s neck, looking up at him lovingly as you clench down on him at his claim— dripping sweet nectar down his balls.

only then does katsuki put his entire weight on you, jutting into you all at once, nearly breaking the bed as it hits the wall behind you over and over. his cock swells inside of you, close to bursting and cumming inside of you. with one, two, three more calculated thrusts you’re thrown over the edge— the dopamine high of your orgasm crashing over your brain while you squirt clear streams over his lower tummy and cock.

he’s right behind you, following the stream of your sweet essence that nearly forces him out of you. thick, hot ropes of cum paint your insides belonging to the man that you love, filling you up to the brim. katsuki collapses on top of you with one last kiss, your foreheads pressed together and the crude mix of your arousal leaking from your tiny hole, onto your shared sheets.

“i don’t…i don’t hate you,” you stutter once both of your breathing has evened out, teary eyed because you can’t say that you love him again. it’ll make it too real, neither of you can have that if you’re promised to touya and bakugou has promised to take you back to the ruthless future king.

“niether do i,” katsuki breathes back, wiping your eyes with the pad of his thumb, using a delicate touch. 

he couldn’t help it, loving you but at least he got to…just for tonight.

[hexonthepeach]

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International. 

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one. 

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather. 

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters. 

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm. 

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand. 

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails. 

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas. 

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo. 

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper. 

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation. 

Frustration.

You've seen this man before. 

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation. 

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it. 

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?" 

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said. 

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses. 

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it. 

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps. 

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right. 

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say. 

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life. 

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun." 

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it. 

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed. 

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that," 

"Stop what?" 

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer. 

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs. 

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained." 

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?" 

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed. 

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it. 

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky. 

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head. 

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. 

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief. 

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship. 

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down. 

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.” 

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest. 

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories. 

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling. 

"Last I checked, neither have you." 

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately. 

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core. 

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider. 

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.” 

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere. 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.” 

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too. 

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path. 

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild. 

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one. 

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men. 

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest. 

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say. 

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy. 

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming. 

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair. 

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?" 

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can." 

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it." 

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it. 

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more." 

"Salt," you say, immediately. 

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes. 

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors." 

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises. 

An unrefined palette, he'd called you. 

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?" 

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?" 

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready." 

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis. 

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him. 

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut. 

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say. 

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses. 

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags. 

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed. 

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think. 

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap. 

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent. 

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination. 

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?" 

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart. 

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise. 

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food." 

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes. 

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head." 

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business. 

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents. 

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in. 

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance. 

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne. 

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast. 

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?" 

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row. 

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard. 

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime. 

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves.  "Did you touch yourself?" 

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.  

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?” 

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”  

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright. 

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.” 

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.” 

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.” 

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.” 

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.” 

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping. 

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal. 

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him. 

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue. 

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room. 

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again. 

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.” 

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night. 

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years. 

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel. 

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book. 

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt. 

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting. 

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears. 

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war." 

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.  

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." 

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction. 

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it. 

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends. 

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality. 

Orange Blossom for innocence. 

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation. 

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.” 

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses. 

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it. 

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him. 

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now. 

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments. 

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach. 

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.” 

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze. 

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.  

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper. 

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.” 

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something. 

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips. 

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle. 

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it. 

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders. 

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth. 

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier. 

“Is that my perfume?” you ask. 

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched. 

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again. 

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead. 

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response. 

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours. 

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is. 

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly. 

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction. 

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with. 

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk. 

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back. 

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both. 

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.” 

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips. 

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly. 

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?” 

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win. 

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved. 

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips. 

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through. 

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs. 

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him. 

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch. 

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself. 

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping. 

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs. 

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up. 

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.  

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose. 

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm. 

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin. 

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away. 

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose. 

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.” 

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration. 

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room. 

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally. 

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you. 

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?” 

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself. 

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow. 

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat. 

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch. 

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all. 

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take 

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International. 

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number. 

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club. 

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help. 

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.” 

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either. 

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said. 

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club. 

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder. 

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen. 

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline. 

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before. 

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago. 

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry. 

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green. 

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him. 

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say. 

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness. 

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold. 

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him. 

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep. 

He’s not allowed to. 

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades. 

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply. 

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down. 

And you needed it, too. 

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back. 

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.” 

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly. 

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts. 

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.” 

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose. 

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.  

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead. 

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him. 

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants. 

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now. 

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread. 

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first. 

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room. 

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds. 

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety. 

He only has this one chance. 

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets. 

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind. 

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.  

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity. 

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep. 

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day. 

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it. 

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,”  you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone. 

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling. 

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering. 

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?” 

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?” 

“You do,” you gasp out. 

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.” 

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt. 

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust. 

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth. 

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.” 

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck. 

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.” 

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.” 

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back. 

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.” 

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip. 

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him. 

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur. 

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips. 

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it. 

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him. 

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.” 

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it. 

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty. 

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?” 

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.” 

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh. 

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.” 

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs. 

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.” 

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.” 

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access. 

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels. 

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed. 

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon. 

“Do you see the light?” you ask. 

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one. 

The bank: Sa. 

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang. 

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light. 

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.” 

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona. 

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment. 

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.” 

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply. 

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.” 

“Did I win?” you ask. 

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed. 

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

[gyllenhaalstories]

SOMETHING TO RELY ON — DETECTIVE LOKI 🖤

summary: detective loki comes home after a long investigation, needing nothing more than something, or someone, to rely on.

warnings: i can’t write canon and accurate portrayals to save my life, mentions of loki’s work, fluff & comfort. 18+ NO MINORS. yes, even if this fic has no smut, i don’t want minors interacting with my content.

word count: 1700

gifs credits: @/magnusedom (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i have the selfish need to take care of this man and protect him from all the bad things in this world so this is exactly what i’m doing with this fic. no plot, only rambling. 🖤 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

“Oh, David.”

He grunted, rejecting what sounded like pity in your voice. It was a reflex, despite you telling him over and over again that you empathized with his hard work. He simply refused to let you feel bad for him.

And you refused for him to not let you do that. How could you not feel bad for your man? He looked dishevelled at best. His clothes were wrinkly, his coat was wet from the rain outside. His beard was unusually long. He smelled of cheap body soap, one labelled a manly tornado of masculine jungle and virile storm clouds.

David started to explain, calculating his words so that he would not speak in vain. He told you that he found a truck stop and used their showers before driving back home. His presence for the investigation was supposed to last a day or two, but he was required to stay on the field for about a week. Unlike his colleagues, he turned his back to the offer of a comfortable bed at the motel and a warm breakfast every morning. He stayed ready and awake for as long and as much as he could, in case of something happening.

You helped him out in silence as he spoke. How you had missed the sound of his voice without the bad network of the phone service struggling to pick up from the place he stayed for the past week. It could have been in the middle of the Bermuda triangle for all you knew, it cut you off too many times and prevented you from falling asleep to the gentle humming of David as he played in his mind songs that looped on the radio during patrol.

He let you remove his drenched coat. He watched you until you disappeared into the bathroom, he assumed you were hanging the coat in the shower where it could drip and dry without making a mess. He loved your attention to details, and how it mirrored his very own. He let you untie his boots so that he could step out of them. He let you do every small and big gestures to get him comfortable.

You offered him a fresh set of clothes, soft worn-out sweatpants and an old t-shirt that had been waiting for his arrival since the moment he walked out of the door. While he changed, you discarded of the dirty work clothes that he wore. You did not comment on how difficult it would be to wash away the dried stains of mud. He was probably kneeling outside in the rain, searching for a piece of information regarding the investigation. Day and night, you knew he devoted himself to his case.

“Love?” He called out for you. He blinked as he caught sight of you, being a busy bee from one room to the other around the house. You hands were full one second, empty the next one. Loki both loved and hated how this all came naturally to you. He loved the ways with which you both took care of each other. You handled the seemingly mindless tasks that weighted heavy on his shoulders while he provided you with a safe, strong presence and with arms to fall into when you needed. When he was actually there.

You finally reappeared in the living room. Your face lit up with a smile at the sight of him. He already looked better in the clean clothes. The shirt stretched over his broad chest, over his soft tummy. “Tell me the story of when you got this t-shirt.”

Loki grinned and looked down at the World’s best fisherman shirt. He explained how he picked it up from the lost and found box at the police station he worked prior to the current one. A cliché altercation between him and a box of donuts had led to him interrogate his first potential criminal with a prideful fisherman shirt. His retelling of the story always made the two of you smile.

It worked as a way to bring his feet down on the ground, to focus on what was important. As a bonus, it was simply entertaining to imagine Loki walking around with that shirt while trying to appear as almighty and professional. “Do you want something to eat?”

The corners of his lips curled into a smile and he followed you to the dimly lit kitchen. In a few swift movements, you had bread, peanut butter, jelly as well as a couple of utensils pulled out on the counter. The final touch was added by David’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind as you assembled his sandwich.

You spread the peanut butter all the way to the crust of the bread and on the other slice, you scooped strawberry jelly and made sure to get chunks of fruit too. Just how he liked it, just how you made it when you packed his lunch for mornings where he was too busy and tired to remember to take care of himself. You pressed the layers together gently and cut it in two triangles, handing him the bigger half.

He thanked you with a kiss on your cheek as he grabbed one of the triangles, taking a big bite out of it. He could easily guess you would have preferred to welcome him home with a big, warm meal. Although, in his mind at this very moment, he saw no difference between that sandwich and something that would have taken hours to make and double the amount of time to bake. And besides, he thought a lot about what he wanted to do during this break from the investigation. He needed to keep his mind and hands busy. This sounded like the right opportunity to invest crazy amounts of time into food you could cook together. Or you’d settle from ordering takeout from the Chinese food restaurant.

You cleaned up once you were both done eating, still with David holding you tight like a safety belt. “Want me to tell you about my day?” He hummed, agreeing. So you did just that, you shared the silly details with him as a way to make him feel included despite his long absence. Sometimes, you disliked sharing stories of your life with him. He was a creature of habit, it was hard to remind David that you were just telling about your encounter with a rude person at the grocery store and it was not an investigation. He would analyze your words, scrutinize your reactions, until you told him to relax.

He did not need such a reminder, at that very moment. Loki leaned his head on your shoulder, not minding how contorted his spine was to maintain him in that position. His eyelids were getting heavy, and so was he. He was half listening and half falling asleep on you.

For every night of the past week, you would have traded anything just to be crushed by his sleeping body and keep him safe and warm. However, you imagined it would be in bed and not laying flat in the middle of the kitchen if you even found the space for that anyway. “Come on, big boy. It’s time for your nap.” You turned gently in Loki’s arms, causing him to gain just enough consciousness to grunt in dissatisfaction. You draped his left arm over your shoulders and held him tightly as you both limped your way to the living room.

Any further, and David would have fallen down on the floor. You helped him to the couch so he could lay down. He shook his head slowly when you presented him with one of the throw pillows. He opened his eyes just long enough to lock his gaze with yours and he grinned when you understood his silent request. He sat up, struggling to stay still, until you joined him on the couch.

You stretched your legs up on the coffee table and you let Loki slowly rest his head on your lap. The sigh he let out made your heart clench inside your chest. He was killing himself trying to save people from dying. All you could do was stand by his side and help keep his head above water for as long as he would let you.

Loki saw it differently. He saw all of the love-filled gestures as a sacrifice as big as his. He appreciated each and every single one of them, and tonight was just the same. He appreciated how you peeled away the layers of stress, of turmoil and of fear. You did that by helping him with his clothes and also by keeping safe physically and at peace mentally.

“It’s okay, now.” You whispered as you placed your right hand on his stubbly cheek, your left one played with his hair. You were soothing both of your souls while trying to make up for all the time he spent away.

You repeated that it was okay over and over again until he, too, said the words to himself. He was okay. For now. And, for now, it was all that mattered. There would never be enough words and actions that could show you how thankful he was to have someone to rely on.

“You’re home.” You smiled down at him and watched him closely as he relaxed under your touch. You stroked your thumb over his lips, tickling his sensitive and chapped skin until his mouth parted open and his breathing slowed down.

He was seconds away from drifting into sleep. His eyelids were heavy. On your thigh, his head was heavy too with all its of horrors and sorrow. His voice sounded gentle and calm. “My love.”

A single tear fell from your cheek and down on the hand that was caressing his. Hearing the words in person rather than on the phone healed the pain that Loki’s absence had put you through once more. You leaned your head back to rest it on the couch and you closed your eyes too. Though it came with all sorts of tribulations, you were just as thankful as him to have someone to rely on.

[leclsrc]

a certain romance ✴︎ cs55

genre: fluff!, humor

word count: 4.5k

A love affair is never an easy thing to keep under wraps. Or, the four times your two brothers almost catch you and Carlos together, and the one time they finally do.

notes... reader is a leclerc, one sexual allusion but it’s not bad, french that is basically translatable thru context clues

auds here... req’d, sort of twice! was gonna make this a full fledged fic but i went with the short route to keep it brief. i hope u like this anon/s :) title from a song of the same name by the arctic monkeys. also there is use of y/n which i generally don’t like using in fics bec i feel it disrupts the flow, but it wouldn’t have fit any other way so. must b all... enjoy!

If you told Carlos Sainz that he—a full grown, mature, twenty-eight-year-old man—would be tiptoeing on the balcony of a hotel in Monaco (shirtless and fully terrified, no less) eight months from now, he would laugh at you. But he’d be doing so anyway, fearing something in the room behind him rather than the alarmingly high distance he’d be possessing over the road below. He’d inhale, exhale, recites a few proverbs to keep himself calm. But now, if you told him, he would mumble something along the lines of estúpido, because really, how the hell would he get himself into that situation?

Don’t worry. He’s going to find out.

“I’m not really looking to date,” he says wisely, taking another swig of his beer. “I think racing is the number one thing on my mind. And it’s difficult to maintain a balance of both.”

Lando clears his throat, tipsy from having exhausted his drinks and then some. “Mate, quit being a pessimist. You Spaniards, I swear. That’s not necessarily true. I made it work.” He presents two thumbs, pointing them toward his beaming, dopey face. 

Carlos stares. “Luisa broke up with you.”

“Right then, you arse, twist the knife,” Lando mutters exasperatedly, his thumbs drooping down and his smile dropping. Carlos can’t help but throw his head back in amusement, eking out apologies in between bouts of laughter. The younger just mocks the laugh, finishing the beer he’d been drinking. 

The two are on the balcony of Lando’s flat, overlooking the expanse of Chelsea. The subject of girlfriends and looking for love had been between them for a while now, seeing as they were both single; they’d often greet each other with a Got a girlfriend yet, cabrón? And, while the conversation was generally harmless, it did tend to push Carlos into a state of introspection regarding his own love life.

“But honestly, really.” Carlos says. “I just don’t know if a girl is what I need right now. Unless somebody perfect drops on my lap.”

“I’m going to ignore how pervy that sounds—but I get it. I guess the career thing’s just the priority, huh, mate? And speaking of career”—Lando rifles through his jacket pocket and fishes his phone out—“we’re going to be late for dinner if we don’t leave in the next fifteen.”

Ah, dinner: the only reason Carlos had chartered a jet to London earlier today in the first place. Proposed out of sheer fun and then carrying on because it actually seemed like a doable idea, Lando had texted a few drivers and invited them and however-many-pluses they wished to bring to an upscale restaurant in the city as a way to get in touch.

It didn’t seem ideal, until they realized that 1. Lando, George, and Alex were already in London, and 2. Charles was with family and had a meeting there, too, and—well, at that point Carlos had basically succumbed to peer pressure and gotten on a jet straight to the UK. Lando always had a penchant for making these plans and spending the entire time making dirty jokes and/or getting tipsy and/or using his camera to take pictures of any and everyone, which really just made the dinners all the more fun.

They clean up the bottles of beer they’d drank from, and Carlos pulls his coat on by the door, still unused to the overcast British weather. “Who’s there later?”

“The boys, Arthur… Lily, Carmen. I think. I mean nobody brought their mums or whatever. That’s all of ‘em, I suppose.” Lando inspects his outfit in the mirror by the entryway and swaps out his jacket for a different one, ushering Carlos out the door and into the waiting car. Something about I’d rather be driven around than drive a pretentious sports car around the city looking like a daft prick. 

They’re halfway to the restaurant, both on their phones, when Lando suddenly gasps softly and goes, “Right, and Charles’ sister is going too.”

Carlos looks up, interest piqued. He hadn’t heard much of Charles’ sister before—you’d dropped by a few races, and had always been present for the entirety of the Monaco weekend, but you weren’t engaged in racing as much as Charles’ other siblings. He’d shaken hands with you and made the polite, necessary, albeit totally rushed small talk. “Y/N,” he recounts. “Right?”

“Yessir,” Lando says, letting Drake filter through the AUX of the car. “The one in law school.”

He nods, trying to pick out specific memories. None really come to mind—it’s all introductions that repeat themselves. Hi, Carlos Sainz, Charles’ teammate. Oh, hi, I’m Charles’ sister. He faintly recounts finding you pretty, but having not seen you at the paddock for quite a while, he considers his memories dubious at best. He leans back and listens to Lando rap Rich Flex with an obnoxiously posh accent instead, and figures if he dies now, at least he wouldn’t have to keep hearing this.

The restaurant is nearer than they anticipate, so the Drake rap-along session is cut blissfully short, the pair being ushered into the private seating area, coats taken and wine served. They join George, who, at his insistence, had made the reservation in the first place even if Lando had suggested the restaurant, and Carmen. 

“Charles and Albon?” Carlos asks when he takes a seat, greeting the couple.

“Charles and Arthur are on their way, but Alex is stuck in Harrods with Lily and Y/N. They got busy looking for shoes or something. Poor guy,” George says, half-laughing. 

“I so wish I met up with the girls beforehand,” Carmen mopes, “the sale at Harrods is amazing.”

The conversation descends into a multitude of different topics, as they always do when Lando and George lead the way—racing (obviously), Carmen, Daniel Ricciardo even, dogs, any plans of adopting dogs, and then, because George Russell is a little shit, he says: “Feels nice being the only guy with a girlfriend at the table right now, innit?”

Carmen pinches his arm but he persists with a smile. “No, but really. You two are just about the most eligible bachelors ever and still single. What gives?”

“I for one am not into monogamy at the moment,” Lando says matter-of-factly. “I’m twenty-three, mate. I’m trying to have fun. But Mr. Almost Thirty here is a different case.”

“Ay,” Carlos gripes. “It’s not an involuntary thing. Just want to focus on racing.”

He prays then for this topic to come to a close so he won’t have to explain himself all over again, and reprieve comes in the form of Charles and Arthur entering the room. Already Charles is talking, before he even takes a seat, and Arthur is nodding along—something about how London traffic sucks, how are your streets so small, mate, oh my God Harrods is so full, Lily and Y/N have been at it for hours, poor Alex, he volunteered to stay. The guy spouts words quickly and easily, in an accent that sounds both English and French.

The rest of the wait time happens fast—Lily and Alex rush through the entrance, apologizing for being late. The lines are so long, Lily explains, taking a seat and leaving the other side empty. When her boyfriend tries to sit there, she swats him away, goes, babe, no, that’s for Y/N. So her boyfriend sits woefully across her and beside Carlos instead.

“Where is Y/N?” Charles asks. Carlos is also curious, albeit inwardly. He didn’t even know you were arriving until late, and still he hasn’t seen your face.

“Sorry, I had to check something with the valet,” a voice goes, and then you’re sliding into the seat across him.

The thing is, Carlos has been stunned before.

It’s sort of a non-negotiable when you go into such a demanding, high-risk sport. If he’s careening into another car, or the side of a circuit—obviously, it stuns him. Everything spins into slow motion for a few nerve-wracking seconds. But he’s also been stunned in all the good ways: when he can tell he’s in the lead, when he overtakes the car in front of him, when he bounds past the flag and realizes it’s a podium finish. So, yes—Carlos is fully familiar with the gut churning, belly spinning delirium of being stunned. So familiar, in fact, that he’s grown familiar with it, developed a second skin for it, welcomed it with open arms.

Which also explains the way he sees you laughing quietly at something Lily says and subsequently realizes, with apprehension and dread, that he is stunned.

—

The first time it happens is after the dinner—not just the dinner, but the drinks and the London walk that followed, accompanied by three noisy and drunk tour guides (read: Lando, George, Alex). Charles and Arthur, almost as drunk, follow the tour with loud jabs of their own, and Lily and Carmen are filming everything on their phones. You’ve been on your phone checking an email, and Carlos takes a call from his cousin, which naturally leads both you and him to trail behind the group.

So, when you’re both done taking calls and checking emails, it’s the two of you left to your own devices. You swing within the awkward few moments of deciding whether to rejoin the group or just keep trailing behind, your shoes clicking softly against the cobblestone pavement, accompaniments to Lando’s loud singing of Piano Man. 

“What’d you think of the wine?” You ask, your accent sliding easy into the syllables but not losing its distinctiveness. 

He pretends to ponder, even if he’d given Lando a full-scale review when they first left the restaurant, and turns back to you. “It was okay. A bit too sweet for my taste.”

“Exactly! That’s what I told Arthur, but he found it perfect. I guess kids these days just don’t have taste.”

You both laugh at your sarcastic use of “kids”, knowing you’re just two years older than your younger brother. Carlos opens his mouth to speak, trying to find footing, the perfect suave thing to say to possibly land himself in a position to flirt.

Right then, Lando reaches the crescendo of Somebody to Love (he can’t ever finish a song), and then Charles is turning around to find you and Carlos engaged in conversation. His lips stretch into a mischievous smile.

“Aye, Carlos! Back off the baby sister, mate!” He slurs, clapping Arthur on the back to catch his attention.

Arthur’s eyes narrow playfully, darting in between you both. Carlos just raises a middle finger in response, sending the brothers into unnecessarily extensive bouts of laughter. You roll your eyes, blowing a raspberry. “Putain. These fucking shitheads never leave me alone.”

George is in the middle of teaching Charles to say sod off instead of back off when Carlos purses his lips and, on a whim, turns and goes: “Is there a rule against dating drivers?”

You try and fail to hide a smile. “Hmm. None, I don’t think.”

Silence. Then you speak again, coy. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Carlos says. London is suddenly a place of magic. “No reason at all.”

—

It’s at an afterparty, the second time it happens—and technically the first where you and Carlos actually connect properly. In hindsight, it might’ve been stupid to flirt with him in the middle of the dance floor—something he thankfully realized in the moment, taking your hand and guiding you through the throng of people into the back exit.

Nobody said first kisses had to be remarkable in the romantic sense. Sometimes they’re in seedy European alleyways, with a fist bunched into his polo and a hand on your hip. It had to happen this way, because how else would two months of beating around the bush culminate? Because even if you’re drunk, you can’t stop thinking about how much you want to kiss him again. Tomorrow morning. And the next.

You pull away, but he speaks first, voice rushed and semi-sobered. “Let’s not.”

Humming, you try to swallow the lump of distress in your throat. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, nervous now, gulping. “Because—of the bro code.”

You stare. “Is that a Spanish thing?”

“B-ro c-ode,” he says again, enunciating the syllables; the Spanish accent doesn’t go away, and neither do his hands, hot and big on your hip and waist. 

You move your hand from where it’s fisted into his shirt, cupping his neck. Then you burst out laughing, much to Carlos’ confusion. “That is so not a thing,” you press, unconvinced.

“It is. Bro code. I just crossed that line, dios mio,” he says, clearly way more stressed than you are. 

“Bro code isn’t upheld for boys over twenty-one,” you say haughtily. Right then, you hear Arthur’s voice through the door and it swings open a few seconds later. In the span of those moments, you shove Carlos away nervously and attempt to look like you weren’t doing anything.

Arthur’s on the phone, speaking in quick French when he sees you and Carlos at a respectable distance. He tilts the phone away, mouths What’s up?, pointing at the both of you.

“I felt like vomiting and he was nearby,” you reply, nodding. He’s out of view, exiting the alleyway within seconds and back on the phone. 

You exhale, and turn back to him. “Okay, so maybe the bro code is a thing.”

He looks at you as if to say no shit. “I don’t think we should do this,” he says, but his tone betrays himself.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

“Right, yes.”

A beat. “Can you kiss me again?”

—

Against all odds, you and Carlos had managed to successfully start dating under your brothers’—ergo the majority of your mutual circle’s—noses. You’d only let it slip to a few close friends and family, and in Carlos’ case, Lando, because Lord knows the guy could not keep his mouth shut for the life of him. And even if it was stressful, and it often felt like any moment would be interrupted by somebody catching the both of you on the phone, or even together, neither of you could deny how good it was.

It’s five months later—five months of pure bliss, for the most part. Save for multiple close calls, you and Carlos had enjoyed each other’s company. You’d tried to navigate how everything would work once you realized you both wanted something more out of the relationship, but neither of you wanted to deal with the hassle of your overprotective siblings yet. You’d resorted to hours of FaceTime, everyday texts, and if the world was on your side, the occasional date. 

The last method is easily your favorite, you both—and when the drivers get three weeks off and Carlos spends it in Las Vegas, that’s how it happens, the third time. Carlos visits you at your hotel, relishing in the eleven-thirty emptiness of the communal area, swimming in the jacuzzi and giggling about something into Carlos’ neck. You barely remember the joke; you’re honestly just welling up with enthusiasm and an endless supply of laughs that your boyfriend is finally with you.

Your head is still dug into Carlos’ neck, laughing about something else now, when you hear faraway footsteps. Having grown used to being a pseudo-patrolman, your eyes dart up immediately, and your stomach drops when you see, seriously, of all fucking people—Charles and Arthur. 

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dumbfounded. A hand wet with jacuzzi water taps frantically on your phone; sure enough, you’d gotten texts from the both of them about dropping by your hotel for drinks. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

You disembark from your position on your boyfriend’s lap, hoping the hickey he sucked onto your neck won’t be visible from meters away. Your eyes shoot up again, and they still haven’t spotted you. Holding your breath and bracing yourself, you turn to Carlos, place two hands on his shoulders, and shove him underneath the water.

They spot you then, waving enthusiastically. “Drinks!” Arthur shouts, mimicking a beer bottle with his hand. You chew your lip nervously, raising one hand and waving back.

“Don’t wait up and I’ll just meet you at the bar!” You holler, watching as they pass through the entrance at a truly leisurely pace. 

Once they’re in, you haul your boyfriend up and he breathes deeply, anxious. “Puta madre.”

“I think we should tell them soon. I don’t want you literally dying just for the sake of keeping us a secret,” you say, maintaining a safe distance and constantly turning toward the entrance just in case. You reach for his hand underwater.

“It’s thrilling, actually,” he winks.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bother.” You say woefully, guilt eating at you a little bit. But he takes your hand, squeezes it among the jacuzzi bubbles.

“Nothing’s a bother with you.”

—

Charles knocks on your Monza hotel room door when it happens the fourth time, opening it once he finds it unlocked—and then freezing when he finds you buried in your duvet ’til your shoulders. You’re in your silk pajama top, arms and mouth outstretched into a yawn when your eyes meet, hair disheveled. You blink.

“Charles.” You say confusedly, letting your arms drop. “Tu vas bien?”

“Mmm, ça va.” He pauses. “Et toi?”

“Moi aussi,” you say casually. “Any reason you came into my room without waiting for me to answer the damn door?”

He smiles, as if remembering why he invaded your privacy. “Right, I came in here to ask if you’ve seen Arthur.”

“I’m clearly by myself in bed, so no,” you respond cuttingly. “Last I checked he was walking around with Lando.” The two had become fast friends after the London dinner. 

Your elder brother hums, then moves to take a seat on your bed, to which you quickly reach over, grab a complimentary soap bar (on the bedside table and not the shower, which you’d found weird), and toss it square at his face. “Ah—ay! What the fuck?”

“Don’t come near me,” you say. “I’m sick.”

“Sick? What rubbish. You were literally at the paddock hours ago totally fine.”

“Don’t be daft. Not that kind of sick, you arse—”

“Not that kind of sick,” he mocks, exaggerating his accent and raising his voice a few octaves to sound like a silly version of you. He raises an accusatory finger. “You lie, you lie!”

“I am not lying,” you insist irritably, sitting up a little and cocking your brow. “Tu es insupportable!”

You slide into a flurry of angry French and Italian in your valiant efforts to defend your innocence, and Charles is infected into doing the same. Eventually the room is just filled with indistinguishable insults and scoffed phrases of merde, ah bon?, and immensely accented What thuh helliz your problem?s. You even chuck another hotel soap at him for extra measure, but he manages to catch it this time. It’s childish, like many of your petty fights born out of irritance.

“I’m on my period, you prick,” you say as a last resort, once the insults have run their sufficient course. “I couldn’t be arsed to find Arthur.” His eyes narrow, doubting you, but ultimately he admits defeat, walking back to the door to exit your room. The door’s out of view of your bed, so you brace yourself, waiting for it to open and click closed.

“You better not be harboring a fugitive in here!” He says, but only half of here is heard before the door clicks shut and drowns him out. The tension leaves your body and you heave a deep sigh, relaxing backwards and biting your lip. 

The thick silk duvet flips upward and Carlos surfaces, face flushed from being in hiding for so long.

One arm is still curled around your thigh, the inner part of which is rubbed raw from his facial hair being against it. You stare at one another with dopey smiles on your faces, relieved that you’d managed to act fast and flip the huge blanket over Carlos—although he had conveniently been in that position to begin with. 

“Do either of you ever shut up?”

“One more word and I’m kicking you,” you say, reaching an arm out to stroke his jaw. You smile, laughing a little. “I’m not bluffing.”

“Scary, princesa,” he teases, hauling himself up to press a lasting kiss onto your lips. You smile into it, out of relief that your nosy elder brother didn’t catch you, but also out of the way your heart swells when Carlos smiles.

—

“You’re absolutely sure it’s the right room number?”

“100% positive. 613, Y/N Leclerc.”

“And not any other Leclerc.”

“Mate, I just said Y/N. Get a grip,” Lando scoffs. “My investigative skills pay off. Still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just asked her yourself, seeing as though you two are, I dunno, dating.”

“It’s a surprise, man,” Carlos says cuttingly, facing the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris. “Alright, thanks, cábron. I’ll see you soon.”

“Get some!” The Brit whoops, and then Carlos is taking the elevator to your room.

He didn’t think of himself as much of a surprises guy, but then again—he didn’t think of himself as much as a flowers and teddy bear guy, but he’d gotten you those every month since you became official; he didn’t think of himself as much of a physical touch guy, but he was always the one initiating hugs and cuddle sessions. The list goes on.

He knocks, fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

Much to his relief, it really is you who answers, with the face of surprise he wanted out of this. Before you utter a word, he’s dipping down to kiss you, and you find yourself returning the kiss, knowing you’d lost your boyfriend’s presence for so long. It quickens fast, and Carlos wedges himself in, kicking the door closed behind him.

You pull away. “Wait, I—”

He kisses you again, and you can’t resist, laughing at his persistence. He pulls away to tug his shirt off, and that’s when you crash back to reality. “Mmmm—Carlos, this isn’t my room!” 

Everything happens fast after that.

The door starts opening and Carlos hears Charles on the other side of it, talking about there was a room mix-up, Y/N, this is mine and 615 is yours—he misses the rest of the sentence, clutching his singlet to his bare chest and allowing himself to be pushed by his girlfriend out the door of the balcony. Thinking he’s safe if just for a moment, he turns, but finds he still sees the room—the curtains don't cover him enough. 

And if he can see the room, he figures, the room can see him. And if the room can see him, Charles will see him when he’s fully inside. 

You’re gesticulating wildly with your hands, trying to find a way to distract your brother, turning away from Carlos briefly to maybe just accept your fate. Charles shuts the door, facing you and, consequently, the balcony doors. Your heart seizes. Surely, Carlos must be there—there’s no other place left for him to hide, unless he miraculously fit his blocky, broad frame behind a random potted plant.

“Something wrong?” Charles says, and you whip around. The balcony’s blissfully empty.

“N…othing.” You say. “Nothing.”

“D’accord,” he says promptly. “So. Dinner?”

Your head spins, unable to formulate a reply. Where could Carlos have hidden?

The balcony is a bit wide, but the entirety of it is visible, and, well—Carlos is clearly not. There’s one lawn sofa, and one plant, neither of which seem to harbor your favorite Spaniard, so where the fuck is he? Because of course, he’s not stupid. Surely. He’s twenty-eight, you think.

What kind of guy would climb onto the banister of the Hôtel de Paris just to hide from his girlfriend’s older brother?

Carlos cannot believe he’s on the banister of the Hôtel de Paris just to hide from his girlfriend’s older brother.

In the scurry of it, he hadn’t even gotten properly dressed. So here he is, braving the frigid sixth-floor air and the harrowing height at which he stands, brandishing his shirt like it’s a flag and standing like he’s on a podium. He feels like he’s about to die for love. Like some Shakespearean hero.

But when he digs deep he figures he doesn’t actually mind at all. Sure, he feels like he’s on the brink of death, but he realizes it’s for you in the end, and that comforts him. He never thought he’d do this, ever, not even if he was paid, or bet on, or for a Real Madrid win. He leans back and ignores the asphalt below. He’ll stay here as long as he needs to.

“Mate, get down from there.” Carlos looks up to see Charles and Arthur going absolutely mental, even taking a few photos for good measure. Relieved, scared, and just glad his stint on the banister is over, he climbs off and pulls his shirt back on, crossing his arms. He spots you inside, smiling but also insisting they delete the incriminating evidence.

In the end, seriously? This is the reaction you and he hid from for eight months? You walk over to place yourself beside Carlos, watching your brothers. Two fools laughing at everything, each other, their sister, and her boyfriend. “Jig is up,” Charles says. “But we’ve known since you two kissed outside that club.”

You roll your eyes; clearly, you’ve already been told this information. But Carlos is slack-jawed with shock—they did all that on purpose. How fucking cheeky, really. He figures they gave Lando the wrong room number through the grapevine, too.

“But,” Charles says, wiping real tears from his eyes, “I know you love my sister, mate, so I’ll be the first to say I approve. Arthur will be the second.”

“I approve,” says Arthur dumbly.

“We approve,” they say in unison, then they’re laughing all over again. You swat both of their arms in retaliation, which causes the teasing to subside.

“Now, cábron,” Charles says gleefully, “we do have a couple of questions for you…”

You squeeze his hand. Even if he prefers the banister, your presence is comforting all the same, and he’d answer any totally unnecessary, pointless, silly question from your brothers if it means he gets to hug you again later. If you told him eight months ago he’d be this in love, he would’ve laughed in your face. But here he is anyway. 

It’s comforting.

[stressed-and-fluff-obsessed]

I think my request will be about Lee Lucifer because I really think that Lucifer is a great Lee and he is so cute. Well, Lucifer is a childish personality and very hyperactive. This causes him to disrupt the order in the hotel to some extent. Whether it's dealing with Alastor or everyone else, you know he's just having fun. But this situation may hurt Vaggie and Alastor. Okay, Lucifer doesn't bother much with Vaggie, but even his dealing with Alastor causes a lot of destruction in the hotel and Vaggie is tired of it. They may want to catch him and punish him, but it is hidden from Charlie (because Charlie may be too "merciful" in this regard).

And when Charlie isn't around, the two of them can tickle Lucifer.

Alrighty!

Defense Mechanisms

Summary: Being the hyperactive King he is Lucifer is stirring up trouble in the hotel again, so being the hotel’s protectors Vaggie and Alastor take care of it

CW: Swearing, gets a lil intense at the end 😬

Fic below the cut! 👇

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally. A calm day at the hotel. Just Vaggie hanging out in her room with some music playing in the background while she polished her spear. Nothing could take her away from this moment, not stupid Alastor, not annoying Angel not…what was that crash from downstairs?

Vaggie sighed in annoyance, she wanted to stay here and keep tending to her weapon but as the hotel’s protector she had to go see what it was. With a reluctant sigh she stood up and grabbed her half-polished spear and made her way out the door and down the hall.

Arriving in the lobby a few moments later she overlooked the lobby from the top of the staircase but saw nothing? She raised a brow and was about to go downstairs to look around better when Lucifer came flying around the corner, cackling like a gremlin with Alastor hot on his tail.

Vaggie’s eyes widened in alarm and she quickly raced down the stairs and jumped between the two of them, effectively halting them both.

“Okay. Mind telling me what’s going on here?” Vaggie looked at both of them, Alastor watching Lucifer with an expression of exasperation and Lucifer watching Alastor with a grin, hiding behind Vaggie as he did so.

“Well…His Majesty here is being a bit of a nuisance this morning, I am simply keeping him under control. Well, trying to.” Alastor explained and Vaggie looked back at Lucifer behind her who shrank away with a nervous laugh.

“And where are the others?” Vaggie asked the stag, turning her attention back to him and placing her hands on her hips as Alastor pointed to Husk’s bar where Niffty was on top watching with amusement, Angel and Husk were behind the counter trying to stay out of the way and Charlie stood next to the bar counter with an exasperated look on her face.

Vaggie sighed then turned to look at the King behind her. “Your Majesty, what have you been doing all day that would cause them to do that?” She asked him and he stood straight again and straightened his cloak, trying to look as professional as possible after that whole ordeal.

“I was just having a little bit of fun, they’re being dramatic.” Lucifer waved his hand with a scoff, turning back to look at Alastor whose ears bent back a little. “You repeatedly irritated me then ran off laughing when I got mad and tried to wrangle you, you little pest.” Alastor snapped, fixing his hair and twirling his staff behind his back.

“If you’ll excuse me I have some clean up to do a few floors up.” Alastor told the group in the lobby before heading towards and up the large staircase, turning the dark corner and disappearing from sight.

Vaggie looked back at Lucifer who waved at her with a nervous smile, “I technically can’t even be upset with you.” Vaggie sighed, placing two fingers on the bridge of her nose making the King chuckle lightly as the other angel grabbed her spear that she’d placed against the wall and also disappeared up the stairs.

Lucifer let out an audible sigh of relief before wandering over to talk with Charlie, noticing that Angel had come out from the other side of the bar to talk with Husk and Niffty as the cat demon cleaned bottles as he listened to the two ramble.

“Heyyyyy Charlie..” Lucifer dragged out the greeting as he saw Charlie’s expression. “You gotta stop going around and causing trouble in the hotel Dad, it’ll get you in big trouble one of these days.” Charlie told him, scolding the King like a child but he only waved her off.

“It’s fineee Char Char, I’m the King of Hell what’s anyone going to do to me?” He asked her and she raised a brow, folding her arms in front of her chest with a ‘seriously’ type look. “You know what good point.” Lucifer commented and her expression quickly turned confused.

“I didn’t even say anything..” Charlie muttered as she watched her father’s thinking expression. “You didn’t have to.” Lucifer told her, concentrated look never faltering, “..Okay.” Charlie muttered again, facepalming at her dad’s antics.

~*~

What a mess.

Alastor stared irritably at the mess now soaked into the hotel’s floor runners. During Lucifer’s shenanigans Alastor was dusting one of the flower vases on one of the stands in the hallway when Lucifer came in and his task was interrupted causing him to stumble and the vase to get knocked over, water and dirt soaking into the floors as we speak.

So here Alastor was, staring at the floor holding a cloth and bucket of water. “Do you need help?” Vaggie asked, suddenly appearing right next to Alastor making him jump, nearly dropping his supplies.

“Someone’s awfully jumpy.” Vaggie teased the deer, taking the bucket of water from him since he got water in his clothes after the jumpscare, he was currently cleaning the water off his clothes. “Yes well, after a previous jumpscare from the King I suppose that does happen.” Alastor sneered, staring down at the fallen angel and retrieving the bucket from her hands.

“Don’t worry I’m just messing with you.” Vaggie replied with a laugh, walking away and soon returning with a vacuum. “Now what is that supposed to do? It’s soaked into the rug already.” Alastor told her, pointing at the rug for emphasis.

“You idiot it’s to clean up the dirt on top, now get to cleaning before it ruins the rug even more.” Vaggie told him, smacking him over the head in annoyance earning a round of annoyed radio static as the stag bent down to start scrubbing the rug with Vaggie helping.

~*~

“What should I do next?” Lucifer spoke to himself, now back in his room and pondering over a piece of paper and a pen on what he should do next to prank Alastor.

“I don’t think this is a very good idea dad.” Charlie spoke up from one of the walls she was leaning against and Lucifer swung around in his chair and waved her off again.

“It’s fine Charlie! Plus people in the place need to lighten up anyway, they’re always so boring.” He commented, grinning at her now irritated face. “Don’t say that about my friends dad.” Charlie told him, clearly being serious about that matter

“Oh fine but it’s not like I’m wrong.” Lucifer told her, spinning his chair back around and staring at the paper in front of him. “What should I do…” he muttered to himself, trying to think before finally he got it.

He snapped his fingers together in realization, an excited expression forming on his face and he stood up and threw a quick glance at Charlie. “I’ve got it Charlie! I’ll be right back!” Lucifer told her and disappeared from the room before she could get a word out.

“Hehe.” Lucifer chuckled to himself, creeping down the hallway on his way to the main lobby where he knew one of the main trios would be: Angel, Husk and Niffty.

He had a great idea. Place a remote control bug in the foot of one of the corridors to get the little maid away, fake a phone call from Valentino to Angel’s phone to get him away from the bar and play a harmless prank on the cat demon, simple.

So here he was going down the hallway as quietly as he could and when he finally reached the foot of the stairs he hid behind one of the pillars and magicked the remote control bug over to the furthest hall and shot a glance at Niffty to see if she noticed it.

When she didn’t he let out a small whistle and that got her attention, looking around in confusion before her eyes focused on the toy in the hallway. Immediately she pulled her dagger out and ran off to catch it as the remote part of it controlled it to scuttle away.

“One down, one to go.” Lucifer told himself and then looked over to where Angel sat. “Guess Niff found another bug to catch.” Angel commented, watching the little maid run off and taking a swig from a glass of alcohol he was given and leaning up against the bar counter.

“Yep I guess so.” Husk replied, cleaning a previously used shot glass, he was about to say something else when Angel’s phone rang.

The spider demon checked it and audibly groaned, “Ughhh it’s Val, I gotta take this Husk.” Angel told the bartender, reluctantly placing the drink down and walking down a random hallway to take the call.

“Perfect.” The king told himself as the other sighed in content at the now peace and quiet. Well not for long. Lucifer began his scaring prank by pulling a glass cup out of his pocket and chucking it at the nearby wall making it shatter on impact.

Husk’s head immediately snapped to where the glass hit the wall and made a noise of confusion, ear flicking curiously as he walked out from behind his counter, walking over and crouching down to examine the mess.

“Okay now for the next part.” Lucifer audibly monologued, waving his hand in the air and suddenly all the lights in the lobby began flickering violently making Husk snap up, fur standing on end and a nervous growl emitting from his throat.

“Okay whoever’s doin this it ain’t funny you hear? Come on out!” Husk shouted at the ‘ghost’ visibly growing more nervous as the lights suddenly halted all flickering and the room fell dead silent.

Husk was about to turn around and walk back to behind his bar counter when..”BOO!” Lucifer yelled from behind him making the cat demon jump away with a frightened yowl, fur still on end and his wings all puffed up.

Husk caught his breath for a moment after a scare like that as he glanced at Lucifer who was now on the floor laughing and the cat demon huffed out a breath and stood up fully again, straightening his hat and helping the king up.

“Sohohorry Huhusk, couldn’t hehelp mysehelf.” Lucifer giggled and Husk gave him a small smirk. “It’s fine Your Highness, I figured that bug Niffty went after looked fake and it just so happened things started getting weird after Angel got that call from Valentino. Were those your doing?” Husk asked and Lucifer sheepishly rubbed the back of his head.

“Yehep you got me.” He grinned and Husk shook his head in an exasperated way with a smile before walking back to the bar counter.

"Be careful with that Your Highness your pranks although they are harmless might get you in trouble with Charlie." Husk told him as he picked up the glass he was previously cleaning and resumed.

“But as usual Lucifer only waved him off, “I’ll be okay Husk thank you though!” The king called as he started for the staircase again, scaling it and walking down the hall back to his room, Husk watching the whole way.

~*~

“You guys have quite the handful here.” Charlie spoke up as she came down the hall to see Vaggie and Alastor cleaning up what looked like a dirt spill in the carpets.

“Yes well that prank that your father pulled this morning on me resulted in this.” Alastor replied, a little bit of static entering the air at the mention of the incident. “It’s fine Alastor, besides we can’t really do anything he’s the King of Hell.” Vaggie told him, standing up and greeting Charlie before crouching back down to help.

“Do you guys need any help?” Charlie asked them as she got a little closer. “Could you take this to the washer?” Vaggie requested, holding up a dripping wet but mostly clean floor runner and she nodded, taking the runner from the fallen angel and starting down the hallway.

“Hi Mr. Alastor!” Niffty greeted, running down the hallway towards him and Vaggie and holding up the remote control bug she was previously chasing. “Hello Niffty dear.” Alastor greeted back, sitting up straight as she climbed up on his shoulder.

“Look I killed a bug angel lady!” Niffty exclaimed, now referring to Vaggie who chuckled, “I see that, where did you find that one?” She asked the little maid and she grinned before replying, “In the hallway a few halls down, it was fast but I caught it!” Niffty told them before glancing at the still dirty floor runner and scowling.

“Ew what a mess! Go both of you leave! I’m going to clean!” Niffty told Vaggie and Alastor, pulling a broom out of nowhere and shooing them away with it, reluctantly the two left and met Charlie halfway to the lobby.

“Hey guys did you already finish?” Charlie asked them, turning around and falling in step with the both of them. “Nope, Niffty found us and shooed us away, telling us she would take care of the mess.” Vaggie explained and Charlie laughed a little.

“Yep that’s Niffty for you.” She replied, turning to Alastor, “Has my dad been bothering you guys again?” She asked him and he looked down to glance at her. “Thankfully no my dear me and Vaggie here have been in this hallway all afternoon.” Alastor replied and Charlie hummed in thought.

“That’s good but it’s also not like him.” She commented and the two waved off her concern, “It’s okay babe, he’s probably just somewhere else in the hotel planning his next prank or already initiating one.” Vaggie told her, placing a reassuring hand on the princess’ shoulder as they walked.

“Yes there’s nothing to worry about my dear, even if he is around here somewhere causing trouble me and the angel will take care of it.” Alastor remarked making Charlie smile, “Yeah you guys are right I shouldn’t worry.” She smiled as they walked down the hall to the foyer.

~*~

“Hmm, what should I do next..” Lucifer muttered to himself at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers as he thought, “I could…? No that wouldn’t work..” he thought aloud, thinking for a few moments before he felt something prick him in the back.

“Ow! What the..?” Lucifer spoke in confusion, reaching behind him and pulling out the object and holding it in front of him, a red feather. He looked behind him to see that his wings were out, they must have summoned while he was zoned out.

“Oh well back to..wait. I can use my wings! Going around detaching some of the feathers and randomly poking the others with it, it’s brilliant, it doesn’t hurt anyone and it’s funny!” Lucifer exclaimed, now pleased with himself as he stood and walked to the door, opening it and folding his wings in so he could fit through the door before closing it again.

~*~

“Dealing with him is starting to get a little old.” Alastor grumbled, now juts him and Vaggie again on a sofa in the common room. “It’s fine you grump. Plus it’s the King of Hell it’s not really like you can do anything about it.” Vaggie told him, lightly punching the other in the shoulder in an attempt to get him to lighten up.

“I suppose but it’s still- ow!” Alastor exclaimed suddenly, a startled crack of microphone feedback filling the air as his gaze shot down to where something just stabbed him. “What’s wrong?” Vaggie asked him, a hint on concern in her voice.

“Something stabbed me but there’s no wound, just a jab I presume.” Alastor replied cautiously, turning back to Vaggie. “It’s fine it was probably just a stray dagger from Niffty.” Vaggie reassured the other, gesturing to the little maid on Husk’s counter.

“Yes I suppose that would make sense.” Alastor told her, clearing his throat and straightening his bow tie before fixating his attention back on the conversation they were having.

“And then I told her ‘wait you can’t do that that’s dangerous!’” Vaggie laughed, in the midst of telling a particularly amusing story, “Yes that does sound like her.” Alastor replied, letting out a small chuckle of his own at the story.

“Yeah and then what happened was-!!” Vaggie flinched, feeling a stabbing sensation in her back, “What happened my dear?” Alastor asked her, confused static filling the air.

“Let’s just say I know what you meant when you said you felt a stabbing sensation, I’ve kept my eye on Niffty if wasn’t her.” Vaggie grimaced, rubbing the spot where she got ‘stabbed’.

“What is going on?” Alastor spoke, sounding uncharacteristically lost, “I’m not sure but let’s just go back to talking and see if it happens again.” Vaggie told him, now keeping a sharp eye out for anything of the matter.

They continued talking for about 5 more minutes before…”OW!” Alastor exclaimed again, whipping his head around to see a red feather dart back to the shadows. Alastor’s eyes narrowed in anger as he looked down at the stab point which was bleeding this time.

“You’re bleeding Alastor!” Vaggie exclaimed, standing up briskly, “I am aware my dear, but what I am also aware of is the identity of our silent attacker.” Alastor replied, grin more strained now and a lime green aura filling the air, “Let’s go catch an angel.”

~*~

“Shit shit shit! The stupid Bellhop saw one of my feathers and now knows it’s me!” Lucifer thought as he raced down the halls, “Charlie’s out today so I can’t ask her for help and I already know they’re both on my trail! What do I do?!” Lucifer’s mind raced as he ran.

“I know I’ll just hide in my room! Then I’ll just act like I never knew anything in the first place! Brilliant!” Lucifer grinned as he continued running until he reached his room, swinging open the door and shutting it before walking over to his bed and sitting down at the foot of it to catch his breath.

“You really think you got away that easy?” Vaggie spoke and Lucifer’s head shot up as he just noticed her standing in the shadowy part of his room. He then heard a small click and his gaze snapped to the door that had just locked, it now being held shut by lime green magic.

“Huh-?” Lucifer muttered before his gaze locked on the figure standing by the door, “Sorry Your Highness but we wouldn’t make it that easy, you understand~” Alastor grinned, stepping out of the shadows next to Vaggie to be seen.

“Wait no I d-don’t know what you guys are talking about!” He stuttered, now realizing that he’d been caught, “Do you now? Then how do you explain that?” Vaggie asked him, raising a brow and pointing to the small wound on Alastor’s side.

“Uhh, Niffty?” Lucifer grinned sheepishly, eyes widening a little as Vaggie and Alastor subtlety crept closer. “Get him?” Vaggie glanced at Alastor who grinned, “Get him.”

“Shit.” Lucifer muttered, summoning his wings and trying to escape but Alastor slammed his staff on the ground and the room engulfed in darkness, shadowy tendrils bursting out of the floor and grabbed the other out of the air before he could get away.

“No put me down! I am your King!” Lucifer tried pulling the royalty card but it didn’t work on them, the tendrils only carried him to his bed and set him down, still holding him in place as the other fallen angel and the stag walked up to his bedside.

“So what do we do?” Vaggie asked the other, glancing up at him as he hummed, “Uhh maybe let me go?!” Lucifer tried to interject but he was silenced real quick, “I have an idea. We obviously can’t hurt him correct?” Alastor spoke up, looking down at Vaggie who gave him a ‘really?’ type look.

“Yes obviously.” Vaggie rolled her eyes, “Well I have an idea that is just as effective.” Alastor grinned down at the King who sneered at the other, “Yeah? And what’s that?” Vaggie asked him, watching closely as Alastor’s tendril crept closer to the blonde’s side and jabbing him once and fast causing him to jump and shoot his gaze over to glare at Alastor nervously.

“You wouldn’t.” Lucifer told him, a bead of sweat running down the side of his head, “Oh I most certainly would. Care to help me my dear?” Alastor grinned, looking over at a now grinning Vaggie.

“Absolutely. No offense Your Highness but you’ve been a bit of a nuisance lately.” Vaggie replied, looking at Lucifer who now started to smile nervously. “W-Wait you can’t! I’ll tell Charlie!” He tried bargaining but the other two only laughed.

“Charlie? And what are you going to tell her? We’re keeping you here to be nice, we could very easily go to my radio tower and let all of Hell know just how ticklish their king really is~” Alastor taunted, grinning deviously at Lucifer’s now panicked expression.

“Nohoho…I-I’m gohohood..” Lucifer chuckled nervously, glancing at Vaggie with ‘Help me’ written in his eyes but she only shrugged and climbed up on the bed to sit behind his head.

“Would you like to do the honors my dear?” Alastor asked Vaggie, noticing her excited expression, “Gladly.” Vaggie smirked down at Lucifer who grinned nervously back up at her.

The other fallen angel spread her wings and fluttered them a little before descending the tips to drag along Lucifer’s sides and stomach while her hands came down to squeeze and prod at his ribs.

Immediately he started squirming, face turning a light red as he bit his lip to avoid any laughter from coming out, “What’s the matter Your Highness, what happened to all those snarky comments hmm?” Alastor taunted, standing at the foot of the bed with a grin.

“S-Shuhut the hell uhup!” Lucifer snapped, the wave of laughter getting harder and harder to hold back the longer this went on. “You should help me Al, it’s kinda fun.” Vaggie spoke up, still concentrating on Lucifer’s face that just changed to something more worried as she said that.

“Noho! D-Don’t help heher!” He pleaded, face getting redder the longer he held back, wings starting to lightly flap against the bed as it continued.

“Why I would love to.” Alastor smirked lightly, taking one of his fingers and lightly trailing it down the outside of Lucifer’s thigh, relishing in the way his eyes snapped open and his leg jerked away from the touch.

Alastor grabbed the King’s leg and pulled it back, holding it in place and now using all 5 fingers to lightly skitter along that same place and almost laughing as he nearly got kicked in the face and the other broke, hearty laughter pouring out of him with no hope of being contained.

“Wahahahait! Wahahahait you twohoho plehehehease!” Lucifer pleaded, face now fully red with embarrassment, “Wow, begging already? That was fast~” Vaggie teased, trailing her wing tips towards the King’s lower back making him buck, “Nohohohot thehehehere Vahahaggie plehehease!” He pleaded again and she shrugged, bringing her wings back up to his stomach.

“This one seems to be rather sensitive, what about the other one?” Alastor commented to himself, switching his hands to skitter over the other leg causing the other to kick out again, “Nohohohot thehehehere wahahahait!” Lucifer called, trying to sit up but being restricted by Vaggie and Alastor’s tendrils.

“Not where? Here?” Alastor taunted again, moving his hands to lightly scratch over the backs of his knees making the other grin wider, laughter kicking up a notch at the change in spots.

“Hmm..” Vaggie hummed, noticing that Lucifer was sort of covering his neck, she moved her hands lower to squeeze at his sides and brought her wings higher, fluttering and lightly tracing over his neck and jaw. He immediately scrunched up, laughter turning into more loud but breathy giggles that made her internally aww at him.

“DOHohohOHONT do THAhahahahAHAT!” Lucifer complained, kicking again as Alastor switched legs again. “AHAHA! Ahahalastohohor you AHAhahahaHASS!” Lucifer whined making them both mock-offendedly gasp at his remark.

“That wasn’t very nice!” Vaggie scolded him, unable to keep the large grin off her face though, “Do we forgive him?” Vaggie asked Alastor, glancing up at him.

“Hmm…no.” Alastor replied, grinning widely as they both watched his eyes grow from worried to panicked really quick.

“Why don’t we let the hotel know just how ticklish you really are~” Alastor taunted, watching as Lucifer’s wings fluttered in anticipation and the giddy panic as Alastor’s tendrils rose around them and Vaggie gently grabbed, spread and held Lucifer’s wings in place.

~*~

“AHAHAH!! WAHAHAHAHAIT YOU GUHUHUHUYS IM SOHOHOHORRY PLEHEHEHEASE!!” Lucifer cackled as Alastor’s tendrils gently and somewhat roughly playfully attacked his wings, the feathered appendages beating against the bed as he was forced to lay there and take it.

“Hmm are you though?” Vaggie teased him, but still watching his face closely for any hint or indication of distress or discomfort but all she saw was stubbornness and childlike joy, it made her heart swell seeing her king so happy.

“NOHOHOHO WAHAHAHAY!! DO YOUR WOHOHORST I CAN TAKE IHIHIT!!” Lucifer challenged which only made Alastor grin wider, “Alright then. Challenged accepted Your Highness.” He grinned, “Vaggie dear, a little help?” He asked her, gesturing to her wings and then to Lucifer.

Catching on quickly she spread her wings with a thumbs up, Alastor now noticing that she understood, flicked his hand in the air and suddenly the tendrils moved and went after his back, Vaggie following suit by gently tracing his upper rib/underarm area.

Lucifer arched off the bed with a bark of a laugh before crashing back down and bursting into hysterical cackles. “WAHAHAHAHAIT NOHOHOT WHAHAHAT I MEHEHEHEANT HOHOHOLY SHIHIHIT!!” Lucifer screeched, taking his hand and pounding it against the mattress.

Taking that as the universal sign of ‘I’m done’ the two backed off immediately, laughing at the disheveled mess of a King, “Yohohou okay Your Hihighnehess?” Vaggie snickered, hearing chuckles coming from Alastor as well.

“D-Dohohon’t…laugh at mehehehe…you ahahahasshoholes!” Lucifer breathed out, sitting up and smoothing his hair down, being the King of Hell he recovered rather quickly, breathing regulating to normal and titters dying down.

“That. Was completely and totally unfair.” Lucifer grinned, pointing an accusatory finger at the both of them but they only shrugged. “Hey you had to learn your lesson somehow.” Vaggie grinned, “Oh that is IT! Come here!”

~*~

“You heard that too right? All that laughter? Also what do you think that crash from upstairs was?” Angel asked Husk, leaning against the bar counter and downing the shot the bartender just slid his way.

“Who knows in this hotel. But it was likely His Majesty, Vaggie and Alastor. Charlie went to Cannibal Town and Niffty’s over there.” Husk pointed to the little maid chasing a bug in circles a few feet away.

“Yeah but the laughter?” Angel questioned and Husk smirked to himself, “Well His Majesty has been a bit of a pain in the ass today.” Husk smirked, glancing at Angel.

“Yeah but what does that have to do with- ohhhh.” Angel realized, a small smirk forming on his face. “When do you think Charlie will be back? She’s been gone for a while.” Angel asked, staring at the door.

“I don’t know.” Husk replied, turning around and grabbing a bottle of alcohol right as the door banged open.

“I’m baaaack!” Charlie sang, skipping through the doors and stopping in her tracks as she noticed how quiet the hotel was. “Where are Alastor, Vaggie and my dad?” She asked, walking in some more and stopping at the bar, looking around cluelessly.

Husk and Angel glanced at each other then back at her with a smirk.

“You don’t wanna know.”

(I’m so sorry this took so long to get out I’m not dead don’t worry I am very much alive 😭 I’ve just been burnt out from irl things and have had absolutely no ideas or motivation for this but I finally got it finished and hopefully I’ll be able to get the others out quicker! I hope you enjoyed!)

[circus4apsycho8]

knife to meet you. | cole x reader | chapter iii

A/N: I don't know what's wrong with me, but I've been CONSISTENTLY WRITING???? And I'm already starting the fourth chapter for this fic??? What is happening!!

Anyways, chapter 3 is here! I hope you all enjoy. Thank for all of your support so far!

Masterlist for this Fic

Wind batters the ancient walls of the monastery, silence creeping through the hallways as you down the remnants of your morning beverage. Nya and the ninja are nowhere to be found, and you’ve yet to see Wu today. On any other day, the silence wouldn’t have bothered you, but something is…off, somehow. You can’t put your finger on it, but something in the atmosphere is suffocating.

After you finish cleaning up, you decide you need some fresh air. You’d been meaning to explore other parts of the mountain anyway. Tucked underneath your arm is a blanket, your medical bag in your other hand as you proceed to the exit. You’ve probably just been cooped up too long.

Just before you’re about to exit the monastery, your peripheral vision catches motion from one of the open rooms. Halting, you glance at the source.

Sensei Wu is kneeled in his meditation room, thumbing through a photo album. Next to him rests his tea kettle, steaming with his latest brew as he gazes at the people in the photographs. The elderly man senses that you’ve stopped, eyes lifting from the photo album as he snaps it shut.

Realizing that you might be intruding, your eyes widen. “I’m sorry, Sensei. I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

Wu shakes his head, closing the album and pushing it to the side. “Oh, you’re not interrupting. I was about to check on the dragons anyway.”

As Wu reaches for his teacup, you can’t help but glance back at the album. Printed on its worn, muted gold cover is the symbol for Creation - you remember seeing the same symbol in one of Mystake’s books. Underneath that symbol is another one - this one stands for remembrance.

Interesting.

Sensei rises from his position, accompanying you down the hall. In one hand, he carries his bamboo staff while his tea kettle hangs from his other arm. “Have you been settling in well?”

“Yeah! Everything’s been going great,” you answer as the two of you approach the sliding doors.

“I am glad to hear it. Change is neutral and carries no regard for those it affects. Adjusting can be difficult, so I’m glad everything is working out so far,” he muses as you pull the doors open with your free hand.

Not to your surprise, the ninja are nowhere in the courtyard; in their absence lies an empty, eerily silent training course. “Where’d the guys go? I haven’t seen them all morning.”

Sensei Wu pushes a button on one of the monastery support beams. In response, the obstacle course retreats into the ground. “They went out earlier, to investigate something Zane found last night. I’m not sure when they’ll return.”

“I see. Well, I’m going to go look for ingredients for potions. Everything I need should be on the mountain, so I won’t be far in case they need patching up after.”

“Ah, ingredients, you say? You’re welcome to use some of the herbs from my tea garden, if you like,” he says.

“You have a tea garden?” you say, grinning at Wu.

“Certainly. Mystake’s tea blends are the best in Ninjago, and her brand is the only one I drink. However, I’ve yearned to create my own brand of tea for some time now. So, I learned how to grow my own herbs and have been trying to craft the perfect tea recipe ever since.”

“I see,” you reply, tilting your head in thought. “You know…part of my work at Mystake’s shop involved me helping out with her tea blends. So, if you need help, I’d be willing to lend a hand.”

Wu considers your offer, a thoughtful expression on his face as he nods. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

…

It only takes you about fifteen minutes to find Wu’s garden, and an additional half hour for the ingredients you need. The fresh air helps clear your head, ridding you of that strange, oppressive atmosphere you’d felt earlier.

Why do I feel so weird today? you wonder as you pull open the massive courtyard gates. I’ve probably just been cooped up in here too long. Maybe I can go out with Nya later.

An herbal scent draws you back into the present, beckoning your gaze towards the source. Sensei Wu sits in front of a stand filled with incense sticks, pale smoke ascending to the sky. Deciding not to disturb him, you return to your room.

A flurry of motion flinches when you push the door open. You jump in response, realizing Nya is back. She must have been hard at work over her desk, if the series of writing utensils and blueprints on her desk say anything.

“Nya,” you realize, chuckling at the scare. “You’re back.”

“You scared me!” she exclaims, settling a hand over her chest as she laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I went to check on the dragons this morning, and you were still sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I see,” you say, setting your bag next to your bed and coming to sit next to her. “What are you working on?”

The black-haired girl grins, rotating the pencil in her grip so that she can tap the eraser on the page of schematics. “Well, a few different things. First of all, the last mission made me realize that we need some form of long-distance communication. I’m thinking maybe earpieces? That way, the ninja can wear them underneath their hoods, and they wouldn’t be super bulky,” she frowns, tracing the outline of her sketches. “For me, I’m going to rig my bracelet into a communicator. We’ll have to figure out something for you. But we can wait to decide on that until I’m further in the design process.”

You nod in acknowledgement, scanning her notes and sketches. You don’t really understand any of it, but it’s still cool to look at. “Wow…this looks complex. Having a way to communicate over long distances would be helpful, though.”

She flicks the pencil back onto the paper, swiveling towards you as she shakes her writing wrist out. “I hope they’ll help. The designs are going to be a bitch to make, but I think Jay and I can swing it.” She punctuates her sentence with a sigh. “How about you? What have you been up to? I know it’s kind of a slow day until they get back.”

“I just gathered some herbs from that small section of forest up here,” you reply, shrugging. “I’m going to try and mix some medicines later on.”

Nya nods, swiveling back towards her work. “Got it. Maybe when they return, and you’ve patched them up, we can go out. There’s something I want to show that I’ve been working on, but it’s kind of far-”

“Nya?” interrupts Sensei’s muffled voice from the hallway. You and Nya glance at each other, the urgency in Sensei Wu’s tone alarming you. The two of you hop out of your chairs, rushing over to the door.

Before Nya even gets the door all the way open, she starts responding. “Sensei, what is it?!”

“The ninja are in trouble,” Wu answers, clutching an aged flute in one hand. “I had a smoke vision of them. We must go help them.”

“Got it,” Nya turns to you. “We’ll be back as fast as we can!”

“Okay. Be careful!” you call as the two rush down the hallway.

An overwhelming sense of helplessness overcomes you as you pace around the monastery. All of your potions are already prepared, so there’s not much you can do in terms of prep. It’s a matter of waiting now, which is the worst part.

Biting your lip, you pace around the monastery, your medical bag slung over your shoulder and at the ready. It probably hasn’t even been ten minutes since Nya and Wu left, yet it feels like it’s been hours. Nya was right about the team needing communication devices - not knowing what’s going on is eating at you.

Maybe I’ll just wait outside so I can see when they get back, you think, heading for the front sliding door.

Pushing your bag out of the way, you move to open the door. To your surprise, it doesn’t budge.

“What the hell?” you mumble, hands drifting to the lock. Just as you thought, it isn’t latched. So why isn’t it opening?

Uneasiness creeps throughout your tummy as you tug on the door one more time, frowning at its refusal to open. Something deep inside your gut tells you that the chill of the draft isn’t the reason why the hairs on your skin are standing.

“Something is coming. Be careful,” whispers an unfamiliar, feminine voice. You jump, gasping at the nearness of her words. When you swivel your head, however, it reveals no one else in the hallway with you. Words freeze in your throat as you shake your head, trying to get ahold of yourself.

“What’s coming? Who are you? Are you the lady I saw outside?” you wonder, voice cracking a little as you try the door again. It’s still not opening.

“Yes. Snakes. I cannot hold this form for long. Please prepare.” With that, the atmosphere lightens as the presence evaporates. You swallow at the lady’s warning, questions buzzing about your mind.

Man…what would Mystake say if she were in your position? She’d tell me to listen to my body and instinct. She always said that if you feel as if something is wrong, then you’re probably right, and to never doubt your intuition.

You don’t feel threatened by…whoever that was, and you wouldn’t put it past the serpentine to try and steal their staff back. You decide to heed her warning; you can always try to figure out who she is later. But how are you supposed to prepare for an attack? The only thing you can think to do is lock the gate. Not to mention that you’re still learning the monastery’s layout.

Your mentor’s words echo in your mind: Don’t freeze. Make a decision. Doing something is better than doing nothing.

Swallowing your fear, you try the door again. This time, it swings open. You dash towards the gate, holding your medical bag steady against your side. With a grunt, you swing the swiveling wooden latch into place.

Autopilot kicks in when you realize that the snakes will probably ransack the place looking for their staff. It’s too bad you didn’t see where Sensei Wu hid it, otherwise you could take it with you.

Running through the memories of items you recall everyone using, you decide to collect sentimental items that can fit in your bag. You manage to grab Jay and Nya’s blueprints, the siblings’ twin, custom-made knives, a container of Kai’s hair gel, Cole’s art supplies, Jay’s handheld gaming console and invention journal, a few of Zane’s books, and Sensei Wu’s photo album.

Mental note to thank Mystake for making this bag so big, you think when the zipper closes your packed bag with ease.

As soon as you finish, the ground shakes in response to something booming outside. You gasp as shouts emanate from the direction of the courtyard, eyes widening when you realize you’ll be the first thing the serpentine see if they get inside.

So much for the gate.

At the thought, you dash through the monastery, ducking inside the guys’ room and locking the door. Thankfully, your memory was right - they do have a window, and outside of it, there’s just enough room for you to walk around the perimeter.

“Find the staff!” commands a voice - this time, a familiar one. Maybe one of the snakes you and Nya eavesdropped on at Jamanakai? “Burn this pathetic place to the ground! Ensure the ninja have no home to return to!”

As soon as the leader stops talking, chaos ensues: the snakes cry out, immediately tearing the building apart. Glass shatters, footsteps thunder through the halls, furniture is torn and ripped apart.

With no time to waste, you slide the windowpane up. Shrugging your bag off your shoulder, you push it through the window first. After giving yourself a boost on the bunk beds’ nightstand, you manage to haul yourself through.

Your landing is ungraceful, but it works. A grunt escapes you as you pick yourself back up, grabbing your bag again before looking around. You’re on the back portion of the mountain now, and there’s not much room for you to walk on. There are only a few feet between the monastery walls and the edge of the mountain, so you follow the walls.

Fear tightens your throat, wind whipping against your skin as you work your way along the side of the monastery. You force your gaze to remain on the path, paying no heed to the mountain’s looming height. As you walk, a smoky scent starts drifting about the air as the chaos inside rages on. Even so, you continue forward.

To your dismay, once you round the corner, your pathway ends. It’s blocked by a windowed wall of the monastery, meaning that you’re going to have to cut through inside. Cursing underneath your breath, you crouch down underneath the kitchen window. You need a plan.

Okay…where should you go, first of all? Everyone else is gone, so you’re on your own, and you sure as hell don’t stand a chance against the snakes. You wrack your mind for a solution before recalling something that Nya and Wu said earlier.

“The dragons!” you realize. Sensei Wu said he had wanted to check on them earlier, meaning that the ninja hadn’t taken them on their mission. If you can make it there, you could hunker down with them. Unless the serpentine thought to light the keep on fire too…

You shake that thought away, deciding to tackle one problem at a time.

Decision made, you peek through the kitchen window. From what you can see, it’s clear for the moment, but thick plumes of dark smoke have gathered above. Flames have consumed the left hallway, meaning that you’ll have to make a break for the keep from one of the windows facing the courtyard.

First Spinjitzu Master, help me. Here goes nothing.

You’re not so lucky with this window - it’s locked. You reach down into the pockets of your bag, pulling out a knife you’d taken from the ninja’s room. The hilt seems hefty enough to shatter the glass. With a grunt, you slam the butt of the blade down onto the glass, flinching as it shatters. Glass pools at your feet, the noise drowned out by the chaos emanating from the main side of the monastery.

Tucking the knife back in your bag, you start climbing into the monastery. Remnants of glass nick your hands as you hoist yourself inside, leaving your palms stinging and bloody. Heat singes your skin as you rush towards the other window, smoke ravaging your lungs and throat. Through coughing fits, you make it to the window and manage to unlock it.

Once you push it up, you spot a group of snakes huddled near the front of the monastery. The path past the gate seems clear otherwise; you just have to make it. Hopefully the dragons can bail you out if the snakes chase you.

Okay. Here you go.

Initially, the snakes don’t notice you clambering through the window, too focused on watching the monastery burn. You immediately break into a sprint, bag jostling against your torso as you pass the gate despite your efforts to keep it steady. Voices shout from behind you, but you don’t stop to look back. Instead, you run faster, lungs burning as you resist the urge to cough again.

When you make it to the stretch leading to the keep, you force yourself to keep your eyes ahead. You don’t focus on the fact that you could tumble to your death with a single misstep.

Your heart breaks when you realize the serpentine had lit the dragon cave on fire. Roars pierce the air, prompting you to scramble for the lever embedded in the wall.

“Fuck!” you yell when the lever turns out to be harder to pull than you anticipated. The blood on your hands isn’t helping either; your grip keeps slipping. Frustrated, you fish a medical towel from one of your bag’s many pockets, using it to secure your grip. Adrenaline rushes your muscles when you hear the serpentine approaching. “Come on!”

With a strangled cry, you finally manage to pull it all the way down. Gears screech from within the cave, the wooden gates retreating into the earth moments later. Shard and Wisp stomp out of the cave, immediately taking flight while Rocky lingers behind, stepping out of the fiery portion. He growls at something behind you, prompting you to turn around.

You gasp when you see a snake closing in on you. He wields a twin set of katanas, zeroing in on you. What he fails to notice is Shard hovering in the air across from you, the dragon’s powerful wings pumping gusts of wind in your direction. Icy blue breath erupts from his jaws, freezing the snake solid against the mountain.

“Thank you, Shard!” you yell, voice hoarse. He roars in response, ascending to the top of the mountain and leaving you with the remaining dragon. “Rocky! Are you okay?!”

The dragon whines, nuzzling your hand when you pet him. He crouches, lowering his wing to the ground. You waste no time climbing atop the dragon, sitting in Cole’s usual spot. Thankfully, Rocky doesn’t wait for you to take the reins. Once you’ve got a secure grip on him, he rushes out of the flame-filled cave, wings taking it from there.

Tears gather in your eyes when you spot the monastery completely ablaze. Rocky hangs back so that you’re not exposed to the whelm of smoke rising above the mountain, letting Wisp and Shard take turns blasting ice or sparks at the remaining serpentine. The bastards finally seem to be retreating, but the damage is done; what remains of the monastery is nothing more than a pile of flaming rubble and debris.

“I can’t believe it…” you mumble, watching as Shard begins spraying the remaining flames with his icy breath. “It’s…it’s gone.”

Rocky responds with a mournful growl, coasting on the air as he circles the mountain. You blink a few times, your surroundings not feeling real anymore. Dizziness sways your vision as the events replay, mind having trouble processing everything.

Rocky deems the mountain safe enough for you to land a few minutes later, gently descending to the ground. When you slide off his back, he nuzzles his snout into your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you whisper, petting his scales a few times. Rocky merely leans into your touch, sorrow lacing his eyes.

You collapse to your knees, pulling the strap of your bag off your body as Rocky lays down next to you. With the adrenaline wearing off, your skin is starting to sting with the mild burns you probably got inside the monastery. Even so, you elect to hold off on using any supplies until the ninja have been treated.

With the back of your hand, you pet Rocky. He closes his eyes at your touch, adjusting his head so that he’s resting on his forelegs. Another soft dragon groan from your other side catches your attention, a draconic shadow looming over you. Turning, you spot Shard slinking up to you.

“What is it?” you wonder. You swear these dragons can understand you.

Shard sidles up next to you, enveloping you with his wing from behind. The chill from his freezing body temperature numbs the burns on your skin, making you sigh in relief.

“That’s…that’s better. Thank you, Shard.”

Wisp wanders in front of you, growling softly as he lowers his snout to you. Not wanting to leave him out, you give him a few reassuring pets.

For a while, you simply process the event alongside three dragons as you wait for the others. Your thoughts zigzag to miscellaneous questions: what would the others say when they returned? Where are they? Are they hurt? Who (or what) warned you about the serpentine? Was there anything you could have done to stop the serpentine from burning the monastery down?

Your thoughts are interrupted when Shard retracts his wing, standing at attention. Rocky gently bumps your shoulder with his snout, urging you to stand. Obliging, you study the dragons’ reactions. It takes you a minute or so, but finally you hear the distant roar of Flame approaching.

To your relief, everyone is aboard the dragon. Okay, that’s good at least: no one seems critically injured. You and the dragons step to the side when Flame hovers overhead, sailing down once he has a clear area to land.

The ninja are the first to descend, surveying the area as they flip their hoods off. Jay, Cole, and Zane make their way to their respective dragons, making sure they’re okay.

“Our home…” Kai mumbles, trailing off as he processes the damage. Nya rushes out from his side, making her way over to you.

“Are you okay?!” Nya questions, gesturing to the mild burns on your skin. “Oh, god, one of us should have stayed with you.”

“I’m fine. You couldn’t have known. Is everyone else okay?”

“Just a few bumps. But this…” Nya trails off as everyone gathers together. Grief and shock bubble in the atmosphere, merging into a tension that has you fidgeting.

“The training equipment, gone…” Zane murmurs, petting Shard as he looks around.

“Our video games! Gone!” Jay cries.

“They stole their staff back,” Sensei Wu realizes. You remember what he told you about the monastery; it had been standing for thousands of years, and had been his childhood home. You can’t even begin to imagine the loss he’s experiencing.

“What do we do now?” Cole wonders, returning Rocky’s nuzzle with an embrace of his own.

The tension snaps when Kai crushes a piece of charred wood in his grasp, expression darkening as he swivels towards Zane. “If you hadn't followed that silly bird, none of this would've happened!”

“Kai…” Wu warns.

Fed up, Jay shakes his head. “No, Sensei, he's right! Because of you, my high score has been deleted!”

Zane’s expression falters as his teammates begin accusing him of something he couldn’t control. “This is a teaching moment. We must learn from this!”

Cole throws his hands up in the air, defeat scrawled on his expression. “A ‘teaching moment’? What's wrong with you? Don't you get it?! Everything is gone!”

You step in front of Zane, expression hardening. It’s not fair that they’re blaming all of this on him; Zane couldn’t have known the serpentine were going to attack.

Coming to the white ninja’s defense, you argue: “Not everything is gone. I managed to save a few sentimental items before they ransacked the building. And if you’re going to blame anybody, blame me. I was here, but I couldn’t stop them. Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent this from happening. Zane couldn’t have known they were going to burn the place down!”

Nya joins you, hands on her hips as she scowls at the guys. “Without Zane, you guys wouldn’t have found Lloyd’s hideout.” She steps up to her older brother, meeting his accusatory glare with one just as stubborn. “We could have planned this out better, but we didn’t. We’re all at fault here, and we’re going to learn from this.”

Sensei Wu steps in, gesturing for everyone to separate. You all do so, lining up together. “Yes, we are all at fault. Ninja, Zane is your brother. Apologize at once.”

Silence overcomes the groups, anger dissipating.. Kai turns first, regret lacing his eyes as he starts: “I’m sorry, Zane. I-”

When Kai trails off, everyone turns to look for the mentioned ninja. To your surprise, Zane is nowhere to be found. Neither is Shard.

“Zane?” Jay wonders, confusion lacing his tone.

“There,” Nya says, pointing to the sky. Off in the distance, you see Zane and Shard sailing through the air.

Sensei Wu sighs, rubbing his temples. “He will come back when he is ready, and you three will apologize to him. We may have lost our home, but we have not and will not lose each other. No matter how dire the circumstances are, we will never turn on each other. Disagreements are bound to happen, but we must learn to address them in a more productive manner. Let us take this experience to reflect on what we have lost and how to prevent something like this from happening again.”

“Yes, Sensei,” everyone replies in unison.

Sensei Wu nods, making his way towards the path to the dragon keep. “Good. I would like to have a few minutes alone here. Please head for the Mountains of Impossible Height; I will catch up shortly.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

As the guys head for the staircase, you gesture for Nya to stay with you. She quirks an eyebrow, wondering what you need.

“Can you grab the photo album out of my bag? My hands are still kind of bloody,” you request, glancing at the dried bits of blood sticking to your skin.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, unzipping your bag and fishing the book out.

“Sensei, before we go, I wanted to give you your photo album. I was able to grab it before I had to escape,” you say, watching as your friend hands the mentioned item to Wu.

“Ah…you saved our pictures,” he says, voice low as he accepts the album. “Many of us had irreplaceable photos in here. Thank you for bringing these to me.”

“You’re welcome, Sensei.”

Nya smiles softly, tugging on your bicep as she bids Wu goodbye: “Take your time, Sensei.”

…

An hour or so later, the six of you make the hike up to Sensei’s specified location. The dragons fly your group up the steeper bits. Eventually, you all find a spot big enough to sport everyone and the dragons.

Silence overcomes the group after Cole gives everyone a task to focus on. He and Kai are setting up a makeshift tent together while Jay and Nya search for firewood. You’re tasked with finding edible plants in a nearby forest.

To avoid smearing your blood on everything, you pull on a pair of blue medical grade gloves when picking the plants. You leave your bag back at camp, grateful for the chance to give your sore shoulders a break from its weight.

Finding edible plants doesn’t take long considering how small the patch of forest is. Nearly fifteen minutes later, you return with an armful of potion ingredients, edible plants, and supplies. Kai and Cole have finished with the tent, and Jay and Nya appear to be finishing up with the firewood. As you bump into the others, you hand out the items you saved in hopes it would bring up the mood a bit.

Kai and Nya are first: for the siblings, you were able to grab some of Nya’s blueprints as well as a twin pair of custom-made daggers: one for Kai, and the other for Nya. The engravings and color on the blades differ, but they’re the same shape. You wonder if they came from the siblings’ blacksmith shop. Kai is also relieved to see that you managed to save one container of his hair gel, replying: “At least my hair won’t suffer!”

For Jay, you were able to save some of his blueprints, a journal filled to the brim with invention idea sketches, and a handheld gaming console that was in its travel case when you’d grabbed it. Jay thanks you with glassy eyes when you hand him his belongings, telling you that the journal and console were gifts from his parents.

Of Zane’s possessions, you were able to save three old books. Despite their age, they appear to be well cared for. You hope he’ll be back soon.

Lastly, you have a sketchbook and a set of art supplies that you suspect are Cole’s. You spot the black ninja shuffling the firewood that Jay and Nya collected over to the finished tent.

“Hey,” you greet, keeping your voice low as you approach him. “How are you holding up?”

Once he finishes tying a knot, Cole looks over to you. “Hey. I’m…okay, considering the circumstances.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he surveys the tent. “How about you?”

You shrug, gently tracing the line of your gloved palm with a finger. “I’m okay. I wanted to give you this,” you reply, taking his sketchbook and art supplies from your bag. “I was able to save it before they fully ransacked the place.”

Cole’s fingertips brush yours as he accepts his belongings, a ghost of a smile twitching over his lips. “My sketchbook…thank you.”

“Not a problem,” you reply, withdrawing your hand. No longer under the cover of the items, your gloves are now visible. Some of your bloodstains have darkened the blue fabric from underneath, making Cole frown.

The black ninja tucks his sketchbook and case of supplies underneath his arm. “Your hands… Did they hurt you?”

“Oh, no. This was just from me having to climb through a busted window. Some of the glass shards were still on the frame when I grabbed it.”

Cole cringes at the story, stare still not averting. “Here, guide me through your method of bandaging. Where are your supplies?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “No, Cole, don’t worry about it. I can do it.”

The raven-haired male shoots you a funny look, shaking his head in response. “Come on, you’ve done it for me like…eighty times already, and you haven’t even been here for a month yet. At least teach me how to do it in case we have to administer first aid if we’re on the field.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of my job?” you wonder.

“Not if you’re far away,” he counters, spotting your bag a few feet away. You follow him, realizing that the Golden Weapons (minus Zane’s shurikens) were placed next to it while you were in the forest, all resting on the ground but not touching. The metal twinkles in the evening light, pulsing with a hint of energy.

“Good point. Maybe we should have a basic first aid class, then,” you muse, deciding you’d ask Sensei Wu about it later. “Okay, fine. Let’s sit down.”

He nods, snatching your bag from the ground while you make your way underneath the tent. Sidestepping the pile of sticks, you have a seat on the dirt. Cole settles in across from you as you peel the gloves off, letting them fall to the side.

“Okay, what first?” he asks.

“First, our priority is to stop the bleeding,” you instruct, peering at your cuts. Thankfully, the bleeding is coming to a halt. “It looks like my bleeding is slowing down, though. But, in the case that it wasn’t, you would use a bandage or cloth to stop it.”

“Got it,” Cole replies.

You nod, tipping your head in the direction of the bag. “Okay. Now, it’s time to clean the wound. I have a bottle of cleaning solution in there somewhere. It’s a little bottle with a teal-colored liquid. There should also be a pink cloth in there too.”

“Okay…” Cole mumbles, rummaging through your bag before pulling out the items. “These?”

“Yep. Pour a little bit of the liquid onto the cloth, then just dab on the cuts. I usually like to clean off the excess blood if the cut isn’t much of a worry at this point, but that’s more of personal preference.”

Cole nods, dampening the cloth with the antiseptic. Once that’s done, he gingerly takes your hand, making your heart bash itself against your ribcage. After he dabs at the blood for a moment, he glances up at you.

“What is it?” you wonder.

“I was hoping that you’d be cringing or hissing at the stinging,” he admits as he continues.

You frown incredulously at him, huffing a laugh. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to make fun of you for making fun of me when I cringed at the stinging sensation. Unfortunately for me, you’re not even reacting to it, which makes me look like a wuss.”

Not expecting his response, you can’t help but laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” he replies, moving to your other hand. You wonder if the others had been teasing him about it, hoping that they hadn’t been doing it too much. After all, you’re still getting to know everyone and their senses of humor. You don’t want to go overboard, so you elect to tone it down a bit just in case.

“You’re not a wuss,” you say after a few moments. “I mean, I’m not the one throwing myself into dangerous situations for the greater good.”

Cole doesn’t answer, instead focusing on cleaning the remainder of your hand. When he’s done, he glances back up to you. “Is that good?”

“Yep, perfect. Now, it’s time to bandage. See the gauze roll, tape, and scissors I have tucked in one of the inner pockets?”

“Uh…here,” Cole mumbles, fishing the items out.

You nod. “Go ahead and wrap my hands up. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

For some reason, you don’t focus as he wraps your hands. Instead, your eyes sneak peeks at his biceps, exposed underneath his rolled-up gi sleeves. When you catch yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut and admonish yourself. To keep yourself on task, you restart the conversation:

 “Are you feeling any different today? It looks like your symptoms are gone.”

“About that, I realized why I looked sick,” he replies, frowning when the gauze comes loose. He starts again, this time making sure to keep the gauze pulled tighter. “You know how that one snake almost hypnotized me in Jamanakai? Well, it turns out that the snake still had some kind of hold over me. It was able to hypnotize me while we were on the mission today. Thankfully, Nya and Sensei Wu arrived with his ancient flute that apparently cures snake hypnosis.”

“That’s…weird,” you answer, face scrunching in confusion as you process his explanation. “A flute that cures snake hypnosis?”

Cole shakes his head as he finishes up with your first hand. “I don’t even know. I’ve learned not to question Wu anymore.”

“Mystake was the same way,” you say, grinning at his reaction. “Just had the wackiest solutions to the most random problems. Must be an old-timer thing.”

Your heart stumbles when Cole smiles again; this time, you can see dimples dotting his cheeks. “Must be.”

With that, the two of you fall silent. As Cole works on wrapping gauze around your other hand, you look out towards the others. Everyone seems to be in their own little bubble for the moment. Kai and Nya are sitting together, facing away from everyone else and observing the sunset as they chat amongst themselves. Flame lays next to the siblings, accepting pets from Kai as Nya twirls her dagger mindlessly.

On the other side of the mountain is Jay, leaning against Wisp’s body. The blue ninja studies a page in his journal, expression taught as he does so. Last is Sensei Wu, meditating off to the side. Somehow, he still has his blue tea kettle; the item is in front of him, steaming with yet another batch of tea.

Did he take the kettle with him when they left…?

“Are you really doing okay?” you wonder, not quite thinking about your words as you speak.

Cole sighs as he snips off the unneeded gauze with your scissors. “Yeah. It’s just…being leader has turned out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. I keep wondering if there was something I could have done differently to prevent this from happening.”

“You’re a leader, not a psychic. Your job is to lead the team and adjust your actions to the circumstances. You can’t blame something like the fire on yourself. There’s no way you could have known the serpentine were going to do that,” you say, nodding as he tapes the gauze in place.

The raven-haired ninja contemplates your words, tucking your supplies back into the bag.  “You’re right. I just…I don’t know, I can’t help but feel guilty still.”

“You have to give yourself some grace, Cole,” you add, recalling what Sensei Wu told you back at the tea shop. “You guys just got out of training, right? So, you guys are still learning. Not just as individuals, but as a team, too. Leading a team is no easy feat, but I think you’ve been doing a great job of it, if the battle in Jamanakai showed me anything.”

As Cole contemplates your words, he shifts so that his elbow is resting atop his knee. “How is it that your advice is on par with Wu’s?”

You shrug, wiggling your fingers to test out the gauze. It holds well, and while his handiwork is on the messier side, it still gets the job done. “Probably because I’ve lived with a crazy old woman for a while. By the way, nice job on these.”

“Thanks. Hopefully I’ll get better with practice,” he replies, admiring his work for a moment before zipping your bag shut with a sigh. “How about your burns? Don’t those hurt?”

You wave his concerns off. “Eh, I’ve had worse. I’ll get to them later. Thanks for your help, though. It would have been a bitch to try and bandage my hands on my own.”

“Yeah, thanks for teaching me.” Cole leans forward, arranging the sticks into a neater pile. Beside the tent, you spot a pile of hefty rocks, probably to help keep the sticks contained. Without a word, you start lining the rocks up around the pile while Cole works across from you.

“Do you think Zane will come back?” he speaks up suddenly, making you glance up at him.

“I know he will,” you reply. “He might just need some time.”

 “I wish I hadn’t been so hard on him,” Cold admits, shifting his attention to the rocks. “I wasn’t thinking straight, and I should have just walked away to let myself cool off.”

“Well, we’re all bound to have those kinds of moments. The important thing is that we learn from our mistakes. Like Sensei said, we need to take this time to reflect and improve.”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it, and I might see if Jay and Nya can spruce up defenses wherever we end up next,” Cole agrees as the two of you complete the makeshift fire pit. All that’s needed now is a spark.

You nod in agreement, remembering Nya’s blueprints. “Nya was talking about getting earpieces made for you guys too. Hopefully having better communication will make things run more smoothly.”

“Yeah, I saw Jay working on schematics for those the other night,” Cole recalls before frowning. “By the way…I just remembered. You’re staying, right? I know Sensei said your trial period was up, but I never heard an answer from him,” he questions, leaning back on his free hand. It’s all you can do to maintain eye contact and not ogle his arms.

“Oh, yeah, I am,” you reply. “Why?”

He shrugs, averting his gaze to the horizon. “Well, it’s just…you know you’re part of the team now, right? You keep speaking like we’re something…separate, I guess.”

Do you? You hadn’t even noticed. Taking a moment to reflect on his words, you shift your position a little bit. “I…guess I do know, but it’s more of me not wanting to disturb your dynamic. You guys already have your own routine, your own way of life, and I just…I don’t know, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Well…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to feel like an outsider. You’re a part of us now, so…um, I just want to make sure you don’t feel excluded or anything, I guess.”

“Oh, no, I don’t feel excluded. I guess it’ll just take me some time to get adjusted,” you assure, grinning when Rocky bumps Cole’s shoulder.

“Oh, shut up,” Cole grumbles, playfully whacking Rocky’s snout. The dragon growls, laying down next to Cole with a huff. Cole shakes his head at the dragon while you shuffle to the other side of Rocky, petting his head.

“Thank you for your help today, Rocky,” you mumble, giggling when the dragon nuzzles into your hand.

“He helped you?” Cole wonders, returning to a cross-legged position.

“Yeah, he flew me out of the monastery while the other two fought the remaining snakes off,” you answer. “Sweet dragon.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Cole retorts when Rocky flashes a smug expression to the black ninja. “But I’m glad he was of some use. He might have just earned himself another T-O-A-D,” he spells out, making you laugh.

Over the course of the next few minutes, the others start to join the two of you underneath the tent. Flame uses his breath to ignite the pile of sticks before the dragons retreat off to a more open area, all opting to rest. You’re positioned in between Cole and Nya as everyone snacks on the plants and berries you were able to gather.

Defeated chatter emanates from the group, and you find yourself zoning out as exhaustion overcomes you. For a few minutes, you find yourself on the verge of dozing off as the heat of the fire wards off the evening’s incoming chill. You don’t join in on the conversation, instead reflecting on the events of the day as you stare at the fire.

Just as your eyelids are about to drop, a commotion snaps you out of your groggy state. You jerk when you feel the others rushing out from the tent, stumbling to your feet and making your way over to Nya. To your relief, Zane stands in front of the others, Shard nearby. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem upset in spite of the apologies the guys are throwing.

The white ninja offers his signature, soft smile. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

Kai frowns at the response. “But what about all those awful things we said? Isn't that why you left?”

“Of course not. I saw the falcon again,” answers the white-haired ninja, turning as he gestures to the sky. Sure enough, a falcon soars overhead, chirping along with Zane’s words. “And I followed him.”

Cole chuckles, shaking his head as he claps Zane’s shoulder a few times. “That’s our Zane.”

You can’t help but smile as everyone pulls Zane in for a hug, relaxing when the overwhelming sense of relief in the air floods you.

Nya pulls back first, settling her hands on her hips. “We’re happy to have you back.”

At her remark, Zane frowns as everyone steps back from him. “Why? Is it my turn to make dinner?”

The group laughs at Zane’s question while Sensei Wu steps beside the white ninja. “Yes, Zane. We would love for you to make dinner.”

“But I already made it. Come,” Zane responds, gesturing for you all to follow him as he turns around. “I want to show you what I've found. I think you will all be pleased.”

After you all shoot each other confused glances, you shrug it off and follow the white-haired ninja towards the path leading off the mountain. Just before your group rounds the corner, he pauses, turning back to you all.

“I can't explain it, but I feel a strange connection with the falcon. I think he's trying to help show us the path we need to take.”

Zane doesn’t wait for anyone to reply, instead gesturing for everyone to proceed. Turning the corner reveals…

…a ship?

It’s nothing like any ship you’ve ever seen, though – this one is a deep red, accented with gold in places and complete with a carved dragon on the bow. For a moment, you find yourself stunned at the sight – you take a moment to appreciate the design.

“Our new home,” Zane says, smiling at the team’s reaction.

After you all take a moment to process the sight, Kai immediately breaks out into a sprint, shortly followed by Cole and Jay. Nya full on growls, snatching your wrist and pulling you in the direction of the ship. “Come on, we can’t let those idiots nab the best room!”

A/N: I think my consistency with this fic is due to me getting to the juicy classes of my Creative Writing degree. I had my first writing class last month and I feel like I learned a lot. Got some great feedback. I'm going to try and apply what I learn here to practice!

Would love to hear what you all think of this fic!

Masterlist for this Fic

Rules for Requesting

[cuntdevil-nav]

★. CUNTDEVIL'S WIKI SEARCH !

you have three (3) notes . . . some fics contain (n)sfw /dark content. some fics are dedicated to characters that are aged up or a timeskip is used. you are in charge of what story you choose to follow. the moment you feel uncomfortable or triggered by any piece, please return and read something else or block me.

• looking for projects 1k words & less? check out my tag . . . #‧₊˚ ⋅ : short & sweet.

key ─── ( ✷ ) : dark themes. • ( ✧ ) : sexually mature. • ( 𖹭 ) : writer's favorites. • ( ★ ) : readers' favorites. • ( ✔️ ) : completed. • ( 〰️ ) : ongoing. • ( ✖️ ) : discontinued.

𝐁𝐎𝐊𝐔 𝐍𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐊𝐈 !

➤ THE CLEANER-UPPER ⋮ BAKUGO KATSUKI

✷✧ a highly-regarded murder cleaner is assigned a job at a hotel. unfortunately, when housekeeping walks in, it breaks bakugo's streak and ability to make a clean getaway ─── ( 7.0k words ! )

➤ ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES ⋮ BAKUGO KATSUKI

✧ you've made your way up the rankings and retired pro-hero, dynamite aka bakugo katsuki, couldn't be more proud ─── ( 7.3k words ! )

𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐖𝐈𝐊𝐈 !

➤ WAITING ON A MIRACLE ⋮ ATSUMU MIYA.

after losing his entire career and future, atsumu goes to the one person outside of his brother in hopes of alleviating the pain. and as always, you answer his calls with a plate of food and a needed kiss. ─── ( 2.3k words ! )

𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐊𝐈 !

➤ ASS-KICKED ⋮ ITADORI YUUJI

✧ they say the way to be a superhero in modern-day society is by joining the police force or becoming a firefighter. yuuji itadori begs to differ. why not try to become the real deal? ─── ( 8.8k words ! )

➤ DIVERSE PALETTE ⋮ SUKUNA RYOMEN

✧ you always considered yourself diverse within the world of food & the culinary arts, but you realize how inept you are when you meet sukuna. he lets you know that your palette was weak until you tried him ─── ( 1.5k words ! )

➤ FROZEN ⋮ HIGURUMA HIROMI

✧ the flowers will be blooming, the leaves will be turning, and snow will be falling while we're making love. and the sun will be shining, the flowers still are blooming, the leaves will turn again, but time will be frozen with us ─── ( 4.2k words ! )

➤ NEVER BE ENOUGH ⋮ CHOSO KAMO

✷✧ the fan fiction he writes for you will never be enough, and neither is the week he's been gifted to meet you. it will never be enough until he has you in his hold. ─── ( 17.0k words ! )

➤ NO GOOD NIGHT'S REST ⋮ NANAMI KENTO

✧ nanami can't have a good night's rest with a wife like you. you say it's for him, to take care of him & his needs, but he knows his wife so well and how much you love him sleeping nearly nude ─── ( 4.7k words ! )

➤ ONE KISS AWAY FROM LOSING YOU ⋮ NANAMI KENTO

✧ nanami kento has been caught booking a hotel room with a mystery person. we couldn’t capture a clear photo of the person, but it’s definitely someone not in the royal family’s caliber. who could it be? ─── ( 2.1k words ! )

➤ ONE (1) NOTIFICATION FROM . . . ⋮ ITADORI YUUJI

✧ unlike other men on discord, yuuji itadori is a gentleman. your one and only savior, your night and shining armor. he saves you from all the disgusting shit they say about you, only to want the same thing ─── ( 4.7k words ! )

➤ OVERBEARER ⋮ YUUTA OKKOTSU

✷✧ now that you were older, you felt like you could venture out in the world. however, you forgot how overbearing your step-brother could be ─── ( 3.7k words ! )

➤ PRETTY BROWN EYES ⋮ TAKUMA INO

✧ he hoped to swoon you with his gorgeous brown eyes and bright personality ─── never mind the fact that he has a girlfriend. ─── ( 5.0k words ! )

➤ SORRY WON'T HEAL EVERYTHING ⋮ MEGUMI FUSHIGURO.

✧ you've been lying to megumi, saying that you need his help in organic chemistry, when in actuality, you just want to be in close proximity ─── ( 6.4k words ! )

➤ SPEAK EASY ⋮ GETO SUGURU.

✧ the twenties were a prosperous period of time as the country experienced an economic boom, but it wasn't very special for geto as the prohibition was set in place. luckily, he had his pretty doll to keep him company ─── ( 1.5k words ! )

➤ STORKS ⋮ SUKUNA RYOUMEN ( ★ )

✷✧ one out of every five storks, there’s a black one, differentiating itself from the rest ─── ( 2.2k words ! )

➤ TINY LITTLE FIRES ⋮ TOJI/KUNA.

✧ for two firemen whose jobs are to help civilians, they've managed to spark flames inside you that you wish not to extinguish. ─── ( 2.5k words ! )

➤ TOUCHDOWN ON THAT PUSSY ⋮ SATO/SUGU ( ★ )

✧ a good way to celebrate the victory of a game is to have a sweet little treat right after. luckily, gojo is willing to share ─── ( 5.9k words ! )

➤ VISCERAL CHOKEHOLD ⋮ HIGURUMA HIROMI ( 𖹭 )

✷✧ no one ever thought you would make it this far, and maybe you wouldn't have without higuruma's help ─── ( 16.2k words ! )

➤ YOUR ARMS ARE MY HOME ⋮ NANAMI KENTO.

✧ nanami never took himself as a jack of all trades, but he was decent at a lot of stuff. apparently, not at decorating a gingerbread house, though. ─── ( 4.0k words ! )

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 & 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 !

➤ CYBERCORE ⋮ X-MEN & SUPERNATURAL (✔️)

✷✧ welcome to cybercore ! founded on thursday, march 21, 2024, by topaz lovecried, they had a vision on creating an easier future for people. through their innovation and skills, they've built and manufactured androids and robots designed to complete basic tasks. their project grew into something more as people started a heavy demand for it, and soon, cybercore became something more. now, cybercore is a multi-billion dollar corporation that exceeds the expectations of humanity and is said to build a bright and better future ─── ( duology ! )

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 • 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 !

➤ THE COOKBOOK ⋮ NOV 2024 - JAN 2025.

as spooky season comes to a close and the weather starts to get chillier, other holidays start creeping closer. families get together, and romance continues to blossom. and you know what keeps the bond tight and together? food.

they say food brings people together, so why not use it to help build a romantic rapport as the holiday seasons grow near? we believe that food helps build an everlasting relationship and want you all to share your story on how one dish help created a bond between you and your partner.

[wheretheharekissesthefox]

Open up your loving arms - Chapter 2: Ridding stagnation

Astarion asks Gale about cleaning out the unused spaces of their tower house to give Tav and Shadowheart some personal space. The wizard agrees and the vampire spawn sets to work. Shenanigans occur and plans are made.

(Trigger warning (18+): character study, the feels, author's self-indulgent domestic fluff, graphic description of sex, smut, anilingus, anal sex, body worship, coitus a tergo, dirty talking (sort of), fingering, gentle sex, hand job, missionary, smidge of praise kink, vaginal sex)

Notes:

This is self-indulgent domestic fluff. I want this little bunch of weirdos to be happy. They deserve it. This fic mostly drives my post-canon headcanon forwards regarding character study/development.

Two other fics (The sight of spring & Of demons and monsters) are mentioned.

To avoid confusion: In one of my other fanfics, Halsin and Tav had named the owlbear cup Naïlo, which means 'night breeze' in the Elven language.)

My OC Monty first appeared in Gale's origin fanfic.

Also, long story short; Tav’s married to Astarion, Gale and Shadowheart. Astarion and Gale are married. Halsin’s Tav’s and Shadowheart’s additional lover. They’re in a closed polyamorous relationship, except for Halsin who apparently sleeps his way through all of Faerûn.

"Darling, why is that insufferable, utterly annoying man in our living room again?" asked Astarion when he'd caught Tav in the kitchen as she was brewing more tea.

"Because we're colleagues," the bard replied. "And he helps me."

The vampire spawn made a face.

"How can someone who's much less talented than you be of help?"

His wife shot him an amused look.

"First of all, thank you for the compliment, love. Secondly, I might be more talented than Volo, but he's the one who's famous and is in contact with publishers and printing companies."

"Oh, you sly dog," Astarion grinned and Tav snickered. "I just fell a little harder for you."

He kissed her passionately, turned on by her competence and cunning.

"Now, let me entertain our guest a bit more," she whispered teasingly, and with one last kiss, she vanished into the living room where Volo kept bragging about his newest work about owlbears.

Astarion didn't listen very long, too annoyed about all the incorrect statements. Tav, on the other hand, was far too kind-hearted, as always, and tried to gently correct and educate the insufferable artist. Meanwhile, Astarion went back to decluttering the upper floors.

Tav moaned blissfully as she made love with Gale. The wizard leisurely rolled his hips into her while kissing her and holding her hand. The bard had her legs wrapped around his waist and now, she placed a foot under her husband's buttcheek to push him closer. Gale panted against her shoulder, thrusting harder to comply to her wishes, and snaked a hand between them to get her off.

"Mmh, yes!" mewled Tav, arching up into him.

Gale spilled into her with a low moan, his fingers continued to rub circles over her clitoris. The bard whined and came with a sob. Panting, they kissed lazily and the bard stroke the wizard's chest-length hair.

"You're so beautiful," she told him sincerely. "I love you."

"I love you too," smiled Gale, still floating in post-orgasmic bliss. He rested on top of her, knowing that Tav didn't mind it and didn't get squished under his weight. Her strength and width were rather impressive.

Gale knew that Astarion liked being manhandled and held up by her, and he wondered if he'd like it too. Most probably, the wizard concluded. He liked everything his wife did. He adored her, nay, worshipped her.

Gale lifted his head to look at Tav and ran his hand through her very short hair. At least, she didn't sport the ugliest haircut in all of Faerûn anymore since Shadowheart helped her cut it evenly. But even before, when they'd met after the nautiloid crash, the bard had been beautiful. – Well, at least in his eyes. It was no secret that Tav had a type of unconventional beauty that wasn't desired by the masses, but she wasn't meant to be adored by the masses anyway.

Smiling, Gale leaned down to kiss her broad, freckled shoulder and she hummed approvingly. They finally moved apart and the wizard lay down on his stomach with his head on his arms to let the bard work her other kind of magic. Tav was a rather talented masseuse. Gale groaned in appreciation when his wife started to work on an especially stubborn knot on his shoulder. Her hands were always so clever, no matter if with instruments, pickpocketing, or otherwise.

"You're way too tense, love," she told him. "You work too much."

Gale hummed non-committally.

"I know you love teaching, but you tend to spread yourself too thin. We admire that you can achieve anything when you put your mind to it, but your weakness is to be too ambitious. You don't have to prove that you're worthy all the time, we know you are."

Tav moved further down, rubbing circles into the skin on both sides of Gale's spine. The latter hissed at the pain.

"You're so stressed that you've stopped eating again, and don't deny it, love, I'm not dense."

The wizard grunted, but kept silent otherwise.

"You're working on too many projects at once," Tav continued. "You have a full-time job at the academy, at the same time, we're finishing the book about our travels, and you're writing your own research papers on the side. You must slow down or otherwise you'll burn out."

"But there's so much I want to do," Gale defended his actions. "It feels like I'm running out of time."

At that, the bard barked a laugh.

"You're a wizard, love. I'm sure you'll find plenty of ways to prolong your lifespan. You'll definitely live longer than me."

Gale wanted to protest, but Tav scooted further down to press her thumbs into his buttcheeks, and he yelped. He turned his head to glare at his wife, but she nonchalantly shrugged, explaining: "You're terribly tense. That's what you get from sitting and standing around all day."

The wizard sighed deeply and pillowed his forehead onto his arms again. It was fruitless to argue with her. Tav moved on to his legs, relentlessly massaging his muscles.

"How's the knee?" she asked caringly.

"It's fine," answered Gale.

Back when they'd fought in the goblin camp, one of the little creatures had snuck up on him when he'd been distracted by casting a spell, and had shattered his kneecap with the iron handle of a broken axe. After the battle, Shadowheart and Halsin had done their best to heal the damage. With the help of his mother's potent salve recipe, Gale had nursed his knee further. Nonetheless, it still troubled him sometimes, especially after kneeling for a while.

"Maybe, you need a change," Tav told him now. "You talk about becoming a private tutor often enough and I think it'll do you good. That way, you'd have more free time for all your other projects."

Gale pondered about it silently.

It was true that he complained about his students on a weekly basis. Especially dear old Tara had to listen to his rants.

"Maybe, you're right," he muttered.

"Of course I'm right, I'm your wife," snickered Tav.

She took his foot into her hands and pressed her thumbs into the sole, making Gale groan. He appreciated her pampering.

At the beginning of their relationship, he'd always felt bad for being taken care of. Mystra had taught him to always serve instead of take, and for a long time, Gale had felt guilty when he'd received affection without doing anything in return. But he'd gotten better about it over the past six years. It helped that Tav loved to shower her lovers with affection and that she happily pleased them without expecting a quid pro quo.

Finally, the bard seemed to be satisfied with her work and let go of her husband's foot. She placed a gentle kiss on each of his buttcheeks.

"At least, promise me to eat regularly. You've gotten awfully skinny again and it just doesn't suit you."

"I promise," Gale answered with a sigh.

"Good," she smiled.

A shiver ran down the wizard's spine at the praise and he blushed slightly. Tav noticed it with a grin and kissed his spine.

"You're so good for me, Gale," she whispered and goosebumps spread over the addressed's skin.

Tav licked a stripe up his crack, making him gasp.

"Get on your knees for me, love."

A bit anxiously, Gale looked over his shoulder. He knew she wouldn't be mad if he'd say no. But, as it was so often the case, curiosity and academic studiousness got the better of him. Thus, the wizard brought his knees under him with his head and shoulders still on the mattress, ass in the air. Gale felt embarrassed and turned his face into the pillow. Tav spread his cheeks apart and started to eat him out enthusiastically, pushing her talented tongue into him. Gale couldn't hold back a guttural moan. The bard kissed his rim before carefully sliding two well-oiled fingers into him and stroking his prostate. Her husband mewled, eyes rolling back in his head.

"That's it love. Let loose, enjoy it. You're doing so well," praised Tav and went back to licking into him between her fingers.

Trembling, Gale wrapped a hand around himself and started to stroke. He came with a high-pitched moan, vision whitening due to the intensity, and spilling over his hand and abdomen. The wizard collapsed onto the mattress, panting elaborately. The bard placed one last kiss on his buttcheek before kissing Gale's shoulder.

"You're wonderful," she murmured, lay down next to him, and pulled him into her arms.

Gale sighed happily, placing his head on her broad shoulder, and linked their fingers together. She had surprisingly small hands for such a strong frame, but since she was shorter than him, it probably made sense.

"Did you enjoy it?" Tav wanted to know.

"Yes," muttered Gale, hiding his face in the crook of her neck, and she smiled amused.

"Good. I wasn't sure if you would. Astarion told me about your little... hm... 'discord'. But he was also the one to encourage me to try it. He said you might prefer it if I eat you out instead of him. He's still a bit scared, you see. He thinks he'll lose control again as soon as he buries his tongue in you."

Gale blushed even harder and wanted to hide somewhere. Why must his spouses always be so blunt when it came to bedroom activities? He doubted that he'd ever get used to it.

"I trust Astarion's judgement," the wizard replied then. "He's come a long way."

Tav nodded.

"He's such a sweetheart, isn't he? Even though he often hides his true self behind his mask of sass and sarcasm. But he'd opened up around us and I'm very proud of him."

"Mhm, me too," muttered Gale smiling.

Now, the bard turned a bit to look at him.

"I'm proud of you too, Gale. You also went through so much and you do well."

The addressed blushed again.

"Thank you. You can't imagine how much your words mean to me."

"I do," said his wife and attempted to kiss him.

But Gale held her back to mutter a spell first, cleaning her mouth, before leaning over. Happily, Gale sighed into the kiss and deepened it while caressing Tav's cheek. Somehow, it was so easy to be with her, she was always understanding, caring, and a ride or die. He loved her for it. Gale wrapped a hand around the bard's shoulder to pull her closer.

On Friday afternoon, Gale was visited by his childhood friend Monty who'd been (and still sometimes was) Elminster's assistant. Together, they'd gotten into loads of shenanigans in Shadowdale during the time Gale had been tutored by Elminster as a teenager.

Now, they were both in their thirties, and sitting in the cozy living room of Gale's tower house, a purring Tara on their lap, a snoring Scratch and Naïlo at their feet, a cup of tea in hand and a piece of vanilla cake balanced on their knees. They chatted about all kinds of topics, talked shop, and reminisced about the past.

"I'm relieved that everything turned out alright," said Monty with a sigh. "So many unfortunate things happened to you; Mystra, the Orb, the Mind Flayer parasite... I'm glad you found happiness and people you love. Your spouses and Shadowheart are lovely. I was so excited to finally meet them at the wedding. You've told me so much about them and I couldn't wait to meet the saviours of Baldur's Gate and all of Faerûn. You're basically famous, legendary almost."

Chuckling, Gale replied: "Now, you're exaggerating. We saved the world, sure, but most of our deeds are already forgotten. There are always new horrors waiting on the horizon one has to worry about. And to be completely honest with you, I'm relieved people don't treat us like heroes. It would be incredibly awkward."

At that, the tiefling laughed.

"You're probably right. If you'd be famous, we couldn't meet up on a random Friday, but must schedule it at least three months beforehand."

Gale joined in his laughter.

"You should visit me and Linard in Shadowdale," Monty told him now. "We built a house with an attached smithy and a laboratory. I'm trying out some new distilled fruit brandy at the moment and Linard's working on some handy daggers."

"I'll swing by," Gale promised, smiling. "Your partner made a lovely first impression at the wedding and the kitchen knives were a very thoughtful gift."

Monty chuckled.

"Linard prefers to make knives and daggers instead of swords and other weapons. That's why some people say he's a useless smith, but I disagree. Knives and tableware as well as shovels and axes are way more important on a daily basis than weapons."

Gale nodded agreeingly with a hum.

Monty stayed for dinner and he thoroughly enjoyed the passionate discussions with Gale and his family. It warmed his heart that his old friend had finally found a place where he belonged, with people who loved him and cared about him.

Around midnight, they said their goodbyes and Monty opened a portal to Shadowdale. As soon as he stepped through, the tiefling was surrounded by the sound of the nightly woods, his hometown quiet and asleep. Monty unlocked the front door of his home as quietly as possible, shutting the heavy oak wood behind him, and toeing of his boots. The smell of metal, fire, and herbal concoctions hung in the air. They complimented each other perfectly, the alchemist-wizard and the smith. The only light source was the low-burning fireplace.

"Ah, you're back."

Linard's deep, husky voice came from the rocking chair in the corner as the tall, broad, blond human stood up and made himself known. Monty smiled.

"Hello, love."

He sighed happily when his partner kissed him. The latter stroke the tiefling's cheek.

"It seems like you had a lot of fun with Gale," Linard remarked, smiling softly. "You must tell me all about it tomorrow. I'd love to hear the newest gossip regarding the saviours of Baldur's Gate and your first crush."

With a heated face, Monty snorted a laugh, grateful that his red skin prevented him from blushing.

"You're an idiot."

"You love me."

"Never said I don't."

They kissed again and things got heated quickly. They hurried upstairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind them. Linard pressed Monty up against the windowsill, kissing him breathless.

"I missed you, sweetling," said the smith. "Now, turn around and let me greet you properly. "

Grinning widely, the addressed complied, leaned forward, and put his hands up against the windowsill. Linard grabbed the oil and started to open his partner up with his thick fingers. Monty squirmed and moaned, widening his stand. He gazed out the window while Linard started to rim him and the tiefling cried out into the silent night in pleasure. When Linard finally deemed him ready and stood up, the tiefling asked teasingly: "Are you jealous for some reason?"

The human snorted a laugh.

"No."

He pressed himself closer to his partner, rubbing his erection against his buttcheeks.

"There's no need for jealousy," replied Linard, grinning, "because I know I'm the one who wakes up next to you every day, makes love to you, and knows exactly what you like."

And with the last sentence, the smith grabbed the base of Monty's tail and tucked it upwards. The tiefling moaned, eyes rolling back in his head, cock drooling precum onto the wooden floor. He arched his back more and tightened his hold on the windowsill.

"Gods, Lin, fuck me already!"

"Today's youth has no patience," tut-tutted the smith teasingly, but he finally pushed in and bottomed out.

Monty threw his head back with a cry, loving the way he was stuffed full by his partner. Linard set a fast pace, almost pulling all the way out before slamming back into the tiefling and hitting his prostate with every thrust. The smith revelled in his lover's cries of pleasure. He ran a hand down Monty's front, caressing the ridges along his sides. Finally, he wrapped his hand around the tiefling's dick and rubbed his fingers along the ridges at the base of it.

"I'm not jealous because we fucked so many times that I know your body better than anyone else."

He flicked a finger against his partner's straining erection, making him moan gutturally.

"I'm not jealous because I know you love me and you are mine."

Linard sheathed himself deep in his lover and came, filling him, while he kept stroking him. With a loud moan, Monty climax too, spilling all over himself, the hand around him, and the floor. His ass flexed, trying to milk his lover dry. Linard leaned over him and placed a tender kiss on Monty's shoulder.

"You're right," panted the latter. "I love you and I'm yours."

At that, the smith hummed pleased and kissed his neck.

"Let's clean up and go to bed, hm?"

"Yeah," said Monty and chuckled.

[jaegersmoon]

since you said you simp for geto:

if you were to write a geto x reader fic what would the vibes/overall plot be?

Just wanna know what your beautiful genius mind concocts so I can daydream abt it

OH MY GOD (bear w me i just got this idea when i saw this ask)

I would write a AU where reader and Geto meet, by chance, on her last day at a coffee shop before she starts her new job.

Having just graduated college and broken up with her narcissistic(surprise) boyfriend she is looking for a no strings attached kind of distraction.

Utahime, readers fellow barista, roommate, and loyal friend, being the first hand witness to them subtly flirting when reader took Geto’s order, dares her to write her number on his cup of hot coffee.

So, having lived so restrained for the last three years of her life and wanting to break out of the rut she’s been drowning in, she does.

To her surprise, Geto texts her later that night. They decide to go out for drinks and end up having a one night stand, keeping everything surface level.

Geto tries to see her again but reader, not wanting anything serious, and skittish of getting close to anyone who isn’t in her circle of comfort, ghosts him.

A couple weeks later, she arrives at her first day at her new company with a good, confident head on her shoulders, only to realize that Geto is now not just her new co-worker but is also the one she must respond to accordingly if she wants any chance of working her way up the social latter.

It’s not until a co-workers wedding, where they find themselves rekindling the fire they both undoubtedly felt that one night.

Catch is though, when you start at this well-known, highly regarded company, it’s written boldly in the fine print that you absolutely cannot have ANY sexual relations with those you work with.

So, too far in and completely addicted to each other, finding themselves unable to call it off (whatever the hell it is) the way they both know they should, they’re left with no other choice but to sneak around.

Are they able to succeed? Or do they find themselves red handed in the office of the rich, powerful, not-so-understanding CEO trying to clean up the mess they made all because of that damn ten digit number written in pink sharpie on that stained coffee cup that Geto still has in his room…

[plasticfangtastic]

American Royalty. Ch. 10

A Homelander X F! Reader/Dadlander fanfic.

A/N: sorry for the delay, I wrote another fic and that ate my time, hope y'all like the chapter, there's only 3 chapters left and the epilogue and now that kinktober its done I should be able to post the remaining chapters on time, if ya like to be on the taglist plz leave a comment with a request. prev. chapter here:

Tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, oc characthers, child neglect, dadlander, romance, some spicy and murder.

Chapter Ten

Reconsidering

A lavish prison.

More rooms than ideas to fill them with– mere latrines for kisch. 

Floors that screamed ugly opulence, the kind that made you yearn for the simplicity of owning nothing, of forced minimalism... or tasteful decor.

When you cracked your neck to witness the enormity of the seven story mansion (not counting the cellar basement and the terrace) the price tag had frightened you to the core more than the height, making you feel more than inadequate in visitation, as you had come in jeans and an ironic t-shirt to accompany him (not that you had a choice)--  as Homelander pulled you around from floor to floor, forcing you to walk alongside him from beige rooms to white rooms, past rich dark wood doors. So heavy they hurt your wrist, you worried for your future.

These were the things you could only witness in pictures.

“I hate the carpet.” He said coyly, trying to stand close to you without frightening you.

Looking down at the rug you’ve taken your shoes off for-- it was luxurious, it was nice for the somewhat dark library, the smell of curated cedar and walnut genuinely intoxicating. From a second glance it matched his taste in your mind, but you guess he was a lot more finicky than he already was– perhaps it wasn’t soft enough for him, you thought.

“I'd rather we just have the floors bare– it’ll be easier to clean.”

“Concerned about the maids already?”

“Maids?”

“Honey, you don’t think I expect you to clean this thing by yourself?” He gave you a playful pat in the back– even with superspeed you’ll wear yourself out…”

The real estate agent who kept rubbernecking at your direction, raised his eyebrow as he saw how stiff you were next to your fiance.

Pressing yourself against the aged stone of the terrace fence, the city seemed so far away as you looked down from so high up, wondering if you could fall quick enough, if he would catch you right on time or make it easy for himself and play the tragic broken hearted hero. The cold breeze kissed your temples as you processed the jarring passage of time.

Kaleem, his wife Alessia and your co-worker Chrissie dropped what they were doing when you broke the news that you’ve gotten engaged, they’ve already gotten it from the breaking news report and online but actually hearing it out of your mouth cemented it, it wasn’t a lookalike sharing your name marrying Homelander! But you! Their hardworking and worn out cook. 

Who never once mentioned him before, who never described your baby daddy, who gave no hints… yet to them who thought were your friends–if not confidants, felt betrayed.

They were friends of yours but the fear of Homelander’s and Vought had been so great you never wanted to disclose who’s Helena’s father was to anybody, they had formed very strong opinions over the time they’ve known you but at the sight of half a dozen black suits entering their pizza shop– you probably would have never been able to tell them on your terms, anyways.

 You had no choice now but to divulge.

After having been made to lose a day’s work and being informed they would have to agree to some sketchy stuff regarding selling your situation to the public, you owed them an explanation– at least the financial compensation for their cooperation was generous.

Right now you were a stranger.

You told a version of your story, adding to what they already knew, like everybody else their image of Homelander was firmly cemented after 20 years of exposure to the bastard, it was hard to view ‘The Nation’s Favorite Dad’ was the one who threw you on the streets, nobody spoke much while you melted into the booth, your sight so far away, as the light’s buzz drilled into your brain.

“Is the dick at least good?” Chrissie slurped loudly on her coke– I mean go get your bag bitch, just don’t let him make you sign a prenup and when you get divorce take half his shit.”

“Slightly above mid… his mouth tho…” You did smile there.

“Is it little?” 

“I wish… shit hurts. Can’t sit straight afterwards... he's just so quick! Thank god his mouth isn't just good at speeches” You chuckle dryly.

Chrissie began spacing her fingers until you rolled your eyes in embarrassment, poor Kaleem sat in his corner pretending to be blind.

You both shared an ugly snorting laugh, cackling from the absurdity of the situation.

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to marry for benefits– trust me I seen a lot of ‘90 day fiance’ and my aunt Lucia’s been married to my uncle for 32 years– she met him a month before the wedding and only for the green card.”

“32 years?” That was dreadful.

Alessia was quite relaxed about the whole ordeal, if anything it was the most stimulating thing that had happened in recent years and seeing a six-year- old tutor her teenage son was exhilarating.

“She said he has a big dick and uncle works the night shift… works great for her– pretty sure 2 of their 7 kids are his” 

“Is this the aunt Lucia that came and did our light fixtures? I feel sorry for your uncle.” Chrissie said.

“Yes– she's happy, and don’t be… Uncle Frank may have a whole other family in Mexico, but that’s a whole other business.” She said loudly– look you had it rought, and fuck him. I thought killing the dude at that rally was a bit much, but dumping you in the streets– way worse than murder! Look, we got three kids and if this dumbass died on me– I don’t know how I would cope and if some hot rich asshole asked me to marry him… I might ‘cuz college ain't cheap.” You could laugh, watching Kaleem agreeing he would do the same if she died– Homelander is cute and has money. You said it yourself– you don’t have to love him. He’ll meet somebody else and end it, but Helena it’s your main priority here not him, and I mean after everything you’ve been thru you deserve to cruise thru life.``

“I don’t think John is going to let me fuck around…” You groaned, resting your head on your forearm as you sunk deeper– I don’t have to be happy, right?”

“It’s overrated.” Chrissie said– Helena would probably finish college by 12, and that if she takes her time.”

“Thank you guys for encouraging me in my new ‘Sugar Baby’ journey– I always knew I had it in me to be an amazing hoe.”

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear… to them who just like you had to break their backs to keep the roof over their heads, it was an enviable golden opportunity and in this economy one couldn’t really afford to miss out on such opportunities… 

“Just pretend you like him if he’s ever around, I guess.” you mention.

“It’s gonna be hard ‘cuz I like Noir more.” Chrissie says leaning across the table to pat your shoulders.

So here you were admiring the Upper East Side, in the nicest street, in a coveted building that he had every desire in the world to make you ‘Lady of the House’, it was beyond extravagant it even had an elevator… so there was some appeal.

Ashley followed him like a lap dog as he listed a billion much needed remodeling decisions to bring back the home into the office spaces by force, in case he decided to purchase the edifice.

“So you like it? This is the fifth house we’ve seen… you said you wanted a yard and space.”

“Needs more plants… is a great location…” you said softly, still looking down, pretending to not notice Ashley was writing that down too.

“But do you love it?” he pressed rubbing your shoulders– we can still get the penthouse… even if it's only four bedrooms but great open concept! Or the condo right in front of Central park– but that one is only 3 bedrooms which might tamper with our plans… although the one in 63 street, classy and it has a cinema.” 

He kissed your forehead, after speaking quickly.

“Do you love it?” You asked, fixing his hair once he got too close to you– this will be your home too.”

“Is pre-war” He whines playfully– is so pretty… the brownstone… the history…” He gives you the most pathetic attempt of ‘puppy eyes’ you’ve ever seen, a smile creeps onto your face without permission which he takes graciously– I can see us here.”

“You’re not hanging a giant american flag anywhere in this house!”

“A small one?” He pouts.

“In your office… and it better be small, John.” You rested your head on his chest– The kitchen… is awful.”

He was touchy, your skin numb to his touch at this point, he wanted to kiss you and hold you until you cherished him, but he wouldn’t force it. 

You just had to keep smiling and thwart most of his approaches, but you know if you gave him just enough affection he would be unable to notice the wicked game you were playing– forcing him to move at your dictated pace, to keep him on his toes yearning that you would turn and pamper him, never knowing if his affections were welcomed or not, but knowing you gave yours to him and he welcomed it.

You could see Ryan and Helena growing up happy, and safe. 

You and those two children sitting by the fireplace, enjoying hot chocolate and opening Christmas presents.

You would in fact not choose this house just to spite the man, who had fallen in love with his grand vision– not that the chosen house was worse, just one floor shorter, just as massive as the other and still in a great location… so Homelander didn’t complain too much… just a little.

The boxes increased but there was still so much to fill up, even with his stuff it wasn’t enough to fill the gaps… he would not spare you from the American flags, tragically as it sounds. 

At least it was framed and matched the decor of the gallery and dining room. As you unpacked and watched the movers bring the beds while the kids argued about who kept which floor– Helena demanded the fourth floor already making executive decision to turn the empty rooms into labs and  offices for her future endeavors, while Ryan wanted to be normal child and stay in the same floor as his sibling, ultimately pushed to the fifth floor after multiple rounds of rock-paper-scissors, and a paternal mediator who said they had to settled it with another round of games which sadly Ryan lost.

After a laborious day, you two just sheepishly laughed as you stared at your bedroom, both leaning against each other as you laughed, staring at the wooden cross dividing the two beds and matching nightstands– all so very circa 50’s catholic chic. 

You two just laughed about how absurd this was in execution, a part of you wished to just put the beds together instead of making your great-grandmother proud.

“Y’know we could’ve fit two kings in here…” He said while staring at the space.

“I thought you wanted me close-by.”

“Double’s were the perfect choice.” He replied quickly.

It took weeks before you reached a boiling point with your live-in situation, to see him walk around your home in that stupid suit, his mind longing for the familiarity of his abandoned penthouse was frustrating, he himself didn't expect to miss it either– He felt like a guest that refused to leave instead of your fake fiancee, this wasn’t him staying overnight at your previous domicile levels of awkward, that had been a challenge on its own, even if now you skipped the pillow walls and sleeping on the floor… God knows how many times he picked your unconscious self up from the ground and laid you to bed, while he sat next to you reading a book in the dark– this was an alien living in your house calling himself the owner. 

Before you knew it your heart stung as you dragged the two kids to the nearest Target to bulk buy the man some loungewear, both from exasperation and as request from his son who mentioned he didn’t really own much clothes, and what little he did own he didn't feel like washing every 2 days just to chill around the house... and as his future wife you gave yourself automatic permission to buy him clothes… just anything that would get him out of that suit.

Ryan had never been to many stores before, much less a Target, it hurt a tad to see him fascinated by the colorful aisles and the abundance of people…knowing he had grown in a compound, the mother in you just wanted to squeeze him and apologies for it all, but you instead just squeezed the handle bars and let him pick snacks that caught his fancy.

It was hilarious that you would find yourself doing this again– back then buying for him had been difficult, he wore very little but he liked your input, he simply wore what you told him, but after so long you had no idea what he liked anymore– this wasn’t food… this wasn’t easy… so the plainest sets were your best bet.

There was something fresh about this, as you perused the aisles with the kids in tow, thinking of buying him some jeans and clean button ups, Ryan picking up colorful socks while Helena opted to pick him a shirt just to fit in.

You had fun, you looked forward to sprousing his wardrobe, watching this scene play out made you feel as if you were normal, until somebody took your photo at the checkout in your least flattering angle.

It took another week before he opened up to being undressed and exposed in cheap pajama pants and white t-shirts, it would take three weeks for him to do so without being told to– plus enough complaints about people trying to photograph them after seeing the Homelander lounge in the terrace, served as added motivation.

You told yourself it wasn’t too bad to cohabitate, as you saw him slowly get more and more comfortable in his new environment, as you watched him become softer with your kids, as you found yourself having pleasant breakfasts, found yourself being welcomed home and conversed over coffee about your day or his day– not even bringing up his concerns about you still choosing to work in Lucci when you could do so much better too often, giving up on teasing you with buying you a restaurant, or upcoming publicity stunts when you weren’t in the mood to listen to the drivel.

Staring down from the roof garden looking at the brownstone buildings around and the pale light, pleased by the subtle fragrance of flowers behind you, he seemed so normal as you watched him from across the coffee table.

He kept sipping on his latte looking miffed before turning around and asked about why Elmo had been staying over for the last 3 days, to which you reminded him he sent his dads to sort some business in Singapore.

“Does he have no other family?” He thought of Singapore– it was quite urgent… they decided to fuck us up.”

“You and them booked them for acting classes plus they have their first suit fittings tomorrow… easier for them to leave Elmo here and have us take care of that– they’re a team-up. They should be close.”

“I know! But why does he have to sleep here? He’s a boy.” He seemed concerned.

“‘Cuz we got the space…?”

“It doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“Oh you freak.”

 He was still stiff around the edges but you could bear with it, as you saw him and Helena bond you knew your daughter was handling him well– your target was Ryan now. 

You asked him to help you around the kitchen more, taking your time to teach him without pressure, scolding his father when he acted like it was undignified of him to help around the kitchen and forced him to eat whatever he'd made, making him feel proud when he took charge of dinner even if it was slightly too salty at times and his impenetrable skin resulted in chipped knives… 

 You helped him make those cute films and took him out to the cinema, buying him books on the subject, encouraging him to join art clubs, to try as many extracurriculars he was interested in and to ignore his father as he pushed Ryan to join sport related clubs, when all he wanted was to make dioramas with his new found friends, instead. 

Homelander didn’t have any issues with Helena for her selections were sparse, just the chess club, and some science club she was quickly losing interest in… if anything he was being pushy about piano– and god knows how he managed to bring that piano to the fifth floor without breaking anything.

Is not as if she was already taking too much in-between physics, science and math classes… and working casually at Vought, but he didn’t seem to care. Helena assured you she could handle it, telling you to focus on your tasks without worry and you listened.

Ryan liked your support, it helped you get closer as you allowed his friends to enter the house for his little projects, he liked when you twisted his father’s ear to let him be just in case he began to disapprove, he began to trust you.

Helena wasted her afternoons in the office between daycare, superhero training and shadowing her father or Ashley, reading his meeting notes, writing them for him, or as he called it assisting him, learning about the company and the labs from her privileged position– the whispers of curious passerby wondered why Homerlander would keep his daughter so close, it had taken the building by surprise to learn that this little girl had been his child all along even if rumors had spread prior… but the once cute anomaly began to gain a insidious reputation in the underbelly of this company, something that made them more uneasy than just her strange demeanor from before.

“What’s that on your dress?” You noticed a brown stain on the hem of her dress.

“Iodine.” She said while taking her clothes off, Homelander said nothing as he picked after her.

Homelander gave you a stiff smile as he scrunched the clothes into a ball before your kid ran up towards the bathroom, mentioning she’s a tad clumsy with the equipment as he walked past you.

You didn’t need to know that the duet had some quality father-daughter time to the misfortune of some lab rat.

He stared at the chunky bloodstain sliding down the wall.

“I can explain.” She panted, staring at her work as her eyes spun around the room.

“It’s pretty obvious what happened, no?” He said stepping on top of the unidentified– "I'll have somebody come clean it up, darling.”

“You’re not mad?” She asked, genuinely nervous, fidgeting with her fingers as her head throbbed.

“Why did you kill him?” He stared at the smashed patty with curiosity.

“He resisted termination… forcing me to defend myself… he took my assistant.”

Homelander looked at the other corpse and its mangled remains, spilling around her boots.

“Why?” He spoke with a boor.

“Self-defense.”

“You took your time doing it… you could have cut his oxygen supply and killed him in a few minutes, instead you” He kicked a shattered bone– made it agonizing.”

“Tch… if he attacked me I would’ve lost control of the bubble…” She gasped lightly trying to kill the headache inside her– the math… the math makes sense. My formulas make sense. But it's them… these samples aren’t fit, they aren’t meant to be like us. They are worthless!”

She leans towards the wall, smacking her forehead against the wall full force, Homelander jumps on his heel but doesn’t reach her as she mutters incoherent curses under her breath, his hand stop just inches from her.

 “This one wasn’t too bad… I thought I cracked it but then I noticed…” Helena was pensive looking at images he wasn’t privy to, as she spoke with a light airy voice as her lungs emptied for her to speak once more— I cull it.”

She squatted picking up a loose tooth from the ground, examining the perfectly structured canine, for the first time Homelander felt uneasy about her.

“Is not often that I feel…”

Homelander raised a curious eyebrow, taking a step closer towards her, Helena tilted her neck to look at him, her sight so detached it didn’t seem possible for a child to make such an expression.

“Excited. The simulations always succeed but the human variant poses an interesting angle I hadn’t previously considered… truly successful adult specimens… V24 almost recreated the perfected serum but with nasty side-effects… programming the serum is obtainable but adult humans continue to reject it or somehow create variants as if the host alters the code live”  She flicks the tooth– Is like Frederick left me a puzzle.”

“So are these just pieces” He waved his fingers nonchalantly at the messy remains.

She scoffed standing up and patting her knees clean.

“You know why I play piano?”

He shook his head.

“Because in order to be good at it… you have to foster talent… but no amount of practice can’t beat those blessed with a gift… supposedly. So I have to solve his puzzle because I cannot believe that that coward was blessed more than me.”

“You think Vought has beef with you? So what will you do with all your failures? Murder them?”

“Is it murder to cull a deformed goldfish? No… that’s just mercy.” She stands up fixing her hair– It’s not beef. Is a challenge he left us with.”

His smile is so wide his skin creaks as it stretches. 

He picked her up to plant a kiss on her chubby cheek.

“You’re such a messy child.” He kissed her again– you got your pretty dress dirty.”

“Sorry.” She moped– sorry about all of it… you must think I'm a hack.”

“Is okay princess… daddy will just buy you a new one… and a new dress.”

You didn’t question the stains on her dress, god knew what sort of chemicals and stuff she had to play with, and how much of it wasn’t built for the size of her hands.

The more you saw him return to that man you once loved, you felt down the spiral of considering giving him a second chance– Helena was happy, she was smiling, she was playful, your quiet daughter had blossomed under your mutual care, seeing him domesticated, seeing him interact with genuine joy with her had began to melt your heart. It didn’t help that he look so delectable in compression shirts, as he came back with the kids without a sweat on his brow, Ryan just as dry with nothing more than messy hair and then your daughter dropping to the ground half-dead from the walk… what you had stared at mostly had been his ass in those black tights.

“Honey it was only 20 miles.” He sounded a bit frustrated– gotta get her fit otherwise she will get outperformed.” He turned to you sounding a tad aggressive– she’s my daughter she should be able to handle it just like me and Ryan.”

“Mommy!” she cried.

“Most humans can’t even do twenty!”

You picked her up, not caring she was covered in sticky sweat but as you draped your child over your shoulder kissing her head as she whined, you caught an improper glimpse at him, no doubt he caught a couple looks from passersby on his way here– even by this city standards he was wearing too little.

“Go change…” You said with a light blush on your neck– don’t be a dick to her, she wasn’t born a copy of you.”

He pestered Helena for the rest of the evening, giving up once she barricaded herself in her bedroom.

“Spending all her time inside books is not gonna do her any good… she needs exercise.”

“I think you got the kids mixed up, dear.”

He moped in the living room pursing his lips, one sentence away from crossing his arms and whining like a child.

“Look I think it’s great that you want to train her but… she’s not like you. I would love for her to have inherited some of your physical skills– it's just not gonna happen.”

“I know. I don’t know why she’s so different from me… yet she has to get better…” His sight lingered on the roof– You think she’ll move her dresser out the way.”

“She’ll move it when she wants to– and don’t think about getting in there thru her window!” He almost complains but chooses to stay quiet scooting closer to you on the couch– What?”

“You seem mad…”

“You harassed our kid all day and made her upset… but I was mad before it...I made the mistake of googling myself after somebody at work made mention–  have you seen the shit that people are saying ‘bout me online ‘cuz of you.”

Homelander shook his head lightly.

“I only google myself.”

“People are saying nasty shit. Hurtful shit… saw my mom getting interviewed… that was nice… she certainly made me feel like shit.”

“Want me to kill her?” Homelander spoke in such a bored tone, his head finding his way on your lap with the smoothness of a cat, unconsciously your hand took to his hair– Or something else?”

You stared at him and considered it, your mom sort of had it coming if she was going to paint herself a saint for her 15 minutes of fame.

“Don’t kill my mom, John. I just don’t want people saying I’m a bad mother because my kid went to a “shit public school” in the projects.” you said annoyed.

“I’ll see if Vought can write you a fluff piece.”

You believed him, choosing to put your anxieties away as he nuzzled into your stomach and let you watch TV without care as long as your hands kept pampering him making little commentary as you watched true crime videos.

Rolling in your bed you turned to see his back on the bed beside you, you signed readying to play dirty, your body awoken to something sickening.

“I know you ain’t asleep, John.”

His ears perked, he turned to see your silhouette in the dark.

“I can’t sleep.” You whispered– mmm…so” you signed lightly– can you get your dick up?”

His ears perked up, lifting himself by his elbows as he adjusted to face your darkened silhouette, your cheeks reddened, mildly embarrassed, your mind wandered back to the sight of his clothes, to the tussling of his hair and the glint in his eyes as of late… and of that last sudden night of intimacy.

“Oh. O-okay… might need some stimulation is not like I got a crank down there.” he faked being annoyed by your request.

“I stopped taking the pill…” His piercing eyes illuminated the room for a brief second just to catch a sly smile ‘bout to fade away off your face– so you wanna put the mommy in MILF or not?”

He tripped out of the bed to jump into yours, clawing his way back towards you, as the little voice in his head blared sirens.

Latching on your neck, ripping your clothes open as you tried not to chuckle at his messy desperation to fuck you, you closed your eyes and thought of nothing but the hundred different pleasurable sensations prickling you– it had been so long… your body sensitive, writhing over his hungry touch, wherever his hands and his lips got to taste you felt it twice as strong.

Whatever he was imagining in his head was happening none of it was relevant– this was simply a mutually beneficial exchange. Nothing but lust, it had to be lust because you didn’t see Homelander underneath you, as you rode him, as he let you fucked him just as hard as he wanted to fuck you– you saw the John that he had killed so many years ago... but somehow you didn't hate the sight.

He wanted to devour you, he was needy and pent-up and you took it all graciously, for one night you two used each other equally.

Finding himself delighted and more aroused at the squeals and mewls coming from your delicious lips just as much as you enjoyed the moans and guttural grunts that came from him as he cried against your chest, crying for your kisses and directions, liking the way he craved your scent once again.

You were better than his molasses drenched memories.

Homelander teeth gilded over your neck, the thought of him ripping and gnawing on your flesh lingered as he brought you to an orgasm. 

To be so close to death as you touched heaven… you heaved, melting into the mattress letting him lumber atop of you, too delighted with the end result to complain… looking down to find him kissing your chest, whispering sweet grunts as your hand pampered his hair, you tried not to smile at that satiated goofy expression on his face, at the flickering light illuminating your skin as he purred around your touch.

He was so easy to win over… it scared you.

My Taglist-- @demodemo909 @immyowndefender @fromforeigntofamiliarity @ghqstfqce

[eponymous-rose]

Fic: The Second Hand Unwinds (Tav/Karlach | M | 5000 words)

(Many, many thanks to @loquaciousquark for the wonderful beta!)

The Second Hand Unwinds

Summary: Desperation is hope unraveling; the path to Avernus is paved with good intentions. Some of those paths are more literal than others.

(read on AO3)

Nessus (The Fall Isn’t What Kills You)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

There’s a callus on her palm that won’t harden properly, keeps scratching against the stiff leather of her gauntlet until the skin tears and bleeds, again and again. Someday, Amisra thinks, that tiny wound’s going to be her undoing, whether through infection or distraction. She rubs it with the thumb of the other hand, hard enough to hurt. Hurt enough to harden.

“—just got your bell rung, Sergeant,” Doc is saying from behind her, broad fingers combing through Amisra’s tight curls with no particular pretense of gentleness. “Little cut here, that’s all. You still feel like throwing up?”

She swallows bile, says, “Not really,” and shuffles off the examination bench to make room for the next minor complaint, a boy with a bloody arm in a sling. Her ears are still ringing from the blow to the head. “You said the corporal was—”

“Dead.” Doc scratches at one of his tusks with a clean, well-manicured nail and regards her with new speculation. “Told you twice now. Did you hear me?”

Yawning dread beneath her. The half-formed callus tears, again, under her thumb. “Both times, just hoping I misheard. Ears are ringing.” And it’s not ringing, so much, just the tick-tick-ticking of someone’s metallic boot heel against the paved ground, echoing again and again, keeping time as though with some anxious drumbeat.

Doc sighs, turns to his next patient. “Lying’s not your thing, Sergeant. Stick to lopping heads off. I’ve written you a release for the day to get some rest.”

The lurch back to the barracks is nightmarish, probably, but to her it only passes in heart-stopping flashes. A brown braid over a trainee’s shoulder, achingly familiar. A soft hand reaching out in passing to steady her, the same warmth from fingers smaller and stubbier than her own. A soft voice, a passing smell of smoke—

She coughs for a while, not quite retching. Breathes through her mouth, sharp and quick. Corporal’s gone, she thinks, testing the way the concept settles into her bruised mind. Beautiful and quick-witted and warm and then burning and then gone. There’s blood on her hand where the callus was. Ought to have asked Doc for a salve.

One of the errand-boys, with a name that’s a mumble and a face that’s a blur, is crouched in front of her, looking her in the eyes. “You’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

“Got the day off.” She swings her legs up onto the cot upon which she seems to have alighted. “Could use some water, though.”

“That was amazing, what you did,” he says, in a way that suggests fetching her water and leaving her alone is in fact not the first thing on his immediate to-do list. “Killed that weird spellcaster so fast. I seen it, my brother didn’t believe me, but I seen the whole thing. One second, he’s got a head, next second, no head, just like that. Lightning fast, I think.”

“Not fast enough.”

She watches him scramble visibly for some vestige of tact, appreciates the effort almost as much as she’d appreciate that water she’d asked for. “Sorry. But, um, my da always said it’s better to die with your boots on than old in bed. She had her boots on.” He nods approval of his brief encomium. “Anyway, it’s that water I’ll be fetching for you now.”

She listens to his boots clomping down the hall, ill-fitting, another rhythm rapping at her bruised mind, and then she is alone. Her breathing catches, finally, and she rests her aching hand on her aching head, sinking down and down and down into the thin pillow to bleed along with the part of her that just won’t callus against the hurt.

Cania (First Thaw)

Wyll’s not-so-terrifying tiefling menace — Karlach — is watching her from across camp. Her bright eyes glint with flames that Amisra is pretty sure aren’t just reflections of the campfire. “Hey, soldier. You ever actually play that thing or just cart it around?”

Amisra follows her gaze down to the badly scuffed lute teetering atop the disorganized pile of bedding and equipment that will, at some point, have to be sorted into slightly more organized piles before packing up for the day. “I’m not a musician. Just found it yesterday. It’s a nice instrument, under all the scratches. Seemed a shame to leave it out there.”

“Ah,” says Karlach, grinning to soften the teasing tone of voice. “You collect more strays than just the living, breathing kind?”

That startles an undignified snort out of Amisra. “Is that what all this looks like to you?”

“Shadowheart seems to think you’re planning on starting a club. Tadpoles Anonymous, support group, that kind of thing.” There’s a question in the teasing, this time.

At the thought of the tadpole, something may or may not flicker at the corner of Amisra’s eye, and she shudders reflexively. Karlach is watching her, the silence stretching too long. Gods, Amisra’s out of practice with this whole small-talk thing. “I hear you and I have something else in common.”

“Oh?” She’s unprepared for the sheer delight that crosses Karlach’s features.

“Just that, um, I also led some fighting. Little skirmishes, came to nothing, mostly. Worse than nothing, sometimes.”

“Hah! Thought I saw something of a sergeant in you.” Karlach points at her when Amisra reels back in surprise. “I knew it! Sarge, right? It’s all in the way you hold your shoulders.”

Amisra blinks. “Really?”

Karlach barks out another laugh like she’s been holding her breath on it. “Nah, I wasn’t actually paying much attention in the skirmish back there. Wyll told me you used to fight in an army of some sort. Figured you could string two sentences together so they were probably making good use of you, and you’re too much like an actual person to be an officer. Hence, Sergeant.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Amisra scratches her chin. “I was on leave when I got scooped by the illithid. Just on patrol duty before that. Nothing too interesting for the last year or two. Thankfully.”

“Yeah, thankfully.” Karlach’s mouth turns down, and this time Amisra is unprepared for the heaviness that settles in her own chest in response.

“The lute is a promise,” she blurts out. “To myself, I mean. I’m going to learn to play, someday. After all this.”

Something settles in Karlach’s eyes, a small mystery solved. “You keep collecting strays, you better get used to playing for an audience.”

“I could manage that.” Amisra picks up the lute. She’s pretty sure the strings aren’t supposed to be so loose. She’s pretty sure there are ways to make music with this thing, anyway. “After all this.”

She doesn’t look up from her aimless tinkering, but something in Karlach’s voice twists like a knife. “Yeah. After.”

Maladomini (The Enemy of Good)

“You could have warned me!” Astarion’s voice, behind and to her left, but Amisra’s pretty sure the panicky tone is more annoyance than genuine fear. “The sun and I might be on better terms now, but I don’t think that extends to godly energy directly applied to my cranium!”

“Oh, certainly,” Shadowheart, further back still, and there’s no mistaking the acid in her tone. “After all, you were so quick to give me a heads-up when throwing a dagger inches from my head.”

A lull in conversation, the clash of blades on blades a little more frantic than usual. Desperation to survive, or to get in the next pointed comment? A victorious huff of breath. “Well, it turns out slinking through the shadows becomes difficult when you have to loudly announce your presence to anyone who just simply isn’t paying attention.”

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

Amisra sighs, dispatching the goblin on her right by the simple expedient of skewering him with the spear belonging to the goblin on her left. For gods-knew-what reason, her fellow tadpole-infested travelers had started looking to her in the morning to split them into effective teams for the day, showing a trust in her judgment that seemed less a testament to their respect for her so much as to their increasing apathy and pessimism. She’s long been used to rousing soldiers out of a funk, but these are hardly soldiers, for all their fighting prowess. Perhaps best to switch back to a group of four, which would at least ensure that the bickering would be a little more spread out...

“I want to be on Karlach’s team next time,” Astarion carols over another clash of blades. “Being in the company of two certified sticks in the mud is more than anyone should ever have to bear.”

Amisra turns in time to duck under a swipe from a nastily serrated blade, but Shadowheart is already there, the swirling glow of holy energy around her shredding the goblin into ribbons. She’s not looking at Amisra, though. “What exactly do you even do here?”

A snort. “Have you considered that you might need to wear spectacles if such obvious things aren’t apparent to you?”

With no immediate threats in the vicinity, Amisra follows Shadowheart’s glowering glare, trying to make out Astarion’s form amid the shadowy shrubbery — there, she thinks, and sees him drawing back on his longbow to make a risky shot at the next wave of goblins, distant on the horizon.

Oh .

She’s running before she can fully register why, years of experience burrowed deep into muscle and sinew and bone, then runs harder . She charges at Astarion so fast that she’s nearly on him before his eyes even begin to widen in alarm, and there’s no time, there’s no room, so she drops her sword and she bowls him over, hears the wheeze of breath that has to be more habit than physiology for a vampire, and fumbles bare-handed for the knife of the goblin assassin who’d been sneaking up behind him.

She’s never liked knives. Nasty to fight with, nasty to fight against, like as not to hurt their wielder. Winning a fight with a knife is less about skill than it is about a healthy respect and fear of the blade and a still healthier volume of sheer luck, and she’s never been anything approaching lucky.

The goblin jerks back, startled, and her grasping hand closes on blade instead of hilt, slicing easily through the leather of her glove. She pushes forward again, ruthlessly, working on prising the goblin’s fingers off the hilt of the knife. Another flicker of sound in the bushes, too close, and along with the hot brand of a dagger in her shoulder comes the memory of the hard-won intel they’d gathered about the goblin assassins moving in teams of two.

Twist. No time for delicacy. Wrap the goblin’s small hand in her larger one, force the blade into its wielder. Stand, stride forward to the second goblin, the second goblin who’s got another dagger prepared, and there’s nothing for it but to trust in her armor to keep her alive long enough to close the distance—

The goblin topples, neatly hamstrung by Astarion’s own dagger, hurled with surprising accuracy from his prone position at Amisra’s feet. He watches the goblin fall, then picks himself up, dusting off his scuffed armor with lips drawn tight and thin.

Amisra lets herself sway for a moment, puts a hand to the knife still in her shoulder — a deep wound, and probably poisoned besides. “Out,” Shadowheart says, beside her, and Amisra grits her teeth and yanks it free, searing pain swiftly replaced by the unpleasantly itchy tingle of magic knitting flesh.

“Thanks,” Amisra says, when it’s done. “More coming, I think.”

The silence stretches, accompanied by a crescendo of yells and stomping feet. Astarion raises his hands in an expansive shrug. “There’s always more of them than of us. Hardly seems fair.”

A mournful sigh from Shadowheart. “I suppose that’s what we get for picking the impossible odds every time.”

Amisra’s never been accused of a quick wit, but even she can recognize a conversational opening when it’s left wide open for her. “Pity we’re not just a little bit smarter. We’d all get so much more rest.”

Smiles, larger than the weak joke deserves, and a pit of warmth in her gut stretches lazy tendrils through her body. Probably the poison, she thinks, but when they make it back to camp, Karlach beams at her and says, “You look happy,” and, absurd though it seems, maybe she is.

Malbolge (Corrupts Absolutely)

As a small child in Baldur’s Gate, Amisra had once seen a great clockwork piece of artistry, a mechanical, articulated, pint-sized horse crafted by some visiting tinkerer and displayed in the Lower City as a modern marvel. Karlach’s rage takes her back to watching one of the gears slip slightly out of alignment, leaving the rest to tick and tick and tick as though rapping against some invisible door, frustrated motion expending energy to no end at all.

Flares of heat, milder now than before, more contained, and maybe that Dammon fellow is on to something after all, but still the patchy grass at her feet flares and curls and dies around her as Karlach paces, whispering curses, Gortash’s name chief among them. Amisra meets Wyll’s worried eyes from across the camp and nods; he intercepts a curious Volo and leads him away to regale him with stories of the Blade of Frontiers, to give them a little space. “Karlach?”

No response. Amisra waits, sitting on a log and inspecting her greatsword for new pocks or scratches. Then Karlach says, “ Damn him,” with the weight of all the personal experience that entails, and finally meets her eyes. “We’re going to kill him, right?”

“We’ll get there,” Amisra says, as she’s said a dozen times before. No new revelations, then. Just the old frustration, ticking over and over and over. 

Karlach nods. No tears, no apologies, just energy with nowhere to go. She visibly forces herself to take a breath and stares down at her hands, still glowing. “Gods, it feels good to do that sometimes. Don’t know how most people hold it all in, infernal engine or no infernal engine.”

Amisra smiles, applying blade oil to the still-pristine surface of the greatsword. She’s genuinely unsure whether a weapon with this much magic in it is even capable of rusting, but old habits and all that. “Most people bottle it up and take it out on their loved ones at inappropriate moments. Your way seems healthier, all things considered.”

“Yeah,” says Karlach, and plops down on the ground with a sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them as though — improbably — against a sudden chill. “This feels like dying. I mean, really feels like it, more than the—” She cuts herself off, pauses with one hand midway to rapping on her own chest. “Just the same terrible thing happening again and again and again. That was one of Zariel’s favorite tricks, you know. Work out a pact that would give you just enough hope to go on every time things got bad.”

Weapon as polished as it’s going to get, Amisra levers herself down in the dirt beside Karlach, wincing at a new click in her knee, souvenir of the fight with Thorm. “Wouldn’t have thought devils would go in for hope all that much.”

A humorless snort. Karlach rests her chin on her knees and stares at the campfire, flames reflected in her glowing eyes. “You kidding? That’s how they do what they do. Someone hopeless is apathetic. They’re not gonna make a deal, and if they do, who cares? Not exactly the prime infantry needed for the Blood War.” She raises one finger. “Now, desperation, that’s the good stuff. Someone hanging onto that last shred of hope is desperate for any chance to survive. They’ll do anything to live. Anything. Desperation is hope unraveling, and that’s precisely when a devil most wants to show up at your door.”

Karlach’s jaw is set, her shoulders squared, and for the first time in weeks Amisra wonders what it would have been like to face her in the Hells. She inches closer, staring into the fire alongside Karlach, and leans into her shoulder. Hot, nearly to the edge of pain. Comforting. In spite of that, or because of it? “Didn’t happen like that with you, though.”

She feels Karlach’s whole body tense at the contact, then release as she stretches her legs out in front of her, tilts her jaw to the side to rest her cheek against the top of Amisra’s head. “I was a kid who wanted to do a good job. I was a kid, and they stole my life from me, put it back together wrong. Put me back together wrong. I think that’s what stings the most. They didn’t even care enough to make me run right. If it’s all over, if it’s really all done, at the very least I want this — all of this — to mean something, and it didn’t to them. Couldn’t even give me that.”

“Yeah,” Amisra says, and thinks, for no reason at all, of the corporal with the long brown braid, who’d died in a pointless skirmish so far from home.

There’s a holler in the distance, someone yelling to someone else, the outskirts of the city calling them nearer. She feels Karlach’s smile. “Tell you what, though, it’s going to be fun while it lasts.”

Amisra pulls back, looks her in the eyes. Joy, solid and defiant. Hope.

Desperation.

“Damn right,” says Amisra, and kisses her.

Stygia (Nor Any Drop)

Her lips are chapped and bleeding in the heat, the plate of her armor chafing uncomfortably against sweat-slicked leather with every step, and the damnable callus on her hand is bleeding again, filling her gauntlet with more sluggish, body-warmed heat. The others are similarly drooping, Gale’s hair sweat-plastered to his forehead, Lae’zel’s breathing heavy and open-mouthed with effort.

Only Karlach is physically comfortable, here, chin up, eyes alert, focused and resolved and frightened and furious. “Avernus,” she says, like a curse, like a plea. Amisra touches her shoulder, but Karlach shrugs it off. “Let’s get through this. I need to be out of here.”

The fight, when it comes, is long, horrific, nightmarish. Amisra’s head pounds in time with her heart, her reflexes too slow, her battle-senses dulled by discomfort and exhaustion. She hears Lae’zel cry out in surprise and rage, catches glimpses of her between her own clumsy parries and clumsier ripostes, watches a cambion pull its bloodied trident free from her shoulder and move away, circling cautiously as Gale scrambles to get close enough to throw her a potion, slipping on the bloodied floor. Then Karlach draws her attention, rage incarnate, screaming as she bursts through the final remaining soul pillar. Raphael turns to her, irritated, raises a hand as though to swat her like a particularly irksome insect.

Amisra’s sword drives into his thigh, hilt slamming into the palms of her hands with the sheer force of her charge, and her weight pins it there as he howls and tears at her with claws that aren’t that different, really, from the ones she’s seen on simple mindless beasts. “It’s over,” she snarls. “It’s over .” And then, quite abruptly, she can’t speak, feels all the air leave her at once, and watches his claw pull back, slick with blood, from where it had pierced under her armor into her chest. It doesn’t hurt, but her sword drops anyway from numb, clumsy fingers, pins and needles in her hands and feet, a creeping chill running along her arms and legs.

Raphael squints at her for a moment, as though looking for something, then scoffs and turns away. The ground comes up fast, and pain is the slam of her cheek into the filigreed floor, and pain is the increasing pace of the throbbing in her head, and pain is, finally, the spasms of her struggling lungs.

She’s fallen facing the last of the fight, at least. She can’t tell if Karlach is uncharacteristically quiet or if she just can’t hear her over the roaring in her ears, but Amisra watches her lips move, watches her fight with the critical eye of a sergeant. Reckless style, but she makes it work for her, leaving opening after opening with a taunting lack of consideration for her own safety, then capitalizing on every riposte. She’s fast, clever, almost joyful in this violent virtuosity. This is the fire in Karlach that Zariel had seen, had known, had wanted so badly that the ownership was worth its destruction.

It comes as no surprise that, moments later, Karlach is tearing Raphael’s wings from his body. In lieu of applause, Amisra lets her weary eyes close at last.

“—bad shape,” Gale is saying, so close by that the warm hand on her throat must be his.

“You should not have wasted our final potion on me when our commander was so near death,” Lae’zel’s voice, this time, and a curiously gentle touch of her hand on her cheek. “We need to leave this plane.”

“Hey, soldier.” Karlach, a grin, a wildness to her eyes. “We got him. Like, got got him. And we got you.”

“In the supportive, healing way,” Gale says, quickly. “Not in the murderous, ripping-wings-off way.”

“I can do this,” says Hope, hands glowing with familiar, healing light, a sweet, cool salve, and lives up to her name.

Phlegethos (Burning Bright)

Fingers, strong and warm, strong and warmer , pressing deeper. Breathing together, hot exhales warming sweat-slick skin. The other hand encircles, squeezes, pinches, and a too-loud moan slips past her lips. A joyful laugh. Then, more serious, determined, a redoubled pressure and pace. She loses track, a little, of what she’s meant to be doing, of the exchange she’s meant to be making. Heat and rhythm, then heat and less rhythm, and then just heat all through the core of her, burning and soft, and eyes of flame and loneliness and hunger and love watching her come apart.

Minauros (Oil and Water)

Karlach’s head on her shoulder, the small hitch in her breathing that says she’s dreaming, the steady clanking of her heart like some great chain unspooling endlessly, link after link of heavy steel clattering to the floor.

But there’s nothing, is there?

Amisra touches her cheek, the sharp tips of her ears, pauses to feel the heat of her warm, living breath against her hand.

I killed the bastard that ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die.

Amisra’s seen death, felt death, known death in a way few people ever truly could, and she knows the warmth against her bears no resemblance to chill flesh, to stiffened limbs, to bloated agony. Every now and then, a frightened recruit would find her, would stare at their own hands and see nothing but the pallor of death. She’d tell them, every time, that they could be dead all they liked during war, but at peace, they’d bloody well better get back to living.

Avernus was never my home. It was my prison.

Karlach sighs in her sleep, presses closer. Warm. Alive.

The decision, when it comes, feels like a betrayal.

Dis (Paved With Good Intentions)

The first horror is the new silence in her mind.

She’s never been much good with being alone. Easy to get caught up in your thoughts, that way, and without the tadpoles, without the Nether Brain, hers echo now into a void that makes her feel curiously unreal, incorporeal. 

The second horror is the blade.

Orpheus dies by her hand — an adventurer who, unlike Balduran, was willing to cede his ill-gotten power and influence — and she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what anyone else thinks about it, and Lae’zel is flying with dragons, a quick look goodbye, and Astarion is sprinting away under the pitiless sun, and the third horror is

the third horror is

Karlach collapses, struggling to get her goodbyes out through relentless, uncaring agony. Trying to be brave. Angry and sad and so, so scared in spite of it.

Amisra says something, says several things, none of which she can hear over the thrumming of her own perfectly ordinary heart, none of which she can parse without the echoes of her friends’ reactions and emotions surging through her mind. That Karlach should be equally alone in this. Unthinkable.

the third horror is

Wyll takes her by the arm, and she grabs Karlach, feels the flesh of her hands sizzle even inside her gauntlets, the old stubborn callus cauterized at last, and the three of them run. 

A nightmarish passage through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the suffering and supplication and jubilation a hollow, tinny thing that rings in her ears like a distant bell. Distraction. She thinks of everyone left standing by the docks, of Jaheira and Shadowheart and Halsin and Gale, and she knows, she knows they’ll find each other again. Where? How? She knows. She wants to know.

the third horror is

She hates herself for wasting time doing anything but looking Karlach in the eyes, dreads that her last moments might be spent in fear and terror, in this wild flight, and alone alone alone.

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach says, and Amisra says something back, and Karlach says, “It’s a beautiful day, yeah?”

The third horror doesn’t come.

Avernus (If Not Over, Then Through)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

Karlach laughs, bold and loud and delighted, as Wyll’s magic slams a cambion out of her face and right off a nearby cliff. “Beauty!”

A maul comes down inches from Amisra’s head, and she rolls, kicking back to her feet, finds her breath again, winded but standing. One quick slash from her greatsword cuts that particular problem away at the knees.

“That was sixteen,” Wyll calls, and she turns to watch him flourish his rapier at another, rather more cautious cambion approaching him.

Karlach snorts, lining up a shot, hurling her trident, neatly picking another cambion out of the shadows. “Cliffhangers like that? More like twelve, and you know it.” The slap of the magical trident returning to her hand echoes around the canyon, and she spins to face the rest.

The Hells were never really something Amisra had given much thought, before all this, before a week of learning to survive amid waves of Zariel’s devils, amid enclaves of invading demons. When the true extent of her ignorance had become apparent one night at camp, once it was clear that they weren’t all three of them going to die in the next few hours, both Wyll and Karlach had burst into surprised laughter.

“Well, there’s nine of them, for a start,” Wyll had said, and Karlach had given him a good-natured smack on the arm.

Then she’d counted them off, across her fingers, “Avernus, Dis, Minauros, Phlegethos, Stygia, Malboge, Maladomini, Cania, Nessus.”

Amisra had flopped back on the hot stone beneath her, unable to shake the feeling that she was sunning herself like some sort of desert lizard. “And we’re in the final layer.”

That had earned her a chuckle from Wyll and an indignant, “Come on ,” from Karlach. “Avernus! First layer! Not that complicated.”

“Nah,” Amisra had said, sleepily. “Avernus is the final layer. Pretty sure I’m right about that.”

That had brought another round of good-natured teasing, and the laughter is still ringing pleasantly in her ears as she turns to face another cambion. A warning growl, and she shifts with effortless ease out of the path of a ray of flame, reaching to grab a wrist, pull him nearer, to where her blade awaits.

After the fight, they dig through armor for possessions, for bartering tools, for information. They make a small pile of it and Wyll sketches plans into the red dust that look etched in blood. Karlach stares across at her, still breathing fast from the sheer joy of the battle, and blurts out, “Sorry you didn’t get to play that lute. I know you were saving it for after the next war.”

It had been smashed to bits in the first moments after arriving in Avernus — all that time shepherding the damn thing across half the Sword Coast and a handful of different planes of existence, and the fall through the portal had finally done it in.

She shrugs. “There will be other lutes.”

Karlach’s face falls, and her voice drops nearly to a whisper. “There will be other wars.”

Amisra reaches across the makeshift map in the dust to pull her in for a kiss, then rests their foreheads together. “And there will be other lutes. Always.”

She feels Karlach’s chuckle as a vibration against her forehead, the nearest thing they’ve got to the tadpole-connection these days. “You hide it well, but I think you might just be even more of an incurable optimist than I am.”

Amisra’s turn to laugh. “This place brings it out in me.”

Wyll rolls his eyes, and Karlach laughs again, and Amisra feels the warmth of the plans taking shape around her in the same way that she feels the reassuring solidity of her sword in her hand, the burns on her palm already healing and fading, leaving soft, unbroken skin beneath.

Avernus isn’t the first step into the Hells, it’s the last: the last stretch in the escape, the last link of the unspooling chain, the last wavering moment of fear before determination sets its hooks. Inevitable like one breath following the next, inexorable like the driving rhythm of boots and weapons and hearts.

Maybe they’ve all been put together wrong, one way or another. Maybe it doesn’t matter because they’ve been put together .

Hope is a promise, a melody they’ll play someday, all the sweeter for the waiting.