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tumbleweed-run · 1 year ago

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(18+, Explicit) Kinktober 2023 Day 7: virginity

“There you are, I was wondering if you’d changed your mind,” Gale tried to make sound light, a little joke between the two of you but you could hear the undercurrent of tension in his words.

“I’m sorry,” you said earnestly, letting your hand rest on his shoulder as you sat. “I got caught up asking Wyll something.”

That was a lie, and one you felt a little guilty telling him, but the real reason you were delayed was a bit more embarrassing. You’d been sitting by the fire going over conversations in your head. Or rather, how to have a very specific conversation. One you still weren’t exactly sure how to approach.

The truth of the matter was, physically you were a virgin. Even though you’d had mind-blowing, life-changing, astral sex with Gale just before fighting Ketheric your body was still very much the virgin it had been before that night.

Gale, of course, didn’t know that fact. It wasn’t something you advertised to potential suitors.

It wasn’t that you were some prudish untouchable. You’d had your fair share of odd groping as a teen (and adult) and were intimately familiar with your own body. You’d just never had actual sex using your body.

That was an odd distinction to have to make.

You weren’t ashamed of it, it was just something that didn’t happen. Some people never had the opportunity to try certain foods or go certain places, you’d never had the opportunity to have sex. Or rather, you had the chance a few times, but the partners were decidedly less than ideal.

You realized that keeping this fact from Gale was becoming increasingly like keeping a secret. You needed to tell him, and you needed to do it before he decided to take advantage of the relative quiet of the journey from the Shadowlands to Baldur’s Gate.

“You seem quiet,” Gale prodded, bumping his shoulder into yours.

“A lot on my mind,” you admitted vaguely. You bumped your shoulder into his but stayed there, leaning into his warmth.

Gale hummed in agreement. “It’s odd this calm before the proverbial storm.”

You felt him press a kiss into your hair.

“I need to tell you something, but you can’t make a big deal about it,” you said eventually after allowing yourself to sink into the comfort of the moment.

You felt Gale’s body stiffen, no doubt anticipating the worst kind of confession. Though at this point you weren’t sure what Gale would consider the the worst.

“Alright, I’m intrigued,” He said very neutrally.

You took a deep breath and sat up right, giving yourself the space for this. “Just to be clear, that night, our bodies weren’t actually… involved.” You were hopeful maybe you were wrong and you’d just missed all the awkwardness because you’re mind was literally somewhere else.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gale’s head cock to the side. “Ah no, they weren’t,” he agreed, unknowingly dashing your hopes, “it looks a bit strange to an outsider, I admit, but alas our corporeal selves were exactly where we left them.”

“Why?” He tacked on after a pause.

“Well, that would mean that I’m still technically a virgin.” You made your admission rather quickly, words bumping into one another as you spat it out, hoping to get this odd conversation out of the way.

Gale was unusually quiet and when you finally turned your head to look at him you saw about a thousand emotions cross his face.

“You’re a…” he trailed off.

You waited.

“Virgin?” his voice had risen almost comically.

“Yes,” you confirmed.

“But you’re-”

“Yes, I know how old I am,” you interrupted rolling your eyes at him.

“You mean you’ve never…?” Another incomplete sentence from your usually verbose wizard.

“That would be what that means, yes,” you confirmed… again.

You sighed and turned your body so you could look at Gale easily. “It’s not that I’m some innocent. I’ve had the odd kissing session in a dark room, its just never gone any farther. Not to mention I’m concerningly familiar with my own hand and also that one odd pillow in my…”

You trailed off as you watched Gale’s eyes darken. He cleared his throat and shifted. Idly you wondered which of those revelations had affected him so.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded almost hurt.

“It never came up,” you admitted, “first, you were at risk of blowing us all up and then we ended up having sex astrally. I would have told you if we’d been… physically involved,” you assured him, fighting with yourself as to how exactly word things.

Gale seemed to absorb this information with acceptance. “Well I guess that means my plans for tonight are off the table.”

“What? Why?” You sounded genuinely alarmed, surprising even yourself.

Gale smiled a small, exasperated thing. “My love, I can’t have you bedded properly for the first time in some wood in the middle of nowhere.”

“You absolutely can,” you insisted.

He chuckled and took your hand. Normally you would have seen a similar move as patronizing but there was nothing but love and adoration shining from Gale’s eyes. “We can be together astrally, again.”

“No,” you huffed pulling your hand away, growing frustrated. This wasn’t why you’d told him. “I want you,” you insisted, “I want you, for real. Here.”

Gale shook his head again, “but you deserve-”

“Gale,” you moved up onto your knees so you could hold his face between your hands, “this is about what I want. And what I want is your actual physical cock inside of me, here in this clearing. Tonight, preferably.”

Whatever Gale had been expecting, that confession wasn’t it. His mouth dropped open.

“Are you sure?” He asked eventually.

You nodded, vigorously, “yes.”

“Then I will give you what you want.”

You leaned forward and kissed him. Gale gathered an arm around your waist and laid backward, pulling you with him. You laid across his chest, eagerly allowing yourself to get lost in kissing him.

You shifted, slotting your body between his legs. Gale groaned when your thighs brushed against his cock, already half-hard. Taking advantage, you pressed your tongue between his lips. His hands slid down your back to your ass, cupping it he pulled you up and closer.

“How many young lads did you lead into dark corners, only to leave them with their hopes dashed?” Gale teased when you two finally separated for air.

You laughed. “I never said I left them unfulfilled.”

Gale shook his head with an amused smile. “I assure you every lad who left without bedding you was unfulfilled in some regard.”

“I think,” you smoothed a hand against his chest, “you think too highly of me.”

“Not possible,” Gale reassured. His expression changed as you watched, from playful to something more sincere.

“What have you done with others?” He asked all of a sudden.

Now, you felt you might be a little offended. “Gale, I wasn’t saying that-”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “I don’t care if you’ve had a thousand cocks in your mouth. Confused, perhaps, but I want to know specifically what has been done to you that hasn’t come from your own hand… or pillow I suppose.”

“Oh,” you felt a little sheepish now.

With out warning his hands slid to your thighs and he lifted you, pulling your legs apart, forcing you to straddle him. You could feel his cock pressing against your core. You fought down the urge to grind against it.

“Has anyone ever made you come with their mouth?” Gale asked then.

You shook your head, a warmth crawling down your neck at the thought.

“Their fingers?” He continued.

Again, you shook your head. “Twice I've had someone’s hand down my pants,” you admitted, “but it was awkward and they never really did much.”

“Maybe you’re lucky,” Gale mused, “boys tend not to think beyond their own needs.”

“And men are any different?” You challenged.

Gale’s eyes darkened as he looked at you now. “Not all, but this one, yes. Your needs are mine.” He rolled his hips up then, grinding his cock against you.

“Oh,” the sound felt like it was punched out of you. Happily, you rocked your hips back down against him.

Gale’s hands went to your hips, holding you from doing anything further. You tried to roll them again and frowned when he wouldn’t let you.

“I promise I will pay as much attention to your pretty cunt as you can stand,” he started, “but I need you to promise you’ll stop me if anything makes you uncomfortable.”

There was an edge to his final words, and you knew anything less than an agreement that he’d leave you untouched.

“I promise,” you repeated.

“Good girl,” He rewarded, his words shooting straight to your core. You absolutely did not look at him in an attempt to hide that knowledge from him. His chuckle let you know it had been unsuccessful.

He released your hips and you ground down on him once more.

In a testament to Gale’s self-control, or perhaps his determination, his hands moved to the ties of your trousers. When he’d finished opening them, he rolled you both so he was above you. He sat back on his legs and slid backward before working to shimmy your bottoms off before discarding them in a pile nearby.

He gently pushed your legs and you laid back, allowing him to bend your knees. He gently pushed at them so they dropped to the side. You shivered both from the complete exposure of the position he’d put you in and also from missing his warmth on you.

“Fingers or mouth?” Gale asked, hands sliding down your thighs, ever closer to where you truly wanted them.

“I believe I said cock,” you retorted.

A light pinch was delivered to your thigh and you jumped, startled but not actually in pain. “Soon,” Gale promised, “for now, though, those are your options.”

“Mouth,” you answered with almost no hesitation.

Above you, Gale smiled, apparently pleased with your answer. “Do you want anything? A pillow,” he asked rather than doing what you’d asked for.

“I want,” you answered a bit snappier than you’d meant, “for you to touch me.”

“Some day, I will have you without risk of interruption.” Gale wasn’t really talking to you it seemed. Still, you wondered what he meant by that. You hoped something wicked.

All thoughts left your mind when you felt his fingers spread you open even further. You were about to remind him you’d said mouth, unable to resist the urge to push against whatever side of him you were seeing, when you felt his breath hot against you. That urge fled, just as quickly as your thoughts.

You cried out when he swiped his tongue between your folds. Quickly you pulled your arm across your mouth, aware the camp wasn’t too far off. Gale didn’t seem at all concerned though as he began tracing maddening paths with the tip of his tongue.

Somehow he was touching you where you wanted and yet seeming to avoid it all together. A growl ripped out of you in frustration and you tried to slide down closer to his mouth. An arm flew across your hips quickly, preventing you from moving anywhere. You were about to say something, beg even, when his tongue finally found your clit. You cried out, free hand threading itself in Gale’s hair. If you couldn’t move closer to him, you could at least pin him to you. He didn’t seem too bothered by this thought, tracing his tongue down you again, this time pressing it inside of you.

“Shit,” you cursed hips ineffectively trying to grind down again.

Gale, in some act of benevolence or maybe because he was enjoying your reactions, move his arm from across your hips. He instead pushed his hand under your ass forcing you to tilt your hips up towards him. He moved his attention back to your clit. You felt the walls of your pussy begin pulsing around nothing and you whimpered.

“Fingers,” you gasped, pulling your arm from your face.

Gale either didn’t hear you or was ignoring you. A few more seconds of attention to your clit and then his teeth gently nipped against it.

“Fuck,” you cried out as your orgasm hit, once again pulling Gale against you. You couldn’t help but shamelessly grind against his face as you came.

He stayed there, tongue licking broad stripes up and down your center until you stilled. Only then did he gently disentangle your hands from his hair and sit up.

He knelt between your still-spread legs, a hand gently cupping your cunt. He was watching you closely, pleased with whatever he saw he gently began kneading against you.

“Will you fuck me now?” You asked unable to help the way your hips chase up at the contact.

He shook his head. Briefly, you were mesmerized by the way his beard, glistening with your wetness, reflected the light.

“Why not?” You whined, which wasn’t exactly how you’d meant to say that.

Gale chuckled before leaning over you to press a kiss on your lips. You could smell yourself on him, taste it even when he pulled away. Far from being turned off by that fact you found yourself wanting to kiss him again.

“Fingers, first,” he said and demonstratively slipped a finger beneath your folds to press against your entrance.

He easily pressed the finger into you, finding no resistance when he did. Gently he began pressing it in and out, every time he ground the heel of his palm against your clit until your hips were rolling with his movement.

His eyes never left your face when he began pressing a second finger into you. You nodded, trying to pull them deeper but he only continued pressing the new digit into at a slow pace.

“Gods,” you moaned when his fingers were pressed into you completely.

“Not quite,” he answered with a wry smile.

You were quickly distracted when you realized he was refusing to move his fingers in you. He was just grinding his hand to your clit, and while it felt amazing it wasn’t what you wanted.

“Gale,” you whined rolling your hips in an effort to get some movement inside of you.

That was his aim, apparently. Gale held his hand still and allowed you to fuck yourself on his fingers. You grew brazen, chasing after the grinding sensation as well with a roll of your hips. He watched you with a scrutiny that had your body flushing. Gradually you realized he had begun gently scissoring his fingers inside of you, pressing you open wider each time you pulled away from them.

His fingers were thick and you felt yourself clench around them at the thought of what he’d (hopefully) be replacing them with. You realized, in a passing thought, that you’d struggle to watch his spell casting in a normal way ever again.

You felt another orgasm building and with great effort stilled your own hips.

“Please,” you groaned out, “I want you inside me. Please, I’m ready,” you were shamelessly begging.

“Yes,” Gale agreed before finally thrust his fingers in and out of you a few times and then with drawing them entirely.

He was quick about removing his own trousers. His cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach, in the moonlight you could make out a bead of precum on the tip.

Your mouth watered.

Gale didn’t allow your thought to wander any further before settling between your legs. One hand hooked around the back of a thigh and hiked up your leg against him.

“Tell me if this hurts, despite what you’ve heard it doesn’t have to,” he said leaning over you, bracing himself with his free arm.

You would rather die, you realized as you nodded a lie to him.

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, but he didn’t move any further. It appeared he’d also put you in a position where he could keep you from pushing down on it. You wondered if it was forethought or simply a coincidence.

When he pressed inside your head collapsed fully against the ground. He was certainly bigger than anything that had been inside you before, his thick fingers included. Painstakingly Gale began pressing into you. His movements were slow and controlled, making sure to keep you immobile. The sensation was uncomfortable but not painful as he stretched you even further.

You couldn’t help but be grateful, now, for his refusal to fuck you immediately.

When he bottomed out, hips pinned against yours, he groaned head dropping forward. You felt the muscle of his thigh tremble against yours. You were secretly pleased as he struggled to maintain his composure.

You tried to wait him out, trust him as he had only thought of you so far, but your patience only extended so far. Experimentally you clenched around his cock.

“Shit,” he groaned, hips stuttering as he restrained a thrust.

“Please,” you whispered once again fluttering around him, “please.”

Gale pulled out only a little before slowly thrusting into you. It wasn’t much but your eyes rolled back.

He kept it that way, small shallow thrusts until there was almost no resistance when he did. Then, he began working back further before thrusting into you. He was grunting with each thrust, head hanging low so his forehead was resting against your chest.

“Gale,” you whined unable to take the coddling much longer.

It seemed his restraint was hanging on by a thread because his hips snapped up against yours, much harder than any previous movement.

“Yes,” you cried out in response.

Gale began truly fucking you then. He was mumbling something against you but the sound of your skin slapping against one another was drowning him out. Your own hips were moving now, too, the hand on your thigh had loosed so he was not longer holding you still.

“Touch yourself,” he said, voice strained, finally loud enough for you to hear.

You were able to slide a hand between the two of you. Instead of touching yourself right away you pushed your finger further down enjoying the sensation of the slide of his cock in and out of you.

Abruptly Gale pushed up so he was sitting back on his knees. Both hands sliding under your hips in order to tilt you up so he never slid fully from inside of you.

“Now, please,” he groaned out and you realized he was holding back his own orgasm.

Hurriedly you found your clit with your fingers, this new position making it easier. You rubbed quickly and efficiently in a way you’d long learned would bring you off.

“Beautiful, you’re so beautiful,” Gale babbled above you. “Come for me, I want to see your face this time.”

It was his words more than your fingers that pushed you over the edge. You whimpered and he began thrusting harder as you squeezed around him.

Gale came with a shout, eyes screwing shut. He pinned your hips together once more as he spilled inside of you. He rode out his own orgasm like that, hips rolling slightly with each pulse. Once he was done, Gale gently lowered your hips back to the ground, allowing himself to slip out of you.

You extended your hand up to him and when he took it you pulled him down against your chest.

“Next time I think I want to ride you,” you told him after a moment of quiet.

Gale laughed before tilting his head up to capture your lips in a kiss.

#gale x reader #gale x tav #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #kinktober 2023 #kinktober 2023 virginity

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alphabetboyluvr · 1 year ago

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throttle │ jjk - two

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - just a littleeee (read: mostly) smut... fingering, titty sucking (his fave <3), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms (female), creampie, post-creampie-pussy-eating, cum swapping, a little spitting i guess, titty worship, ?? more, maybe ??, idk, you get the idea. oh, and also dangerous driving and jk being down bad within like 5 seconds flat

word count - 13.4k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

Jungkook's cheeks are red, his nose blushed from the chill of the wind by the time you reach his place. It's just on the outskirts of town, past the jewellers' district and out towards the station, and it has you wondering why he's always getting fuel from your neck of the woods. It seems inconvenient, and if you were sober, you'd be questioning it.

Sober, you might have even made assumptions about it.

Hell, you know you would be making assumptions about it.

But you're not sober, and he's got a hold on your hand like you're one of the priceless jewels in the windows you've just walked past.

You're gold dust; a diamond in amongst the rough of downtown Daegu.

In fact, he's holding you so tightly that it's almost as if there's a price on your head, and he wants to be the one to reap the rewards. No sharing. His, all his.

He doesn't loosen his grip on your hand as he begins to punch in the code to his apartment door. It's steel, and robust, hiding everything that Jungkook is behind it. You don't know him, not really - not like you want to - but there's something so painfully intimate about being invited into his space. Has you thinking that maybe you'll get the chance to know him. For a few hours, at least.

The lock beeps, a mechanical whir sounding as the bolt retracts, but he pauses as he puts pressure down on the handle.

"Can you, like, close your eyes?" He grimaces, glancing back around at you. His tongue is tipsy, about to make admissions he never would do sober. "I left in a rush, and there are clothes everywhere 'cause I couldn't decide what to wear and I-"

"Wait, wait, wait," you grin, eyes centred on his. "Did someone get pre-date nerves?"

Jungkook presses his eyes shut, smiling as he rolls his head back. He's never nervous. Always cool, calm, collected - but he can hear your little drunk giggles, and his heart rate is up, and shit, he thinks he might be nervous.

He knows he was nervous before he left.

"I just-" he says with a frustrated groan, too exasperated to finish his sentence before he starts laughing, too.

You're both a little tipsy, swaying, drawing closer to one another. It's innate, the way your body leans into his, with zero resistance from Jungkook as your hands grip the front of his coat for support.

"Shuuuush," he whispers, all giddy and coy, holding his index finger to your lips. It's almost as if he gives a fuck about his neighbours.

He doesn't.

He's just using it as an excuse to get closer to you.

"You shush!" You whisper back, mirroring his actions and holding your finger to his lips, too.

His smile is so big that his dimples are on full display. They're as deep as his eyes are dark, and you just know he must have broken his fair share of hearts in the past. His hands cup your jaw, thumbs resting on the edges of your smile as if he's framing a work of art. He'd argue that he is.

You look so dainty in his hold, and he finds himself overwhelmed with the need to savour your pretty little laugh. It'll taste just like his, but he doesn't care. Thinks it'll be sweeter coming from your lips.

And, so, somewhere between your simpering laugh and his darting eyes, as a flickering light in his hallway beats in unison with your hearts, his lips find yours.

He's still telling you to shush as he does so, and you tell him it back - but neither of you actually shush until your tongues are in each other's mouths.

He fumbles the keypad of his door again, getting you both through the threshold and into his tiny studio before you can even look at the mess of clothes everywhere.

The nerves he once had are gone, because he's confident about this; about you.

The movements of your bodies bleed into one another, neither one of you taking the lead. Instead, it's as if you're a pair of figure skaters gliding through his apartment, eyes closed - not that it makes much of a difference. The lights are off, and a string of fairy lights left up since Christmas provides the only source of illumination.

Jungkook hadn't entirely planned on stumbling home drunk with you, but he knew he'd be stumbling home in some capacity, so leaving them on had seemed like a good idea at the time. He's proven right.

And even though this night hasn't gone exactly how he had planned, he's not complaining. Especially not when your hands begin to fumble with his jacket. You undo it, push it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Casual arrogance graces his lips as he smirks against you, unbuttoning the top of your skirt.

"I don't fuck on first dates," you tell him, but you don't stop him as he pushes the black denim over your hips and lets it fall to the floor. In fact, you're kind of giving him mixed signals as you reach for his belt, sliding the leather through its buckle.

"We've had, like, 300 GS25 dates," he mumbles into your lips between kisses, so casually that it's almost believable.

He pulls his shirt over his head, tosses it to the floor, and grabs your face just to kiss you again as soon as he can.

It's about now, just after he's finished evaluating your 'dating' history, that you notice the pressure of two small metal balls flicking against your tongue. They're evenly spaced across the centre of his own tongue, and the mere acknowledgement of them has your legs clenching together. The lip ring was bad enough, but a tongue piercing? Fuck.

He smiles as you moan into his lips, and assures you: "I think it's okay if we fuck."

Your hands are in his hair, his gripping onto your waistline before he rids you of your sweater, and all you can do is nod. Playing hard to get is a game for fools, and you're not really sure why you tried it in the first place. You're gonna be winning either way.

"Yeah, you're right," you mumble into his mouth. "We're basically married."

He laughs, and for a second you think that he must have been made by the Gods. It's the only way to explain how a human could be created so heavenly, even when they're about to commit enough sins to send them straight down to the pits.

"Happy honeymoon," he smirks, assisting you as you begin to push his jeans past his ass and down his thighs. Teamwork makes the dream work, after all.

You're both in your underwear, yet neither of you have even looked at the other's bodies yet. Too preoccupied. Too eager. Too consumed by the overwhelming need to feel one another.

His skin is warm, but the ridges of his torso are so hard that you'd be forgiven for thinking he's carved from stone.

Nudging his parted lips against yours, you gasp as his fingers curl in your hair. Jungkook just claims your breaths as his own, pressing his lips firmly shut against yours.

One hand clasps your throat, keeping you secure, as the other trails up your thighs.

"Sure you wanna consummate this marriage?" He asks a little breathlessly, playing on the narrative you built up for this moment, just checking before he does anything he can't take back.

But you're impatient, and you don't think you could be any clearer even if you tried.

"Oh my god," you whine. "Just finger me already."

Your words have him laughing all over again. He likes this, likes that you're not afraid to ask for what you want. He hadn't expected anything less, but it's satisfying to have his assumptions proven right. He kind of gets why you like making so many of them, now.

He fumbles about a little bit, not bothering to turn on the lights. It's not his first rodeo, and he doesn't think it's yours either - in fact, he knows it isn't. You wouldn't be so bold if it was. He doesn't embarrass easy, and knows that there are lessons to be learned with every new woman he acquaints himself with. You're no exception.

"Gotta tell me what you like," he notes as he presses a kiss against your neck, the smell of your perfume so divine that he thinks you must be some kind of lorelei. It's like a meeting of black cherry and vanilla, but when his nose nestles into your hair, he can smell gasoline - and he thinks it might just be the hottest thing about you.

You hum a response, the anticipation causing your heart to beat a mile a minute. He pushes the lace of your underwear to the side, his middle finger running between your folds. You're slick from his kisses alone, but so is he is. As you palm at the bulge in his pants, you can feel the wetness of precum leaking from his tip. He wants this just as much as you do.

"You can do better, little miss clutch control," he teases you. "Speak up."

Part of you wants to kick him in the balls. He's so sexy but so fucking annoying - he can hear how much you're enjoying his touch. He doesn't need confirmation - he just wants the gratification of hearing you say it. It's a power trip for him. You don't like giving men power.

"I like it when you shut the fuck up," you reply, hands in his hair, pulling him in for a kiss. If your words won't do it, then at least your lips will. The vibration of his laugh hums into your mouth, before he pulls away - only by an inch or so.

"That's more like it."

His lips return to yours, as quickly as they left, while he continues to roam. His fingers stay in your underwear, the very tip of his index finger mapping you out. Your body shudders when he brushes your clit, the direct contact a little too much.

He dips down to your entrance, pauses, and says "been thinking about this since the moment I met you," and then pushes two of his fingers into your cunt.

Your walls are tight and hot, but oh-so fucking wet. There's nothing about your pussy that he doesn't love. His thick knuckles are celestial inside of you, just as cosmic as the reflection of his fairy lights in his eyes, and you find yourself thinking that maybe those tattooed hands of his are something special, after all.

"Bra off," he husks, and you do as you're told. He'd have done it himself, but his hands are a little preoccupied.

He adjusts the pair of you as your bra hits the floor, encouraging your legs around his waist. Hoisting you up before you really have a chance to comprehend what he's doing, you're pretty certain that this is just an excuse to display his strength. You're impressed, so it's working, but you're also unable to really think about anything other than the way he feels inside of you.

Your back is against the wall, the weight of his body keeping you pinned in position as he fucks his fingers into you. There's no real calculation to his movements, just an awareness that he absolutely cannot fuck you yet. He'll simply finish too quickly.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy a quickie - truth be told, he finds them far more convenient - it's just that it would be mortifying.

He's not sure he'd actually be able to show up at the gas station ever again if you heard him whine like a little bitch and unload himself in five seconds flat.

Equally, he doesn't want you to dread his car coming into the forecourt.

He wants you daydreaming about him, all hazy-eyed, like you are when you're drunk, waiting for his car to roll in. He wants you musing about the way his tongue feels against your neck, and your coworker asking why you're smiling so much. He wants you blushing as you try to think of a justification, and he wants you excusing yourself to go to the bathroom to sort out the wetness pooling in your underwear.

So, yeah. A quickie simply won't do.

He grips onto the side of your neck with his spare hand as he sinks his fingers into your pussy again. The way you gasp is like music to his ears, every single one of his senses overrun by the entity that you are.

It's mutual though. You're consumed by everything that he is; his scent, the sound of his laboured grunts, the taste of his tongue and the feel of his hands all over your body. The only sense he isn't violating is your sight - but it's only 'cause he's making you feel so good that your eyes are forced to rest shut.

Jungkook, on the other hand, exclusively watches you. He marvels at the way your head leans back against the wall, neck exposed for him to leave a trail of pretty purple bruises. He knows he shouldn't. Knows he shouldn't leave a single mark on your skin. Knows better than to leave evidence of his crimes, but it's a sin he thinks he'd quite like to commit over and over again.

You're pretty good at faking it. A string of careless lovers, of whom you used to entertain prior to learning your worth, had helped you to perfect a moan. You can manipulate your body, make your chest heave with exertion, your pussy throb around their fingers, their cocks. You can make it leak, get yourself looking like a fucking mess for them, as if it's because of them. It's a fine art.

Botticelli would admire you, you think. His Venus couldn't compete with you. Femme fatal; a kisser of jaws, a killer of the men you have to let down gently because they fall too in love with you for your liking. Understandably, given what you can do. You've mastered it. Mastered men.

And it's for this reason, that you don't fake anymore. If someone isn't pleasing you, you let them know. You view it as a way of helping humanity - or their future girlfriends, at least. Why waste time letting someone else think they're getting you off, when it's you doing all the hard work?

You'd gone into this prepared; ready to remedy what would inevitably be a disappointing shag with a near stranger.

But you're not throbbing around Jungkook's fingers - you're trembling. There's no self-made stutter in your chest, but there's one a little lower down, one that you've got absolutely no jurisdiction over. Y'see, the way you're gasping, like you're struggling against a riptide, caught in the wave that is Jeon Jungkook, can't be faked.

It's what has him smirking as he puts pressure behind the kisses he's placing on your neck. It's the fact that every time you try and speak, even if it's just a curse or the sound of his name, it's cut short. You've no control. Fuck all. It's all on him, on account of him being inside you. If he's learnt anything about you in the short time that he's known you, it's that you're never speechless. Always getting that last word in.

But you can't even formulate one now, his fingers pumping into you at such a speed, that the lewd wet noise is almost louder than your moans. Almost.

Jungkook isn't a jealous kind of guy, especially not when it comes to casual hookups - but he kind of thinks he's jealous of his own fucking fingers.

Every single part of him wants your pussy; his tongue, his cock. You feel so good around him that he regrets not making a move sooner. Should have asked to fuck you as soon as you started talking about his car on his first visit to the gas station. Lord knows he thought about it.

His lips are on yours, not really kissing you, resting open, his breaths heavy and laboured. The way he's pushing into you, deeper, deeper, has you mirroring his expression, small moans pouring into his mouth. He wants to eat them up, devour them, use them as fuel.

You loosen the grip you have in his pale hair, gripping onto his neck with one hand, the other falling to his bicep. He likes the scratch of your nails against his bare skin, but there's a distance between you both that he wants to close. He pulls his hand from beneath your ass, relying on his core strength alone to keep you pressed into the wall, and reaches for your fingers. Intertwining them, he places his hand, with yours beneath it, back against the wall, above your head.

The change in position has your chest lifting, almost as if your tits are begging to have his lips around them - and who is he to refuse?

His tongue finds your nipple, flicking against the hardened nub before sucking it between his lips. The vibration of his studs against your sensitive bud has your back arching. He sucks you further into his mouth, tongue lapping against you, before he releases your nipple - but it's so puffy, and wet, and perfect, and fuck- he can't help himself, teasing at it again with his tongue.

So fixated on how you feel in his mouth, he's forgotten that he meant to be fucking you. His cock throbs beneath his boxers, as his fingers are kept warm by your walls, slick wetness creaming around the base of his knuckles and dripping down his palm.

His apartment is small, so it only takes him a moment to move you from the wall and toss you down into his sheets. There's a waft of his fabric conditioner as he does so, floral and soft. It's hard to imagine a man so broad, so handsome, so god damn irresistible, paying any attention to laundry - but you suppose it must just add to his charm.

"C'mere," you whine, as he takes a moment to take in the sight of you. Missing the way he feels, you pull him down onto the bed - but he's scared that even just rutting against you will have him spilling himself all over your stomach. Instead, he places himself beside you, and gets to work.

There's a familiarity now, his mouth taking your nipple again, wet and wanting, as his fingers toy with your pussy. He's not sure which he prefers, your pussy or tits, but he's more than happy to play with them both. His thumb presses on your swollen clit, and you writhe beneath him. "You like that, huh?"

You try and respond, but his thumb begins to rub languid circles against you. If you couldn't muster a word before, then like fuck can you speak now.

"Huh?" he teases, teeth grazing your hardened nipple, now. His finger strokes at your walls as he sinks into you once more, on the hunt for something that no one has ever been able to find, except you. The way your legs are tensing lets him know he's close.

"I asked if you like that." He's only a knuckle deep, stroking pretty little circles against your walls. Closer. You whine. "Don't go all shy on me now, doll."

Your body writhes beneath his, toes curling, teeth digging down on his shoulder in a failed attempt at keeping quiet. He hopes you'll leave a mark. His thumb presses a little harder against your clit, encircling it with pressure so deep that you're almost certain you'll die from his touch.

"Don't stop," is all you can manage. "Don't stop- fuck."

"Better," he says, pressing a kiss into your neck. You can feel his precum leaking onto your thigh, and the idea of him dirtying you has you insatiable. He can tell you're at his level now, so close to finishing that it won't be embarrassing when he's done in five-seconds-flat - but the way you're putty in his hands has him unable to stop himself. He's gotta make you cum. Needs to.

He presses his thumb down, fingers up, as if he's pinching them together, and then he's stroking and - "Oh, fuck it. Right there. Right fucking there." - he's found it.

He's fucking found it, the little ridge in your pussy that up until now has been just for you. You've lied before, told guys they've hit your g-spot and faked a little something that convinces them of it - but it's never been like this. Ever. Not even when you find it.

Jungkook follows your commands. He won't stop, doesn't stop, not even when your nails grab at his wrist because the pleasure is so unbearable, so intense, that it fucking hurts.

"Like that," you encourage, knowing your grip probably says otherwise. "Like that, fuck."

He does as he's told, and keeps like that, lips latching onto your nipple, sucking just as hard as his fingers are massaging. The slickness of your walls compared with the texture of your g-spot has him going insane. He doesn't think it's his first time finding such a sacred spot, but it's never been this easy, and the reaction has never been this good.

You moan out his name, 'cause he's all you can think about. Any and all articulation of your pleasure goes on him.

"Yeah, baby?" he asks, forgetting that he doesn't know you nearly well enough to be addressing you like that, but he doesn't slow down. You just moan. He can call you whatever the fuck he wants at this point. It's too good. Too much.

"Kook, I-" you try, but your hips are bucking, and there's fuck all you can do to stop it.

"Just a little more, baby," he promises you.

He will make you cum. Will do whatever it takes, if needs be. The tip of his cock is red and leaky against your thigh, ready to fuck into you, but he doesn't give a shit. Your walls are hot. Burning hot. And then they're throbbing, and your torso begins to tense. You whisper his name like a secret prayer, legs trying to close around the welcome intrusion of his hand.

"That's it," he keens. "Cum for me, doll. All over my fingers. That's it."

You're fucking mewling as your body shudders against his. There's no dignity left in your body. It's pooling in the palm of his hand, slick and slippery, just where he wants it.

"You're unreal," he hums, drawing the last of your little death from you. "Fucking insane, babe. So fucking hot."

Turns out the Grim Reaper had made an appearance that evening, just in the form of a 6-foot adonis, who knows his way around a pussy like he does a bloody electric switchboard.

You're panting, and so is he, his lips curving against your skin. Neither of you speaks for a minute, both casually aware that it - this, the night - isn't over yet.

And then Jungkook just thinks to hell with acting coy, or playing it cool. You're naked in his bed, and so is he. No point in beating around the bush (unless you're into it).

"Wanna eat you out," he says as he presses a kiss into your neck, placing himself more centrally over you. Your chest is still heaving, and the thought of cumming again makes you feel all dizzy. His elbows are rested by your head, cock stiff against your tummy. You wrap your arms around his neck, toying with his pretty blonde hair. "Wanna fuck you first, though."

There's a logistical step to be taken there. You're on birth control, and the subject of regularly testing had come up during a particularly suggestive conversation over dinner. You both know he'll be fucking you raw - which means he's finishing raw, too.

"But-"

"I don't care," he mumbles into your lips, a little rough, claiming them as his own. He really doesn't give a fuck if it means eating his own cum. Not like he hasn't done it before. He's probably just gonna spit it into your mouth, anyways.

He pulls his hips back to line himself up. The tip of his cock nudges into you slowly, gently, and then he eases himself forward. It burns, the thickness of his shaft spreading you in a way that his fingers couldn't. It's bliss. Divine. Heavenly, and yet absolute sin.

He revels in the way you feel, for a moment, letting your walls stretch before he sinks into you fully. You curse as he does so, the pain overridden by pleasure. His hips begin to pick up pace, eyes on yours to make sure that you're okay as he ploughs into you.

It's like he's digging for diamonds, almost. Funny thing is, when you gasp, eyes all wide and focused on his, it's looks like he's found them in your eyes. It's just the reflection of his fairy lights, but the illusion fools him.

Looking at you is too much for him to handle, so Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. He really wasn't kidding when he figured he'd finish in no time at all. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls.

"Gonna make me cum," he drowsily mewls, fucking himself into you like it's where he belongs.

His body is clammy against yours, stamina impressive but dwindling. His thrusts are getting sloppy, and so are his kisses, but you kind of love it like this; Jungkook so out of control he isn't even trying to keep a pace anymore. The rhythm of your body beneath his, the way he fits inside of you, how soft and warm your tits are as they pillow against his chest, it's all too much for him.

He's so deep he's practically kissing your cervix with the tip of his cock, and yet he still hooks your leg over his elbow. He needs to be deeper.

"Gonna make me cum so much. You want that, huh? Wanna be the reason I cum?" he grunts, and then his words become needy. "Tell me you want it, doll. Tell me."

He licks into your mouth, toying with your tongue before you even get a chance to respond.

"Don't want it," you pant, his harsh thrusts interrupting your words. He's about to be offended, all needy and pouty while he's buried inside you, but you're biting down on your lip and - oh, god - he's obsessed. "Need it. Cum for me. Want it so bad."

He smiles against your cheek as his hips move languidly between your legs. One of his hands comes down to your hip to help him control himself, but he can't. Not when he can feel you smiling, too. He laughs a little, soft and mellow against your skin - and when you do the same thing back, Jungkook knows he's absolutely done for.

"I'm gonna-" he rasps, unable to finish his sentence. "Where? Where do you want me?"

You don't say anything, just tighten the grip of your legs around his waist. You're a fucking mess, mentally, physically. He's ruined you in every sense of the word.

"Sure?"

"Sure," you pant against his skin, before repeating your earlier claim. "Need it. Need you."

It's a lie. You don't. You barely know him - but you feel so in tune, so aligned, when he's inside you that it feels like your pussy is the only place his cum deserves to be. It'd be wasted on your tits (though Jungkook would definitely disagree).

"God," he groans. "Don't say shit like that."

Jungkook has severely underestimated just how much of a little bitch you can be.

"Like what?" you pout as his thrusts get even sloppier, his skin slapping against yours. "What can't I say? How much I need you?"

He curses your name, lips showering you in pretty kisses. His tongue finds its home inside your mouth, but it's just an attempt to shut you up. A pretty good one, in all fairness. The way his studs feel against your tongue has you dripping around the base of his cock.

You can hear it; Jungkook slipping in and out of your soaked pussy like you're fire and he's ice.

"Need you," you simper again, just to fuck with him a little more. "Need to feel you fill me up."

"You want it that bad, huh?"

He pulls himself back a little, sitting up on his heels, holding onto your hips as he fucks himself into you. Your tits pillow on your chest, bouncing in time with his thrusts, hypnotising him, almost. You're smiling as your forearms cover your eyes, a little shameful of being caught in such a compromising position, but loving it nonetheless.

"Looking a little shy, there," he says, but his tone is so low it almost sounds like a growl. You pull your arms away, and he's amazed that you can still manage to raise a brow and throw him a pissed off glare even when he's balls deep in you. Truth be told, it just makes him want you even more. He's fond as he smiles at you. "There she is."

Even if you can't fake your orgasms for him, you can still fake annoyance.

"You gonna cum, or what?" You sigh, and then he's laughing, sinking back down, elbows either side of your head as he kisses you. "All men do is lie."

"Not gonna cum," he says, and you're right - it is a lie. "Just gonna keep fucking you forever."

"I have work tomorrow."

"Fuck if I care," he sinks his tongue back into your mouth, briefly, just to remind you who's really in control here. "Said I'll fuck you forever, so forever it is."

There's a bell chiming in your tummy, and you're not able to convince yourself that it's just another building orgasm. It's still him, though, in a round about way.

"We're not allowed to bring our pets to work," you deadpan. "No can do."

Jungkook stops thrusting, and pulls his head back, almost to look at you in disbelief. He's smiling, and he's so desperately turned on that his balls fucking hurt, but he's never been more perplexed in bed. You're equal parts a siren and a little shit.

You're grinning too, pleased to have rendered him speechless. "What is it, huh? Cat got your tongue?"

He smirks, now. "Nah. Not yet. But it will."

And then he's back at it, hips erratic, building such a pace that you can't even think, let alone come out with some dumb remark.

"Still need it, huh?" He recites your words back to you, voice raspy and hushed, so close it feels like his body could give out at any second. He's edging himself, trying to make it last just a little bit longer, but it's so wet, and you're so fucking tight, and he's throbbing, and grunting and - fuck - it's so fucking good he might just die.

"You're gonna look so pretty when I fill you up," he moans, before correcting himself. "Already pretty. So fucking pretty."

His hips slap against yours, once, twice, and then it's happening.

He buries himself in you, body tense as a shiver runs down his spine. Your nails dig into his back, a hushed whine escaping from his mouth and getting lost in your hair.

His cock unloads thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy, coating you with the very essence of everything that he is. It's overindulgent and unrestrained. Fuck if it isn't the most full you've ever felt, ropes of thick cum spurting into you like he was built to fucking breed.

He pumps himself gently inside you for a moment or so, just to ease the remainder of his hot cum into you. The sound is lewd as he adjusts, his job very much done.

Neither of you speak for a moment, hedonism taking heed. The way his heart beats in his chest is unlike anything you've ever felt before. In fact, you're almost in a state of shock, and so is he.

Only for a moment, though. He's not actually done yet.

Your first orgasm was cute - but there's no way he's letting you see him that pathetic, that weak, without making sure you end up in the exact same state.

He presses a few kisses to your damp neck, laughing softly. "Get what you wanted?"

Looking at you, brown eyes all big and sparkling, he pulls his torso back up, ass resting on his heels, before checking the state of his cock as he withdraws himself.

You're smiling as you watch him stare at where the pair of you meet with such devotion that it's hard not to feel a little enamoured with him. Even if it is just a casual fuck.

"Got what I wanted." Your voice is light and airy, like you're a Disney princess waking up from centuries of slumber. Might not have had true loves kiss, but you bet none of them has ever had a fuck like Jungkook.

You pout a little when he finishes pulling out, sad to have lost the feeling of fullness. He catches your expression, and smiles.

"Cute," he says a little mindlessly, articulating a thought that wasn't meant to be shared.

"Shut up," you reply, embarrassed, but he doesn't mind. Not in the slightest. In fact, he loves that you didn't want him to leave. Kind of wishes that he could have kept his cock buried inside you, instead.

But Jungkook is a man of convictions, and a firm believer that he'll simply die if he can't eat you out.

You sort of think the moment has passed, that it was something he said in the heat of the moment. Figure now he's orgasmed, he's finished - but Jungkook is an endurance athlete, not a sprinter. There's still a hurdle left to jump.

He presses your legs apart so that he can look at you. Your hole is creamy and fucked out, his load slowly seeping out of you with every beat of your heart. His fingers dip just beneath your entrance, collecting his cum on them, before he pushes it back into you. He doesn't look at you, just your cunt, as he says, "told you you'd look pretty full of my cum."

The way he's staring at you, like a man who hasn't eaten for days being presented with a three course meal, has you feeling all hot and bothered.

You're satisfied. The sex you just had was enough. More than enough - but you're getting weak at the knees again, his desire infectious. You can't remember a time you've ever wanted someone as badly as you want him. Not for any deeper reason than the selfish fact that he makes you feel good. It's pure lust, no romance about it.

His fingers continue to push his cum into you, stroking up and down your walls, applying just enough pressure to let you know he's there.

He moves his body back, keeping his fingers snug inside you - and then he lowers his body, just a couple of inches from you. His breath feels cold against the slick wetness covering your pussy.

"Also told you I wanted to eat you," he adds, as if you need reminding.

His spare hand strokes down the inside of your thigh before it reaches your hot core, and he begins to toy with your pussy. He spreads your lips open, just like he did your legs, and then he's studying you. Figuring out ways he can get your squirming.

The first initial contact is brief; the tip of his tongue licking across the top of your clit. A parched moan escapes your lips, and he smiles. "There?"

"There," you moan, eyes closed, head pushed back into his pillows.

He does it again, tongue a little flatter, a little firmer. You feel his piercing against you this time, smooth and hard. Your clit is snug between the two studs, like it was made to be there. He does it again. Wetter, deeper. And again. Slower, harder - and then his speed builds.

He licks up and down across your clit, rolling it beneath his tongue, once, twice- and then you lose count, so lost in ecstasy that all you can think about is his tongue lapping at your cum-filled cunt, plugged with his fingers.

Occasionally, he sucks gently on your clit, just to earn a little extra moan from you. It works every single time.

You're leaking around his fingers at this point, so close to cumming again that it's impossible to keep your legs open. He feels the pressure of your thighs against his head, and it only serves to encourage him. His speed builds, both his tongue and his fingers meeting with your pussy at such divine speeds that you're sure you'll cum in such an undignified manner that'll he'll perhaps regret his choices.

As your muscles begin to tense, his head in a literal death grip, he smiles, dimples deep and lips pretty against your pussy. Jungkook is utterly enthralled with how it feels to have his face between your thighs.

He keeps his eyes closed, letting himself experience the sensations of your body completely unadulterated. If he could see you, he'd be so obsessed with the view that he might not savour you in the way that he wants to. He wants to taste you, to smell you, to feel how soft and warm you are. If he wasn't obsessed before (which he was), then he definitely is, now.

The pressure builds, his tongue lapping against you, one of your hands tangled in his messy blonde hair, the other holding one of your boobs for a little moral support.

You're too far gone to even let him know you're about to come undone all over again. He knows, though. He can feel you pulsing, and then you're gasping, and panting, and mewling and fuck, he loves the way you sound.

Your muscles throb as he brings you to orgasm. It's so undignified that you're certain you'll never cum like this again. Your abdomen flexes involuntarily, making sure your orgasm is signed, sealed, delivered to you. He pushes your legs apart again, glancing up towards you as he licks one final stripe up your exposed mess.

You ignore the slick on his fingers that's now coating your thigh as he spreads them apart, too busy with the fact his chin is soaked, hair a mess, nose blushed. He's watching your entrance seep; a mixture of himself and you.

It's hard to know what belongs to who, but as he dips down and licks it up with the tip of his pointed tongue, the ownership is clear. It doesn't matter whose is whose, because your pussy belongs to him, now.

It's all his.

He gathers the creamy slick on his tongue, and then he pulls on your hand to encourage you into a sitting position.

You're putty in his hands, doing whatever he tells you, which is albeit very little. In fact, he doesn't say anything - just looks at your lips, then your eyes, and clasps your jaw.

He opens his mouth and pools his tongue, letting the mess that you've both made sit prettily in his mouth, dancing over his studs. He nods gently, moving his thumb from your jaw to your pillowy bottom lip, pressing down on it.

Open.

He's insatiable. Wants his cum on your tongue, but wants yours on his, too.

You spread your lips apart, eyes exclusively on his. Your tongue flicks against his thumb.

And then you nod.

Please.

Jungkook is slow in his approach, tentative as he holds your jaw, bringing your closer to him. His tongue licks into your mouth, swiping against yours, swapping his cum between the pair of you. It's a languid exchange, slow and sensual, neither of you caring for the boundaries that are being crossed.

He pulls away from you, hand gripping your jaw again. You open your mouth instinctively, just like he wants you to. Neither of you pay any attention to his phone, which is flashing on the floor next to his bed.

Spit gathers in his mouth, rinsing himself of the pair of you as he draws you closer to him, your mouth still resting open. He spits directly into it. You whimper a little as he does so, his grip on your jaw keeping your mouth open for him to observe just how messy it is; all thanks to him.

"Swallow," he tells you, easing his grip, and so you do.

Lips closed, you swallow everything; his spit, his cum, your cum, all of it. When he grips your jaw again, you know the drill, but it doesn't stop him from commanding you.

"Open."

He's pleased when you do, mouth all pretty and clean for him to ruin again - but instead, he just kisses you softly, hands on your cheeks, pushing your bodies back down into his sheets. There's a tenderness to the way in which he touches you; as if he realises you sacrificed a little dignity for him, so he's trying to restore it.

He's hard again - had never really softened, in all honesty - but he's too sensitive to do anything about it.

"Stay," he mumbles against your lips. Your hands are in his hair, keeping him close, as your legs wrap around his waist. "Stay the night. Wanna wake up to this."

You moan into his lips. His cock is firmly pressed into your stomach, his naked body warm against yours.

There's something about the weight of his body, the firmness of his muscular chest against the soft pillow of your own, that is unrivalled by any other sleeping arrangement you could think of.

And despite knowing exactly what he's saying, and being far too skeptical to think he means anything other than sex, you still choose to toy with him a little.

"Wake up to what?" You purr into his lips, aware that your hips are languidly rolling against him again.

He kisses down your neck, laughing softly to himself. His smile vibrates against your skin, and, for a moment, it's your favourite feeling in the whole entire world.

"To you."

You're pretty sure he can feel the way your pulse skips a beat in your neck. But again, you're difficult. And this arrangement definitely isn't anything more than just sex.

"You mean to my pussy, right?"

He presses pretty little kisses back up your neck, along your jaw and into your lips. They're cute. Kind. Romantic, even.

"Oh, a hundred percent," he grins against your lips, and then you're laughing too.

"You're so mean," you pout, as if you weren't the one to put the words into his mouth. There's a dimple etched into his cheek, eyes all hazy and sparkling as he shakes his head. He thinks you look adorable when you pout. So damn cute. He steals another kiss, and protests.

"Made you cum twice," Jungkook says, and has the audacity to scrunch his nose, acting all cute and shit. You're embarrassed, bringing your hands from his hair to cover your face, which you just know is flaming red. "I think that's actually pretty nice of me."

He pulls one of your hands away from your face, and kisses your knuckles. His smile matches yours - because while yes, you're embarrassed, you're still riding the post-fuck high, too.

"You also spat in mouth," you remind him, and then he's cringing. Jekyll and Hyde have nothing on Jungkook when it comes to him and, well, him in bed. "That's not very nice."

He covers his eyes with his hands, but his teeth are still on show, smile prevailing. "Shut up."

And then he's kissing you again, 'cause fuck it, he just can't stop himself.

It's been a while since he last got like this. In fact, he probably hasn't been this giddy post-fuck since he was a teenager. He's normally in the shower by this point, ridding himself of whoever he's been inside - but he doesn't have the compulsion to do that with you.

He knows that when he breaks from the spell you've cast upon him, he'll be back to reality. The fairy dust will settle on the ground like ashes, and the magic that once was will become nothing but malice.

There's a bridge to be crossed.

Jungkook has been fixing it up - repairing the cracks, making it sturdy - but he's not sure he wants what's on the other side, anymore. Not when you're in his bed, not when he can feel your chest wobble with every little laugh you do, and not when your nails are tenderly scratching at his scalp.

See, he likes being on this side of the bridge. Likes being with you.

But if he doesn't cross it, the trolls beneath it will inevitably come for him.

And so he asks you to stay again, but this time he says it like he means it.

"I want you to stay with me," he speaks quietly, rolling off of you and curling up beside you, reaching for the duvet that ended up at the end of his bed. He brings it back over your bodies, as if he's locking you in. You have to stay now.

You turn to face him, curling up too, mirroring him. Your fingers delicately tuck strands of his beautiful blonde hair behind his ear, ignoring the way his eyes are focused on you. Instead, you watch your hand as it moves, curiously touched by the fact he wants you to stay. You don't peg him as guy who often wants a girl to stay.

You're right to assume that.

Right to assume that he normally doesn't do this.

One night stands? Yeah, sure. He's had a handful - but never at his place. He doesn't like inviting people back to his apartment. It feels too personal. He likes being able to leave. He doesn't do the whole waking up together thing - no matter how much he likes morning sex (of which he does ( a LOT)).

But Jungkook's thinking about that bridge again.

He's thinking about the fact he knows shouldn't be at home right now.

He's thinking about the fact that you should be at home right now.

He's thinking about the fact his phone is on silent, and that Namjoon is probably cursing him out on voicemail right now.

But then you kiss him, and for a moment, he forgets again.

"I get grouchy when I'm hungover," you warn him, giving him an out, just in case he wants to retract his offer.

"Mhmm," he hums, pulling you into his chest. Your legs intertwine as he squeezes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You're grouchy when you're not hungover."

You laugh, cheeks plump and full, resting right where his heart is pumping a little faster than usual.

"You're lucky you're a good fuck, or else I'd be out of that door ASAP."

It's a lie, and you both know it.

"Thank god for my cock," he says, grinning like an absolute twat.

He decides that he's still really drunk. It's the only way to explain how his body feels all disjointed but perfectly together at the same time.

"Thank god for your cock."

────────────

You're still awake as the sun begins to rise. He's mumbling, saying something about how a town in Alaska has a cat for a mayor, while your head rests on his bare chest.

He's a little clammy, the smell of sex stuck to him. Neither of you have showered yet. You enjoy the way your bodies are a little sticky, skin on skin, as if you're made for his bed; for him.

Every now and again, his hands roam out of the realm of safety, and you find your breath hitching, toes curling, lips parting. It's always accompanied by the sound of an airy smirk from Jungkook.

You learn that he's obsessed with your chest. Your tits, more specifically. So pillowy, so soft. A gift bestowed upon you from Venus herself, he thinks, or at least he would, if he knew who Venus was.

He just wants to hold them forever. In his hands, in his mouth, he doesn't care. He'll put his dick between them too, eventually. Another time. He's too sensitive right now. But definitely one day, and definitely soon.

A little sunlight pours in, and you watch speckles of dust as they dance around in the air. When he laughs, soft and serene in the hazy atmosphere of a post-fuck come down, it's nice. You imagine that you'd quite like to do this again. You hope he feels the same.

"Just think it's funny," he says, toying with your fingers. "How a cat can do a better job than fully grown men."

"Pussy power," you smile, and so does he, before he presses a kiss into your hair. It still smells like gasoline and he still thinks it's the sexiest thing in the world. It's funny, 'cause if you knew it smelt that way, you'd feel insecure about it. It's why he doesn't mention it. Doesn't want you withdrawing from his touch.

He nestles down, shifts his naked body beneath his duvet but keeps you close. His legs interlock with yours and his lips find a home on the curve of your shoulder. "I'm really glad you said yes."

The comment seems out of the blue, but it's not. Your thoughts have been echoing in his mind, too. It sounds a lot like vulnerability. To him, it feels more like he's laying down a safety net. Making his intentions clear. Doesn't want you second-guessing. Not this, at least. He knows the way you like to theorise.

"You didn't really give me a choice," you rib, as if that chime isn't back in your diaphragm.

He squeezes you tightly. "Don't say that. You could have said no."

You shuffle down, tilt your head, and press a kiss into his chest, just between his pecks. Sweet like honey, your lips trail across, placing delicate kisses in pride of place.

His firm muscle; one, two. His dark nipple; a flick of your tongue, one, two. Just above his beating heart; one, two, three.

Your lips feather across his collarbone and land where tattoo leaks ever so slightly onto the top of his chest. You sign the art with your kisses like the ultimate thief. Stolen. Yours, now.

"You'd have still shown up regardless."

And you're right, he would have done.

Not for any grand romantic gesture, nor to coerce you into something you didn't want. He's just got a job to do, that's all.

He doesn't respond, but you don't really notice.

By the time you're dressed and leaving his apartment, the 503 is running. He offers to pay for your fare, but you tell him that it's fine, and hop on the bus as if your insides don't burn. It's been a while since you had a workout that vigorous.

There are a few old women and a middle-aged man in a business suit taking the same journey as you.

Your cheeks flush crimson when you start to think about the ache in the pit of your stomach, right beneath that little chime that likes to ding every now and again. That feeling? The one that made you quietly gasp as you sat down? That's Jungkook.

The acknowledgement ruminates. It's insidious. Has you feeling all dirty.

You wonder if they know. The people on the bus, the one's sat around you. They couldn't possibly know, not really, but you brood over the notion that you give off an aura; one that says you've just been fucked by the most beautiful man you've ever laid eyes upon.

You wonder if the old ladies glance at you and long for the days when they'd go home with strangers.

You wonder if the middle-aged man is responding to the pheromones you're releasing without realising it, cock a little plump in his pants.

It's a morbid curiosity, but one that makes you feel all hot, and sticky, and sordid. Makes you feel good, too. A little dangerous. A little bit like you wanna get off the 503 and leg it back to Jungkook's place.

It has you reaching for your phone, pulling up kakaotalk and clicking through on your most recent contact. There's still a message at the top of your thread, warning about spam, or fraud, or whatever it is. You don't read it. Too busy typing away.

You're about to press send on a poorly thought out message when your phone vibrates in your palm. You pause. Cringe. Are aware that Jungkook will have seen how quickly you read his own message that's just come through to you.

꾹: i wanna do that again.

You: the galbi or the sex?

꾹: both.

꾹: mainly the sex, though.

꾹: the galbi i can take or leave.

Your legs press together, and realise you're squirming in your seat. It's subtle, but anyone who's looking at you must know.

You: funny, im the opposite.

You: id die for the galbi.

You: sex was alright.

꾹: wow, a glowing review.

꾹: can i add it to my tinder profile?

Like fuck you can, you think to yourself. If he's still active on tinder after the night you had together, you'll do the reasonable thing and learn witchcraft just so you can hex him. You tell yourself you're just joking, but honestly, the idea is tempting.

You: uh-huh.

You: you can put it right beneath a bullet point where you let them know how much you like eating your own cum :)

꾹: technically, you ate it.

꾹: i just delivered it :)

You: thank you for your services.

꾹: any time.

You: tonight?

꾹: please.

And so he arrives at the gas station just before nine, hood up, angelic strands of blonde hair tickling over his eyes. He's got a mask on, like he usually does, a black turtle neck resting prettily around his throat. An earth-toned flannel shirt peeks out from the bottom of his jacket, where the hem meets a pair of black jeans. He has a charm about him that makes the world stop turning for a moment when you first look at him.

He's not really sure how to greet you. With a kiss? A high five? Neither of these seems like a good idea, so he just does an awkward half-bow, which leaves cringing.

"Just gotta cash up," you smile from behind the kiosk. "You walked?"

He shakes his head. "Parked around the corner again. Didn't wanna block the forecourt."

It's a reasonable enough excuse, even if a little weird. You finish what you're doing, cash up, give Jieun the keys (and ignore the way she's grinning at you) and then toss your jacket over your shoulders. He walks beside you as you leave the store, popping your hood up again just like he did the night before. "It's windy."

The forecast said it would rain, too, but Jungkook doesn't know this. Doesn't actually give a shit about the weather. Just needs excuses to put your hood up.

"So I've been thinking," he says as you make your way to the side lane.

"Dangerous," you quip, but he ignores it - though he does nudge you a little. You let your body move in accordance with his, swaying back into him slightly. Like a swinging pendulum, you're about to recoil, but Jungkook's arm drapes around your shoulders, keeping you close. The scent of his clothes is a mix of fresh cotton and WD-40. It makes you laugh, how much a walking juxtaposition he really is.

"I've been thinking," he reinforces, and pauses just in case you're planning on interrupting again - but you don't. You want to hear his thoughts. All of them. No matter how big or small. "What if... What if we skip the sex tonight?"

You don't respond immediately, walking around to the passenger's side of his car. He clicks down on his key, opening up the locks. The lights flood your features, illuminating you in warm hues, reds and oranges, as if to send Jungkook a warning: she's dangerous.

"Skip the sex?" You raise a brow, ignoring the butterfly atrium that has spontaneously constructed beneath your ribs. "You lured me here under false pretences, Mr Gimbap."

He doesn't question the nickname. Figures he'll find out its origins this evening. After all, all he wants to do is talk.

Talk about you, where you come from, where you plan on going. He wants to know more; what makes you tick, your favourite chocolate bar wrapper joke, if you really meant what you said about not fucking on first dates. Wants to know if he's special. Wants to know if he gets to you the same way you do to him.

He'll ask you about your favourite Shakespeare play, and he'll hope that you'll say Romeo & Juliet. It's the only one he's read.

You'll tell him that it's not a representation of love, and he'll say he knows. He doesn't - he just won't want you to think that he bases his idea of romance on such ill-fated endeavours. Thinks it's about stars-crossing, illicit affairs, love that prevails. Shit like that.

He isn't really sure what it all means, but he's seen the Baz Luhrmann adaptation, and that's enough.

You'll say that Romeo is an ass, and he'll feign offence and tell you that you'll never be his Juliet. It'll earn him a laugh from you. That's fine; you never wanted to be her.

You're a Beatrice in search of her Benedict, after all - and the way that the pair of you bicker, it seems like you might have just found him - even if he does think he's a Romeo. Twat.

"I didn't," he laughs in response to your earlier statement. "I just like to know the girls I'm sticking my dick in, that's all."

"Ohh, romance," you whistle through pursed lips, throwing him a coy smile.

He nods towards the buckle by your seat and tells you to do the belt up, as his key turns in the ignition. There's a small rumble, his exhaust rattling as fumes begin to bluster around the end of the pipe. He's listening again, revving the engine ever so gently, foot on the throttle.

The way he cares for his motor makes you laugh. He's so temperate, so careful - but you know he abuses the engine like no tomorrow whenever he races it. He treats it almost as if it's a racehorse; something with actual feelings.

You do as you're told, clicking the belt into place, and remind him to do the same.

"The girls?" You question as he passes you the aux. "Multiple?"

There's a static click as you plug it into your phone, before your playlist starts up again. His hands move like machines, smooth and automatic as he slips into first gear.

"The girls," he echoes, eyes flicking up to the rear-view mirror, and then over his shoulder to check the blind spots, before easing onto the main road.

"Charming," you say dryly.

It's not like you hadn't assumed this already. You had already decided that he at least had a friend with benefits lurking about (even if she had become too clingy (actually, no, especially if she had become too clingy)).

You'd figured that it was where he had been on the night that he was a no show - but then he'd shown up all apologetic and shit. You had let his innocent eyes win your skeptical mind over.

"Guys aren't really my thing," he follows up, sensing your discomfort. He knows he's beating around the bush, not giving you the answer that you want - and he also knows that you're getting in your head about it. Knows you'll be questioning what he means, and if he's sleeping with anyone else. He'd be within his right to. You barely know each other. Where he sticks his dick isn't really any of your business. "And I'm hardly a virgin, am I?"

"Gasp," you say. "You're not?! Could have fooled me."

He's smiling again.

You like how much he does that around you. Wonder if he's like that around other girls, too.

"Was I really that bad?" He flirts.

Jungkook knows how to fuck. He's been given enough positive reviews to know that he's anything but bad. Although... he kinda is. But in a good way. In the way that you want him to be bad.

"I've had better."

Liar.

"Ouch," he laughs as he presses down on his indicator for the next left. "Guess I'll just have to keep practising."

City lights cascade over the pair of you as his car rolls through the quiet streets, splintering like refractions of a mirror ball. He hates that he has to keep his eyes on the road. Wants to drink in the way you look almost as much as he wants to drink up the way you taste again. The night is dark, the moon hiding behind a fluffy cloud that looks like charcoal cotton candy beneath its radiant light. Jungkook loves nights like these; likes them even better with you in his passenger seat.

Green flashes over your features as he passes beneath a traffic light. You cross your legs, adjusting your posture. It's so subtle that you don't even realise you're doing it - but Jungkook does.

"On your other girls?"

There she is, he thinks. It's what he's been waiting for. Confirmation that the idea of him fucking other girls irritates you. He reaches across and taps your knee. He enjoys the predictability of you.

You resist the gentle nudge of his hand, the pads of his thumb and fingers resting on your kneecap. Your legs remain crossed, just as his hand remains on your knee. The stretch of road you're on is straight, requiring no gear change for a little while. He can play this game, if you really want him to.

"No," he says. There's pressure beneath his fingertips now. "Be a waste of time, wouldn't it? Everyone's different. If I wanna get better at fucking you, specifically, then I gotta keep fucking you."

He's not wrong. You can't fault his logic, and in all honesty, the way he's talking is so abrasive, so raw, that it's got you feeling all hot and bothered again. He may as well be stroking your pussy, not your knee, with the impact he's having on you.

His grip tightens, then pulls your knee back over. Commanding, not requesting. Your legs part for him, because of course they do. There's something about knowing he has options, knowing that he could be with someone else, but is choosing to be with you that gives you a little ego boost.

"Maybe I've changed my mind," you feign indifference, but Jungkook knows there's a handful of feelings beneath your words. "Maybe I don't wanna fuck you anymore."

He strokes his broad palm along the inside of your thigh. It's warm, wrapped in the sheer nylon cover of tights, and he'd obsessed with the way they feel. So smooth, so soft, so perfectly pristine. He wonders if you're making a mess of them. Hopes you are.

"I don't like maybes," he says. "Either you wanna fuck me or you don't."

"I don't like fucking boys who fuck other girls."

"Who said I was fucking other girls?" he smirks, and lets his hand trail a little further up. He squeezes the flesh of your thigh, getting a feel for you.

"You did."

"No," he corrects. "I said I've fucked other girls. Past tense. Never said I'm currently fucking other girls. You really gotta stop making assumptions, little Miss Clutch Control."

"I hate you," you say with a smile, and you really do mean it.

"I like girls who hate me. Makes the sex so much hotter."

"Despise you."

"Ugh," he grins, as he lets his hand reach the top of your thigh. He squeezes again, and you hum a little moan for him. "Doesn't sound like you hate me."

You giggle, soft and serene in the safety of his car. Reaching a junction, he pulls his hand back to change gear. You're at a four-way intersection, the light only just hitting amber, so he reckons he has a least a couple of minutes to toy with you.

When his hand returns to your thigh, just like you hoped it would, it's beneath your skirt. Right at the top. Right where it belongs. The pressure beneath his palm is firm, fingers sinking into the softness of your leg.

"But I do," you say, voice quiet, anticipation lacing your breath.

His pinky finger stretches out a little, just to stoke over the mound that rests between your legs. He can already feel the heat, but what surprises him - and excites him - is the slick that's seeped through your panties and onto the outer side of your tights.

"Doesn't feel like you hate me, either."

"No?" You toy. "Feel again."

And so he does. He points his index and middle finger, and holds them flat against you. They're instantly met with a slippery mess. He slides them up and down, once, twice, three times, and then cups your pussy with his palm. You're fucking pulsing in his touch.

"See?" You speak as if you don't wanna whine his name. "Loathe you."

"So you do," he mumbles as he presses his palm tight against you, inhaling sharply as he does so. One glance at his lap and you can tell he's just as turned on as you are. His cock is solid beneath his trousers, jeans tight, keeping him concealed. Part of you feels a little bad. Looks painful. He's too big to be confined by such unforgiving material.

"Still wanna skip the sex?"

Jungkook presses in index finger against where he can feel your entrance is. You're so wet that his fingers are already coated in everything that you are. He wants more. Wants your tights gone. Wants his fingers inside you.

But he's a stubborn asshole, and hates being proven wrong.

"Sex?" he pulls his fingers back, and rests the heel of his palm on the top of his steering wheel. They're covered in your juices. He considers licking them clean, but figures that might be a bit too brash - and then thinks fuck it, and does it anyway. There's a sweetness to your taste, one that has him holding back a moan. Absolutely fucking divine. You don't even realise that you're staring at his hands - the way they sink into his mouth - until he pulls them back out. He looks at you. Shrugs. "Yeah. Not really in the mood."

"Thank god," you say, not skipping a beat. Even when your need to fuck him is so intense that it manifests into a physical form and leaks onto his passenger seat, you're still able to bicker with him. It satisfies him like nothing else. Makes his cock so hard. "Me either."

The light turns to green, his hand is back on his gear stick. You stick to looking out the window, not favouring looking at him. The temptation to palm his crotch is overwhelming, but you're just as stubborn as he is. If you've said you don't wanna fuck, then you're damn well gonna act like you don't wanna fuck, until you simply can't take it anymore.

"Glad we agree," he says. "So let's talk."

You half wonder if this was his plan all along. You actually do think you hate him - but only cause he makes you feel weak. You don't enjoy that feeling, but you enjoy him.

"I'm an open book," you lie.

He flicks his eyes to the rearview and mutters under his breath, "shit."

"What is it?" you glance over your shoulder, noticing a pair of headlights flashing Jungkook. You can't make the car out. Its lamps are on full-beam. Blinding.

Jungkook leans over, the fingers that had been stroking against your pussy now pressing down into your buckle. There's a click as it releases, before he moves down and pulls up on the lever by the front of your seat, dragging you forward.

"Get in the back," he says, as if he isn't still driving. You go to question him, but he cuts you off. "In the back. Now. Middle seat."

You stare for a second, until he glances over to you, jaw tense, with no hint of a smile. "Don't argue with me, now. Middle seat. C'mon."

"Kook-"

"Now."

And as unsafe as it feels, you find yourself twisting, hands gripping onto the back of the passenger seat as you bring your legs up to crouch.

"Quickly, babe," he says, his hand reaching over to tap your ass gently. Your back is to the windshield, and Jungkook's terrified that the fucker behind him isn't gonna wait for a respectable start - but he's also anxiously aware of the fact he isn't explaining himself to you, and that it's gonna make you hesitant. "Please. Trust me."

And so you do. You wobble a little as your leg dips over the centre console, his hand still on your ass to keep you stable.

"That's it," he encourages. You make your way into the back, a little squeal as you leap soundtracking the move. "Seat belt. Now."

The leather of the backseat is cold against your tight-covered thighs, legs pressed together, feet firmly on the raised centre of the footwell. You do as you're told, all rather quickly.

"Hands on the seats," he tells you again, and you don't question it, even though it's all that you want to do. There's a time and a place for bickering with him, and while it's the perfect place, the urgency of his commands suggest that now isn't the right time. You grip onto the seats in front of you, and Jungkook reaches up to feel your hand, just to make sure it's where he wants it. His hand is clammy and warm, safe against yours. He lingers for a second, not wanting to lose the way your feel against his skin. "Hold tight."

He slows to a near stop, and you almost laugh when you realise where you are. That fucking bridge, again. The car behind you pulls up beside him, but it's hard to make it out through his back windows. They're so intensely tinted that all you can figure out is the rough shape. "Is that-"

"Yep," he cuts you off, knowing what you'll ask. "Car from the last time. It's cool. I got this. I will warn you, though, he's a little pissed with me at the moment."

"A little?"

You can hear the engine revving. Sounds more than just a little pissed.

"We're friends. It's okay."

Friends is a loose description. It would have been the right term, once. Jungkook thinks of him more as a colleague these days. A pain in his ass.

"Doesn't sound very friendly."

"I'ma need you to be quiet, babe," he says, voice soft. He isn't trying to be rude, he just needs to concentrate. Needs to win this. Needs to get Namjoon off his back. Needs to get you away from, well, here.

"Noted."

Jungkook watches the lights. It's how races like these work; the impromptu kind that first got him acquainted with Namjoon. They wait for the lights to shift, throttle teasing on amber, rubber-burning on green.

His gaze is on the lights and the lights only. The leather binding of his wheel almost squeaks as he grips against it, shoulders rolling back ever so slightly. Glancing over to the black SsangYong, he nods, and then his eyes are back on the lights. The lack of a flagger has never bothered them. In fact, Jungkook prefers racing without one. Fewer variables. Less chance of things going wrong. He knows the time of the lights. Trusts them. Trusts his muscle memory to do the hard work for him.

You can feel that chime in your stomach again - but it's different this time. It's a warning bell. The kind that tells you to get out of the situation you're in. Fat fucking chance.

There's a purr as the lights flicker into amber, Jungkook's rev count building. The sound of the SsangYong rips through the windows, letting you know just how powerful it is. Ain't no way Jungkook's fucking Pony is beating it. His grip adjusts, foot sinking further down onto his throttle. He builds it, 2, 3, 4 - and then the light is green.

The way Jungkook moves is as if he's at one with his car.

His movements are slick, well-oiled.

There's no hesitation, just an innate understanding of what needs to be done. His car tears from the starting line, and you forget all about the SsangYong he's racing.

It's hard to think about anything at all, in all honesty. Hard to comprehend the speed he's built so quickly; the control he has. There's a rush pulsing through you that you haven't felt since, well, ever. You don't enjoy racing, not really. You hate it whenever Yoongi rags his car about, but you trust him.

And you find yourself trusting Jungkook, too.

Maybe it's because you've already seen him tame his car when it's been out of control, or maybe it's because you've already trusted him with your body, so what difference does your life make?

His tyres are almost silent, moving at such a pace that there's no chance for anything to reverb. He grunts a little, pushing the car up to fifth, building, building and then -

"Corner," he braces you.

You're pretty certain you're going to throw up.

It's a route that Jungkook knows well, just a short circuit, over the bridge, sharp left out along the riverside road until they reach Kang's. Same every time. Hasn't yet thought about what he's gonna do when he gets there. Just knows he has to get there first to buy himself a little time.

He knocks the car into neutral, clutch down, brakes too, and then he's turning the wheel just a little. Not too sharp. Doesn't wanna oversteer. He coasts it round the bend, knowing better than to be in neutral, but he isn't thinking about that right now. He's thinking about the fact that Namjoon's car is fucking faster, and he needs every gain he can get.

Your hands grip into the padding of his seats, desperately trying to stop yourself from toppling over. Elbows locked, it's hard to determine the sheer amount of force you're putting behind your bones.

There's a screech as the tyres burn against the road, no doubt leaving thick black streaks on the tarmac. You're so used to seeing them on your way to work that you never really consider how they get there. Now you know.

He pummels the car forward, knocking it back into third, and then up into fourth. It's a miscalculation. Should have jumped right up into fifth - but he can lament that later.

He corrects his mistake. Strikes it into fifth. Namjoon is trailing. Jungkook has got this.

Eyes hard against the horizon line, Jungkook has no time to think. He flicks his eyes up to the rearview, catching sight of the SsangYong's bonnet. He's miles ahead.

Well, no. Not even a metre - but it may as well be miles. He just needs to keep up this pace.

Foot to the floor, he's tanking it. The shops you dart past become a blur of neon lights, nothing for your eyes to absorb other than the chaos of light beneath a dark sky. In the distance, you see Kang's.

"Shit," he hisses as the light at the intersection ahead begins to flash amber.

"Hold on," he says, as if you've even thought about letting go. Hands clammy from nerves, you adjust your grip. Tighter. So tight, your nails will leave prints in his leather.

He pushes further, further, further, but the lights are flashing quicker, quicker, quicker. "C'mon, beauty. C'mon."

He hits the junction line.

The lights are still amber.

And then he switches from gas to clutch. Easy does it.

Jungkook pulls the handbrake up. Clicks it into place. Pulls the car round with a single hand on his steering wheel.

He has full control over the vehicle as it roars into position right in the middle of the cross-section.

There's a blaring horn sounding behind you - but it's not directed at the Pony.

It's directed at the SsangYong, which has screeched to a halt. The oncoming traffic has been set free, lights fully changed. Jungkook made it just in time.

"He's stuck," you tell Jungkook, head over your shoulder, making sure that the SsangYong hasn't moved. "Can't get past the traffic. You're good."

You expect Jungkook to ease off the throttle, but he doesn't. He takes a sharp right instead, and begins to tunnel down back allies. Right, then left. Then left again, and another right. Takes so many rogue turns that you don't even know which direction you're facing in by the time he comes to a stop. It's been nearly five minutes since you lost the SsangYong - and yet he just won't ease off the gas. Not until he's certain Namjoon isn't lurking in the shadows of his exhaust fumes.

By the time he does eventually stop, his chest is heaving. Breathless.

You're down a back alley, across the other side of town. You don't recognise it.

Pressing down into the buckle, you undo your belt and clamber forward into the passenger seat again, feet up, body facing towards him.

He doesn't look at you for a while. Just stares ahead. Inhale, exhale. You can see his jugular vein beating.

"Hey," you reach out to his wrist, and stroke on his arm gently. He doesn't respond instantly. Just lets his eyes close. It's nice, the way you're so gentle with him, he thinks. So nice. So soothing.

And then his body acts before his mind does. He pulls on your wrist, grip firm, as his other hand pushes down the lever by the front of his seat. Weight on his feet, he pushes himself back, making space for you in his lap.

The way you clamber over the centre console is less than elegant, but he doesn't care. Just needs you on his thighs. Needs to suffocate in the scent of your gasoline tainted hair, and taste the sweetness of your tongue in his mouth. Needs to remember everything that you are, so he can forget who he is.

His hungry lips find yours, a hand in your hair, the other on your cheek.

There's really not enough room, your legs straddled over his, trapped by the door on one side, the gear stick on the other. It's tight and claustrophobic, but he likes it. Likes how ensnared he is by you. Wants to be even more trapped.

He licks against your lips and begs for permission to enter - as if you'd ever refuse. His tongue strokes against yours, the studs you'd (somehow) forgotten about making you whimper. He's rough and aggressive with his kisses, the adrenaline manifesting itself in the form of intimacy.

"I lied," he says breathlessly. "About the sex. I want it. Let me fuck you."

He wants to lose himself in you. Needs to.

"Backseat?" you moan into his lips as he begins to encourage the movement of your hips against his painfully hard crotch.

"Backseat."

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

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release-the-sheep · 2 months ago

Note

again!

Rizzles, 47

hi again :)

(prompt from a list, it's been ages, I'm getting through them)

47 "Don't wanna come until I feel you in me."

"Hey, you wanted to see me?"

Jane steps into Maura's office and shuts the door behind her when Maura signals for her to do so from behind her desk. "Blinds too, please."

"You got it," says Jane uncertainly, frowning slightly. She turns when she's completed the task and strides over to the desk, which Maura has moved around and is now leaning against.

Maura looks conflicted, which does not unfurrow Jane's brow at all. "You weren't doing anything pressing, were you?" Maura asks, and it's sheepish.

Jane has very, very rarely seen Maura sheepish. Bashful, at times. Embarrassed, occasionally. Sheepish? Hardly ever. Jane's confusion only deepens. "I was looking back over the findings from ballistics for the Chang case, just 'cause somethin' might be different the seventh time I checked. No, it wasn't pressing. What's up, are you okay? What's going on?" She can feel herself getting worked up the longer Maura sits there, fidgeting with the cuffs of her cardigan and staring at her.

Maura takes a deep breath, flexing her fingers around cashmere. "You recall this morning?" she asks, proud of how normal she's able to make her voice sound despite the fact that she's practically shaking with need.

Jane immediately knows what Maura is referring to, and she smirks. She had spent last night at Maura's, and this morning had caught Maura looking over at her from the other side of the bed as they got dressed, rapt. Jane had felt a naughty smirk settle on her face and had decided to tease just a bit. She had turned fully toward Maura, dressed in just her grey Nike sports bra and black boyshorts, and locked eyes with her. Then, Jane had slowly slid first fingertips, then fingers, then her entire left hand under the thick band of said shorts. She had moved her hand around in there just enough to set Maura's mind reeling, before pulling it back out and reaching for the pants she'd laid out on the chaise longue. She'd even had the audacity to cavalierly wipe the pads of her fingers on the side of the shorts before going about the rest of her morning routine. Maura had felt her arousal light like a candle, flaring brightly at Jane's inciting actions, and then settling into a tamer but steady burn in their aftermath.

The candle had burned all morning and into the afternoon until at 2:17pm, Maura, now a puddle (of wax, or of something else), had decided she could wait no longer for Jane's touch and had sent the detective a quick, desperate text requesting her presence. It had included neither reason nor detail, and yes, Maura sees now how that might've looked to Jane. She spares half a moment for thoughts of repentance, but no more, as Jane appears now to be catching on. She always has been quick.

"You really been thinkin' 'bout that all day?" Jane asks, voice low and hips confidently cocked as she looms over Maura, getting right in her space.

Maura means to sound indignant but is aware she comes off needy and breathless instead. "Can you blame me? When you did it I could feel your fingers as if it was my skin they were on, and I've been feeling them since."

Jane's pupils dilate at her admission. "Well damn, that sounds like it must've made it hard to get any work done," she rasps.

Maura nearly stamps her foot in impatience. "You really are aggravating, you know."

Jane chuckles, dark and liquid and delicious, and Maura thinks the sound would taste like chocolate if she could somehow lick it. Jane takes the tips of Maura's fingers in hers and spins her so the ME's back is to her front. "You love it, though," she murmurs.

"Generally," Maura agrees, unwilling to risk hives and too caught up to think of a less incriminating answer. "Touch me, please," she nearly whines.

"With pleasure."

Jane begins by snaking a hand up over Maura's shoulder at her neck, pulling aside the collar of Maura's blouse slightly so she can leave a wet, hot kiss there. That hand continues over and down Maura's chest until it is cupping Maura's breast. Jane had recognized the strap of Maura's bra a moment ago when she revealed it, and she knows it does not have padding, just a wire and satin cups and a front clasp. She takes advantage, pressing the heel of her palm firmly against soft flesh and then curling her fingers around to knead.

Maura can actually feel some of the texture of Jane's scar through the two thin layers of fabric, and she shudders in pleasure. Her nipple is hard, poking, and Jane responds by loosing her fingers and caressing with her palm flat. It makes Maura twitch and gasp.

Jane does that melted chocolate chuckle again. Her hand glides lower down Maura's front, until she is cupping Maura between her legs. She can feel the heat and even a hint of the moisture of Maura's arousal through designer slacks, and it makes her hiss. She starts to rub, slow but firm, and Maura throws her head back against Jane's shoulder with a wanton moan. "Holy shit, you weren't kidding, you could come from just this, huh?" Jane asks, awed.

"Don't... want to," breathes the pathologist, pushing her hips into Jane's hand.

"What? Why?" Jane moves as if to pull her hand away but Maura clamps her own hand down against Jane's wrist, maintaining the delectable pressure. She gathers herself to speak again.

"Don't wanna come until I feel you in me."

Jane feels dizzy. "Well, then, I better get your pants open," she croaks.

Maura reaches behind her with the hand not holding Jane's in place and pulls Jane's face toward hers over her shoulder. She lays a searing kiss on Jane, messy and forceful. "You'd better."

Jane licks her lips where Maura's just were and undoes the clasp, button, and fly of Maura's slacks. She wastes no time sliding into satin panties and collecting Maura's arousal on her fingertips. Maura keens, rolling her hips and pulling Jane tighter against her. Jane starts to move her fingers then, dipping low to the base of Maura's entrance before coming back up again nearer her clit, without touching it directly. She repeats the movement a few times, thoroughly slicking up the area, though Maura hardly needs her help with that. It's almost exactly what Jane did to herself this morning while Maura watched, and it makes Jane ask, "Is this what you've been wanting all day?"

"Yes," mewls Maura, long and drawn out and sinful. "Yes Jane, oh god, fuck me, please, please," she babbles.

Jane places a hungry kiss on Maura's shoulder as she enters her. The dual sensations ignite Maura, causing her to moan again. Jane is being deliberate, tracing her finger everywhere along Maura's walls, stroking and bending and flexing before beginning a fairly firm, rhythmic rubbing of one particularly sensitive patch at the front. To say it is working for Maura would be an understatement; the ME is writhing in Jane's arms, pressing into Jane's assault, whimpering and moaning and sighing with each move Jane makes.

And yet it's not enough. "Jane, please, another finger," Maura pants, digging her nails hard enough into Jane's side to leave marks as she holds the pair of them as close together as she can.

"Yeah?" asks Jane, her voice coming out low from deep in her chest, knowing she's teasing.

"Please," begs Maura again, near crying from the sensation building at her apex.

"Okay, baby, I've got you," murmurs Jane, slipping in her ring finger alongside the middle finger she's already stroking Maura with, easily incorporating it into her ministrations.

Maura groans and bucks her hips, startling them both with the bang it causes their bodies to make against her desk.

The sound activates Jane. "You know what to do if you don't like it but I'm gonna try something, okay?" she warns on a growl.

Maura makes a sound that feels more likely to be acquiescence than anything else, and Jane moves. She grips Maura's hair at the back of her head, lays her forearm against Maura's spine, and bends the Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts over her own desk.

There's a muffled noise of pure pleasure as Maura bites down on her fist to stifle an honest-to-god scream at Jane's actions.

"You okay, baby?" asks Jane gently, beginning to slow down, "Bad scream or good scream?"

Maura scrabbles for Jane's hand between her legs, holding her in place. "So good, oh fuck Jane so good, so, so—"

But Jane has twisted her hand so she can circle her thumb around Maura's clit, and Maura comes. It feels like flying, every sensation completely tuned out except for the white-hot point of pleasure between her thighs.

The first feeling to return is the warmth of Jane's body as she's held, followed by the hard feeling of the desk she's still pressed against. Jane pulls out only now, having been slowly easing Maura down. She rubs broad circles over Maura's back. "That was good huh," she asks, and Maura feels her face form a sleepy grin at how self-satisfied the detective sounds.

"It was, yes," she agrees easily. "Wanna do it again later? I feel like we should christen my home office the same way."

Jane just laughs, and Maura thinks of chocolate.

#there we go. another one down #three to go I think #rizzoli and isles #a sheep wrote this #thanks for asking!

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freedomfireflies · 2 years ago

Note

hi hi i saw that you have a story with chris evans so i was wondering if you'd ever be open to writing something about him? and if so ... this is my official request 🥰

“I need you.”

The words out of his mouth are rushed and guttural, and your pulse quickens as you blink the sleep from your eyes. “What…what’s wrong? What happened?”

You hear some shifting and a bit of static before he takes a deep breath and whispers, “Please…I can’t…I just don’t—”

“Chris,” you interrupt firmly, palms beginning to sweat as you attempt to sit up. “Baby, what’s wrong? Did something happen? I can’t help if I don’t know what—”

“Come over.”

You stop, lashes fluttering as you look out into the darkness of your bedroom. “You…baby, it’s three a.m. I can’t just…please, just tell me what—”

“I made a mistake.”

His words are few and far between but this effortlessly breeds fear into your heart as your breath hitches. “What…what do you mean?”

Another sigh. More static. “Please come over.”

You hesitate, heart aching at the sound of his plea. “I don’t…I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He goes quiet and your eyes squeeze shut.

You don’t like fighting with him. You don’t like doing…this. This awkward exchange where you don’t say how you really feel.

The silence stretches over two minutes but you can hear him on the other side. He’s not letting you go and you settle back down into bed as you prepare for the conversation you weren’t sure you were ready to have before.

“What’s wrong?” you ask again, a bit gentler. Encouraging. “You can tell me, okay? Whatever you did, whatever…whatever’s wrong, you can just tell me. I promise.”

There’s a brief beat before you faintly hear him murmur, “I’m sorry.”

Something in your stomach tightens. “For…for what? What happened, are you okay?”

You think you hear him scoff, but you can’t be sure. “No, I…I fucked up, I shouldn’t have…I…I’m sorry, I never should have…”

Your fingers squeeze the sides of your phone as you will yourself to remain calm. The possibilities and explanations are endless but you don’t go there. Not yet. “Hey, it’s all right, okay? It’s fine, just…you gotta tell me what’s going on, okay? Just tell me what’s wrong.”

More silence and as the seconds tick by, you feel your self-control slip.

Finally, he speaks. “I never should have let you leave.”

And there it is. Unsure whether to be relieved or saddened, you dejectedly whisper, “Baby—”

“No, I…I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew it when I was watching you walk out. I even knew it as I was watching you get into your car to drive away. I knew it was dumb and that I should have asked you to stay so we could fix it, but I didn’t.”

You shake your head, despite the fact that he can’t see you. “Baby, it's fine. Okay? I didn’t expect you to ask me to stay. It was a fight. That’s what happens when people fight. We just needed some time to…reevaluate—”

“No.” He rejects this immediately, and you can imagine his frown. “No, I don’t want to reevaluate. I don’t need to reevaluate. I just need you.”

“Chris—”

“No,” he says again. “No, I shouldn’t have let you leave this afternoon. We don’t fight like that, we don’t…we don’t do that. We stay and we talk it out and we fix it. And I didn’t ask you because I thought I knew better but I don’t. I just know you.”

He’s doing his absolute best to tug on your heartstrings, and it works.

“I let you walk away and now I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs. “I can’t sleep without you here. Don’t know how I did before, but I can’t and I just…I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to miss you, I just…”

You wait with bated breath for the rest of his admission. You’re desperate to comfort him, all too familiar with the pain he’s struggling through.

You’ve been struggling with it, too.

“I just need you,” he finally whispers. “I need you here. I need…god, please come over. Please. I won’t ask for anything ever again, just…don’t make me go tonight without you. Please.”

And what other choice do you have?

You’re at his place in under half an hour, driving up the mountain to his house tucked behind the trees as he waits for you.

He’s left the gate open and the front door unlocked. It’s easy for you to slip your way inside the familiar home and Dodger is there to greet you the second you step foot into the living room.

You crouch down to offer a bit of love before timidly murmuring, “Where’s your daddy, hm?”

Dodger simply wags his tail but offers you no answer.

Unsurprised, you straighten back up and glance around. “Chris?” You make your way down the hall, stealing glances into the adjoining rooms. “Baby, I’m here.”

You find him in his bedroom, sitting on the bed and sporting a rather defeated expression.

But the moment he looks up and catches your eye, he sighs with relief.

You make your way for where he sits and he’s quick to part his legs and allow you a space between.

And you find a home there, your palms on his cheeks as you smile down at him.

“You’re here,” he breathes, almost as if he can’t believe it.

You nod once, lip between your teeth. “I’m here.”

For a moment, he simply stares at you as you work through what to say next. The fight is far from over and you know there are still wounds to be mended.

But right now, tonight…this is more important.

You agree to a truce as he tugs you onto the mattress, face nuzzling into your neck as your nails scratch down his back.

You both sleep beautifully that night.

And come morning, you realize he plans to keep his promise.

He’s never letting you walk away again.

I love him my gosh, never hesitate to send me more Chris requests because OOF 😩

~ Other Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

#chris #chris evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans blurb #chris evans request #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans angst #request #blurb #chris evans one shot

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sanjisprincesswifey · 8 months ago

Note

Hi, can I request song 2 with luffy! I use they/them pronouns and my body preference is afab. And I’m ok with safe and nsfw.

Thx u :]

journey’s end (or falling out of love ft. luffy)

notes: emotionally intelligent luffy (so normal luffy), gender-neutral reader (though readers' gender is not specified), sfw content but cw for angst, 500+ words, thank u sm for participating!

luffy didn’t know when everything ended when the spark finally faded. he honestly thought it never would’ve. but if your captain was anything, it was truthful; he was a kind, honest man who would never want to hurt you.

but this morning, when the spring in his step no longer leaped over to you with joy and excitement, you knew there would be nothing but hurt in his wake.

you noticed it in his eyes, so beautiful and wide but carrying so much pain. they glance over to you, glazed over, no smile in sight as he asks if he could talk to you alone.

the uncharacteristic rain cloud that clung over his head burdened you with a dark, heavy feeling in your chest as you followed behind him. he had led you to the girl’s room, making sure that it was clear before he decided to speak.

“there is something i need to tell you,” he mutters, standing tall, but unable to keep your gaze.

the unfamiliar tone that is laced within each word tells you all that you need to know. your relationship over the past couple of weeks had been coasting, only luffy was brave enough to say anything about it.

you take a seat on the closest bed, legs shakey and unable to no longer keep you up, so you succumb to their will with tears already pricking in your ducts.

“i don’t want you to be mad at me,” he starts, shuffling closer to you.

you can only laugh in response, still finding his compassion as charming as ever, but you didn’t want him to beat around the bush this time. holding your hand up, you signal him to skip the niceties.

“i don’t think that i…” he glances up at you, a frown twinging his lips as if he was going to cry. “…that this relationship is going to work anymore.”

the deep breath that you had no idea you were holding in releases, along with a tear that trickles down your cheek. you nod, biting your lip gently, though it hurts you knew this was inevitable.

luffy stands there, unable to move. he so desperately wants to comfort you, gum-gum his arms tightly around your body, and assure you that everything is going to be okay. but that was the thing, he couldn’t tell you that, not when he stood here and broke your heart.

“do you not love me anymore?” you dare to ask, not wanting the answer but asking anyway.

he shakes his head, deciding that hearing probably wasn’t what’s best for you.

your head drops down, a quiet sob leaving you as your body reverberates from the actions.

a few tears of his own fall, sniffling before luffy wants to speak again. “can i hug you?” he asks, for probably the first time in your entire relationship never needing your permission to show you affection. he figured this time admission needed to be granted.

“please,” you croak, only letting out more cries when his warm embrace coddles you in the same, comforting way it always did.

it only eggs you on more when it does, in fact, help and your sobs die down until you’re sniffling on your shoulder. only this time, you knew the lingering loneliness would continue as soon as he let go.

celebrate 3,000 followers with me!

#mmm luffy angst #luffy i love u pls dont do this to me #the picture i chose is so ironic lol #monkey d luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x reader #one piece #one piece x reader

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gunbun · 3 months ago

Text

FFXIVWrite2024 Day 3: Tempest

“Well. I have been asked to do a great many interesting things since joining the Ironworks,” Nero regarded Urianger and Tiona with a piercing blue gaze, stepping back from his workstation, “but my project manager and her husband has never been one of them.”

“Surprise,” Tiona was making a valiant attempt to look self-assured and unbothered, but she was blushing so deeply that even Nero noticed it under her brown skin and dark clan markings.

“Rest assured that we did, ah, consider the ramifications that such liaisons might impart upon said project. Thy continued work at our laboratory doth remain both desired and required for–” Urianger was no less flustered than his wife, pointy ears beet red and his silvery-blonde eyelashes fluttering against rosy cheeks.

“We're not gonna fire you if you turn us down or if it doesn't work out.” The viera's nose was twitching as she turned her bright red eyes upon him.

Once upon a time, Tiona Eryut was shell-shocked and thrown against the Empire's forces, and she had been a woman of few words and great feats of violence. Now, he looked into her eyes and saw a deeply curious and creative intellect. A woman who, by her own admission, wanted the best people at her side.

And Urianger? The man had a charming, witty whimsy about him, a knack for magitek programming, and was precisely the sort of beautiful, athletic man he'd conjure up for himself on lonely nights.

Everything about this proposition was equally thrilling and terrifying, like riding an airship through a tempest.

“Has your bedroom suffered so greatly from our work here?” A blunt enough question. “I've no desire to be either the cause of or solution to some marital problem.”

“Uri's got a bit of a crush on you and wants to mess around. And I'm willing to join in. It's not that deep. Plus, we've learned a thing or three about working conditions.”

“It had occurred to us both that it was likely thou wert lonely–”

“And our marriage is fine, thank you–”

Nero took a deep breath, scrambling to come up with some sort of smart-arsed retort to hide the fact that Urianger was remarkably and painfully astute about his situation. It's why he'd work until he was just about unconscious; it's why he'd turned his office in the Azem F-1 lab complex into a tiny home for himself.

He was lonely.

“Perhaps,” Urianger continued, “we merely want thee. A balm for thy loneliness and an adventure of a sort for us all.”

“And what makes you think this desire is in any way requited?”

“We don't,” Tiona’s voice was surprisingly soft. “But we figured we'd ask.”

“Gods, Eryut, you could at least take me to dinner, first.” Nero's sarcasm was biting, his last line of defense against all these damnable feelings they were making him feel.

“If that is what thou desirest, it is what we shall aim to give thee.” Urianger stepped closer to Nero and Tiona moved to the other side of the Garlean, hip cocked and resting against the edge of the workstation.

They were closing in on either side of him, but he was no means actually backed into any kind of corner.

“Just tell us yes or no first. So we know to leave you alone if that's what you want.” Nero wasn't sure if Tiona brushed her large and soft ears against the back of his neck on purpose, but her closeness as she spoke was curious and novel.

And then he would turn away from Tiona’s alluring brown curves only to be met with Urianger’s elegance and broad, tanned shoulders and he, too, was so close–

All Nero had to do was stand up and walk away, and they'd never talk about it again.

Tension hung in the air, even through the couple's easygoing smiles. They seemed to have made up their minds about it all, and the only thing left to be settled was his choice.

That he seemed to be their first choice wasn't lost on him.

“Yes,” Nero Scaeva said, changing everything.

#oc: tiona eryut #ship: lepus #bonus content: nero scaeva #ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite

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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years ago

Text

Love Interest

[Character Development Part II]

Joel Miller x Reader + (a not secret pairing)

Summary: Don't you just love it when the universe just hits you with an uno reverse and now you're the one getting flowers?

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: fem!reader, flip zimmerman x reader but idk him and just used his character and made it my own HAHAHHA, pov shift in the end, devil's advocate!ellie, pining, jealousy, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this is a very niche pairing but im just so psychotic for adam driver that i had to add him. i took the liberty of tagging everyone i could that screamed at me in p1 so enjoy! Tagging: @sloanexx @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @ellooo0ooo @strwwbbrri @zaweashtonslover @aurors-things @b00kw0rmsworld @anxietatema @laysmt @hiddenbabynyc @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi

"Hi." I grunt as I load the basket onto the shelf. I huff and turn around, eyes widening at the fact I have to lift my gaze to find the face of who just spoke. The large man in plaid lets out a breath hot enough it condenses with the chill of the morning air. I offer him a soft smile, "hi." He huffs. His lips curve into a soft grin. I cannot help the way my brows furrow nor the chuckle that leaves me because of his reaction, "can I help you?" He clears his throat. He shifts in his spot then rubs his lips with two fingers, "actually, I'm here to help you." He looks down at the produce in the baskets, sprawled across the floor. He picks two up like it was nothing, "where'd ya want these?" I watch him as he kicks my makeshift step ladder aside (two boxes) and brings the baskets to the high part of the shelf I just couldn't quite reach. He turns to me, "here?" I nod.

"Mornin'," a deep voice huffs.

I turn over my shoulder. I can't help but snigger at the man's just-woke-up face. I shake my head, "clearly not a good mornin', thus the omission."

"Mmm," he grunts, reluctantly reaching his hands out to me, "need some help?"

I burst into giggles as I climb down the ladder with shears in my hand. He steps forward, ghosting his hands over my waist as I go down. I sequentially jump in front of him with a huff.

He fidgets, eyes widening in concern, fully waking up as I do so, "chrissakes."

I snort as I look up at him, "well, do you even know how to prune apple trees?" I show him the shears, "had to learn from the Millers how to do that."

His attention averts from the shears to my face. He mumbles, 200% awake now, "Millers."

I roll my eyes, "Tommy and Maria."

He lets out a breath and nods, taking the shears in my hand, looking to the tree and the ladder, "well, now I'll learn from the Zimmermans."

I huff and roll my eyes, "Flip-"

I still, feeling my lips part.

He looks back at me and clarifies, "you and me, baby."

"I know, I know," he cuts me off, raising a hand, "s'a joke," he climbs up the ladder. He mutters lowly, "half meant, but a joke nonetheless."

I watch as his dark hair brushes against his jaw. I watch as he reaches out for the branches with his thick arms. I watch at how the sunshine reflects on his brown eyes, making them a golden hue. I watch and feel my stomach roll. He brushes his longish hair back. I place my hand on my hip, "do you know how to prune?"

Flip looks down at me, lips curving into a lopsided smile. He pops the p, "nope."

I roll my eyes again, "get down."

"Yes, ma'am," he steps down the two steps my simply taking one big one in front of me. Flip stands in front of me, propping the shears at the top of the ladder.

He looks down at me and stupidly salutes. The constellations of freckles and moles on his face silently urge fingers to retrace them. An early morning breeze blows between us and the smell of grass, flowers, and apples, I find, are slowly beginning to smell like him.

He brings a knuckle to the corner of his eyes and rubs the sand off. His admission of looking for me after taking a morning piss replays in my head after he does this. My belly get even more restless.

"I've been meaning to tell you something," I start, making the man before me still and rigid.

He freezes. I watch him simultaneously gulp and clench his jaw as he drops his hand to the side.

I can't help it. It was a common theme when I was around him-- 'can't help myself'. I can't help but hold back a smile, "I think it's silly you never changed your name."

Flip Zimmerman's face contorts. he takes a moment then his lips fight back a smile.

"I mean," I cross my arms and give an exaggerated look, "we live in a world past birth certificates and IDs..."

I look at how the leaves and branches of the apple trees sway as sunshine kisses their cells. Then, I turn back to Flip, taking in the way the sunshine was kissing him. My eyes dart to his lips. He mirrors my stance, arms crossing, lip corners curving. He furrows his brows and licks the inside of his bottom lip.

I purse my lips tightly at his amused annoyance. I pretend I meant not to continue my train of thought because I caught on he was offended.

"No, go on," Flip nods his head, "please. I'm dying to know how this insult is going to play out."

I laugh, feeling my cheeks hurt as I do. Flip feels his insides churn.

"Well," I try to calm myself, "I was thinking there's no reason for you to go on using the word your parents thought to call you while making pancakes."

Flip is annihilated.

He wheezes so hard, he topples over and sinks down to my height. He reaches out to my arms, squeezing them with his inhumanly large ones, and empties all the amused howls from his diaphragm.

My stomach turns into a washing machine. Its whirring is powered by the sound of his laugh and the feel of his touch.

Flip eventually relents and reclaims his herculean stature. He straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, sighs, and wipes a tear. He chuckles some more as look back at me, "hng- what- hng hng, I'll have you know I enjoy being the only Flip in the known galaxy."

I make a face, "I'm sorry you got Stockholm Syndromed that bad."

He lets out a high pitched giggle. He snorts, "I'll also have you know I plan on naming my child Pivot. I'll say it's French; Pí • vou."

It was my turn to get obliterated. I throw my head back in laughter and slap my hand on my mouth.

Flip starts up like a motorcycle, pleased with my reaction to his joke.

By the time I catch my breath after laughing, I wipe a tear and shake my head, "I feel bad to whomever decides to have a kid with you."

Flip gives a lopsided smirk, "don't worry. I'll be good to you, baby momma."

I instinctively let out a loud sound. Flip watches me as I react, or try my best not to react to his words. I shake my head and move to the ladder, folding it after grabbing the shears.

Flip wordlessly intercepts and takes the ladder from me, ignoring me as I tell him to let me do it. He motions his head, "we doing the next tree or we done for the day?"

"I'm going to do the next tree. You're going to go do your chores."

"You're my chore."

I release a breath and make a face, "uhmmm, that's not as romantic as you think it was."

"So you think I'm romantic?"

"That's literally not what I said."

Later that day, when Flip was finally doing his chores, he was approached by his informant.

He was in the middle of inspecting fuse boxes all over the compound when Ellie sneaks up on him and tries to scare him. Flip, barely flinches as he turns to the girl. He looks at her with slightly wide eyes then relaxes, "hey kid."

Ellie shoves him, "WHY DON'T YOU GET SCARED?!"

Flip barely topples back at her push and looks back to the fuse box, "no idea."

She sighs and comes up to his side, inspecting whatever it was he was doing, then pipes up, "so, how'd apple picking go?"

"It was apple pruning today," he mutters, "and, well, she bullied me over my name."

"Ha," she snorts, "deserve."

Flip ignores this and turns to her after closing the box, "it's clear to me she's obviously still not over your old man."

She flattens her lips into a line.

"So, any ideas?"

Ellie sighs, "look," she raises her hands, "you gotta step up your game! Joel used to do her chores with her too, so that doesn't make you special."

"I thought you said he only did it if she asked."

"Potato, Potahto."

"No, that makes a big dif-"

"YOU GOTTA STEP UP YOUR GAME!" Ellie repeatedly slaps the back of her hand into her palm. Flip stills. She continues, "you should get her something! Something like, I dunno, flowers! Though, I think she would appreciate it more if it was an apple, but you can't really give the apple lady an apple, can you?"

Flip hums, "what about apple pie?"

She gasps and points a finger, "apple pie and flowers."

Flip lets out a chuckle at her excitement, "seems like a plan, except," he shakes hid head, "I can't bake for shit."

"I think this is the part where people say it's the thought that counts," Ellie motions her hands around, "besides, I'm sure as long as you don't poison her, it'll be fine."

Flip tilts his head and looks at the girl as she looks up and thinks, "you know what, I think I remember seeing a recipe book somewhere, let me look for it and," she raises a finger, "I'll even help you."

"Alright," he agrees but then shifts in his spot and crosses his arms, "real talk. Why are you helping me?"

She looks up at the man and makes a face, "bruh," she shakes her head, "I told you! She deserves a hot girl summer."

"It's not s-"

"IT SHOULD ALWAYS BE HOT GIRL SUMMER FOR HER!"

"... how do you even know what that is?"

"ALL I KNOW," Ellie raises a finger "is I was supposed to be making a cake with her, and then I wasn't. And that very same day I find out Joel is hanging out with some other chick. And you," she points, "are going to be evening out the playing field."

Flip watches the teen grow red with anger.

"You also better not mess this up or you'll be my next target," Ellie pulls out her switchblade.

Flip raises his hands and steps back, "fucksake, Ellie, put that away."

Ellie does but points a finger again, "remember. I'm not on your side or his side, I'm on hers." She walks away. Five steps in, she stops and looks over her shoulder, "but also, she smiles a lot more when she's around you, so do what you will with that information."

Flip chuckles as he watches Ellie walk away. He waves his hand around and thinks, "like a rabid bunny."

Ellie goes to Tommy and Maria's place, looking for the recipe book she remembers reading when she was bored. When she comes in, Joel's there and immediately scolds her, telling her to leave her shoes by the door because her boots are grimy and the baby crawls everywhere now.

Ellie rolls her eyes and removes her shoes. She walks up to Joel, who was sat on the living room carpet next to his niece. She chuckles at he sight of the baby ripping at Joel's hair. He raises a thumb in approval, "good job, baby."

Joel turns over his shoulder, inspecting Ellie's sock clad feet and looks back at the baby he was reading to. Before continuing with the flash cards Maria made for her daughter, Joel says, "there's some roast chicken in the counter. They said you can finish it if you want."

Ellie turns to the counter but then walks off to the bookshelf, just past Joel, "not hungry."

Joel makes a sound of disbelief, "right."

She begins to rummage through the books just as Joel reads out some words to the baby girl in his arms. The baby girl can't even walk yet, so Ellie makes a face at the sight of them, wondering if this was even effective. She thinks maybe Joel was just bored out of his mind.

Ellie can't help but chuckle when the child takes the card from Joel's hand and accidentally pokes his eye with it. She whispers under her breath, "deserve."

Joel pulls his head back and grabs the card from the baby. He grunts, "you're worse than Sarah."

Ellie snorts as she continues looking for the recipe book.

The baby makes a much of sounds and Joel grumbles, "yeah, yeah, it's not your fault you have underdeveloped motorskills."

Ellie giggles as she finally spots the book, "are you arguing with a baby?"

Joel looks up to Ellie, "I'm having a civil conversation."

Ellie rolls her eyes as she laughs, "how's that going for you, grampa?"

Joel grumbles, just as the baby yawns, "uncle."

Ellie snorts at the fact she was corrected. She flips through the pages of the cook book, "whatever you say, uncle grandpa."

Joel stands from the floor, cradling the baby in his arms, "alright. Nap time it is then." He lets out old man sounds as he gets on his feet and is about to bring the baby to her crib, but stops when Ellie exclaims in excitement. He catches the cover of the book in her hands then asks, "you baking with her again?"

Ellie looks up from the page, watching Joel stroke the child's tiny back. She thinks for a moment then grins, "nah. Flip wants to make her an apple pie."

Joel makes a face, "flip what?"

Elle's eye narrows. Is he for real? "Flip!" She closes the book and raises an arm, "the sasquatch?! With the," she flexes her arms, "big man boobs and the," she flips her ponytail back, "luscious dark locks."

When she turns back to Joel, she catches how his face darkens in real time.

Ah, Flip.

She wanted so badly to scoff and egg him on, but then she thought that she would be giving herself away too much if she did. Instead, she clarifies with a no-duh tone, "Flip Zimmerman."

Joel clears his throat, "yea. I got it."

Ellie huffs through her nostrils and purses her lips. She dashes over to Joel, gently squeezing the baby's dangling leg, before running off and calling, "see ya on the flip side, Joel."

Joel lets out an annoyed chuckle, turning around, just to see Ellie shove her shoes on and run out of the door. He scoffs and looks at the baby, "who the fuck names their kid Flip?"

She doesn't give a crap what her uncle is saying and nuzzles against his neck.

Joel sighs, "ok, nap time for us then."

Joel looks up from the sheep pen when he hears a fit of giggles. He looks up and sees you and Abella carrying a large basket of vegetables, both of you had a hand on the handle.

He straightens up and wipes his hands on the back of his pants while the two of you huff and urge the other to walk faster because you feel the basket slipping. He is about to jump over the fence and jog up to you to help but then the sound of a loud scream from behind surprises him.

"CHEATERS!"

Joel looks out to whom shouted just as you do.

Flip fucking Zimmerman's arms strain through his muddy flannel.

The two women turn to each other and finally drop the basket once they're in front the storage house. They let out giddy, heavy breathes and high-five each other in accomplishment.

Joel feels like his insides warm at the sight. He feels like he's being torn from the inside. He thinks about the friendship between the two of you. He watches as you two lean on each other and laugh before pulling away. He watches as Abella beams, finding himself reminded by the fact it was so easy to be around her, so easy to love her. She was the type of person that lit up the room. It was undoubtedly the reason why you both were so taken with each other.

He watches as you look out to the approaching man.

You were, too, incredibly easy to be around. No fuss, no muss, just... just you.

He steps back and decides to busy himself with the sheep when Flip finally reaches the two of you.

"First of all," Flip huffs as he stops, "I take the fact y'all cheated cause you were too scared to be beaten by me as a compliment."

You roll your eyes and stick out your tongue. Abella giggles, covering her face.

"Second of all," Flip puts down the two large baskets of vegetables he hand in either hand, "y'all did me dirty by tripping me into the mud. Literally."

You and Abella speak at the same time, "we didn't trip you!"

Joel's ears perk. He sneaks a look. Well, you shudda.

Flip hums as he narrows his eyes, "right."

"It's literally not our fault--" you start. Your words go dry when Flip begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. Abella's jaw goes lax while you clench yours after Flip pries the caked-in-brown material off his torso.

Joel's eye twitches at the sight of the man undressing. He looks around and scoffs. He's two seconds away from storming over and telling him off. Doesn't Somersault know there are kids around?

Abella looks away and whistles. You rather unabashedly look down at his abdomen.

Flip furrows his brows, not doing much to conceal his shit eating grin, "what was that, baby momma?"

You lift your gaze to glare at him, "I told you to stop calling me that."

"Okay, wifey," he smiles.

Abella presses her lips together tightly.

"Unlike you I actually have a proper name, which you can call me by."

Abella holds back a giggle.

"Well why should I when it's so much more fun to call you mine," Flip leans forward, each tooth in his stupid head on full display. You cannot help the fact your body begins to prick with heat.

Joel stills when he sees this. His insides fume when he catches how close Rotate gets to your face. This man has no sense of decorum whatsoever.

Flip only turns away when there is a loud crash from a distance. Joel knocked over some metal buckets by accident and is now roughly setting them back up. When Flip turns back to you, Abella looks back and finally spots Joel. She smiles when she does. You, however, could only awkwardly shift in place, not knowing what to do or where to look.

Abella looks back at you and laughs at your stance. She looks at Flip and shakes her head, "I can't lie, that was pretty good."

Joel's brows furrow at her words. What's with the enabling?

Flip wipes his side with his shirt then throws it over his shoulder. You glare at Abella and she holds back a laugh. Flip looks to her and points, "you like that, do ya? Well you'll love this."

Flip pulls out a piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to you. Abella watches in excitement as you apprehensively take the paper from him.

Will you make flowers and make apple pie with me?

▢ Y E S ▢ no

Abella watches as your begin to shift restlessly in your spot. She barely catches a glance of your paper before you say, "so," you look to Flip, "you never graduated high school, is that it?"

Joel hears this and scoffs out a chuckle. He shovels some dirt and thinks, probably didn't get passed elementary.

"There is a charm in the childish," Flip smiles, "also, no pressure, but I never got yeses way back when."

You bite your lower lip to conceal your smile. You fail, "damn. It would be wrong of me to break that tradition now.

Flip's breath hitches, muttering softly under his breath, "no, it really wouldn't."

Abella immediately knows what the note is after hearing that. She coos and clutches her chest, "a yes/no note?"

Joel scoffs and mutters as he shoves his shovel into the ground, "a fucking yes/no note?"

Flip wipes his lips with his fingers, "I didn't want to give you flowers and pie if you didn't want them."

Joel stops his shovelling.

"And I also thought it would be much more enjoyable to do these things if you were there," Flip adds, suddenly crossing his arms, making his chest muscles get smushed up, and clears his throat, "it's not at all because I wanted to know what flowers you liked nor because I don't want to accidentally poison you with my baking at all."

When you rub your face after hearing this, Abella takes a hint and looks away. She pretends she just spotted Joel, "oh my goodness, look, it's Joel!"

Joel nearly has a heart attack when he hears his name get called. He stiffens as he watches Abella jog over to him. Whatever semblance of calmness he feels from her smile is shattered when he catches you turning to him. His eyes lock with yours and his mouth goes dry. He clenches his jaw and offers a small smile, raising a hand.

The way your lips curve into the faintest of grins grates at his heart, especially when it breaks into a thin line and an eyeroll, one that you did in endearment. He watches you turn to Flip as he whispers something to you. You promptly attack him and pinch his arm violently for it, groaning but giggling at the same time.

Joel watches Invert recoil at the violence he so clearly merited for whatever the fuck he whispered. He only looks away when a hand is waved in front of his face.

"Earth to Joel," Abella pipes, finally earning his attention.

Joel looks at her and her pretty doe eyes, melting at the sight, "hi, honey."

Abella chuckles under her breath, "that's not the appropriate response to what I said at all, but I'll take it."

Joel sighs and shakes his head, turning back to his sheep, "I'm embarrassed to admit I didn't hear a word you said, sugar."

Abella's face flushes at the pet names. She levels her breathing as Joel turns back to her while he readies to shovel up some dirt again. Abella tilts her head, "I said they look cute, don't they?"

Joel's shovel skids on the ground as he scoops up some manure.

As if on cue, you laugh so hard it's impossible not to look to your direction. And Joel does it so instinctively. It's possible for Abella though. Her chest tightens as he watches Joel look your direction. She decides to look too in the end and finds herself smiling at how you and Flip were now chasing each other around as he threatens to get the mud his shirt on you. She cannot help the giggle that leaves her at the sight of Flip waving his shirt around as you evade him, careful not to hit the baskets on the ground.

Abella's expression falls when he hears Joel grumble to himself. She would not hear it well enough to distinguish the fact that Joel said, "fucking flipper."

Joel makes the mistake of looking the next instance you squeal. It was his mistake that he looked and found you wrapped in the arms of the beefy lunatic.

Abella catches how quickly he looks away after. She says, "you like her, don't you?"

Joel turns to Abella, leaning on the shovel, "what?"

She shrugs and shakes her head, "well if you don't think that," she points to side, "looks cute, then obviously you like her."

Joel watches as Abella leans on the pen and flares at the skewed reasoning. He tilts his head as his one eye twitches, "I don't have to think they look cute at all. It's none of my business what she does with him anyway. They can roll in mud for all I care."

"But you-" Abella quip but then chokes on her words.

Joel is increasingly annoyed, "but what?"

"But you like her," she blurts softly.

Joel clenches his jaw. He regurgitates a dark chuckle. His ears twitch at the sound of your laughter but he no longer makes the mistake of looking.

Abella knows what went on between the two of you, and she knows that was why Joel insisted on taking things slow. And by slow, they haven't even kissed yet. So what happens next takes her off guard.

Joel yanks his shovel out of the ground and walks over to her. He bends down to meet her lowered face and offers a smile. Once their eyes meet, he kisses her softly.

Abella's spirit leaves her when Joel's lips press against hers and his mustache tickles her skin. When they pull away, he rubs his nose against her as her breath hitches, "not like how I like you."

When Joel smiles at her, Abella feels like she could fly. She reaches out and caresses his cheeks lightly. When Joel closes his eyes, Abella's touch is not what he feels. She leans over the pen to give him a deep kiss and once they pull away, they're both breathless. Joel's eyes open and he feels a dread wash up in the face of Abella's beauty. But then she rubs her thumbs on his cheek and now he's actually smiling at her.

Abella watches Joel as he goes back to his work, a grin playing on his lips as he tried not to smile too big.

She was too taken by the kiss, too taken by him to realize the full meaning of his words, not how I like you. He didn't like Abella the way he liked you.

Joel's expression fades as his eyes roll to your direction against himself. It seems the baskets were stored away now, since they were no longer in sight and the two of you were walking off. Spin was still shirtless as ever. Joel watches his back muscle flex as he moved.

You snort as you shove Flip away. Flip lets himself topple to the side and walks back closer as he looks down on you and smiles. He pushes your hair away from your face as a breeze blows.

Joel wonders for a moment if you and him had ever been like this, laughing at the littlest things, annoying everyone, obviously smitten. And then he wonders about what he, himself, meant... not like how I like you.

Joel looks back at Abella, who very much melts at his gaze.

How did he like you?

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman #joel miller #flip zimmerman fanfic #joel miller fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fic #the last of us fluff #joel miller smut #the last of us x reader

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k-s-morgan · 1 year ago

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I have another question. Why does Will Graham prefer to kill other killers like himself? I keep thinking about Chilton's assent of him in season 2 where he states that "Will Graham likes to play God. He catches these killers simply to prove he is smarter then them." I think he has a good point, given that Graham is deeply insecure and is a bit of a narcissist. If that's the case then do you think maybe that's the reason why he kept lying to Hannibal in season 2? Albeit I'm sure he was pissed about Abigails death but as you've pointed out he only liked the idea of her. So if that's the case then maybe it was him trying to prove he was better then Hannibal. If so is that why he also prefers killing killers? To prove he's better then them or is it some deeper reason? That he hates them because he hates himself? What are your thoughts?

I think you made an excellent point about Chilton's words. I always found it amusing and fascinating how despite the fact that Chilton is completely wrong in his accusations against Will during the trial, he actually presents a surprisingly accurate profile of him. He's extremely wrong and extremely right at the same time, particularly with this: "Will Graham has never been diagnosed. He won't allow anyone to test him. He has carefully constructed a persona to hide his real nature from the world. He wears it so well, even Jack Crawford couldn't see past it."

With Will being motivated to outsmart killers: I think it makes a lot of sense and it could be another amazing detail in his portrayal, although I don't think it was really shown. It could be something existing deep inside him that might come to the surface after he settles into his new life with Hannibal. The only time Will seemed competitive to me was when he was being possessive over Hannibal's attention - he wanted to hold his admiration and focus instead of seeing him single out other killers.

For the most part, I think Will prefers to kill killers because it makes him feel better about himself. He knows he has darkness inside, but he also longs to be a normal, moral person. Being able to excuse some of his impulses helps lessen his self-hatred. I don't think he cares about innocent people per se - he's shown as careless and cold with them on more than one occasion. In S3, he downright stages the murders of quite a few of them (Chiyoh and her tortured prisoner who might or might not be guilty, Chilton and FBI officers; possibly Bedelia, whose actual crimes are far lesser than Will's). Will seems genuinely caring only with those he can relate to, like Peter, Georgia, Reba, and murder-children. But he still has enough morality to understand that he doesn't like liking what he does, so killing bad people is a compensation and a more acceptable solution to his inner conflict.

Regarding S2, Hannibal, and Abigail: I think Will's biggest problem was the feeling of personal betrayal, rage over this, and a lack of comprehension of how Hannibal could have killed Abigail when he claimed to care about her + the fear of what it means for Will personally. Why was Hannibal so cruel about it - Abigail was killed sadistically, he cut off her ear and implanted it in Will? How can Will trust that such a person loves him when this is what he did to a girl he supposedly treasured? If Hannibal is a monster whose love is fleeting and superficial, Will doesn't want it - he wants revenge. But if there is something more to it, then Will might change his mind. We see his inner struggle in this dream conversation:

Will: I want an admission. Admit what you are.

Dream Hannibal: Why not appeal to my better nature?

Will: I wasn’t aware you had one.

Will is in denial. He wants Hannibal to confirm to him that he’s a monster and thus not worthy of Will’s attention - Will is trying to literally torture the answer he wants out of him, yet despite his best effort, Hannibal responds with love. This frustrates and confuses him even more. Like Will said to Peter, killing is much easier when you know how to feel. And Will doesn’t know how to feel about Hannibal, not until he finds a way to label him as a hollow monster. So he's torn about it and about his feelings up until Mizumono, where he finally makes his choice.

#hannibal #will graham #hannigram #will's darkness #meta

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dndfantasygirl · 8 months ago

Text

Little Red Rogue (Chapter 13: Where You Are)

Rating: Mature Word count: 2.3k Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav (named)/OC Warnings: violence, strong language, innuendo, mentions of past-abuse

Summary: Ruby tries to prevent Astarion from striking a deal with Raphael.

*Link to AO3 Post

*Link to Previous Chapter

I know you're bruised by the world Trying to clean your wounds Wearing a mask with a smile I see you

If you want you can go through this life alone Let me know how it goes without a hand to hold

All the while, heart is torn I just wanna be where you are Through the fire, through the storm I just wanna be where you are

~Where You Are, Tommee Profitt (feat. Mike Mains)

------------------------------------

As they observed Raphael's nefarious dealings with Mol, the young tiefling, Ruby felt a surge of anger and disgust. The sight of Raphael preying on someone so young and vulnerable ignited a fierce sense of protectiveness within her. She was ready to confront him, to unleash her fury upon the fiend who dared to exploit innocence.

But before Ruby could act on her impulse, Astarion intervened with a gesture, halting her in her tracks. His hand extended in a calm yet authoritative manner, signaling for her to hold back. Confusion etched across Ruby's features as she glanced at her companion, seeking an explanation for his unexpected restraint.

"Astarion, what are you doing?" she whispered urgently.

Astarion's gaze remained fixed on Raphael, his expression unreadable as he leaned in closer to Ruby, his voice a mere whisper tinged with a hint of urgency. "He can read those runes on my back, I'm sure of it."

"This is a bad idea," Ruby pleaded. "What if he tries to take your soul?"

She knew all too well the dangers that lurked in dealing with creatures like Raphael, and the thought of Astarion falling victim to his machinations sent a shiver down her spine.

Astarion's response was swift and matter-of-fact, his tone devoid of the usual charm or humor that often colored his words. "I'm a vampire spawn, Ruby," he stated flatly. "I don't have a soul."

"Exactly," Ruby pressed on, her concern deepening as she sought to reason with him. "You're a spawn. You're not a fully-fledged vampire."

The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning as she saw the flash of irritation in Astarion's eyes. Her heart sank as she realized her words had struck a nerve, stirring up emotions that lay just beneath the surface.

"Oh, really?" Astarion retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he delivered his reply. "I had no idea."

Ruby reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she sought to offer him solace in the face of his inner turmoil.

"That's just a tall tale anyways. You have a soul, Astarion," she insisted, her voice soft but resolute, refusing to let him succumb to the darkness that threatened to consume him.

Astarion's gaze remained fixed on some distant point, his features a mask of conflicting emotions as he wrestled with the demons that haunted him. For a moment, it seemed as though he would reject her words, retreat into the shadows of his own doubt and despair. But then, almost imperceptibly, he relented, allowing himself to be drawn back into the present by the touch of her hand.

As Ruby's fingers intertwined with his own, a flicker of vulnerability flashed across Astarion's face, a silent admission of the fear and uncertainty that gnawed at his very being. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

"Please, just listen to me," the dhampir implored, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone else might be able to read them, like Karlach."

Astarion's crimson eyes bore into hers. "Do you trust me, Ruby?"

Ruby's heart swelled with emotion as she returned his gaze, her eyes reflecting the depth of her devotion. "Of course, I do," she replied without hesitation.

"Then let me do this," the vampire spawn declared, his voice firm and unwavering as he made his final plea.

As Ruby lowered her head, a sense of reluctance weighed heavy upon her shoulders. Her fingers slowly released their grip on Astarion's hand, the warmth of their connection fading into the chill of the night air. With a hesitant nod, she silently acknowledged his decision, though her heart still fluttered with apprehension.

Astarion, now unencumbered by Ruby's touch, straightened his posture and stepped forward with a determined stride. His movements were fluid yet purposeful, betraying the resolve that burned within him.

With a steady voice that betrayed none of his inner turmoil, he spoke, his words echoing through the dimly lit hallway with a clarity that demanded attention. He laid out his proposition, his tone measured yet assertive, as he sought to navigate the treacherous waters of their impending negotiation.

In that fleeting moment, as Astarion stood face to face with the devil himself, the dhampir watched from a distance, her heart heavy with uncertainty yet filled with unwavering support. She knew that whatever transpired between them, she would stand by Astarion's side.

------------------------------------

The tension in the air was palpable as Raphael vanished into the shadows, leaving the vampiric elves to grapple with the uncertainty of their situation. Despite the temporary reprieve, Ruby could sense the storm brewing within Astarion.

As they stood in the aftermath of their encounter, Ruby's gaze lingered on Astarion, noting the furrow of his brow and the restless energy that pulsed beneath his skin. She could see the torment etched upon his features, the fear that gnawed at his soul with each passing moment.

The meeting could have gone worse, she mused silently to herself, but for Astarion, it was a torment of its own kind. His relentless pursuit of answers had brought him to this precipice, where every delay felt like an eternity stretching out before him.

But Raphael, that wily devil, had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but uncertainty and unanswered questions. He insisted he needed time to come up with a price for Astarion's request, a vague promise that offered little solace in the face of their mounting anxieties.

The good thing, if there was any solace to be found in such chaos, was that Raphael hadn't expressed any interest in Astarion's soul. But Ruby knew better than to let her guard down, for Raphael was a master of deception, his motives as murky as the depths of the Abyss itself.

And so, as they navigated their way upstairs, Ruby couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that settled over them like a shroud. It could be tendays before they encountered Raphael again, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on Astarion's shoulders.

Ruby could see it in the way he carried himself, in the haunted look that clouded his crimson eyes. She could sense his desperation, his relentless pursuit of answers that always seemed just out of reach.

As they settled into the familiar warmth of the bed Ruby claimed, the two vampiric elves sought solace in the comfort of each other's presence. Cocooned in the soft embrace of the covers, Ruby nestled herself against Astarion's side, her head finding its rightful place upon his bare chest.

After Ruby's harrowing episode a few nights ago, they had come to a silent agreement that their nights were best spent intertwined in each other's arms. In the sanctuary of their shared bed, the haunting voices that plagued Ruby's mind seemed to fade into the background.

For once in the past decade, Ruby felt a sense of grounding, a tangible connection to the one person who understood her in a way that no one else could. Their fingers laced together, resting upon Astarion's sternum as if to anchor them both in the present moment.

Together, they lay in quiet contemplation, their gaze fixed upon the expanse of the ceiling above them. After a few moments, the dhampir found the courage to finally gaze up at him. At her gentle movement, Astarion glanced down to meet her eyes.

"Yes, my love?"

Ruby's heart fluttered at Astarion's endearing words, his tender acknowledgment of their bond sending a thrill of warmth coursing through her veins.

"I'm here," she blurted out, her words spilling forth in a rush of honesty and vulnerability, "for you. You don't have to face this alone."

"As you've told me so many times before, darling," he replied, his tone laced with a hint of playful sarcasm. Despite his attempt at levity, Ruby could see through the facade, recognizing the vulnerability hidden beneath his carefully crafted exterior. "And I really appreciate it."

"Then, humor me," she implored, her eyes lighting up with hope. "Just let Karlach take a peek."

Astarion's response was immediate, his eyes closing in embarrassment as he turned away from her. The vulnerability he displayed struck a chord within Ruby, igniting a fierce determination to ease his burden, to offer him the solace he so desperately sought.

"I-I can't."

As Ruby's mind pieced together the puzzle of Astarion's hidden insecurities, a wave of empathy washed over her. Just like his fangs and the scars that marred his neck, Astarion carried another burden hidden beneath his leather armor – the grotesque scars etched into his back, a painful reminder of the torment he had endured. It was a vulnerability he guarded fiercely, a part of himself he had tried to bury deep beneath layers of secrecy and shame.

Ruby's heart ached at the realization. She understood now why he was so guarded, so hesitant to let anyone glimpse the scars that marred his flesh. It wasn't just about physical appearance; it was about the memories they held, the wounds they represented – both literal and figurative.

With a tender gesture, Ruby rubbed the back of Astarion's neck. She felt him tense beneath her fingers, his breath catching in his throat before he finally eased at her touch.

"That's okay," the dhampir whispered softly, her voice a tender caress as she leaned into Astarion. With a gentle touch, she planted a kiss on his cheek, the warmth of her lips a fleeting yet comforting gesture of affection.

Before she could fully withdraw, the vampire spawn closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tender kiss. With a gentle touch, Ruby released Astarion's hand and cupped his cheek, her fingers tracing the contours of his jaw with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

As Ruby's fingers halted their gentle caress on the back of Astarion's neck, she instead reached for the small curls at the nape, feeling the soft texture of his hair beneath her touch. With a tender gesture, she pulled him closer, her lips meeting his once again.

The kisses they exchanged were unlike any they had shared before. There was a depth to them, a tenderness that transcended mere physical desire. In that fleeting moment of intimacy, they bared their souls to each other, revealing the raw emotions that simmered beneath the surface.

Gone was the urgency of passion that had ignited their previous encounters. Instead, their kisses were imbued with a sense of reverence, a quiet acknowledgment of the profound connection that bound them together.

As Ruby's violet eyes fluttered open, she was met with the sight of a single tear trickling down Astarion's cheek, glistening like a diamond in the soft glow of the protective Selunite energy that filtered through the window. Her heart clenched at the sight, a surge of tenderness washing over her as she realized the depth of vulnerability he was displaying in that moment.

Gently, she brushed away the tear that had escaped his eye. And then, without hesitation, she leaned in to kiss him once more.

Feeling the strength of his arms enveloping her, Ruby allowed herself to be pulled closer, her body melting against his as he drew her onto his chest. In that moment, she felt a sense of safety and security unlike anything she had ever experienced before, as if she had finally found her true place in the world – cradled in the arms of the man she loved.

As Ruby lay in Astarion's embrace, her mind raced with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The realization that she loved him took her by surprise, a revelation that left her grappling with a myriad of uncertainties. Love was a concept she had never truly understood, a feeling she had never experienced firsthand. How could she be certain that what she felt was indeed love?

Questions swirled in her mind like a tempest, each one casting doubt upon the authenticity of her emotions. Was this truly what love felt like? And if so, how could she find the courage to admit it to Astarion? He was just beginning to open up to her, to share the depths of his own vulnerabilities, and she feared that revealing the extent of her feelings would only drive him away.

She knew him well enough to recognize his hesitance when it came to matters of the heart. He was timid, guarded, his true feelings buried beneath layers of self-preservation. If she confessed her love for him, would he run? Would he retreat back into the shadows, leaving her alone once more?

But as she lay in his arms, feeling the odd warmth of his cold embrace enveloping her, Ruby knew that she would give anything to hold onto this moment. The thought of losing him was too much to bear, and so she made a silent vow to keep her feelings hidden, locked away in the depths of her heart.

For now, she would cherish their time together, relishing the simple pleasure of being close to him. And perhaps, one day, when the time was right and their bond had grown even stronger, she would find the courage to confess her love. But until then, she would keep her feelings a secret, knowing that she held his undead heart in her hands.

#astarion x tav #astarion angst #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion and tav #astarion fluff #astarion x oc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate #bg3 #named tav #bg3 tav #oc

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hazelnut-u-out · 1 year ago

Text

i've been going through a lot, but i finally managed to get around to finishing my first birdrick fic in literal agesssss.

all the lovely ship art i've seen recently kept me motivated to push through and finish a draft, so shoutout to all of the lovely birdrick artists out there <3

as always, you can find it on my ao3 (here!), but i'll post the full text below the cut for those who prefer it :3

2735 words | light angst

--------------------------------

Scars

Rick wrung his hands. Artificial callous gloving artificial bone.

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about the fact that he was no longer in his original body. It was contradictory. Rick had found within himself no sentiment of sanctity for the individual, but always found a melancholy homesickness for his old prison of a vessel.

For actual, honest-to-God flesh and blood.

...That wasn't made in a clone vat.

It suited him, though—to be more machine than man. He’d always felt sort of like an AI, or a robot, or… something. Being human was foreign to him, as if he weren’t actually a member of the same species. Space—full of the weird, gross, and incomprehensible—felt more like coming home than leaving it.

Rick often found himself victim to the same odd sentiment when it came to the sentient creatures he met during his exploration of the unknown.

Well, he thought. Less of an exploration than it was a search .

Sometimes, he wished he had spent more time living than waiting to die.

Now, for instance, some stupid pang of sentimentality—completely unscientific and devoid of productive purpose—had him standing on a branch, drenched in slightly-too-acidic-to-be-comfortable rainwater, and hoping to fuck he’d answer the door.

This place was sadder than he remembered it. The limbs of the trees drooped to face the forest floor, crying silently. From where Rick stood, they enveloped him as if they were breathing, protecting what dared to inhabit them. The sky was overcast a dark grey, teaming up with the dead of night to douse everything in shadow. So few bird people still lived on this planet that the light from homes and rudimentary nests was few and far between. Counting on the consistency of sentient life to light your way on this planet wouldn’t get you anywhere.

It wasn’t as if it were necessarily remote. The remnants of what once was were still there, residing in living memory for the dwindling numbers of a generation. Nature, as it does on all planets siring life, engulfed the residue a growing species leaves in its wake.

Trees swallowed the walls of homes. Vines obscured pathways. Hanging bridges and sky-born signs broke apart.

Everything felt weighed down.

Every time Rick came here, it seemed worse. Life seemed more forgotten. Culture, language, and tradition resting on the tired shoulders of people who would never know one another.

A planet scarred.

A person scarred.

A friendship scarred.

Rick had tried to reach out to Birdperson over the last few weeks.

It was excruciating. He would lay out on the roof—intoxicated, comatose, and splayed out like a patient anesthetized along a table—and stare at the light of the beacon as it pierced the clouds.

It was the longest time he’d ever gone without talking to him since they’d met, and he’d started to… miss things.

He hated it.

Missing something was an admission of caring about it—which he did not do. About anything.

So, as anyone who didn’t give a shit would, he stood soaked, drunk, and unannounced at his best friend’s door in the middle of the night.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Rick lifted his hand and gently rapped his knuckles against the coarse wood.

Three times. If he didn’t answer after three sets of knocks, he’d just leave. He didn’t even care.

One.

Two.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, turning away.

The muffled sound of a small child crying out seeped past the rain.

Turning, Rick saw a light flicker on inside, causing a warm glow to fall along the deep bark and caress the tips of his black loafers.

Frozen, Rick tuned his audio-enhancing implants to the small movements on the other side of the walls.

“Oh, my little nestling,” a gruff Birdperson murmured. “Hush, now. You have already had a bath. It is time for sleep.”

Rick didn’t need to draw on his extensive experiences with Birdperson to know he was exhausted.

For a brief moment, he thought of the conversation he’d had with Beth earlier. That familiar cold pit of guilt roiled in his gut.

He knocked again.

“Perhaps someone agrees with you, little one,” Birdperson whispered, Rick hearing every bit of it as he allowed his implants to violate some unspoken rule of privacy and familial intimacy. “Unreasonable creatures are up at unreasonable hours.”

Rick listened as the click of talons approached the door.

Light properly flooded the space Rick inhabited as the door slowly opened. The hiss of rain suddenly engulfed him as his implants switched off.

Birdperson’s face didn’t look like Rick had expected it to. There was apprehension and a bit of shock, but an aura of relief remained beneath it.

Rick’s thoughts raced to how he must have looked. Soaked, lab coat clinging to his thin frame. Pathetic.

Like an old, wet cat.

In an old, wet box.

On an old, wet street.

“Listen, I… I wasn’t sure if I should come, but, uh… I—”

“Rick,” Birdperson interjected softly. “I am very grateful you came. Please, come in.” Birdperson—smaller, fluffier bird child writhing in his arms—moved slightly to the side, gesturing a stubbled chin for Rick to enter.

He obliged, shivering in earnest as the heat of the home swallowed him, calling attention to just how cold he really was.

“Would you please hold her for a moment?” his companion asked, desperation dripping from his plea. Rick finally allowed himself to take in his friend’s state.

The bird man before him stood slightly slouched forward, small patches of discoloration littering his limbs. His eyes were sunken, his face unshaven, and his scarred arms shook as they extended the child towards Rick.

“Mmm… Yeah, let me just…” Rick rolled up his left sleeve and pressed a tiny ruby of a button on the side of his watch with his thumb. Instantly, his clothes poofed up and settled back against his skin, now pleasantly warm and dry.

The small gust of toasty air gently ruffled the feathers covering both sets of wings before him.

Rick reached out, taking the child in his arms. She let out a terrible shriek.

“Dios!” Rick blurted. “She’s got a set of lungs, eh?”

“Like you would not believe,” Birdperson grumbled as he shuffled further into the home, plopping down on the sofa. “I am so glad you came.”

“Oh?” Rick said timidly, tucking the child—whom he now noticed wore a straight-jacket-like onesie that restrained her arms but did little to prevent her tiny legs from swinging wildly in her struggle—casually beneath one arm and following in tow. “I kinda thought you’d be pissed, to be honest.”

“Perhaps if I were less exhausted, I would have the energy to care about quarrels and friendships,” his friend replied flatly, leaning forward and pressing his palms into his eyes. “You think being dead is exhausting. Then, you come back to life and raise… What is the term you used to refer to Beth? Antichrist?”

“You’re thinking of ‘hellion,’” Rick answered. “I’ve only ever spoken about the antichrist in a positive light.”

“Ahh… Well, you come back to life and raise a hellion. Whatever that means on Earth.” Birdperson stretched his wings out behind him, unfurling himself backward and sinking into the crease of the sofa. Rick chastised himself for admiring how his newfound scars—still pink and sensitive—highlighted the soft contour of his chest and stomach. “I recall that your daughter…” his friend shot him a wary look. “— daughters were quite spirited children.”

“I only had one at this age. You can just stick with singular.” Rick shrugged.

“Is that not disrespectful?” his partner asked, cocking his head inquisitively.

“How so?”

“Your culture emphasizes pronouns, no? So how would plurality of self be any different? Does referring to both of your daughters as one, even though they are now separate, not erase their individuality?”

“Oh, BP that’s—that’s cute and all. Real cute, but, ah…” Rick chuckled. “One, we need to brush you up on the fact that there are literally infinite versions of everyone . Two, neither of my current daughters are my original daughter. She was never cloned, so I think we’re safe to just say she was one girl, eh? Who knows if she would’ve had a clone?”

Rick forced himself to keep smiling and swallow the lump in his throat. He tightened his grip on the child twisting and growling beneath his right arm, locking his cybernetic joint in place.

“Ah, I see,” Birdperson said, concern etching its way along his brow. He threw a quick glance at his child, then back up at Rick. “You are drunk.”

“What about it? I’m always drunk,” Rick questioned, a bit annoyed.

“Yes, but a nestling is present.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Rick waved a hand in dismissal, shifting his weight to one foot. “Never killed Beth.”

Lie . Rick felt as though he’d swallowed sand.

“I will consider a compromise,” Birdperson proposed, a single corner of his mouth twitching impishly.

“Go on.”

“If you put her to bed for me, I will forgive you for the unprompted visit and inappropriate intoxication.”

Rick let out an amused huff. “Does the deal come with clean clothes and a place to crash tonight?”

“Are you out of portal fluid?” Birdperson raised an eyebrow.

“Home is… complicated,” Rick sighed, averting his eyes to a set of three empty wooden picture frames hanging on the wall. He couldn’t remember in his stupor, but he could’ve sworn they used to have something in them. “It's easier not to portal back for supplies. Can I stay or not?”

“Deal.”

—

Rick shuffled down the dimly lit hallway, his socks lighting little sparks along the carpet.

The tee Birdperson had loaned him was littered in holes, about three sizes too big, and three decades old. All of that without even mentioning the breeze from the wing accommodations along the back.

That was something he definitely didn’t miss about sharing BP’s clothes.

The Flesh Curtains was scrawled out along the front in curly hand-sewn font, courtesy of Squanchy’s mother.

Rick remembered his reaction. ‘Not exactly what I was looking for, but there’s something punk about it!’ he’d said when Birdperson put it on.

It was also the night he’d decided to build an automated machine to print the merch for them.

Rick had settled on just wearing his boxers and socks while his clothes were in the wash, figuring the shirt was long enough. The drying feature was a quick fix, but he swore the smell of the chemical reaction lingered on him afterward, and it would’ve been torture to be overstimulated for that long. Now, he regretted not asking if his friend had kept any of his sweats around, but he doubted it anyway.

Peeking his head into the doorway to the bedroom, he looked at his companion curled up in his nest. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly parted, and his cheeks flushed with sleep.

Rick would compare him to an angel, but that was overdone and, frankly, uncomfortably secular for a man of science. Instead, he'd settle for a great work of stone, carved to appear downy and plush.

Rick cleared his throat, watching as Birdperson’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hmmm?” he hummed. “Did you get her put down?”

“Yeah,” Rick whispered back. “She’s a good kid. It only took twenty minutes of wrestling and about five made-up serial killer stories. I felt like I was hosting a true crime podcast.”

“Miss them at this age?” A playful quip.

Rick felt a pang in his chest.

“Always.” The word came out more pained than he’d meant it to. He cleared his throat. “I just need a blanket.”

“You need two?” Birdperson asked, gesturing to the blanket he had draped over himself.

“I—uh… I figured I’d take the couch tonight,” Rick responded, rubbing his elbow awkwardly. “I assumed you’d abandoned the whole ‘communal nest’ thing since the kid’s got her own room.”

“If I let her share a nest with me, I think she’d kill me,” Birdperson said with a snicker. “I had her in here the first night and I woke up to her trying to choke me with a stray branch.”

“Welcome to the club,” Rick huffed.

“Come to bed,” Birdperson murmured, something soft and light to his voice that made Rick’s heart skip a beat.

Honestly, he hadn’t planned for this.

Sure, he hadn’t cared to do this twenty years ago, but Squanchy was there most of the time, and when he wasn’t… Well, situations were different.

Still, despite the change of plans, Rick resigned all too easily to his new fate, stepping into the room and clicking the door shut behind him.

He shuffled along the edge of the room, rounding the corner. The amber haze from the small lights at the corners danced over Birdperson’s imperfect skin as he pulled the blanket back, inviting Rick to slip in next to him.

Rick felt Birdperson’s warmth seep into his skin as he slid beneath the fabric. He laid flat on his back and found himself lifting one arm out of instinct.

It seemed that his friend had fallen into old habits as well, immediately finding the slot of space between Rick’s left arm and his torso and tucking himself into the curve of his ribs. Birdperson’s ear pressed against Rick’s sternum and, for a long time, they both lay there.

Just as Rick had begun to think his counterpart was finally sleeping, a soft murmur warmed the fabric of his shirt.

“You can barely hear your heart anymore,” his friend muttered.

“Huh?” Rick sighed, barely awake.

“When I first met you, your heart was the only thing I could hear when we slept. Now, it is only mechanical hubbub.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whirs. Clicks. Putters. That sort of thing.”

Rick ran the back of his right hand along the puffy edges of Birdperson’s scars from where it was pinned between them, thinking.

“I’ve never been alive, really. Like, in an organic sense. I’m… fake or—or artificial.”

“The life I led with you did not feel artificial.”

“Maybe it was, and you didn’t notice.”

“I would have noticed.”

“Would you?” Rick breathed out over a mess of plumage. “There was a time when you were more machine than person, too, you know. You seemed pretty content then.”

“Rick,” Birdperson sighed. “Please stop while I can still forgive you.”

“Would you make me leave if you couldn’t?”

“I…” his friend’s voice wavered. “Not now, but… I mean, thank you. Thank you for fixing me. Thank you for putting me back together, but, Rick… You are going to have to accept that I cannot do that for you.”

Rick didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. The realization felt leaden in his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot fix you. It is not my job to let you berate me in hopes my compassion could one day repair you.”

The silence that followed was anything but silent. It was thick and nauseating with a life of its own. It squirmed between them, so that their bodies, though touching, were separated by some impermeable barrier.

Rick wanted to say so much. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to scream and cry and hold Birdperson like he’d melt away or slip through his fingers. He wanted to explain and barter and justify. He wanted to take accountability and swear to never speak to him ever again.

What came out when he opened his mouth was shameful. Flippant and insensitive. He almost tried to swallow it before it came out.

“At least you can say you tried, I guess.”

“Did I try enough? Do you think that you could have been different if I had tried harder when you were still… fixable?”

Rick blinked.

“You tried more than anyone else ever did. You… You had your own shit going on. If it makes you feel any better, I think you did fix a small part of me.”

“I am sorry, Rick.”

“For what?”

Rick was confused. He should be the one apologizing. Not Birdperson.

Perfect, compassionate, sensitive Birdperson.

“For not knowing. For moving on. For not moving on. For telling you, now, that I can never afford to give you another chance.”

A shaky breath.

“I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you.”

-------------------------------------

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #birdrick #my fic

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tvreadsandsleep · 2 years ago

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» Dark!Attuma: dub-con || Attoye Prompt Drabbles || Master List « » You Will Be Mine #1 «

“I don’t like you,” Okoye loudly proclaimed, her hands fisted on either side of her body as she glared daggers at the infuriating man currently invading her space. She’d been on her way out of the training room when he’d found her, stalking after her as she’d walked past him down the hall.

“No, what you do not like is the fact that your heart races whenever I am around,” he countered, advancing on her tense form. They’d reach a secluded area of the building; her course having carried them away from the throng of women who’d been receiving her tutelage. The fire in her eyes—which would have sent most men, surface dweller or Talokanil, running in the opposite direction—amused him, his fingers longing to pinch her cheeks before bending her over to do as he pleased.

Noting that he’d trailed her, she attempted to stand her ground, but was forced back by his larger frame. He pushed his chest into her until she had to take several unsteady steps, lest she be knocked to the floor. Her defense was to strike back. She moved to punch him, aiming for his throat, but he caught her fist then took both her arms in his. He continued his forward stride, taking her with him, until he had her against the wall behind her.

“You may not be aware, but we Talokanil have enhanced senses. Our ancestors’ consumption of the plant and our residence deep within the sea has strengthened us far beyond the capabilities of you mere surface dwellers,” he breathed, leaning close so his words were spoken directly into her ear. “Not only can I hear the quickening of your heart, but I can also smell the way your pussy slickens in my presence.”

Okoye’s gasp brought a smirk to his face. Releasing his hold, he caressed her biceps. His palms ran along her bare skin, delighting in the goose bumps that appeared in their wake.

He inhaled deeply, exaggerating the action, so she would hear.

“Yes, I have scented exactly how I excite you. Your body reveals what your mind resists.” He made to kiss her lips, but Okoye altered his destination with the turn of her head.

Chuckling, Attuma licked her neck instead. He bit at the flesh, gentling his jaw, for now, satisfied with whichever areas of her body he could taste and touch.

Trembling, Okoye held her mouth shut, constricting her throat to contain the rapturous noises his fondling elicited. Once she’d gained a semblance of control, she parted her lips.

“What do you think you’ll gain from this?” She asked and cringed internally when her voice lacked the steel needed to make it unscathed, through his dark seduction.

“Hmm,” he hummed in her neck, pretending to think. His hands had moved to her chest, grazing the undersides of her breasts. “Preferably, this exchange would end with you knelt before me, open and waiting to receive my girth,” he pressed said girth into her abdomen, unashamed by the affect she had on his body. “But, for this first encounter, I will settle for the admission of your longing.”

“I told you. I don’t like you.”

“We both know that is not the case,” he murmured. The tender brushes upon her breasts turned rough, Attuma pinching her erect nipples in punishment.

Okoye cried out, moaning aloud as he twisted the points and bit more firmly into her neck. Her knees buckled, but she remained in place—pinned, by his hips, to the wall.

Emboldened by her response, he transferred his hold to her ass, gripping as he lifted her from the ground. He encouraged her legs around his waist. The new position placed his cock in line with her cunt, and Attuma immediately rubbed his manhood against her supple flesh.

“Admit that you yearn for me, and I will pleasure you beyond measure,” he panted. He made good on his pledge as he palmed her backside, forcing her hips toward him.

His thrusts were angled along her clit and left Okoye in helpless pleasure. Her mind, which had been in support of her fighting his advances, clouded, consumed with the bliss brought on by his handling. Her moans increased in volume, her fingernails digging into the skin on his shoulders.

“Speak or I will stop.” The words were a demand, Attuma’s frustration with her growing. Using all of his willpower, he stilled his movements and let go of her bottom with one hand. He clenched her chin, jerking her face so she looked him in the eyes. “Speak now!”

Gulping, Okoye’s thighs flexed around him, her body urging him forward, though, her mouth remained shut.

Attuma growled in reaction to her silence, teeth bared as he glared at her. He let her go, carefully placing her back on her feet despite his anger. He watched while she sagged against the wall, her breathing ragged. His erection throbbed, but he departed after taking in her tempting form one last time.

“For now, I will leave you be, but know that I will return,” was his parting promise.

#okoye x attuma #attuma x okoye #attoye #okoye #attuma #mywriting #attoyedailyprompt #ywbmseries #darkattuma #i sorta cheated with this one #i wrote it over the weekend #because i have a continuing ed class tonight #black panther #wakanda forever

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randomfoggytiger · 1 year ago

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Milagro In-Depth (Part II): Loneliness Is a Choice and Lamps Go Dark

We pick up where Part I left off (see post here)--

Scully stalks into the morgue, having left the church but not her unsettled feelings. Her expression mildly lifts seeing Mulder there waiting for her.

Mulder sidles up, subdued and gentle, obviously having mulled over her earlier reproof in the office. “Hey, you weren’t joking about being late. I was about to start slicing and dicing myself.”

He’s so caring that it melts Scully’s armor, bringing out her Starbuck guilt complex: “I’m sorry,” she offers. To her partner’s “Where were you?”, she responds “I was doing some research, and learning that I owe you an apology.”

Intrigued but cautious, Mulder straightens his posture and purses his lips. “For what?”

“The milagro charm,” Scully snips as she casts back on her experience, “you were right on its insignificance.”

Mulder states, “No, I think I was wrong. I think it is very significant. I think it may be a communication from the killer.”

She is initially frazzled that Mulder’s first response to her position-- especially in light of her “research”-- is a flat-out contradiction. Yet again, Mulder is sending the message-- accidentally-- that Scully’s ideas are always one step behind. But as he prattles on about his own research on psychic surgeons claiming to be “filled with the holy spirit” she is amused into complaisance.

Scully hands Mulder a metaphorical milagro charm of her own, giving weight to his ideas and debating them as intellectually and thoroughly as her tried and true science, expressing her repressed love in the only way he will accept.

Mulder only has Padgett half-right-- "...most credible practitioners of psychic surgery believe themselves to be imbued with the Holy Spirit, that their hands become the miracle tools of God"-- since Padgett doesn’t dabble in his sorcery to benefit others, only to try to "heal" his own diseased heart; and Scully also has Padgett half-right in her rebuttal.

“Mulder, this--” she says, taking and brandishing the charm as a statement, “is nothing more than a tool used by a lovelorn Romeo who just happens to be your next-door neighbor.”

Mulder’s pulled up short by this… and he’s not happy about the idea. “Who, the writer??”

“Yes,” Scully replies distinctly, hiding her stress behind a forced smile, “my secret admirer, who claims to know the mysteries of my heart.”

Mulder is completely blindsided but even more tender. “You’re kidding….”

Her tearful emotions briefly break to the surface as Scully recounts, “No, I wish I were. He cornered me today and told me my life’s story. He was kind of frightening, actually.” She looks down, unused to personal admissions still connected to unprocessed emotions.

Mulder flounders, flummoxed, shaking his head and stumbling for words. A Scully stripped from her defenses is a rare occurrence; and he is uncertain what to say. He retreats to safe ground: “Is… he… our killer?”

“No,” Scully clarifies, “‘Frightening’ as in ‘too much information and intimate detail’.” As Mulder is left with no ground left to hop on, his partner turns away to delicately sneer at the wall-- “What kills you is his audacity” before she takes a deep, stabilizing breath.

Dipping his head in solidarity, Mulder mulls over these new facts, toeing the line between empathizing with her shake-up and pretending not to notice how shaken Scully is. But he forms a resolution, raising his head with fire in his eyes and grim determination pulling at his mouth: “Did you get a name?”

His little rulekeeping rebel responds: “No, but that shouldn’t be too hard to find out, should it?” She walks off to do her work, letting Mulder read her face and draw his conclusions directly from her indirect response.

Scully knows her partner is on a vengeful hunt, giving him her unspoken blessing to do whatever he deems necessary.

Mulder now becomes an active part of the story rather than someone who wove in and around Scully or who Scully, the main focus of Padgett’s (and the narrative through his eyes), wove herself around.

He pulls out a lockpick set (proving everyone right on this poll about previous key or lockpick lore) and digs into his floor's mailbox. While swiping a letter, Mulder notices a pile of discarded newspapers, picking one up to pour over later for clues. In that hopelessly clueless way Mulder has, he's forced to snap out of his configurings by the harsh, cruel reality of his surroundings: needing to press an elevator button to make the door open. He makes a face, hits it, and waits.

Two thoughts:

#1. Gaze, focus, and attention continue to play heavily in this episode: Mulder having only eyes for his work (in this case, the newspaper) to the exclusion of the world around him (“life on this planet”) is given center stage as he fumbles around the normal world like someone who wants to run through it in pursuit of the next glorious chase.

#2. IMO, Mulder would love smart appliances and cool new innovations that cut down on minor daily decision-making (lacking the paranoia about technology and its advances as The Lone Gunmen do… or did); but they likely wouldn’t have liked him back since he’s already terrible with the conveniences he has in his “modern” world.

Padgett pops in, needing the elevator, too; and Mulder feels busted as he palms the man’s stolen letter and uncollected newspaper. He and Hoodie face-off on the ride up before Mulder turns away, evoking the polite, unspoken social norm of “stop staring.” His neighbor doesn’t follow those codes, eyeing the paper and Mulder’s increasingly annoyed expression.

“I’m sorry, I forgot your name,” Mulder fishes.

“Padgett.”

“Padgett,” he fake smoozes, Rob Petrie dripping in disdain and moral superiority.

“You’re a writer. Anything I’d know?”

Padgett is unfazed. “I don’t think so.” His story is not about Mulder-- an incidental second fiddle-- but about Scully, her motives and her heart.

The second act concludes this scene by a slight repetition of before: Padgett encountering a character on the elevator, staring into their soul, and following them down the hallway like a shadow. At this point, his role is not as a "person" so much as a conduit, becoming lost in the liminal spaces between both worlds. It’s not until the third act when Padgett becomes a flesh and blood human being, realizing the futility of Naciamento’s madness and tearing his heart out in sacrifice.

At his door, Padgett prods, “You’re an FBI agent. Working on anything interesting?”

Mulder calls his bluff, becoming as obtrusive in his study as his neighbor is, purposefully trading meaningful looks. “A murder case.”

His neighbor freezes, the rattle of his door loud in the silent hallway. To Mulder, he reveals that dichotomy of himself, the Naciamento side-- menace and meaning folded into one. “Anything I’d know?”

Mulder’s deceptively monotoned “Possibly” isn't intended to fool.

It’s very clear that Padgett views Mulder as a rival and a threat-- an intelligent suit who Scully buzzes around for attention while, in Padgett’s mind, bearing up, unrewarded, under neglect.

Mulder slips into his apartment first, the door serving as the last word to these hallway interludes. The writer-- the avatar, the conduit, the theme, the symbol-- is acutely aware of this, running into his own apartment as well, hoping to beat the FBI agent in like it’s a kindergarten foot race. Mulder is the clear winner this round, upper-handing the situation by unsettling Padgett and toying with his interest; and his unconcerned confidence gives him that detached edge that allows him to drop conversations or topics at the toss of a dime, leaving the other person shortchanged and aware a second too late.

This interaction sends Padgett into a jealous and desperate writing session that culminates with an explicit happy ending for himself and Scully, enviously hoping to rob his rival of the jewel that sits right under the other’s nose. He “directs” his FBI neighbor to listen through the vent system, deriding Mulder for his “Hegelian justification” with regards to breaking the Amendments, smug loathing pouring out of his eyes as he types out his own measure of control.

The episode plays with free will as well as gaze and focus quite a bit: does Padgett direct Mulder to break those rules and listen? Or does he pin Mulder down in the elevator and write a piece so thoroughly correct about the other’s character that he can “predict” rather than direct what his actions will be?

I believe Padgett is seeking control of his own life by controlling those around them; but this episode reveals that the only person he can fully control is Naciamento. Even further: his own creation reveals the truth to his creator: the writer was never in control-- the only truth his work created is something beyond himself, something that could not be bound by control; and that the unruly characters he tried so desperately to bind to a “greater” narrative whole were already free from his grip, and never wholly his to begin with (script here.)

Philip Padgett writes his words into Scully’s head, flavoring them with sexual interest but still detailing a grain of truth: “She was flattered. His words had presented a pretty picture of herself, quite unlike the practiced mask of uprightness that mirrored back to her from the medical examiners and investigators and all the lawmen who dared no such utterances.”

A key point is explored here: Scully pulls out the charm, a version of Padgett’s verbosity running through her own mind; but a colleague rushes by, and she drops it down out of focus in time with the writer’s “...she felt and involuntary blush; and rebuked herself for the girlish indulgence.”

Here, writer man believes his words have the power to sweep her off her feet and into his bed, two lonely souls finding love and wantonness in the company of only each other.

The camera pans back to Mulder from the on-high perspective of the vent, casting judgment and doom upon his rival (to no avail.)

He is unaware, but suspicious, of Padgett’s unspoken intentions, finally ripping open his mail (after hours of completely silent observation) and noting “Mr. Popularity”' has no records of calls placed or received. Mulder is a lonely man himself; but his loneliness is consumed by the quest and banished by Scully’s company, however he allows himself to receive it. Padgett has no one; and choses to write a better life into existence for himself, stealing from someone else’s work.

Collapsing back in exhaustion, Mulder contemplates his next move, this problem proving more sinister and desperate because of its subject’s stark isolationism. In his boredom, Mulder picks up the newspaper, opening it up and incidentally sending himself down a rabbit hole of clues.

Scully arrives on the 4th floor, flustered, bewildered, intrigued, confused; but this time she pauses, hearing the click click click of Padgett’s typewriter as clearly as if she were right next to it. Typewriter clacking this loudly is unnatural; and Scully is torn between fleeing it and figuring out what it means. She is a woman of science; but all of Scully’s pragmatism is a defense against her own unscientific inclinations, a tendency to give too much credence to supernatural signs or simple gut feelings. It saved Kevin Kryder in Revelations, it saved her daughter in Emily, it guarded the girls in All Souls, and it will warn her in Orison.

Her investigator instincts win over, and she pays a visit to Room 44, unaware of how dark Padgett's intentions are. She couches her visit as a gift-return; but Padgett, delighted twofold-- that his plan is working but also that Scully is here to unwind his mind-- plainly asks her “Why?”

Scully steels herself for his reaction-- and in reaction to his unabashed openness-- and replies, “Because I can’t return the gesture.”

Padgett lets the moment hang, playing on her kindness and natural sense of dutiful guilt; and it leaves her no choice but to further admit “I can’t.”

He, of course, misreads her denial as reluctance, not realizing that her heart has already been given; and that Mulder has known this since at least Memento Mori (her journal describing then “That you should know my heart, look into it; finding there the memory and experience that belong to you-- that are you….”)

At Philip Padgett’s “You’re curious about me”, Scully huffs, struck and shaken again by his relentless dissection of her mind. There is less animal fear now as she acknowledges the truth with a slight nod; but it curdles in her gut, tears threatening to pool after her study of his Spartan apartment. She is aware that a man who has this much of nothing will be unwilling to give up what he now thinks of as his something.

But there is also pity. As Padgett’s intense investigative skills reflect Mulder’s empty personal life, so too does his apartment the howling chasm of Scully’s internal isolation-- the empty desert she retreated into after Emily’s death was an expansive emptiness, making room for the width of her loss and the intelligence of her and heart and mind. Padgett has only a desk, a lamp on the floor, and a bed; and the littleness of this life strike a chord-- though not the one he wrote to strike-- of commiseration at the emptiness of his existence and the flagrancy of his honesty. It’s a fear Scully has never admitted to, let alone lived brazenly.

She asks about his books-- “Anything I’d know?”-- echoing Mulder’s own question.

“No. They’re all failures. Except the one I’m working on now,” Padgett triumphs.

Scully draws back from his intensity, though she continues to question. “Why now all of a sudden?”

Padgett unfurls his thinking, possibly even how he obtained his abilities: “Best not to question it.”

She understands this, living that motto daily with her partner; and looks down to cover her own vulnerability.

“See? You are curious about me.”

Denial kicks in: “Well, you lead a curious life.”

Padgett puts his foot in the metaphorical door: “It’s not so different from yours, I imagine.” And that is all he can do: imagine, and try to unite his life with someone else who, he thinks, will understand him better than he does himself, the description of a writer he gives Scully a scene later.

His point is accurate; and Scully allows it to sink deeper even as she quickly puts up her defensive, sarcastic guard. He breaks it back down it a pointed, “Lonely.”

Padgett’s words sear at her wound, twisting a knife into her heart; but she manages to answer a measured “Loneliness is a choice” by rapidly blinking back tears and swallowing down her pain.

At Padgett’s “So how about a cup of coffee?”, her eyes flash defensively; but she is drawn in by his prepossessing honesty and transparency, wanting it for herself. Perhaps if she had some for herself, perhaps if she were more forthright-- a litany of “perhapses" as maddening as Padgett’s elusive self-discovery.

What I find interesting is the idea that this is Padgett’s Never Again and Scully is his Ed Jerse. He is unable to understand his heart or motives, the truth behind his actions; and she is alluring and broken-hearted and fearing that love will never be returned to her equally. The unbalanced nature of The Quest is her divorce court and her assurance and self-reflection is his ouroboros.

Separated by a wall, the two agents do their own reading. Mulder has done his homework, doubling back for the rest of the neglected newspapers once he’d found a love dedication that Padgett had circled; and Scully takes a peek at Padgett's unfinished manuscript, pondering over the last sentence “How will it end?”

Clutching the coffee cup Padgett gave her, she bows before it in confession: “My life’s not so lonely…. It’s actually anything but.”

Padgett again hears (looks) but doesn't listen (see.)

Her questions become more pointed: “How is it you think you know so much about me?”; and to his “I’m writing about you”, she gets sick of the staring game, pointedly sticking her neck out.

“Since when?”

“Since I first noticed you. You live in my old neighborhood.”

“And you moved into this building by coincidence?”

“No.”

“You moved here because of me.”

“There wasn’t anything available at your building. And it’s not like you spent a lot of time at home.”

Scully is confused-- she is wired to be drawn to people that listen, truly listen, to what she has to say and notice her and her interests so closely; but she is continually reminded that Padgett is an obsessed, sick man. But the adage “physician, heal thyself” easily follows that thought; and it’s easier to run away than to dwell on them.

Padgett stumbles over her horror. “I, I should have said something; but I just couldn’t get it all down fast enough. To really write someone I have to be in their head, I have to know them more completely than they know themselves.”

What strikes Scully is how “Mulder” that is-- getting into someone’s head and crossing lines and boundaries, asking for forgiveness rather than permission. The difference, she knows, is that her partner uses those gifts in extreme circumstances and for the ultimate good whereas this man is completely self-serving and egotistical in his mixture of self-abasing hubris.

“This is all about me?”

“Well, you’re an important part.”

“May I read it?”

When her request is denied, Scully shrinks down, pulling her shoulders up. She knows what that means: there is something in his manuscript to hide, or something that might color her against him more than she already is. Her hand shakes slightly at his “Would you sit and stay a minute?”; but she rallies in caustic suspicion (“You don’t have anywhere to sit.”)

Padgett lures her to his room-- a completely different apartment setting than her experience had been with Ed Jerse or even Mulder this entire episode-- shutting down her warning and excuse (“I’m due next door”) with a page out of her own logical book (“You haven’t finished your coffee.”)

Scully, left with no subtlety, cuts through her own reticence. “I’m very uncomfortable with this.”

“Why? You’re armed, aren’t you?”

The light won’t turn on, something Padgett hadn’t written or anticipated. “Imagine that.” He opens the curtains further, pinning them up against the wall before pressing past (and up against) a dazed Scully who seems to be wavering, either under the spell of his words or her own dizzying indecision.

Again her pity chord is struck with Padgett’s view-- a brick wall, so different from the view one door down. Scully gives in, drawn to the powerful and unexplained (ex. Luther Lee Boggs and Clyde Bruckman and Alfred Fellig): “If you know me so well, then why am I standing here when my instincts tell me to go?”

“Motive is never easy. Sometimes it occurs to one only later.”

She chastises herself, disappointed with his answer and her own foolish question. At the repeated invitation, Scully almost leaves, but sits down anyway. When the light bulb burns out once again, she is startled, but Padgett is alarmed then resigned in awe (“Imagine that.”)

They sit, waiting; and Padgett turns, knowing the precipitous moment is arriving-- but when Scully still sits, seemingly unmoved, he leans forward, shocked and hoping a change in position will end any indecision.

It's then that Mulder busts through the apartment door.

He immediately puts up his gun at Scully’s “Mulder” but evades further questions after having confirmation she’s alright. He zips over to the typewriter and throws around the pages until he finds an incriminating one, delicately hands it to his partner and pushing Padgett against the wall to arrest him.

Scully, startled, doesn’t attempt to stop him; and stares, horrified, at the words "warm, beating heart" staring right back at her.

Part III coming sometime soon.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

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