#gracious widow

[geraldofallon]

Fallen London’s True Identities

Princess Shirin, daughter of Möngke Kahn as the Gracious Widow

[c-schroed]

I still am not immune to the nuptial fantasies involving the Gracious Widow. Like, not immune a t a l l.

Gotta calm down a bit. Like, send my other character on some dream hunting trip with Sinning Jenny.

[shiveringfrogspawn]

“Because every time you see them happy you remember how sad they're going to be. And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point in them being happy if they're going to be sad later? The answer is, of course, because they are going to be sad later.”

- The Eleventh Doctor in The Widow and the Wardrobe

[fallenlondonnpcfight]

[ERROR: Match Not Found]

Anchoress art by @anyboli.

[bizarrebazaar13]

interesting that the masters give you brandy instead of cider for immortality. what kind of trade is going on between them and the gracious widow? does she owe them something? presumably, it was her father who sold the fourth city, but perhaps she made a deal of her own somewhere down the line…

[fayes-fics]

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace. 

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own. 

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly. 

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.” 

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident. 

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it. 

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours. 

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air.  “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room. 

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.” 

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast. 

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks. 

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…” 

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.” 

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand. 

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.” 

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly. 

Benedict has no response to that. 

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.  

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence. 

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.” 

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly. 

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in. 

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing. 

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid. 

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly. 

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?”  The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all. 

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on. 

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such. 

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him;  his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat. 

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive. 

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…” 

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.” 

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance. 

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary. 

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!” 

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not. 

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that. 

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor. 

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event. 

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.” 

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face. 

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.  

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton. 

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside. 

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

���We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.” 

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner. 

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply. 

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man. 

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking. 

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless. 

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!”  He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly. 

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does. 

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge. 

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it. 

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips. 

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”  

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?” 

Even he can read between those lines. 

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks. 

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked. 

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice. 

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest. 

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless. 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.” 

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more. 

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud. 

 The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation. 

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart.  “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[sixpennydame]

Captain Levi had never planned to fall in love with you, the pregnant widow of a Survey Corps member.

Your husband wasn’t part of his squad, but he’d seen him fall, just seconds too late from being able to save him. He’d found a letter to you in his pocket and delivered it to you in person; it was the least he could do, he thought. You were gracious and thankful to have this last message from your sweetheart but Levi saw the depth of sadness in your eyes, and something else simmering just below the surface.

“I’m pregnant,” you confess. “Three months.”

“Do you have family to go back to?” he asked.

“I have no one.”

And that’s how Levi found himself visiting your house whenever he came into Trost. It was late fall, so the Corps was on hold from any expeditions, and after he picked up his usual cleaning supplies, he’d find himself picking up some things for you and bringing it by.

“There’s some tea there that is supposed to be good for morning sickness,” he says as he hands you a bag of groceries, “and some of my officer’s rations of red meat. I heard that’s good for a growing baby.”

“You’re too kind, Captain. You don’t have to do all this for me.”

You were right, he didn’t, but he couldn’t help worrying about you, a soon-to-be mother, raising a child on her own.

A month turned into two, then three, your belly growing rounder, your features becoming even softer. There was a glow about you he couldn’t describe, almost angelic.

His monthly visits had become weekly; you would cook him dinner and he’d stay until the fire in the hearth was embers, and your eyelids became heavy.

But this time, as he stood up to leave, you took his arm.

“Captain…could you stay? Just for tonight.”

He knows he shouldn’t. You’re still grieving and probably just lonely. But he can’t deny the pull you have on him. You’re beautiful and kind-hearted, witty and spirited. His thoughts drift toward you so naturally now, wondering how you’re feeling, if you need anything.

If you need him.

And so he follows you to the bedroom and lays on the bed beside you, making sure to stay on his side and give you the space you need. You toss from side to side, finally lying on your back.

“The baby’s too active tonight. I feel like I’m a human punching bag,” you sigh out, then you roll over to look at Levi.

“Do you want to feel it?”

You gently take his hand and place it on your belly. For a while, he feels nothing but the pounding of his own heart, touching you in what feels to him to be so intimate.

But then there’s a little bump under his hand. Then another.

Levi’s experienced many things in his life, but never has anything brought him so much awe than those two little movements.

He spent that night with his hand on your stomach as you drifted to sleep, and decided right then and there that he would do whatever it took to keep you and that little one safe, healthy, and happy.

[auragasmics]

A NIGHT IN OUR PAST!

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ ∞ synopsis! Banquet Night, a time of class, grace, and digust. When invited to the yearly banquet hosted by tokyo’s elite, you and toji step into a glamorous world that hides remnants of the past you both barely survive. When the memories start rolling in and emotions of the past run high, who will crumble to the feet of the elite first, or will love light a way out for these two?

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ ∞ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ ∞ pairings! ! widow!fem!reader x toji fushiguro

˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ ∞ ˚ ₒ ∞ cw! ! 14.6k words, dubcon, pwp, age gap (toji is 35, reader is 27), use of ocs, mention/talks of death, hints of fluff, implied anxiety/panic attack, implied flashbacks, use of alcohol, drunk sex(?), power play, vouyerism/exhibitionism, oversimulation, slight dom fem!reader, masturbation, toji hits from the side, fingering, oral(m → f), teasing, multiple orgasms, spitting, no protection, slow sex, implied marathon sex, sorry if i forgot some mwuah <3

˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° ˚ ₒ ∞ ˚ ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ˚ ₒ ∞ xoxo, chris! yeahhhhh…if this isn’t the epitome of self indulgent idk what is. thanks to my gracious beta reader @n3vr-f0und (thank you for reading these bricks i send you :3)

tags: @lalunanymph @mikyapixie @prettylvne @dongh9e @humantrashcan2000

m.list. pt. 2. pt.4

ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM: M’LADY 

“WHENEVER YOU SEE THIS, 

DON’T ASK ME WHY IT’S DOUBTED. 

JUST TAKE IT WITH THAT SMILE.

PAYMENT: + ¥ 80,000

Again, Toji’s stuck grimacing at his phone screen. It comes with a heavy sigh as he rests his throbbing temple along the tinted glass of the car window. 

It’s his typical trend to gasp, gawk, and mindlessly swipe at the screen whenever a payment from you enters his account but in a month’s time, he’s learned a valuable lesson.

Numbers don’t lie and neither have you.

He’s been under your care for a month, and not once have you failed to honor the haphazard agreement. In truth, Toji’s managed to accumulate 250,000 yen in the short month with you. He’s been thinking about it; He’s saved himself from financial ruin with more money than he could’ve hoped for, so why not leave?

Yet, there’s something worth more than all the money, all the wealth, and all the thoughts he’s had recently.

And that could be found right next to him— you squinting into the small hand mirror carefully swiping on lipstick he knows he’ll be dressed in once the night comes to its sinful close. 

Would Toji say he’s fallen for you?

No, he knew this wasn’t love, not when he’s being paid 80,000 yen to do something he would’ve done for free—should you have asked him with that smile he loves so much. It wasn’t love but lately, Toji’s had his hands full of acquainting himself with every curve, every etching, and every nerve found across your body. It wasn’t love but Toji’s been finding solace in waking up in your bed with you snuggled up in his arms. 

It wasn’t love, but right now Toji can’t help but allow himself to get lost in your artistry. 

Beautiful, that’s the only word Toji can use when he’s at a loss like this. His azure irises hinge on your precocious care for detail, watching as you softly trace the curves of your lips in red.

So slowly does that shade of rouge melt upon your lips, as if nothing else outside the backseat of this car speeding down the Tokyo interstate matters. So mindful not to miss the thinning corners of your mouth too, ensuring that your grace permeates every inch of your being.

Toji’s thinking about what you’d possibly do once you drop the brush from the canvas, would you turn and grin at him out of that childish sense of accomplishment? Would you mark him with a kiss or two like you always do? Every artist signed their painting, and it’s due to you that Toji can break into the world he’s never known—or the world he barely escaped from. 

Right now, he wouldn’t mind donning an extra accessory for the night. Just to walk into the room with your lipstick as a badge of honor that shows everyone in that room who he belongs—

“Toji!” your voice pulled Toji from his mediated fantasy.

Jolting awake from his wondrous thoughts, Toji nervously tucks his phone back into the breast pocket of his black suit before giving you his attention. 

“Hm? What’s wrong, Baby?”

“This,” you sigh, dropping the small compact mirror from your face. Levering your neck, you turn to Toji for his thoughts. “Does this shade of lipstick go with my dress? I think it’s too…cheerful.”

“Isn’t that what you wanna go for? I mean, it is a banquet. Drab and depressing isn’t what I think of when it comes to events like this.”

“Ha!” you sneer, “Banquet amongst Japan’s elite. I rather sit at home and count how many times the street lights flicker.”

The flat of Toji’s palm coats your thigh, his pulsing grip teasing past the leg slit of your brown mulberry silk grown. “So…it’s boring? I’m sorry Princess, but ‘m just a little confused. Last month, you were all excited about gettin’ dressed up and going out, but now you hate it?”

“I don’t ‘hate’ it, I hate the people we’re about to encounter. Tokyo’s elite, remember? And…it’s the first time I’ll be showing my face in some years. But it’s just for barely an hour, then we can go—”

Toji found his way beside you, nuzzled at your side with his chin resting along the peak of your bare shoulder. He’s peering at you with heavy eyes, weighted by dreams waiting to waltz through his mind. His voice mirrors his new form, his deep voice softened by comfort. 

“Tell me about these people you hate so much.”

There’s a longing breath that curls in the back of your throat, your lips twisted and pursed as you gather the best words to present your heartaches to Toji.

“These people…they’re heartless. They care only for their money and status, as if they too didn’t come from humble beginnings. When my husband and I were first invited to these events, I was just making my name as a business consultant and he was just making rank as a CEO.

And on that night, I’ve never met such a bunch of disgusting, rotten people. The men hound the women, and the women hate each other. Nothing is good enough for them, there’s always a complaint.”

“Yeah?” Toji echos, “So then, why are we going, Princess? It’s like we’re going straight into trouble. Not that I mind that—there’s always an adventure waiting—but it’s not your style.”

You drop your sights to meet Toji, his gentle-mannered stare washing over you with relief. But that glance you pay him comes with a heavy price—that bubbling urge to kiss his tepid smirk. It’s a need you could act on, but there’s a shrouding guilt staining your mind, one that you can’t ignore: 

Your ex-husband.

The memories are still there, fresh in your mind. Even now as you vaguely speak on his name and legacy, it’s almost like he’s here, holding you in his arms, watching you with a smile on his face, playing the role of spectator to your timely crime.

It’s an act of betrayal in your eyes, in your gut, yet this longing to kiss Toji reigns with an iron fist over your will.

But it’s Toji who has you tucked beside him now, and he’s the only one listening to your dolors with attentive ears. He’s giving you all—the attention, time, and energy. Whether it was genuine was his concern alone, nothing for you to ponder, that conversation being between him and the universe. 

For now, he’s here with you, taking in every word you say with a look of interest. He’s even tagging his palm to your waist, keeping you close to his side. He’s turning himself into a place of solace for you, which has you itching for more than just his attentive nature. 

All the cards are present and in your favor—but the guilt of upheaved tradition denies the relief of giving into your desire.

You bear it with a harsh swallow, your eyes fluttering shut as you work to finish your explanation. 

“Be-Because…as the wife of the former CEO, I’m now the unseen face of the company. I have to handle all the social affairs, to tend and mend relationships. Being here…going there to dine with people I despise…it’s all for him. And I intend on keeping all his hard work alive and thriving.”

“Aren’t you a good wife? Most men would travel through heaven and hell if it meant they would meet you in their next lifetime. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anyone look or speak to you wrong, especially when they have no clue of the burden you carry on your shoulders.”

He’s straightening himself up, sitting tall beside you from his slouched state. And of course, he’s still forgotten the mere idea of space, the pad of his thumb reaching to swipe along your powdered chin.

“Fuck…” Toji whispers, his sly smirk drifting dangerously close to your lips, “You’re just a good girl, after all, Princess.”

There’s room for mockery in his tone, something that has you waving off his favor with a shrug. “Stop it, don’t try to baby me, Toji. I—”

“ ‘m not trying to do that. Not in the slightest. I admire it, honestly. You don’t need my sympathy, and I wasn’t offering it up. Just take my praise and let it be, alright?”

Hesitantly, you accept Toji’s words, shooting your narrowed eyes to scan over his impartial mien. 

“…Alright.” 

Toji’s latent apology is a mere stare, his typical gaze eased by a nurturing glint. He's tentatively squeezing at your waist, luring you into his salacious trap.

His suave nature has your mind dizzy with everything Toji—his gentle smile, his warmth, his cologne wafting past your nose. He’s done nothing to you, yet that suppressed craving is flickering once more and it has you diving blindly into Toji’s stronghold. 

Until the perfect excuse presents itself.

“Toji, wait! I’m all dressed up and it was a pain to get this!”

“Shhh, just giving you a kiss. I wouldn’t dare to ruin all your hard work. And besides…” He trails off, tilting his head towards the tinted glass wall separating the driver from the blooming scene.

“He can’t see a damn thing.”

“Fine,” you huff, “Just a kiss, okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

“No, I said just a kiss—”

Toji steals the last words of your warning as his own, sealing them away behind a soft peck. 

Though his fingers ache to strip you bare, a kiss is truly all Toji tends to leave you with. He’s considerate towards you, aware of the fact that your lips are dressed up in the similar fashion you carried yourself for the night. He doesn’t dare to bite at your bottom lip, to slip his tongue along your own, he simply presses his kiss slowly onto you.

“See?” he grins as he pulls away, “Just a kiss. Told you I wanna keep you looking nice.”

“But I think I changed my mind,” you tease, pushing your eager lips back onto Toji’s gaping awe. The care you could almost thank him for flies right out of the window as your greedy tongue traces the caverns of his mouth. 

You’re just so delicate, taking the time to study every inch of him before working a shy coil around his tongue. It’s nearly as if you’re treading a careful line too, holding back from what you know will pass.

But that won’t stop your hands from roaming along his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles from the silk black lapels of his suit jacket, tugging at his collar, all for your touch to find the comfort of cupping his rosy cheeks. 

He takes heed with a smothered smirk, offering a lengthy response through unspoken language. But being the man he’s sworn to be tonight, Toji can’t let you show face with swollen lips, smeared lipstick, and wrinkles spouted all over your dress. 

To depart from your adoration chips at Toji’s heart, but he does so with a parting gift. His teeth, pearled and strong, generously nip at your bottom lip as a courtesy to his exit. But he doesn’t draw too far, just enough for his shaky breaths to cloud your skin. 

He tethers onto a smug smile to huff out his rhetorical thoughts, “What happened to being classy, Honey? Now your makeup’s gonna be messy ‘nd–”

“I don’t care about that. Any of it,” You lay out flatly, biting down on the present Toji plucked onto your bottom lip. “It’s nothing we can’t clean up in the bathroom, right?”

Toji kisses his teeth, using his grip to squeeze at your waist, “Nasty girl. As much as I'd that, and I really hate to ruin our moment, but I think we’re here so…here…”

Reaching beside you, Toji grabs the discarded pocket mirror and tube of lipstick for you. With what gap exists between you both, he presents the tools with a soft tilt of his palm.

“Go on, I’ll hold your mirror for you…for a price.”

“A price?” You press, lurching back from Toji’s hold. You accept the silver bullet from him, tugging off the cap before placing the red velvet tip to your pout. 

“Mhm.” Toji blindly nods. He’s already absorbed into you, his hounding gaze following your careful hand once more.

“When you’re done, kiss me on the cheek. Just to…make sure it’s all dried, y’know?”

All you offer Toji is a sharp squint, “Is that right?”

“Yup, riiiight here,” Toji beckons, tipping his jaw towards you. 

A sigh seeps through your lips, but you cave at Toji's request. Pressing your dressed lips along Toji’s cheek imprints the mark of deep crimson upon his fair skin.

“There, how’s that?”

Toji greedily turns the mirror on himself, his eyes gawking at the pretty signature you’ve given him. 

“Perfect! Wooow, red looks good on us, Princess,” He chuckles to himself. Toji shuts the compact in his grip, leaving him to pin his sights on you. 

“Well, ready to eat, breathe, and drink like elites?”

“Oh, Baby,” you playfully coo, your hand sitting along his thigh, “We already do.”

That’s all Toji needs to hear before he reaches for the door handle, pushing the heavy black car door open. The sidewalk’s concrete cracks beneath his feet as Toji stands from his seat, his hand reaching back for your own.

“Careful, careful, don’t step on the dress…” Toji chants as he guides you out of the backseat to stand beside him.

His concerns bring a giggle to ring from your lips as you thank him, softly squeezing at his linked grasp. Though, you find your attention set onto the building before you—standing at easily 30 floors high with what you made out to be an open rooftop on the top floor. Through a bushy squint, you noticed flickering lights dancing from the rooftop, pulling a sigh from your bundled chest. 

“Yup, just like ‘em. Partying on the top floor like the gods they wanna be,” you mutter under your breath. 

Stress wasn’t a good look on you and Toji needed a way of breaking that tension quickly. 

Toji didn’t need another word, he knew he had to ease your worries fast. Lacing his arm around your hips, Toji adopts the role of an attendant, using slow steps to lead you inside the building. He steals a look at you, and he’s met with a clenched jaw and twisted lips. 

“We’re gonna have fun tonight, ‘kay?” He assures, “Just go in—hey, wha-what do you eat at these things anyway?”

“Oh, a mix of everything. Native food like sushi, sashimi platters, and beef. Some foreign dishes like curry, or stew to call it something fancier, some other stuff. They serve oysters here sometimes—Oh, desserts derive from France, so things like that. But you can see some local items like parfaits, cakes, and red bean dishes too.”

Toji simply grins as you speak. He’s got you so invested in rattling out food, you didn’t even notice his intention of distracting you. Just his luck that it’s working. That list of potential menu items brought you both through the grand lobby of marble walls and columns, down the winding path of red carpet, and into the awaiting elevator leading upstairs

As the elevator doors shut, Toji pulls you into him once more, his fingers tapping at what curves lay within his grasp. He takes a moment to look around the small chamber with curious eyes—and down to your heavy stare cast upon him.

“Ugh, your lips are a little red, Toji. Want me to wipe—”

“Don’t bother,” he shrugs, “ Now you can’t go around calling me your “friend”. And I’ve got all the proof.”

Your brows weave a knot of confusion, “So you had all this planned out?”

“Pfft, ‘course not,” Toji swiftly shoots down, “Listen, don’t worry about any of that. You’re my lady, that’s it. And besides…I like being covered in your kisses. Is that so wrong?”

“I guess not—”

The soft ‘ding’ of the elevator doors rings through the speakers rip you and Toji out of your safe haven, and the growing sliver of light from the retracting doors seals your fate for the night. 

Toji rushes to assume his role as your escort, taking your dainty hand into his calloused palm. 

As you laggardly stroll out of the elevator, Toji leans towards your bejeweled ear with a whisper.

“I’ve got you, Princess. Keep a smile on your lips and no matter what…you’re here for a reason. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

You keep your eyes pinned to the beckoning glass doors, but your focus doesn’t hinder how a smile crowds at your lips. 

The marble flooring dons the honor of bearing the first step you take into the busy room. People, crowds of the recognized and deemed distinguished, scatter about the hall, cradling dainty glasses to their chest. 

And one of these “recognized and deemed distinguished” has your name rolling off their tongue. 

“Ah, isn’t it the lovely lady we’ve all been waiting for!” The voice calls out.

The curiosity prompts you and Toji into a standstill, his hand softly squeezing your own. 

“Not even a minute inside and you’re already getting hit on. Tch, don’t forget about me, alright?” He smirks, passing a teasing wink onto you.

You roll your eyes, scoffing at Toji’s playful taunt. “Please, nothing but old men have their eye on me. But, that voice…it sounds so familiar. If I’m remembering properly, it belongs to…him.”

Your pairs of eyes fall short of the approaching figure, your nose wrinkling at the unfortunate realization. 

He's a stout man, with tanned skin, black hair sprinkled with stands of salt and pepper, and his lecherous gaze hides behind the glare of wire-framed glasses. Few wrinkles dress his face, aside from the heavily contoured smile lines around his thin, pink lips. 

He’s no taller than five-foot-seven, dressed in an all-white suit with a gold tie tucked behind suit lapels. He keeps a cane in hand, clutching at the polished brown stick modeling his laggard trail. 

And when he flashes you a smile, there's a gold tooth that floods your mind with a single name.

That man is…Dr. Sai Yusuno.

“Who’s this old man?” Toji whispers into your ear.

“Dr. Sai Yusuno. He used to be on a board with my husband. But when he passed, this man has been nothing but persistent to court me. He asked me out a week after the funeral. Hah, guess someone couldn’t wait,” You hum while maintaining your smile as Dr. Yusuno urges closer.

Toji keeps his hold over you, drawing you into his side once the unwanted presence comes to stand before you both.

“Oh…Dr. Yusuno! How…nice to see you this evening!” Your pitched voice feigning innocence as you bow your head. 

“Oh…I didn’t know you’d taken someone new,” Dr. Yusuno chides, sucking his teeth as he scans Toji from head to toe. “So…who is this man?” 

“Oh..um…he’s my—”

“Toji Fushiguro,” Toji introduces, keeping his head held high. “She’s my lady. That’s all that needs to be said, if we’re being honest.”

“Hmm…,” Dr. Yusuno pauses for a moment, “Toji, you say? That name sounds similar. Are you from a cl—”

“Oh! Princess!,” Toji blurts out, “I think I see your names over there, let’s go get comfortable.”

“Oh, okay,” you nod, giving into Toji’s lead. “See you later, Doctor!”

Leaving Dr. Yusuno behind, Toji guides you to a chair at the end of the long dining table, allowing you to explore the rest of the banquet hall.

In your sights, you’ve found the bar standing in the corner, the staff working hard to feed thirsty patrons their desired dream for the night through shaken or stirred drinks. 

Above hangs a grand crystal chandelier, the chiseled gems cutting the pure white night into a lively kaleidoscope of rainbows across the banquet floor. 

Marveling the lavish space with wide eyes, you mumble to yourself.  “It’s beautiful!” 

Toji’s abrupt stop drags you out of thought, the sudden appearance of the dining table catching your eye.  “Here you are, Princess,” he hums, pulling you from your thoughts. He works swiftly to tug out your seat from beneath the black tablecloth. 

You find yourself reading a small tented card, the white paper wearing your name in gold characters. 

“Thank you, my good sir,” your giggling flirt satisfying his ear as he pushes you in gently. 

Toji falls to his knees beside you, bracing your thigh for support. 

“How was that? Said hi and now it’s just some food. If you like something enough, I’ll cook it just for you,” he grins, the polished apples of his cheeks drawing his marked skin taut.

You trace the faded kiss on Toji’s cheek, inviting a doddering frown to your face.  “Aww, I think the kisses are fading away.”

“That’s fine, Princess. But when we get home…I’ll be expecting ten times the amount you gave me.”

Before you can craft up some sly response to his innuendo, Toji rises back to his feet and over to the seat across from you, where his own name awaits his arrival.

“Aw man, I feel so fancy!” Toji chuckles as he slips into his seat. 

“It’s kinda nice, right? And we came just in time, dinner’s coming out!” You note, pointing towards the budding sight of servers carrying plates into the dining room.

Like moths to a flame, all the socialites work to end their conversations as they drift into their assigned seats, making new discussions with those around them.

You’ve set your eye on the man before you, whose scarred grin captures your attention with ease.

“What’s that smile for?” your head slipping into a faint tilt. 

“I know these types of events. Stuffy people, but the food’s great and there’s high-quality booze on rotation all night. Plus, I get to enjoy all this while courting the most wanted woman in the room,” Toji chuckles as he folds his arms over the table. “Aren’t I just the luckiest man in Tokyo right now?”

He’s an arm’s length away and that’s still not good enough. 

While there’s a growing tension weighing on the minds of you both, nothing compares to the story written behind the doting stares you set onto each other. With your dilating eyes pinned on him, batting your blackened lashes ever so slowly with that small smirk creeping onto your features. 

He’s no better, the poor man hiding his satyric ways behind the act of mindlessly tracing along the supple curves of his lips with his tongue.

All the chatter, all the screeching chairs, it all drowns out around you and Toji. Nothing dares to break into your world—except for the commencement of the dinner service. 

“Pardon the intrusion.” The presence of a young man pulls you and Toji from each other, the pair of steady eyes watching him place a gold plate before you both. 

“Tonight, we have for you both slices of seared beef, smoked salmon, dusted with truffle oil and masago. Please, do enjoy,” the server slowly announces for you and Toji. 

“Wow…” the dull excitement speaks for Toji as he carefully observes the plate. “Where’s the rest of it?”

You slowly unravel the folded cloth napkin, hiding a laugh behind your focus. “These things are multi-courses. We’ve got like…10…15 small dishes like this to go. But we can go get something to eat after this too, I’m usually hungry after these things.”

Toji simply nods as he turns to face his plate once more. He stares hard at the delicate trims of meat before him, reaching for his hidden fork within the napkin. ‘At least it’s the high-quality cuts,’ he wonders to himself, bringing the gossamer trim of meat to his mouth.

As the gentle chew rings in his ear, Toji takes a moment to observe the room’s sudden shift.

Chatter breaks around the dinner session talks of business and affairs break from each end of the table. Not a single word matters nor interests Toji, not when he’s seeking out your due attention once more.

His sapphirine tincts wash over you, and instead of being greeted by your allure, he’s somehow satisfied with watching your newfound interest in the paper-thin strip of beef sitting on your plate.

Though he’s taken to you as his newest attraction, his ears are keen. Ears like this are carefully trained to hear even a pen drop in a room like this, and even with such skill, immunity from the talks of the elite isn’t granted unto Toji.

“…Oh! Have you heard who’s taken up the role there now? I heard he’s nothing more than a moron trying to fit in amongst the best.”

“Such a poor man. He’ll try so hard to win over the shareholders, but he’s just so useless.”

“Useless? An animal would have better luck than him!”

“No, but have you heard of the newly elected president of XXXX?”

“Ha! I did…he’s no better than a dog. So worthless, how dare he accept the position? Does he think he’s worthy? He must be thinking he can sit in some company and just gain status like us! Disgusting!”

All this talk surrounds Toji, filling his ears and penetrating his firm psyche with such cruel ideals. To critique a man is one thing, but to ridicule his name without any consideration for his character, his actions, his morals—why, that simmers on Toji’s tongue like poison.

He’s gripping his fork tightly, his knuckles dusting a ghostly white. He can’t explain what’s brought about his sudden shift in manners, but it’s unnatural for the man he’s become.

His eyes flicker to you for guidance, but you’ve taken to some light conversation with the woman beside you, whose questions seem true and modest.

Toji’s left to rely on himself, his spiraling mind coaxing him to bite down on his lip—he wants your aid but he deems his fragile thread of composure is nothing worth interrupting you over. 

Yet, these words still sit uncomfortably familiar in Toji’s ears. Not a single word aimed at him, but the message behind them pulls at memories he’d buried years ago. But all it takes for his mind to crumble is the utterance of mere affirmations…

“He’s worthless!”

                                    “He’s not worthy of what we offer.”

                        “He’s better off dead…”

“He’ll never be accepted here!”

               “Born a failure…and always will be a failure.”

His heart races in his ears, channeling a cold sweat to sweep across his body. He can’t even focus on you anymore, not with his eyes senselessly blinking away the threatening patches of stars. 

Slipping a finger between the apple of his throat and the pesky collar button of his dress shirt, Toji yanks the tied cloth from the back of his neck in hopes of fresh air flooding his hitching lungs. He tries to cast his gaze elsewhere, though, in a room so vast, how could the walls suddenly close him in, trapping him in his plagued mind with spinning thoughts? 

 Memories replay in his head with the very words in the air as a soundtrack. He can’t figure out why these exact words would come to haunt him years later?

Dead? Was he really better off dead? He hasn’t heard such heartless words since his younger days, why—how could strangers know about his anguish? Why would strangers speak to him like this, judge him before his character can attest for him? Why…why…

Why would a family speak to their own like this?

There’s only one thing on Toji’s mind, and it’s the one thing he knows all too well: escape. He has to put some space between him and the dinner, and he’s already plotting his next move.

Toji’s weary body shudders as he stands from his seat, his mind stumbling over his ingrained words of manner.  

“Um…I-I…Excuse me.” 

His words fall short on the ears of others, but the loud shriek of his chair scraping along the black tile commands the attention of all in the room.

“Toji?” You mouth out his name, but his eyes hang low—low and blurred by his nerves.

His exit fades out as the idle dinner chatter picks up once more. His brisk steps toward the patio are drowned out by taxes, how well the beef has been marinated, and worse of all—the ridicule of Toji’s “childish” need for attention. 

The look on Toji’s face was like nothing you’d seen from him before. He was pale as if a ghost had just tapped his shoulder. And the very confidence you found yourself fond of was replaced by a quaking fear, one so heavy he couldn’t even keep his head held high.

Guilt shrouds your mind, and it’s a heavy cloud that threatens all the confidence he’s worked to instill in you. That very guilt–the need to balance your mind with comfort…his specific comfort. Without a moment’s delay, you rise from your seat, the similar screech of your seat ringing through the hall. 

“Excuse me.” Your announcement halts all chatter, all gossip, and all means of communication falling short of your cold tone.

The clicks of your heels dart across the glossy floor as you tread toward the balcony. 

You find him leaning along the stone-carved railing, gazing out at the city’s skyline. To ease the mood, you mark your next steps carefully, creeping behind him with light steps. 

But Toji doesn’t even have to turn his head to know you’re there. 

“Don’t go hiding from me, you know I’ll find you, Princess.”

Dropping the charade, you join Toji’s side, leaning into him with a hand bracing the tensed sleeves of his suit. 

“Then I’ll never be lost with you. But…”

Your touch laces onto the frazzled hairs covering Toji’s eyes, lazily raking through his onyx locks. 

“That means you can’t go hiding from me either…what happened, Toji?” 

Toji’s attention from the overview doesn’t seek a replacement, his eyes dead set on the passing nightlight below. “If I tell you, it’s not like it’s gonna change how I feel. And it’s silly anyways, nothing you need to stress yourself over.”

“Toji,” you coo “If your feelings don’t change, that’s okay. And if you think it’s silly, that’s fine too. But…I can’t help but stress with you. So don’t tell me, I won’t force you. We don’t even have to talk, we can stay out here all night, looking out over the city.”

Toji sighs as his head drops, “You care too much for me, y’know that? Most people would’ve let me be. But here you are, on such an important night…babysitting me. I think we’re making each other soft, yeah?”

“That’s fine with me, as long as I’m with you, right?”

Those words had no business slipping from your lips, but they did. By uttering something so dangerous to Toji—your sentiments of care to him—all he can do is gawk at you.

His jaw’s sunk slack and the words he wants to say fall short on his tacked tongue. He wants to ask you why give him a second of your time. His outburst might have cost you your reputation and relationships. And you could be inside, tending and cleaning up whatever tension that might have been sparked—but you’re outside with him as your only muse.

That’s what he aims to say, but his heart has him rattling off something he can’t—rather, something he won’t try to bite back any longer. 

“All this…fancy dining, sitting and talking like this…it reminds me of a life I barely got away from. I hated it—those people treated me like their mortal enemy. All my life until I was old enough to leave, living in hell became my home..”

You lean into Toji, resting your chin on his shoulder. With a weighted gaze, you peer up to Toji through your lashes, and the very words that roll off your cherried tongue break down any wall he had left standing tall towards you. 

“Tell me about these people you hate so much.”

Toji finds the energy to scoff, the choked chuckle cracking through the crisp air. “Horrible. Because I didn’t meet some standard they made up in their heads, I was a castaway in my own family.

Having to work myself to the bone, proving myself to people who didn’t care if I dropped dead right at their feet. And having done all that work, just for it to be thrown back in my face when it came time for dinner. That cycle…no one should have to go through that.”

“Some days, death seemed like the best option. Better than putting on a brave face that mattered to absolutely no one.”

“What kept you from ending it all then?”

“Hope. It’s a stupid thing. But the hope of knowing it all might get better saved me. If I had given in to all that hatred and become what was expected out of me, giving up would’ve been worse than dying. But all the scars you love to touch, that’s both from the hell and freedom I’ve lived through. The scars of freedom, however…they never once hurt me.”

“So then,” you begin, carefully gathering your words, “Was it all worth it?” 

That’s when Toji committed himself to you, his body shifting to face you. He’s got his eyes pinned on you and you alone, his ears tuned to your gentle coo, and his heart open to sing its long-awaited melody. 

“...Yeah. It all…it all brought me to places I couldn’t begin to imagine, to meet people in my wildest dreams. It’s been a crazy one, but I wouldn’t regret a single moment. But, I have to say this one thing, or else I’m gonna lose it…”

Toji stares at you for a moment in silence. His eyes scan every curve of your face for what he wants to discover as a hoax, but all he’s met with is the kindness of sincerity. Sincerity dots your eyes, in that soft smile you hold, and touches every strand of hair your digits comb through. 

Sincerity is a rare trait for a man like him to encounter and when he does…it becomes something he has to question.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

Reverting back to his old self, Toji stands tall with his hands briskly searching for your waist as his keepsake. He’s back to grinning, drinking in that sudden gasp you give when he encompasses your body flush to his own. 

“You just…sat there and let me talk your ear off. None of it affects you, yet you seem like you actually care. So…why?”

“Why do I care?” You rehash, fixing your arms to link along the broad of Toji’s shoulders.

 “I care because that’s what I’ve come to do with you. You care for me and I care for you. And I’ll be honest, it’s scary…caring for you like this is going to give way into something I can’t afford just yet—but I won’t stop it. So yes, talk my ear off. But I want to listen, I want to know whatever you’re willing to let me know about you because…that’s how much I care for you, Toji.”

Toji ghosts a peck against your lips, breaking his sentiments with a speech. “Well, aren’t you the poet? Thank you, really. You’re learning just how to calm me down and I like it.”

“Don’t thank me, I just want you to be okay. So we don’t have to—oh Toji?!” You yelp as he begins to lead you back inside. His hand slips into yours, tracing your gentle palm with his grazing thumb. 

All Toji gives you is his back, hiding the flourishing spout of blush curling at the tips of his ears and the highs of his cheeks. He’s almost forgotten: he’s the luckiest man in Tokyo to have you. And with such a title means he has one single job: to keep a smile on your face at all times.

 “Don’t go and worry your pretty little head off. Let’s get back in there and enjoy ourselves!”

✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀  ✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀  ✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀   ✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀

“Mhmm…Toji?” you huff, tightening your slinking arms along his shoulders.

“Y…Yeah, Baby? Whatcha’ wanna tell me?”

“Are we home yet? I wanna go to sleep with you.”

Toji chuckles as he peers down at you, his pretty lady cradled resting like a princess in his arms. 

Replaying the night in his head, he’d call every minute of it a success. After the heart-to-heart out on the balcony, you and Toji went back into the party as if only you two were there. 

From sharing sips of the finest aged wine and brandy, finishing out the dinner service, and sharing a dance that ended with you and Toji swirling about for an hour pressed to each other, all the makings of a night to remember. 

But with every night out, the fateful comedown is never too far behind. 

When the adrenaline wears off, tummies are full of food, and the liquor’s finalizing its course through bodies, the whimsy of the night comes to a curtain-falling close.

As for this timely scene, Toji’s taken on the role of caretaker. And as a caretaker, that means ignoring his hazy brain and tired muscles to carry you out the car and inside your apartment.

Beneath the dull glow of the street lights, Toji steals a glimpse at you, gawking at how a sense of ease dresses your visage.

Beautiful, that’s the only word in his mind as he admires you. Your eyes gently shut, your timid lips faded from their red hues, your puffy cheeks soft and begging for a kiss.

 In his eyes, you look perfect in his arms, resting in his care without a care. That’s his lady—a woman he’s finding himself endowed to with each passing day.

Living carefree, as Toji’s learned, is a right that belongs to everyone. To wake up, do whatever you please, and do it all again the next day. And while living carefree is deserved, it’s a word that carries various definitions. 

In his definition of carefree towards you, Toji would work to strip your mind of all the grief, stress, and responsibilities that come with your world.

But when the morning comes, you’ll be back to worrying, making phone calls that hold materialistic value, and working to the bone–while Toji continues living carefree on your dime.

What a life.

Toji aimlessly presses a kiss to your forehead, charming himself back to the present where your question awaited an answer. 

“We’re right outside the door, silly. Then we gotta take the elevator up, take off this pretty dress, wash your face, then you can go to sleep, ‘kay?”

“But…I wanna sleep with youuu,” you draw out, your eyes widening at Toji’s lack of involvement amidst his own plans.

“Alright, alright,” Toji sighs as he taps his hip against the lobby’s door sensor. “Stay up and wait for me. I gotta help you, then I gotta help myself. So after all that’s done, then we can sleep. Sounds like a deal?”

Pushing yourself deeper into Toji’s hold, you nuzzle your cheek against his burly chest. 

“Deal.”

Entering the quiet lobby, Toji rocks you in his arms as he treks to the elevators. A night full of dancing, drinks, and questionably small plates leaves him with a dumb smile plastered to his lips. 

And to end it all right, he’d finally be able to sedate all his concerns for you within a matter of minutes. 

Though, the call of his name impedes his plans. 

“Oh, hey Toji!” the night doorman calls out with a wave.

Sho Hisagari, the nighttime doorman. Standing at six feet even, he’s a gentle giant with a strong build that hides behind a black uniform jacket. He’s got sharp brown eyes, dyed blond hair that sits just short of his ears, and a soft, crooked smile that’s kind to the eyes of all. 

During the day, he’s a college student entering his final days of graduate school, and at night, the twenty-five-year-old collects a check watching the night of Tokyo pass by.

Toji’s quick to recognize him, considering that he’d been the mediator to bring Toji up to your doorstep a month prior. 

He looks over to greet Sho with a lax smile, “Hey kid, how’s the night going?”

“I should ask you guys,” Sho chuckles as he leans over the desk. “I’ve never seen her drunk.”

“Oh, this pretty lady?” Toji hums as he glances down at your serene face.

“She wanted to drink some wine, then some martinis, a few cocktails, and I got to thinkin’ ‘ Who am I to keep a grown woman sober?’ So I made sure she didn’t overdo it and ended up getting some sake and a few cups of wine in my system too. But, someone had to be the responsible one. She’s always the strong one, so why not let her enjoy this?” 

“She is strong, isn’t she?” The doorman breaks, Sho steadily focusing his sights on you. 

The sudden interest in you has Toji intrigued. He carefully studied Sho, how his brown eyes hang over your dozing face. It’s a familiar gaze—a look that brings even the strongest, unmovable, and rigid of men to dote on their muse. A look that softens the eyes into a trained whimsical glint, leaves the lips and jaw lax for the gasps or gape to roll out.

A mien that seems so familiar to Toji because he dons those exact traits whenever he too is entranced by you.

And while Toji had no reason to feel that lump in his throat swell, his harsh swallow barely chips at the growing resentment. 

It’s such a pure look in his eyes, but why does it look so…so…natural on Sho?

As if he’s trained his eyes to look at you like this?

“Well, I’m gonna go and get her in bed. Have a good night, kid,” Toji mumbles before entering the elevator, leaving Sho with a solemn nod. 

“Night, Toji! Tell the miss’ I wish her a good night too!”

Toji could only count the seconds before the doors shut, leaving him alone with his sleeping beauty wrapped up in his beastly arms. 

His cobalt hues flicker down to your timid visage, and all the anger that threatened his eventful night was wiped clean the moment you began to stir about in his hold.

“Toji?” your weakly rasp, your pinched eyes squinting at your suitor.

“Hey, Baby. Thought you went to sleep without me for a sec,” he teases behind a growing grin.

You simply shake your head, hands coming to rub your strained eyes beneath the piercing white lights, “I thought I heard Sho’s voice. Wanted to say hi.”

“Huh…” Toji trails off. “You like Sho?”

“Mhm,” you nod, He’s nice. He gives me flowers, takes me out to lunch, and sometimes when I can’t sleep. I’ll go downstairs and talk with him for a while.”

That taints Toji’s mind like ink bleeding through a scroll. He’s overrun by hypotheticals and probabilities, trying to make sense of what your sentiments towards the young man might be.

He didn’t expect to uncover such a rich history between you and the doorman, yet he has no choice but to absorb it all for what you’ve shared. 

Toji has half a mind to seek reassurance, his mind already sorting out the indirect questions to pry at your own sentiments towards him.

But…he stops.

All thought, all the plotting, it comes to a screeching halt when your words at the balcony replay in his mind. Those sincere words that sat on his ears like the sweetest hymn from a siren. 

Upon reciting your soliloquy in his head, Toji peers down at your softened features with the very look he envies Sho for wearing.

He can’t blame the guy, he was falling for you all the same—all because you care. You take the time to show your adoration for others, the words only act as a seal to what’s already known. 

Maybe, just in some random universe that happened to be his own, maybe it was lov—

“...Are we home yet?” you groan, pulling Toji from his thoughts. 

The chime of the splitting elevator doors welcomes you and Toji back into the humble abode, the familiar dark scene of the living room draws Toji inside. 

“Look, we’re in the living room. Now, let’s get you in your room and in bed” Toji hints as he begins his winded strides down the dark hallway. 

He softly nudges the door open with his hip, revealing the night-clad oasis to his eye. The faint twinkling rays of moonlight cast upon the red duvet of your bed, drawing Toji to put you to rest.

“Okay just lay there for a—”

“Toji.” you call out calmly, your blurred gaze setting on him.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

Folding your hands along your tummy, you rally the energy to turn towards him, a weak smile curling onto your lips. “I’m feeling better, trust me. The room’s stopped spinning now, just a little tired, but I’ve got some energy.”

“Okay, good!” Toji beams with a bright grin, “If you can sit up, I can bring...”

Toji’s offer falls deaf on your ears as you sit up slowly, shifting hands sinking into the soft red duvet beneath your body. Tilting your head back, you stare aimlessly at the ceiling, the miniature glass chandelier returning your starry gaze.

In theory, Toji's done a great job; he kept you company, made sure you arrived home without a hair out of place, and he's even going the extra mile to put you sleep too. you've arrived back home in one piece

However...something's missing from the night, from his usual antics.  He's too princely, acting so pure when he's the farthest thing from.  He was insistent on being classy for the night, but did he really means the whole night?

Even after he kept pressing kisses to your lips and cheeks alike, pinning his hand to your side, and even whispering about how he'd love to take you down out of some cups of wine.

And he has yet to act on any of the hints he planted. Now, here you are, just on the verge of greeting the setting night and he was still too kind with you.

There simply has to be some word, some action, just something you could call upon to rouse all the desires he's pushed aside for the night...right?

“Princess?” Toji croaks as he stands before you. He takes a tender hold of your jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing along the softened contours. “Talk to me, what’s got you so down?”

“I’m okay, really. Just…a little disappointed is all.”

“You? Disappointed?? No no no, how can I fix it?” Toji hums as he drops to his knees. He tends to remove your heels, tugging the tiny clasp free from your ankle. 

“Okay okay, ‘disappointed’ is a little bit of an exaggeration. Tonight was fun…but…”

“But?” Toji repeats, his hand coasting along the peeking curves of your thigh. 

“I won’t lie, I was expecting for us to sneak off for a quickie or something.”

“Yeah?” Toji breathlessly chuckles out. “You were really waiting for that?”

“Mmhm,” you nod, tugging your bottom lip between a smothered grin, “That’s why ‘m not wearing any panties.”

The sweet smile Toji taped to his lips withers away beneath a slack jaw and widening eyes. First he’s pale, the draining palettes of shock claiming his lush skin. You’ve grown bold, something he’s taken note of, but he wasn’t prepared to handle this. 

Somewhere in his stunned sights, he falls on the cut in your dress, the slit freely bunched up to your hip. He swallows hard, blinking at the realization: you’re sitting all too pretty with your cunt waiting for him.

That’s when the prickling sear of heat licks at his cheeks, a cloud of pink spreading across his gawking face.

“Like…uh...allll…night?”

“Don’t believe me?” You giggle as you slowly drape your leg along Toji’s shoulder. You bear witness to his final threads of sanity snapping as your dress drips off your skin, revealing the results of a one-sided gamble.

“Check for yourself.”

What visibly seals Toji’s fate as he hunts for a shed of fabric is the languid spread of your legs…just enough for him to see the delicate webs of slick sewn to your folds.

“See what you do to me, Toji? All that teasing in the car, touching me all over the dance floor, it’s all for you. And you let your so-called ‘lady’ walk around dripping and this is all you can say?”

“Oh fuck…” he’s shuddering, swallowing down the hindering lump in his throat. “Princess, i-if you wanted me to—”

“Don’t apologize. And I know you wanna fix things too, but I think, for tonight at least, I’ve got things under control.”

“No, let me make it up to you, “ Toji pleads, “W-What…do you want me to do?”

“Watch me.”

“Watch you?” he presses with a quirked brow, “Watch you do—”

You cut Toji’s question short carelessly, “Mm, Toji, help me out. Can’t keep my legs at the same time.”

Toji’s stare is heinous as dark clouds threatens his sights. You’ve got the nerve to sit there and wait for him as if he’s holding you back. He has the words boiling at the tip of his tongue, ready to fire off his rebuttal.

He picks the latter, Toji locking his firm grip around your thighs. The hold he has over you is unyielding, not granting an inch of room for any second thoughts.

He’s even spiteful enough to drag you right to the edge of the bed, forcing your hips to tilt toward his awaiting mouth. 

“How’s this?”

“Just like that. Now keep your head riiiight here.”

Your lithe fingers sit atop the charcoal coronet of Toji's head, veering him to rest his cheek along your inner thigh. He doesn’t fall to hesitation either, merely falling to your whims with the same daunting stare.

You’re hurting his pride, turning the man into nothing more than your pet. To sit there and take orders, listen to your every fancy, and be expected to act on them without fail. You almost feel bad for him in a way too, considering how you can watch his patience grow thin with how he clenches his jaw. 

But then again…it’s precisely what he signed up for. 

“You’re such a good boy, Toji. You know exactly what I want without me saying it. Starting to understand me more…”

Again, you descend on a journey, tracing the curves of Toji’s flustered features until you find a ledge worthy of your touch—that cute quivering pout he wears proudly. 

His lips feel plump against the pads of your digits, such supple skin brimmed with a soothing heat. Toji’s still sitting beneath awe’s influence, flustered and shy. 

You take to the idea brewing in your brain, especially when there’s something so delightful laying behind his lips. Your ghostly touch sedates the brimming heat of his pout, that mere swipe a lulling famed whimper from his mouth. 

“C’mon, baby…don’t keep me waiting…you always know exactly what I want.”

“Do I?” He sarcastically scoffs, but his remarks don’t go unnoticed. 

“Yeah, you do. I don’t have to say a word, I know you’ll give me what I want.”

Just like that, Toji’s lips part to welcome you into the caverns of his mouth. His tongue’s swift to coil around your digits, basting your skin in his spit to his heart's content. He’s given himself to lust, sloppily working his lips until soapy bubbles seep out of the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, you’re such a good boy!” You purr as you reel away from Toji’s swollen lips. All that connects you both is a wispy thread of glass, serving as evidence of your time together.

Your dripping digits sit right between your legs to paint your cunt in his shade, fingertips dragging glossy webs along the pink pearl.

Your hand falls into a tantalizing sway, drawing messy circles about your clit. It's a slow start but you’re quick to respond to your own touch, rousing the dormant nerves with haste.

It’s the heft of arousal that suddenly douses your bud in a searing heat that drives you over the edge, your hand adopting a frantic pace. 

“D-Do you see what you do to me, Toji? 

There’s a reveling heat blooming amongst your core. It’s all-consuming, so overwhelming that every bit of your strength surrenders to you. Sinking back down onto the bed, Your enticed spine spikes into an arch, forcing your hips to bear the heft of paradise alone.

But Toji’s right there to help you; wedging your thigh atop his shoulder, hands clipped to your rocking hips. 

He’s sitting there with a pout on his face, the flat of his tongue sketching over his lips. Each time you swipe over your clit, Toji’s thinking about what he’d do instead. He’s the one who knows your body like his own, so watching you work so hard splinters his pride by the seconds. He can’t take it, watching his poor baby enjoy such shoddy workmanship. 

“Just like that, Princess, you got it.” All he can do is support you through words, his touch, and the kisses he’s peppering along your inner thigh. 

He can’t surrender his gaze to anywhere else. He can’t complain, can’t intervene, so he simply takes it. He takes it while sitting enviously on his knees, gawking at the sight of you bathing in that sweet ambrosia. He wants nothing more than to touch you—so badly that it hurts him in mind, body, and spirit. 

 You know how bad he wants to touch you too and just how much restraint it’s taking him to play the innocent act. And all that knowledge is the very thing that pulls a spiraling heat to flood your tummy. 

You want a reaction from him, to hear him ridicule your poor technique. Excitement captures your entire body as you begin to draw out Toji’s true colors with a wandering touch. You slide a single finger between your folds down to your quivering hole. 

The manner you take to tease your rousing core is gentle, paddling your sweet spot beneath tender strides. Just off that calm touch, you’re melting into your touch. With Toji being the one handling your needs as of late, you’ve almost forgotten the thrill of chasing your own high. 

But that sense of bliss quickly turns to thirst, a ravenous urge to feed that heavy pit in your tummy. You swiftly invoke a jagged cadence, drumming at your spot feverishly. You’re working so hard that the stack of bangles on your wrist erupts into a cheery jingle, voicing the hymns of your pursuing finger. 

“Mmm…f-fuck,” you whine, drawing the glossed finger from your cunt. 

Toji’s eyes staple to you, a burning gaze that overlooks your polished digit tapping along his bottom lip. He isn’t waiting to hear permission, he simply can’t bring himself to wait a moment longer. 

He envelops your fingers between his lips, the flat of his tongue cupping along the digit. Toji’s swift to clean up your mess, the slicked muscle twirling at every inch of your skin dressed in your essence. 

“So needy…C’mon, spit on it.”

Toji’s eyes widen at your request, his shot pupils darting to meet your gaze. He’s mulling over your question, using every ounce of his strength to think clearly. Did you really just ask him to spit on your—

“Aww, what’s that look for, Baby? Didn’t hear me?” you taunt, ripping your digit from his mouth.

“N-no, no…I-I heard you. I-I just...uh—“

“Shhhh," you whisper, placing a slicked finger against his rambling lips, “I’m waiting…”

A muffled moan snags itself within Toji’s throat as he slowly leans in. His quivering frown just grazes past you, closing the distance for the tears of spit he’s dying to glaze over your sporuted mound.

 You’ve gotten so wet, dripping from the sad display he’s born witness to. He doesn’t want to spit on your clit, he’s dying to taste you, to create an abstract mess out of the swollen bud. 

But he does as he’s told without fail, his puckered lips pushing out sticky rivets of spit. His stares stays pinned to you as he observes the messy trail whisking down your folds.

“Fuck… pussy’s so pretty like this,” Toji mutters to himself as he pulls away to admire his finishing touch. 

He’s right, your cunt does look so pretty being pushed to the edge—the glistening pearl of your clit consumed by a waltz of shivers, your puffy folds dewed by your essence and his spit, and your cute little slit flittering for attention. 

Somewhere in his murky mind, he’s thinking about it: how you’ve finally elicited his help without having to lay a finger on you. 

And to think it’d be so lewd, so messy—and just perfect for a man like him. The thought doesn’t just stop with the mind, it’s feeding his cock with all sorts of ideas too, condemning his bulge to strain against his pants. 

You slip your hand between the sloppy mess of Toji’s lips and your cunt, rubbing the soapy bubbles of spit to meld with your slick.

“Just like that…n-now, don’t stop o-okay?” you moan, driving yet another finger to fill your walls. Lazy pulses rip against your piqued nerves, engulfing your pussy in a ravenous flame. Your thighs suffer beneath the force of your inevitable undoing, immersing your suspended legs into a world of tremors. 

“ ‘m gonna cum! gonna–I’m c-cum—"

A flash of white breaks over your eyes, stars dotting your sights. Curses spew from your lips as that knot in your tummy finally snaps. It’s all too much, your saturated body succumbing to the consequence of reaching nirvana. All you can do is toss your head back and grit your teeth, your hands racing to fist at the plushy blanket beneath you.

In the peak of your heat, Toji settles a peck between your folds, a poor excuse to satisfy his need to taste you. 

A sly smirk creeps onto your lips as you come down, fixing your misty eyes to study the shameless kisses he’s pinning to your swollen pussy. 

Your hands slip into the ruly forest of Toji’s hair, combing away the frazzled locks from his face. 

“Look at you, couldn’t even wait.”

The route Toji endures to have his tongue bathe in your essence is dangerous. He’s so reckless, disregarding your sensitivity just to sedate his gluttonous desires. He’s savoring the fruits of your high, the mere taste blurring his unmoving judgment. You’re just so sweet, so sticky and so addictive like honey but venomous once you seep upon Toji's palate.

But he’s using every drop of that venom to soothe his soul, regardless if you can supply him or not.

“W-Wait! Toji…s-slow down! I jus’ —fuck!—came!”

Toji breaks himself from you, painting your flushed cunt in his hot, patterned breaths. He doesn’t meet your stare, his eyes trapped to the corked swell of your clit. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be gentle…and so fucking gentle, I swear."

Whether he meant it for your ears or not, Toji couldn’t tell you. But that won’t change his resolve. The resolve that bleeds through the dripping tongue he swathes against your folds. He’s working his jaw to bear those long, pampering strokes of his. 

Those long, pampering strokes that trail up from your gummy hole. 

The lazy, careful drags that skims against the pulsing channel of your folds. 

His gentle laps that cling to your spry knob just because it feels so damn good to soak up the beating heat that leaves your clit so puffy and cute.

“Oooh—shi– Just…hah…just like that, Toji!”

He has your body running hot, your stirred nerves sparking underneath your skin. He’s simply dragging his tongue against you, so how can something so simple risk pulling another orgasm from your core?

He’s honoring his words too, using soft laps to soothe your poor bulb. But that doesn’t stop the twitches that litter your weak legs, that arch driving your chest into the air, and the mindless drivel spilling from your gaping lips. 

“Mmmm,” Toji whimpers as a ‘pop’ ricochets from his mouth, “I wanna suck it, Mama. Please? I’ll be soft too! Just let me suck it, ‘kay?”

“Th-then go ahead! I’m not gonna—oh fuh—Toji!”

“Mhmm,” Toji hums as the whites of his eyes flicker behind his squint. If there’s one thing he’s grown to attach to, he’s grown too fond of sucking on that clit of yours.

Something about having the cute pearl swell up between his lips that plays on his senses a little too heavily. Just the thought alone has his mind wiped clean of anything that wasn’t your moans, your writhing body, or the looming orgasm he has to bring over you.

It’s sheer vigor that graces him to lure your clit between his quivering lips. He has to coax you, earn your trust before delivering ruin right to your feet. That’s why he’s ever so kindly pedaling the tip of his tongue against you, lazily winding a mindless path around the bundle of nerves. 

Every languorous lash of his slicked muscle weakens your resolve—a fact he can see with the naked eye. Your hips tell him all he needs to know, rolling along with his rhythm. 

The power of the unspoken is a great one, and because of its strength, Toji is able to move on with his plan. One that allows him to gradually reel back that curling tongue of his, letting his lips plant fluttering kisses as an apology for stealing back what’s rightfully yours. 

A whimper tells him you miss it, but the pecks he’s baking at your core aren’t for naught. Not when he’s easing you in, blanketing his lips over your clit until all he can do is cling to the silky button.

So fragile, it’s the opposite of his entire persona, demeanor, and even his way of life. The polar opposite of him, but Toji wears delicacy like a glove when drawing your clit into a churning toil. He’s nursing you with the kindest of care, suckling the spry nerves into a pudgy bloat. 

“F-ff-fuck! I‘m gonna cum again!” you squeal, your thighs knocking against Toji’s head.

He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t chatise you. Toji merely slips his hand from your waist in exchange of bracing the silky plush you’ve crowned upon him. 

He could stop, Toji knows that much. But hearing your cry out like that—you’ve abruptly fueled some hidden agenda of his to push you over the limit. Just how loud can you scream his name? How many times can you cum before you’re a fucked out mess? All these questions contaminate Toji’s fleeting mind, and he’s dying to answer each and every one tonight.

“Go ‘head, I can take it, Baby.”

He means every word. He’ll handle everything to come with you; the good and the bad, all the pain and the pleasures, he’ll take it all with a smile.

Your orgasm is a heavy burden to carry, costing you every ounce of strength in your reserves. The familiar flash of white crosses your eyes, dashing in front of your sights for a single moment. Like the thrill of lighting cracking through the sky, your body holding strong before the crumbling curse washes over you. 

The looming heat at your core surges across your body, from the balls of your curled feet to the fading reality in your head. Your jaw drops slack by a muted cry, and all you can do is give into your body’s coiling instinct without delay.

Toji’s hands are foreign to you, but it’s the only source that brings you down as he softly taps a wayward tempo along your flushed skin.

 “Oh, that was beautiful, Princess. But, I hope you can keep up that little act…we’re not done here.”

As you pull the words from your broken thoughts, Toji’s swift to reach over you, his hunkering body casting a shadow upon you. 

“Toji?” you mumble out, squinting at his face with blurry eyes. 

“You started this. You gotta finish it—and if you don’t…well, you might regret it.” His warning comes with a hint, one that lacks the grace of subtly. Because in Toji’s mind, the hint he has for you sits right against your inner thigh, his thick cock hidden behind a shameful bulge. 

Perching upon your elbows, you close the distance between you and Toji, leaving just a sliver of the room’s heat to separate you both. 

“I’m going to regret it? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to scare me, Toji. I told you already, try all you want…you can’t break me. Besides, if I choose to let you go to bed like this, who’s truly gonna regret it?”

“Only one way to find out…” the final words marking the room’s sultry atmosphere as Toji captures your lips with a kiss.

He keeps his rhythm purely surface—soft, gentle, gliding his kiss against you like the finest silk. He doesn’t dare to, not when he’s already dizzy off those small whimpers you let sink into his mouth. 

It’s so gentle that it’s almost hypnotic, the soft curl of Toji’s lips passing over your own. He’s leaving you wanting more, the impulse to trace his skin burning at your fingertips. However,  the obstacle of clothing hinders you—but your hands move quicker than you can think. 

Nothing could truly explain the way you labor across Toji’s towering body; tugging off his suit jacket, unbuttoning his dress shirt, yanking at his black slacks until he was free of all clothing, and the loud clunk of his belt and shoes joining the floor. 

But you do it all while the fervour of his gentle kiss stews at the forefront of your mind.  

He could say the same, unsure of what skills allowed him to strip you of that dress, tugging off your shoulders, down your legs, and off onto the floor with such ease—but he did so anyway. 

He did it all while relishing the heat of your lips on his. 

And maybe a kiss does hold such mind-numbing powers, to subdue lovers to its binding will. As much as you rather push off such a ridiculous thought, the evidence lies with you and Toji alike. 

Why, it must have some influence over those who dabble within its magic because the next time you blink, you find yourself laid on your side with Toji’s bare chest tucked along your spine and his bicep as your pillow. His hooked arm outlines your chest, pitting him to knead the silky fat of your tits. 

He’s peeling away from the sin of your kiss down to your exposed neck, peppering pecks along the velvety tract of your throat. Just because he’s broken from your lips doesn’t mean he’s stopped sipping from lust’s cup. His hands, wide, firm, and blessed with fingers so thick, take on the honor of roaming your body. 

Those husky hands that cup your tits, kneading at the pillowy flesh until your pebbling nipples slip between his windowed grasp. 

Those stout fingers that lazily caress your curves, the pad of his thumb feathering along your skin. 

There are so many whimpers that don’t mean to pour from your lips—but they do, shamelessly and unfiltered. He carries the art of delicacy, Toji’s treating you under the fear of breaking you. But his efforts only spur you on, guiding you down the path that he leads. 

Those stout fingers that lazily caress your curves, the pad of his thumb feathering along your skin. A hot, rousing channel that erupts beneath Toji’s languid tour of your body. His touch smolders over your skin, coaxing every nerve to greet him without fail. 

His path ends just short of your thigh, his reach slipping to coddle the supple underside. 

“Hold your leg back,” Toji instructs, dragging his hand to cup the back of your knees. Carefully, he replaces his brash grip with your kind, tender hands, pinning your folded leg just short of your chest.

“What are you doing?” you pry, skewing your head along Toji’s chest. 

His hand slowly glides along the front of your body, squeezing at whatever fills his rough hands. His trail lands him right before your sopping cunt, his shaky hand dusting past your puffy lips.

“...Tch, n-nothing. J-just wan..n-na touch you, that’s it,” his trembling breath mutters along the thumping pulse of your neck. 

The moment Toji’s confidence allows him to dip into the viscous mess of your pussy, a hiss cuts between his lips. You’re dripping, your slick dressing his touch before he’s even landed a tap on your puffy pink pearl. Suddenly, there’s a stress on Toji’s mind that warns him of the impending doom set to befall him. 

The doom of him cumming too quickly.

It’s an issue he’s never had until meeting you. He still remembers the mess your sputtering pussy drowned him in back in that dressing room. But this doesn’t even compare to that first time.

He could only imagine how you’ll suck him up this time, how sloppy you’ll be after a few rolls of his hips, how he very much could end up creaming your walls white—

 “Oh fuck…” he groans at the thought, his hips bucking along the small of your back. 

Precious anticipation that has Toji taking his sweet time to trace through your folds, up towards your clit, and down to your entrance. You tug at your bottom lip as he drifts over your hole at last—but deliverance like this doesn’t come with the flick of a wrist. 

Rather than fulfill your every wish, he’s taken with the idea of thumbing at the fluttering ring, the tips of his digits just nicking at your knotted hole. 

“Don’t tease me, just do it alread—”

Just two fingers. It only takes Toji slipping past your sticky slit to ruin your pussy beneath that burning stretch. He’s sinking into you, your cunt swallowing every bit of Toji’s fingers. He’s down to the hilt with you, so far gone that he has no choice but to adorn your sweet spot with his hooked reach. 

“Hah, omygosh—fuck, Toji!”

“Thaaaat’s it! Oh, you feel that?” Toji taunts as his wrist flicks against your splitting cunt.

All he’s met with is your breathless gaps, your mouth hinged by a gape. He’s got you right where he wants you—speechless and needy—and that’s exactly when he plans to strike.

And Toji can’t help but savor every passing second. 

“Aww, why can’t you talk to me, Baby? Told you I just wanted to touch you…’nd it’s nothing you can’t handle…”

There’s a timeless look that settles on your features, one that Toji can’t help to admire with a ghastly smirk. The look that has your gaping mouth webbed with spit, dewy eyes screwed shut, and your threaded brows weighed down by a crease. All he’s done was fill you, nothing more and nothing less. 

“Toji, Baby, please! I-I can’t—I can’t take it!” 

Toji’s chuckling along the shell of your ear. All that sass, and you can’t even keep the charade you—it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. But that’s his princess, always making a mess he’s just a little too willing to clean up. 

“I’m not one to tease, Baby. You know that. You make me wanna go harder, so ‘m not playing when it comes to you,” he hums between the wayward kisses he plants along your cheek. 

“Oh, fuck you, Toji,” you wince, hips flinching at his curled fingers. 

“Yeah?” he purrs, “Then c’mon, I know you feel that dick begging for you, so do it then…fuck me, Mama.”

His taunt comes with the relentless drive of his soiled fingers, bullying your sweet spot with brash toils.  He’s trying to be kind but when you start clenching down around him like that, he’s faced with having his way with your squelching pussy. 

His wrist picks a brazen droll, driving up against your honeyed walls however he pleases. All his efforts reward him with a ring of white to brandish his twirling digit—and bring you onto the cusp of what might just be another wave of ecstasy. 

You’re shaking, thrashing about in his hold for mercy from his punishing touch, but Toji’s doesn’t even grant you a lick of freedom. Not when he’s so insistent on keeping you close, his hunkering body seizing you in his grasp. 

“Toji, wait! I don’t think I can cum again!” you hysterically sob, bracing your body for the weight of yet another orgasm. 

“Oh, but you can, Princess, “ Toji’s quick to reassure, “Just not now.”

Leaving you with one final curl of his fingers, Toji swiftly reels his glossy digits from your heat. 

Toji embellishes a pumping fist around his length, lathering your slick down his shaft. His hips ride against you, bringing the head of his cock to rake between your sloppy folds. 

But that’s all he does, simply dragging his twitching cock aimlessly. He plays it off, but the throbbing veins that dust against your clit tell you how he’s barely hanging from a sliver of thread. 

You had the chance to ridicule him, call out Toji for his bullshit—but who were you to say a word when something so easy like this was throwing you into ruin? Each time he pulls back, that brewing heat in your core pines for him, inexplicably desperate for his fat cock to spread you thin around him. 

You dip your head along his chest, catching sight of his crumbling exterior. He’s breaking, the man you once knew is now replaced by his shadow self. He’s a panting mess, his fair skin claimed by heat’s red tinge, and those midnight blue eyes are clamped shut. Toji’s dangling at the edge with his feeble attempts of euphoria, as if the solution to his issue doesn’t lie right between your legs. 

“Tojiii…” you call out, earning his lowly grunt as a response. “Don’t keep me waiting!”

“H-h…hm?... Think you can take it, Baby?” Toji sighs as his forehead rests along your temple. His eyes peel open to find you staring right back at him, that precious dreamy gaze binding him to your every whim. 

“Mhm,” you nod, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “I can take it.”

Excitement gets the better of Toji at the sound of your voice. All knowledge of his feeble states flees from mind as he races to align himself with you. One brash snap of his hips sends his cock wedged between your fluttering walls and his mind snapped in two.

“Fuck…” Toji’s trembling against you, painting the peak of your shoulder in hitching breaths. All he’s accomplished is plugging you up with the pink-hearted crown of his cock and he's doomed with facing a losing battle. 

With whatever breath he can muster, Toji grapples with himself to fulfill his lone task. No matter how good, how sinful, how tempting it seems, he’s got no choice but to walk down the path of slow and easy if he desires to win this race. 

Inch by painstaking inch, Toji guides himself to fill you. The slow drive of his hips coaxes the fat girth of his cock to simmer along your silken walls. As his eyes begin to roll, he’s groaning at how your pussy’s suckling him deeper. 

There’s something to be noted with how he’s immersing himself in your warmth, how his gentle approach differs from nights like this. Maybe it’s because for once, Toji isn’t rushing to stuff you, he isn’t rushing to make you eat your words. Tonight, he’s got something else on the brain, something soft and gentle.

And with this ‘gentle’ approach, you can’t help slow down with him. You can’t help but notice all the little details unfolding between your merging bodies, like how the heavy underside of his cock twitches with each inch plunged inside of you or how the veins ribboning his length pulse whenever you clench around him. 

You can feel every unspoken word he’s crying out to you—and he knows you can too.

“You feel that, Baby? That’s me…stretching you out like that…nice ‘nd slow, just for you. C-Can I take my time with you?” he’s almost begging as his warm breaths fans along your opened mouth.

“Y-yes…fuck, yes, please!” you cry out, sealing the deal with a sloppy kiss. A kiss so messy that control flies out your hands and leaves you two crashing into one another.

Through the hunger of desire, Toji’s drawn back into exploring your body, intuition guiding what’s blinded by logic. He’s driven by the messy kisses you push against his lips to hold you close, to have his touch become your entire world. 

He knows you like having your hips squeezed, so he does it. He knows you like having your nipples tweaked between strokes—so he does it. He knows you love those deep, long strokes that overwhelm your pussy with sheer thrill, so he does that too just to hear the praise. 

“Yesyesyesyes—j-just like that!” 

“That’s my girl, feels good, right? I kn—shit—I know!” He chuckles, hips mindlessly drawn back for another laborious round. It’s tedious work but Toji’s enjoying every moment of it. Even with his mind so hazy, he isn’t one to overlook how good it feels to have your velvety walls coddling his pudgy length. 

He can’t tune out the lewd symphony playing in his ears either. By guiding his cock to strum your walls, he’s able to give you a solo debut with those breathless notes pouring from your lips. By curling his hips just right, he’s able to coax your pussy into giving him those perfectly viscous chimes that churn through the air. 

And when he’s ready for the finale, all it takes is for that single dip. That single dip that sends his tip to kiss your teased sweet spot sparks every fiber of your being into a raging flame.

 Your mind, broken by the night, is too far gone for the courtesy of announcements. Your body, drained and frail in Toji’s hold, is spent of all precious energy—but that fact alone welcomes the crashing world of your orgasm through you like no other.

Because when Toji did land that finishing kiss, all he’d done was strike devastation upon you both. 

Your legs fall to a thundering close, limbs riddled with harsh tremors. Your hands race to grasp into the robust arms Toji’s tied around you, manicured nails scratching at his bulging muscles. Your spine arches off of his chest, and all you can do is whimper as the ripped tide leaves your body parched and weak.

Toji’s no better when he rushes to withdraw from you, seething out a string of curses at how the cold air bullies his cock. With a fist wrapped to the base, he pulls one final stroke over his length before the rushing spill of white weeps from his raw tip.

Toji cuddles himself besides you, burying his head along the nape of your neck as he bucks his hips into the fat of your ass. 

It’s all too much for him. His vision’s blown white and spotty, his heart skipping beats, and the sweltering heat settling amongst his skin drives him mad. Toji’s desperate for something, anything to ground him.

He’s left to his own devices, scouring around until his findings leave him to cling to your waist. He prays you won’t say too much for the brash act, but you’re the only one he can turn to, the only one who knows how much of a toll his bliss takes on him. 

What he doesn’t expect is you combing back his sweat-sunken hair, your lips scattering kisses along his clenched jaw, and the thoughtful words of encouragement loops in his ear.

“It’s a lot, right? Just let it out…”

“Fuck, ‘m still cumming,” he rasps. He has a song mulling heavy on his heart, all those moans waiting to break free from their cage. With all the restraint he can muster, Toji knows he can’t continue the ruse of choking back the notes any longer.

 And with you soothing his woes, Toji’s resistance gives without a second thought. The heartless, cold shell Toji dons shatters the moment his lips give way with a whimper. Because of you, he’s whimpering, letting his body grieve the weight of his orgasm with you as his lone witness. 

You pull his clipped hand from your waist into your own, swiping at his roughened knuckles with the pad of your thumb. “That’s it, you’re doing such a good job, Baby.”

“T-Thank you, Princess,” Toji shudders between breaths. 

A veil of silence falls over the room, the pair of you finally mending tattered breaths. While silence keeps the scene calm, nothing about your entangled bodies changes one bit.

Your hand can still be found in his, your bodies still bare and melted into each other, even the exchange of soft kisses joins the frame. 

But calmness is a fleeting trait, with the call of Toji’s name summoning a new plot to play out. 

“Oh…Toji?” you innocently coo.

“Hm?”

“Can we go again? Just one more time, please?!?”

A weary smirk crowds upon Toji’s lips as he flickers his heavy eyes over your face—that callow look of batting lashes melting his perseverance. Such a pretty face, and a kind voice, but the nastiest mind.

His chest is still heavy, sweat lathers his skin, with exhaustion claiming him whole, Toji’s newfound soft spot for you curbs him from committing such a treasonous act of denying you. 

“You really wanna go again?” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to your own.

“Mhm,” you nod, pulling your bent leg taut to your chest. 

“It’s gonna be slower than before…”

“That’s fine, I just—"

“You don’t have to say it or explain yourself, Princess…I know.”

It’s just as you said, Toji knows you so well, so much so that he knows that you aren’t after another high—it’s just the sheer intimacy that has you both addicted.

Because for the first time in Toji’s life, he’s finally reached his long-waited oasis through your hands—sensuality.

A place where time stands still for lovers, allowing them to abstain from all that isn’t each other. Where all that’s needed to survive is the heat of one’s body, the synchronization of breaths, and the beating drum of a unified heart. 

That s why Toji has no issue to grant your wish by taking hold of his length once more, his palm greeted by his hardened cock once more. 

Strings of curses rip from Toji’s throat as he works to fill you all over again. The tepid lunge of his hips, the breathy moans slipping from his barred mouth, his hand still clinging to yours as his lifeline—all of which he establishes to be his new standard for taking you. 

He keeps his eyes in line with yours when he finally immerses himself so deeply within your walls, a timeless gasp capturing you both. 

You’re back to smothering his girth beneath a sticky grasp, marking every inch of his cock in your essence. He’s curling up beside you, using his angled hips to reach deeper than before.

You feel so good, you always do but tonight has Toji’s strong-willed mind rolling off the faintest touch.

Sensitivity isn’t a word Toji likes to associate himself with, out of his respect for his pride and ego—yet he’s imbued with the very essence of the word tonight.

Every graze, kiss, even the shallow channel of your breath renders him a quivering, frail mess. He can’t begin to handle it when you pick up a nasty habit of rocking your hips against him, grinding your deepest bliss down against his cock’s writhing bulbous head.

There’s no loud clash of skin, overdrawn cries, or pleas of mercy—there’s just the beautiful blend of skin on skin, keeping each other company through another one of the world’s perilous nights. 

Why ruin you with tyrannical lust when sensuality grants him your warm body melding into his, your every cry sitting like music in his ear, and your touch pulling him into a dream? 

“Fuuuuccck,” he's whining, his stark chest billowed with staggering breaths. “Oh Princess, what’re you doin to me?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but it’s been burning on your mind all the same. What was he doing to you?

Just off his driven cock, he’s carving at your walls, littering you with memories of how he fits. He’s marking you with every vein, curve, and twitch he carries so you never forget how he’s supposed to feel inside you. He’s taking the time to make you his, inside and out, by focusing on you and you alone.

All this attention on you, it has the gears of your empty brain turning. And then…the unthinkable falls from your lips.

“T-Toji…please…don’t go…”

Before you can even catch the mistake, Toji’s peppering your cheeks with kisses, shushing your words with his boyish smile.

“Shhh, don’t talk like that. ‘m right here and I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, hiding your blunder behind a returning kiss.

Because, of course, you just meant right now…right?

[themodernwitchsguide]

greek god epithets

this post includes zeus, hera, athena, demeter, ares, hephaestus, and poseidon. for part two including hades, persephone, hekate, aphrodite, hermes, apollo, artemis, and dionysus click here

epithets are surnames (as <god's name> <epithet>) used to call upon the greek gods without saying their name directly. the epithet that you choose often corresponds to the purpose you are invoking them for

ZEUS:

-OMBRIUS/HYETIUS/APHESIUS= of the rain

-SCOTITAS= the dark/murky

-CERAUNIUS= of the thunderbolt

-ASTRAPAEUS= of the lightning

-CATAEBATES= the descending

-LABRANDEUS= the furious/raging

-ICMAEUS= of moisture

-CONIUS= of the dust

-MAEMACTES= the boisterous

-EVENEMUS= of fair winds

-LIMENOSCOPUS= the watcher of sea havens

-BASILEUS/CORYPHAEUS= the king/chief/ruler

-HYPATUS/HYPSISTUS= the supreme

-CTESIUS= of the house/property

-HERCEIUS= of the courtyard

-BULAEUS= of the council

-AMBULIUS= the counsellor

-TELEUS/ZYGIUS= of marriage

-MOIRAGETES= the leader of the Fates

-CLARIUS= of the lots

-SEMALEUS= the giver of signs (like clairvoyant messages)

-MECHANEUS= the contriver

-COSMETES= the orderer

-THEUS AGATHUS= the good God

-EPIDOTES= the giver of good

-PLUSIUS= of wealth

-PHILIUS= of friendship

-XENIUS= of hospitality/strangers

-HICESIUS= of suppliants

-PHYXIUS= of refuge

-PALAMNAEUS= the punisher of murderers

-CATHARSIUS= of ritual purification

-PROSTROPAEUS= the turner of pollution

-APEMIUS= averter of ills (ailments)

-SOTER= the savior/deliverer

-MILICHIUS= the gracious/merciful

-PANHELENIOS= of all the Greeks

-LAOITES= of the people

-POLEIUS= of the city-state

-SOSIPOLIS= the city-savior

-ELEUTHEREUS= of freedom

-CHRYSAORUS= of the Golden Sword

-STATIUS/AREIUS= of war/the warlike

-STHENIUS= of strength/the strong

-TROPAEUS= turns to flight/who defeats

-PHYXIUS= puts to flight/banishes

HERA:

-PAIS= the girl

-NYMPHEUOMENE= the betrothed bride

-TELEIA= the (adult) woman/the goddess of marriage

-CLEIRA= the widow

-GAMELIA= of marriage

-ATAUROTE/PARTHENOS= the virginal

-ZYGIA= presider over marriage

-HENIOCHE= of the chariot

-ANTHEA= of the flowers

-ARGOEA= of the ship Argo

-HYPERCHEIRIA= whose hand is above

-BASILEIA= the queen

ATHENA:

-NIKE= victory

-AREIA/PALLAS= of war/the warlike

-ZOSTERIA= girded in armor

-STHENIAS= of strength/the strong

-POLEMODOCUS= the war sustaining

-HIPPIA= of horses

-CHALINITIS= bridler of horses

-ERYMA= the defender

-SOTEIRA= the savior

-ALALACOMENEIS= the protectress

-POLIAS= of the city

-POLIUCHUS= the city protectress

-POLIATIS= the keeper of the city

-ERGANE= the worker

-PAEONIA= the healer

-HYGEIA= of good health

-ALEA= of escapes to refuge

-AMBULIA= the counsellor

-PRONOEA= of foresight

-APATURIA= the deceiver/of deception

-MACHANITIS= contriver of plans

-OXYDERCES= the sharp sighted

-CORYPHASIA/CORYPHAGENES= relating to the head (like her birth)

-PARTHENUS= the virgin/maiden

-CORIA= the maiden

-XENIA= of hospitality (especially to strangers/foreigners)

DEMETER:

-CHTHONIA/DEO= of the earth

-CHLOE= the green/the first shoots

-EPOGMIA= of the furrows

-ANESIDORA= she who sends forth gifts

-PLUTODOTIRA= the giver of wealth

-CARPOPHORUS/MALOPHORUS= bearer of fruit

-THERMASIA= of warmth/heat

-MEGALA THEA= the great Goddess

-MEGALA MATER= the great Mother

-THESMOPHORUS= the bringer of law

-THESMIA= of the laws

-PROSTASIA= the patron/leader

-PANACHAEA= of all the Greeks

-ERINYS= of fury/wrath

-MELAENA= the black

-LUSIA= the bathing/purifying

-HORAPHORUS= the bringer of season

-POLYPHORBUS= the all nourishing/bountiful

-AGLAOCARPUS= the giver of goodly fruit

-AGLAODORUS= the bestower of splendid gifts

-CALLISTEPHANUS= the beautifully crowned

-EUSTEPHANUS= the lovely crowned

-EUCOMUS= the lovely haired

-XANTHE= the blonde/golden-haired

-CYANOPEPLUS= the dark veiled/cloaked

-CALLISPHYRUS= the beautiful

-CHRYSAORUS= of the golden blade

-DIA THEA= the bright Goddess

-SEMNE= the holy/revered

-HAGNE= the pure/chaste/holy

-ANASSA/POTHIA= the queen

-POTHIA THEAON= the queen amongst goddesses

-CYDRA THEA= the glorious/noble goddess

-ORGIA= of religious orgies

-MYSTERIA= of mysteries

ARES:

-THERITAS= the beastly/brutish

-HIPPIUS= of the horses

-APHNEIUS= the abundant

-GYNAECOTHOENAS= feasted by women

-MIAEPHONUS= the blood stained/bloody

-LAOSSOUS= he who rallies men

-BROTOLOEGUS= the manslaughtering

-ANDREIPHONTES= the destroyer of men

-CHALCEUS/CHALCOCORUSTES= of the bronze/armed with bronze

-TEICHESIPLETES= the stormer of cities

-AATUS POLEMOEO= insatiate of fighting/war

-ENCHESPALUS= spear-brandishing

-RHINOTORUS= shield/flesh piercing

-OXYS= the sharp/piercing

-THOOS= the swift/fleet

-THURUS= the violent/furious

-OBRIMUS= the strong/mighty

-DINUS= the terrible/fearsome

-ENYALIUS= the warlike

-CHRYSOPELEX= of the golden helm

HEPHAESTUS:

-CLYTUS= the renowned/famed

-PERICLYTUS/AGACLYTUS= the very famed/the glorious

-CLYTOMETIS/CLYTOTECHNES= famed for crafts/skills

-POLYTECHNES= of many skills

-POLYPHRON= the ingenious/inventive

-POLYMETIS= resourceful

-AETHALOIS THEUS= the sooty god

-CHALCEUS= the bronze/copper smith

-CYLLOPODIUM/AMPHIGYEIS= referring to his disability

POSEIDON:

-BASILEUS= the king/lord

-PELAGAEUS= of the sea/marine

-AEGAEON= of the Aegeon sea

-PROSCLYSTIUS= who dashes against

-ASPHALIUS= who secures safe voyage

-EPOPTES= the overseer/watcher

-GAEOCHUS= the holder of the earth

-ENNOSIGAEUS= shaker of the earth

-HIPPIUS= of the horses

-HIPPOCURIUS= the horse tender

-PHYTALMIUS= the plant nurturer

-GENETHLIUS= of the kin/the kindred

-DOMATITES= of the house

-LAOITES= of the people

[fkapommel]

Etymology of TLT Character Names

Wanted to provide a fandom resource for analysis and theorizing. Since House names are explained in GTN, this list will just focus on first names. DM me for sources. Enjoy <3

Gideon

Biblical prophet, military leader, and judge, meaning "feeler," "hewer," or "one who cuts down." According to narrative, the Israelites had forgotten their god for 40 years and were punished by assaults from enemy tribes. After Israel turned back to God for aid, Gideon, an unnoteworthy Israelite, was delivered the message by an angel that he should lead Israel against its enemies. Gideon requested three miracles be done by God to prove his and God's ability to do this task, which God then performed. Gideon then completes God's tasks, including destroying an idol of Baal in the Israelite camp and displacing a much larger enemy encampment. Gideon delivered 40 years of peace for Israel during his lifetime and refused kinghood and dynasty when offered by his people. However, upon his death, the Israelites returned to worshipping Baal. A "Gideonic victory" can mean winning a battle against the odds.

Harrowhark

Harrowing - to use a piece of farming equipment to level soil, break rocks, and kill weeds to ready the dirt for seed growth. Also refers to the Harrowing of Hell, a non-Biblical, early to middle English traditional episode in which Jesus, upon death by crucifixtion, enters the Underworld to preach salvation to souls interned there before his birth, thus allowing them to enter Heaven. This tradition has been canonized by Catholic theology.

Hark - the first word of many ancient texts or announcements, meaning "listen." Biblical angelic speeches often begin with "hark."

Judith

The feminine of Judah, a Biblical Hebrew name meaning "praised," "woman of Judea/Jewess." The name Judith appears twice in the deuterocanonical Bible: once as one of Esau's wives and seperately as the titular character in the Book of Judith (a book not part of the canonized Bible). In the Book of Judith, Judith is described as a widow who uses her wit, charm, and skills of seduction to be invited to the private tent of Holofernes, the general of the enemy Assyrian army who had laid siege to her city. Judith is able to get Holofernes drunk and overpowers him, decapitates him, and steals his head to show to her city. She is of the few illustrations of the "ideal Jewish woman."

Marta

Derived from Aramaic, meaning "the daughter," "the lady," and "dedicated to Mars"

Isaac

Meaning "he laughs," referring to the father of the Biblical character's laugh of disbelief when God told him, Abraham, that his nonogenarian wife would conceive his child. Isaac is one of the three patriarchs of Israel, grandfather to the 12 tribes. When Isaac was a child, God commanded Abraham to take him up a mountain and sacrifice his child in His name. When Abraham proved his obedience, God provided a ram to sacrifice instead of Isaac. Isaac went on to marry Rebekah; though they eventually believed her to be barren, after Isaac prayed to God, Rebekah concieved twin boys, Esau and Jacob, at an old age, just as his mother did. Rebekah grew to prefer Jacob. Later, due to Sarah and Jacob's scheming, Isaac gave Esau's birthright to his second-born son, Jacob. Jacob would live on to father the twelve tribes of Israel.

Jeannemary

This specific spelling seems to be an invention of Tazmuir, but the duel components of the name are significant. Firstly, "Jean-Marie" is a French masculine name. Jeanne is the feminine form of the English "John." "Jeanne"  can be traced to a Biblical Hebrew name, meaning "God is gracious." The most notable historical character of the same name is Jeanne d'Arc, a young female military leader who acted under divine guidance. Upon instruction of archangels and saints, Jeanne fought in pursuit of the coronation of Charless VII during the 100 Years War. Her leadership led to multiple military victories but was punctuated by multiple failures. The unsuccessful relief of a besieged city led to her capture and deliverance to the English, who tried her for blasphemy by wearing men's clothes and refusing submission to Church authority. Found guilty, Jeanne was burned at the stake at 19.

Mary is the most notable feminine name of the Christian Bible, referring predominately to Mary, mother of Jesus Christ, Mary Bethany, and Mary Magdalene, a female disciple of Jesus. Mary was born immaculately - without sin - so that she would be a pure vessel to carry Jesus, who she concieved as a virgin. Mary Bethany was a friend of Jesus and sister to Lazarus. She was deeply emotional about her brother's passing, which persuaded Jesus to resurrect her brother from the grave. Mary Magdalene was a probably wealthy Jewish woman who aided Jesus' teachings. As a loyal apostle, she was a witness at both His crucifixtion and resurrection.

Coronabeth

"Coronabeth," like "Jeannemary," is an obvious Tazmuir invention. "Corona" refers to both the part of the body that resembles a crown and to a colored circular frame around a stellar body, usually caused by its atmosphere.

"Beth" is derived from both "Elizabeth" ("God is my oath") and "Bethany" ("House of Figs"). The suffix -beth comes from Hebrew origins, meaning "house."

Ianthe

From the Ancient Greek, meaning "violet flower" or "she who delights." She was one of the 3,000 water-nymphs called Oceanides, daughters of the Titans. Ianthe and her sisters served as a companion to Persephone when she was in Hades. She is also a character in Ovid's Metamorphosis as the beautiful fiancé to Iphis, a character who has her/his gender changed by the goddess Isis.

Note on the Tridentarii: Coronabeth was almost called "Cainabeth" and Ianthe "Abella" after the two Biblical brother characters, Cain and Abel. In the narrative, God preferred Abel's divine sacrifices and loved him more than his brother. In a jealous rage, Cain killed Abel and hid from his crime, his family, and his God. When God asked him, "Where is your brother?" Cain returned, "I am not my brother's keeper." Angered, He cursed Cain with the Mark of Cain. Separately, the first fratricide cursed the Earth to never turn over its vegetation to Cain, the first murderer. His Mark symbolizes him as a wanderer, a person who belongs nowhere; however, it also protects him from the curses and abuse of others, returning scorned words and abuses back to the harasser seven-fold. Though Coronabeth and Ianthe received their names elsewhere, the lusty, jealous, murderous themes of Cain and Abel's narrative were present at the time of their creation and thus should not be dismissed.

Naberius

Though I can't find the meaning of the name, "Naberius" is rooted in Latin. It first appears in Johann Weyer's 1583 manuscript, "The Deceptions of Demons." Naberius, or "Cerberus" - relation to the same named three-headed dog of Ancient Greek theology unknown - is a Marquess of Hell, directing 19 legions of demons. He provides cunningness of the arts, sciences, and rhetoric in man through vocal instruction and can restore lost honors and dignities. His semblance is of a man with three dog heads or a raven.

Abigail

Biblical Hebrew name meaning "my father's joy," "my father is exalted." Abigail is a Biblical figure, being the third wife of King David and mother to one of his sons. She is a strong believer in the prophecy of David's ascension and his great dynasty. Abigail is considered to be one of the seven Jewish woman prophets and, in the Talmud, of the four women "surpassing beauty in this world." The word "Abigail" can refer nonspecifically to a waiting woman or handmaiden.

Palamedes

There are two notable historical fiction characters that share the name "Palamedes." Palamades was an ancient Grecian prince who joined the battle of Troy, according to the Aenid. After Paris had taken Helen to Troy, Palamedes was sent as envoy from Agamemnon to Odysseus because the latter man had previously vowed to defend Helen's marriage. Odysseus, however, did not want to attend the war, but Palamedes was successful in proving his fitness for war and ultimately delivering Odysseus to Troy. According to some traditions, Odysseus never forgave Palamedes for this and eventually killed him. In the Apology, Plato characterizes Socrates as looking forward to death in order to speak with Palamedes.

Secondly, Sir Palamedes is a knight of the round-table, a Saracen pagan (or probable Muslim) who converted to Christiantiy later in life. He is introduced dueling another knight, Sir Tristan, for a lady's hand, which he loses; these two fight several more times but with unclear victories, leading to a hate-love relationship deepened by their love for the same woman (the woman of their first duel). Many stories have Palamedes as the hunter of the Questing Beast, a fearsome animal the target of many a fruitless hunt. After years of pursuit, it is ultimately his freedom from wordly material granted by his Christian conversion that allows him to slaughter the beast. He remains loyal to Sir Lancelot after his affair with Queen Guinevere is revealed and follows Lancelot to France. Sir Palamedes is later killed by Sir Gawain. Except in matters concerning his love and Sir Tristan, where he often lost control of his anger, he was one of the most chivalrous and honorable knights.

Note: The story of Sir Palamedes, as a product of Arthurian legend, is nearly impossible to summarize properly due to its expansiveness and document fragmentation. If interested in the topic (such as the wink wink homo-erotic love-hate relationship he has with Sir Tristan,) i encourage futher research.

Camilla

"Camilla" is the feminine of "Camillus," a Latin term meaning acolyte, a helper of the Priest during religious processionals and ceremonies. In the Aeneid, Camilla is a queen gifted to the goddess Diana as a handmaiden who became a virginal Amazon warrior.

Dulcinea

"Dulcinea" is a name created by Don Quixote for his character, derivative of the Spanish word "dulce" meaning "sweetness." Princess Dulcinea was invented in the titular character's mind to be the most perfect, beautiful, and regal woman since he believes chivalry requires such a lady of him. To refer to a loved one as like Dulcinea is to express your idealistic devotion and love to her.

Protesilaus

"Protesilaus" may come from the Ancient Greek "protus" for "first." Protesilaus was a hero in the Iliad. According to an oracle, the first Greek to set foot on land after sailing to fight the Trojan War would die. Protesilaus was the first to dare step off ship; he sealed his fate then, later dying in combat. His widow was so devoted to his memory that she built a bronze statue with his likeness. She later self-emulated when the statue was burned and destroyed.

Silas

Latin in origin, "Silas" means "of the forest." Notable figures named "Silas" include first century St. Silas, who accompanied St. Paul on his second mission. He is credited as co-author of the two letters to Thessalonians and the Book of Hebrews; however, authoriship is disputed. St. Silas is sometimes depicted with broken chains due to an episode in which an earthquake freed him and St. Paul from imprisonment.

Colum

From the Gaelic word for "dove"

[green-eyedfirework]

To say this is a surprise is an understatement.

Slade made the offer in seriousness, though perhaps not fully.  It’s the first offer he’s made since Adeline’s passing and while it’s been four years, long enough for the grieving period to be over, he hasn’t given full thought to remarrying.  He has his hands full, with Grant’s sullenness and Joey’s muteness and then the addition of Rose, and the idea of finding a new mate was a distant one.

Richard Grayson is handsome, to be sure, and charming, a jewel of the Wayne pack with no shortage of admirers.  His introduction to society was unfortunately followed by his father’s disappearance and the flurry of a mourning period it prompted, cutting off courtships for a few years.  Lord Wayne was thankfully found a few months ago, but it appears he’s not quite all the way well, because Richard and his siblings arrived in London on their own this season.

They’ve been fawned over at every turn, a sickening display that Slade’s mostly avoided, but he ran into Richard quite by chance when Rose went missing on an outing at the park.  He found her with Wayne’s little brat of an heir, both kids shrieking gleefully under Richard’s fond supervision.  Once the children made friends, there was, of course, no escaping the interactions, and Slade watched with increasing desire as Richard calmly and evenly handled two sets of hellions with admirable ease.

The omega is young but mature, gracious and kind but also stubborn.  Protective of his packmates, of children no matter who they are.  Pretty.  Rich.  Enough hints of fire to pique Slade’s interest.

When Joey all but clambered into Slade’s lap to solemnly demand that Dick join their pack, his interest finally solidified into an offer.  Even Grant only made a huff at the proposition, a ringing endorsement from the sullen teen, and Rose was willing to do anything to ensure she keeps her playmate.

So Slade sent his offer, serious but expecting nothing of it.  For all the reasons Slade wants him, Grayson has a hundred admirers, younger, richer, belonging to more powerful families.  Slade is a widower with three children and Richard is the eldest omega of the Wayne pack, he didn’t imagine it would be taken seriously.

“Forgive me, but I have to be blunt,” Slade said, crossing his arms on his desk and leaning forward.  “Why?”

Richard is sitting in the seat opposite, straight-backed, shoulders relaxed, hands resting in his lap.  He radiates tension despite it.

“You were the one who made the offer, my lord,” Richard says evenly.  “Are you rescinding it?”

“I’m asking you why you’re accepting it,” Slade says flatly.  He has no patience for games.  “I’m nearly twice your age, with three children.  I cannot possibly be your best offer.”

“If you’re so certain I wouldn’t accept, why did you offer at all?”

Yet another question answered with a question.  If he wasn’t already suspicious, the deflections would cement it.

Slade narrows his eye.  “Don’t play naïve, boy, it doesn’t suit you.”  Something flickers in Richard’s eyes, there and gone.  “If I’m your choice, then there’s something you’re hiding.”  He drops his voice to a growl, “And I don’t like secrets near my family.  Not after what the last one did.”

Richard drops his gaze and swallows, shoulders hunching, giving into the anxiety hovering around him like a cloud.  Slade gives him a minute.  If he still won’t speak, Slade will have him thrown out.  The children will be unhappy, but better unhappy than maimed.

“I—I was—I am,” Richard swallows, tries again, swallows, tries again.  “It’s just—I wasn’t—I—”

“Just spit it out,” Slade snaps.

Richard doesn’t flinch, but he does draw in a deep breath, and when he exhales, he looks up to meet Slade’s gaze.  “I know that your lordship already has three children.  I was hoping that someone of your position, with an assured line of succession, would be more amenable to taking a mate with prior engagement in behaviors that might threaten the parentage of any heirs.  If I was wrong, I hope we can resolve this amicably and restore the goodwill between our packs.  It was never my intention to bring any harm to your pack.”

Slade takes a moment to sort through all of it.  Richard is ashen, but still keeping Slade’s gaze, sitting prim and proper as though he hasn’t just admitted to being ruined.

“You’re not chaste,” Slade says finally, leaning back.

“No,” Richard says.  His hands are clenched in his lap.

“Who?” Slade asks.

It’s not precisely idle curiosity, not with the darker parts of him wanting to shred to pieces anyone who dared to taste the omega.  An earlier courtship, maybe, one cut off by Lord Wayne’s disappearance and never resumed?  Slade knows that betrothed omegas and alphas will fool around, hiding away from their chaperones, not thinking about the consequences should the agreement be broken off.

“Does it matter?”  Richard’s jaw is tight.

Slade raises an eyebrow.  “If you want to reach an agreement, yes.”

Richard takes a controlled breath and looks away.  “Lord Desmond,” he says sharply.  That isn’t what Slade was expecting.  “It happened years ago.  It will never happen again, I swear it.  There was no one else.”

[ladylaviniya]

Lassoed In Love

|| Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: An investigation turns into a car accident rescue, a cup of coffee, an argument...and heated kisses.

Pairing: Farmer!Clark Kent X Teacher!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, No Sex in this chapter, Slowburn, descriptions of car accident, anger management issues, no sex but lots of kissing, topic of rape being mentioned.

Word Count: 8k

Author Notes: To save me from total writers block I thought I'd share this story. I will repeat. I HAVE NOT ABANDONED MY OTHER STORIES.

Inspiring Song: "Too Sweet" by Hozier

CLARK

Tossing and turning in the blankets, Clark sighed with frustration. His head turned and stared at the empty space on the mattress. He had half the mind to drive to the dump and collect the old one again. But it still smelt like her. That selfish bitch. The mother of his daughter...Lois.

His body yearned for intimacy, aroused for the warmth of a woman. He grabbed himself beneath the sheets and groaned softly. What was he to do? Porn was starting to be an issue. Some nights he felt like a teenage boy covered in acne hiding porn magazines from his mother, only now it was deleting the internet history off the computer he shared with his daughter and hoping he wouldn’t wake her up with the wet squelching.

He sighed clenching his eyes shut. The crickets outside chirped like an obnoxious symphony. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight again. Not with how his thoughts consumed him.

‘Coffee...no...I need a whiskey.’

With a heavy set groan he rose from the covers, naked and larger than life. His muscular body moved with soft cracks down his spine. The icy floor beneath his bare feet was a gracious gift, cooling down his hot blood and calming down his own erection.

Padding to the living room, he crouched low to the liquor cabinet. All the bottles were in different places than he last recalled. He didn’t dwell as he poured himself a drink and sniffed. No smell. He lifted the glass to his lips. Water.

He blinked. Sighed. Couldn’t help the tiny jerk rise to the corner of his lips.

‘Fucking kids.’

Lara and her friends were going to the newest Mission Impossible movie, or at least that’s what he was told. Clearly, they’d snuck into the cabinet at some point and helped themselves to the joyful adult treasures while sneakily topping it off with water.

‘She is grounded. That’s for sure.’

Lara was only sixteen. His sweet pride and joy. She had been through a lot in her young life, a life Clark could only sympathise and try his best to be a good father. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he put on the kettle, dragged on a pair of jeans and sat outside on the porch. He gazed out at the road and fields consumed by the growing frost.

The icy air cooled down his body. His nipples grew taunt. The bright white moonlight beamed across the strong lines of his features, his years of hard labour and history in the maps of his crow feet and smile lines. His voluminous black hair with hints of silver through it fell to his shoulders, he would need to start tying it back or cut it short again. His thick pink lips pursed just sitting above his jawline, he was like a blade, sharp and strong.

His veins ran with the blood of two different worlds...but there was a certainty that he would never be able to return to one.

With his strong desire for companionship, he knew himself well. Though he controlled it, there were times when he needed the physical touch of a woman. He often met with Diana Prince, a widowed woman who lived in Cottonwood Falls. Theirs was a purely physical arrangement, with neither interested in marriage. Clark tried to keep their visits infrequent, aware that her gossiping neighbours would be shocked to know she was seeing a man in the middle of the night...a man who had a criminal record, a dark past.

The next day was going to be a Saturday. He would carry out the planned chores and duties on the farm. The upkeep was falling apart and he desperately needed to fix the barn roof hole and retighten the fences and cut the firewood. And in the evening he would ride his truck out to Cotton falls, park and walk the rest of the way to Ms Princes house and extinguish all the fiery rage of his loins inside of her.

He didn’t like riding his truck on the icy roads. He chewed his lips as he glanced down at his erection rising again in his jeans. He needed a woman. God help him.

♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞

YOU

You had your own chores and plans for the Saturday. In particular there was one plan on your list you were desperate to investigate and find a resolution.

Miss Lara Kent

The girl had left highschool prematurely three months ago, a month before you had arrived to take over the role as teacher after Ms Rampling died at the age of eighty four. You had deep shoes to fill. Smallville had quite literally a small school it would seem ranging from kindergarten all the way to year twelve with only four hundred students in total.

Not a single student or teacher had mentioned her name, it was by sheer luck you’d come across her school records. It was rather bizarre that such a successful student to drop out. A straight A student. Nothing in the file indicated a decent reason to why she had left school but it had been approved none the less....the burning passion of your life work was lit a flame.

“Oh Lara?...Lara...oh...Kent...that farmers kid...yea, best be left alone,” said Miss Lana Lang, the eighth grade teacher.

How could you though? Clearly this girls future was in jeopardy if she just left it so suddenly. You needed to understand what was the choice behind this important decision. You recalled being sixteen and feeling so ready for the world only to find even yourself so unprepared when you moved out of home.

You stood in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea as you stared out your window up at the lonely moon, naked of the wreaths of stars...how could you sleep when this poor girl was making such a bad life choice?...you couldn’t imagine what her parents were thinking.

The cold wind was spreading white fog and frost against the window panels.

You were sure it would probably snow the first day of November at this rate. You rubbed your eyes and shivered. You would need to hire a handy man to fix the heater soon or else you’d freeze to death. It was never so cold in Metropolis city where you were originally from.

You’d moved here only after a month. You felt it was a sign of luck. You were struggling to find another teaching job while juggling to afford your rent....and then one-day you received a call on the phone. Out of some miracle or curse you had a great-great aunt Gwendolyn-Lee and she had a fat inheritance and a whole house left for you, her only surviving heir.

Oh and a ginger cat named Oz. With all the movie posters you had to assume your great aunts favourite film and book was none other than the Wizard of Oz.

He sat stop the old floral print arm chair, staring out the window. He turned his head and meowed wistfully. He kept to the floor and trotted over to you, threading his body around your ankles.

You sighed, “I know Ozzie, your poor bean toes must be getting cold like mine, I might need to see if there’s a pet store in this tiny town. See if they have socks for kitties.”

His meowing reply was lighter as if he had approved of your comment. You crouched to his level and ran your fingers along his orange stripe spine. It hadn’t taken him long to warm up to you. At first, he refused to leave the space beneath the bed in the master bedroom. You wondered how he had survived so long after Gwendolyn passed. You didn’t know who was feeding him. He mewled softly as you began getting dressed.

Despite the wonderful fortune you’d gained, tragedy struck when the moving van forgot to pick up the box with all your clothes.

So naturally you borrowed your dead great aunts hand made, outdated dresses. You’d never met the woman and yet the genetics were clear to be positive considering how you were both the same size.

You went with the white shirtwaist dress with lilac astor flowers embroidered along the edge and collar. You would’ve gone out to the town and bought a new wardrobe...if the shops sold anything that wasn’t still the same style from 1970.

Who were you even trying to impress, yourself? You sighed looking at the mirror. You reached for your flat shoes. ‘No one.’ Your hands ran down the front of your dress. ‘What type of man wants a woman that dresses like a grandma?’ you rolled your eyes.

You scratched Oz behind the ear, his little golden bell jingled away as he kept up onto the mattress and stretched his lithe body.

“I guess you’re the only man in my life to impress Ozzie,” you giggled as he flopped on his side and purred, snuggling his cheek on the patchwork quilt to take a fat cat nap.

Fetching the wool cardigan and car keys off the hook you grabbed the school record file and handbag.

Outside your car waited. You knew you’d have to drive carefully along the road. You prayed the address on Lara’s record was correct.

You pulled out of your driveway and watched as the small town buildings became trees and dead orange leaves. Halloween was just around the corner. Everyone was setting up their decorations, you felt strangely naked with such a bare house. It was on your shopping list to buy candies for the kids in the neighbourhood. You didn’t feel obligated to decorate or participate when you lived in your shitty city unit. But now you lived among families and country locals.

Even though the farm lands were carpeted in brown, red and orange leaves, you were looking forward to the gossip that come spring the lands would be blooming with green lush grass and waves of flowers and forests of apple trees with rushing blue creeks soaring through the valley. Smallville wasn’t very small in the proportion of its farming lands.

As you peered over to look at the map sitting on your passenger seat, you struggled to clearly see the street names.

Above the sound of your engine, you heard the sound of a moo before glancing up back over your hood. A large beast, a black bull the size of a fridge was haphazardly trotting across the road in line of your cat. You slammed the butt of your palm against the car horn before you hit the breaks hard and instant lost control on the loose dirt road. Spinning out, you uttered a prayer the big bull would move in time. You squealed as the tires burned across the trail and fields you crashed against flying dirt smoke and dry leafy grass up. Your body was lunged slightly forward before the car fully stopped and your ass hit the seat hard. You were finally caught in a man dug gutter, the cars nose diving down and the boot hanging up half on the road.

Your chest had been strangled by the seat belt when the loud bang and buff of white slammed up into your face, knocking your head back against your car seat.

Your mouth filled with blood and your face felt like it had been soccer punched. You managed to move your face to the side, sobbing at the feeling of your throbbing nose. Eyes closed in a mixture of fear and disbelief, you felt like you could barely breath, spitting up blood and crying in pain. You were gasping for air, your lungs stung like a million cuts.

You didn’t register the sound of a man’s voice asking if you were alright, nor how he flung open your door and used a pocket blade to slice through your seat belt.

The car hood was clouded in white, billowing out steam like the smoke of a Pompeii volcano.

What you do remember about your saviour was how he had the most bluest eyes that reminded you of the cleanest ponds. His hair was jet black like a crow. You stared up at those features when he curled his arm under your knees and behind your back and shoulders and hauled you out.

Your guardian angel...or the grim reaper carried you away from destruction as your head grew heavy and your eyes rolled like heavy marbles to the back of your skull.

♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞

CLARK

He was riding along and moving his cattle from his main property over to the Nell Potter’s who had lease out her land to him for grazing before all the frost took the sustaining grass. He had watched your car, assuming that a group of cattle with legal crossing signage would have you slowing down....but your speed never changed until Chief was last in line and taking his time to walk across the path.

By some miracle you’d managed to miss the bull but only to twist out of control and crash into the edge of his corn crop before the wheel took you back up and the car slammed into the road gully.

He leaped from his saddle, yelling out to the stranger in the car as he did. He tore the car door open, slamming the bags, struggling to click out your seat belt before succumbing to using his tool knife in his pocket to cut your trapped, weak body out. You were awake, your eyes droopy, but you weren’t responding to his questions.

“What’s your name?” no answer. He tore out the keys from the car, turning the damn thing off before it had the chance to explode or catch fire.

You weren’t answering.

“You alright darlin?”

He swore loudly, shuffling your body from one arm to the other, carrying you back hurriedly down to his house. He managed to whistle his horse back over. It had to be said you were lucky he managed to get off his horse in time before you suffocated against the airbag.

He trusted his cows to stay in the Nell property, grazing on the new grass, too stupid to leave the paddock back onto the road.

Chief had run into that yard the moment your horn blared.

Clark was a strong man yet that did little to change his worries. Racing up the steps of his porch, he kicked open his front door and planted you with care along his sofa lounge.

Clark stared at you with disbelief. How could anyone be out in the bitter cold so poorly dressed? How had you managed to not slow down for such a huge bull? He wondered how you’d almost hit the massive beast instead of slowing down and breaking in time. Thank god the car had swivelled on ice for a quick turn or else he would have a dead Kerry Bull and a female corpse he’d have to talk to the police about, again.

But his anger at your careless driving was eclipsed by his grand concern. You seemed so vulnerable; underdressed and out in the middle of the countryside, if your car flipped Jwho but him or Lara would be here to come save you?

Who the hell were you?

The moment he asked himself however, a sense of recognition flooded him as it became clear who you were. There was no mistaking that you were the new schoolteacher he’d heard so much about in the farm tool supply barn store. With the way you were dressed, it was like staring back at a significantly younger, prettier version of Ms Gwendowlyn-Lee.

That old bag died just around the same time as Ms Rampling died too. And it was to be well known the pair were...special roommates for a time in their youth, but that was just gossip and talk.

He snorted softly. Of course you were hers to replace not one But two ancient Smallville women.

Nonetheless you were severely underdressed for the climate. He hastily moved to the kitchen sink and began running a pot of hot water for you. He paused as he thumbed your front buttons. Your dress was soaked in your own blood. Did you know his history? What if you came to full awakening and saw him looking over your chest and touching that spot...would you start screaming that vile word too?

He huffed annoyed, shaking his head. He got up and returned to the warm water pot. If you didn’t wake up in the next ten minutes, he’d throw you into his truck and speed to the local hospital. Even if it meant he might risk spending a night in jail. God knows the average folk never listened to reason or logic – always jumping to conclusions.

♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞

YOU

It felt like a split second, cut up into spliced moments. You in the car. The bull. The devilishly handsome guardian angel and then waking up on a full purple lounge.

Your eyes fluttered wide open. Your head felt like it computer weighed like a bowling ball. The sensation of nausea took hold of you as you tried sitting up. You decided to give in to your body and laid back down. The room was slightly rocking. You shut your eyes again and sighed before slowly opening them, focusing on breathing and looking around the room.

The room was covered in similar decor as the stuff at your aunt’s home. Old ornamental decorations and wallpaper from the 70s. The dated furniture and lack of television in the living room except there was a and desk in the corner.

Beside you on the coffee table was a folded out box filled with first aid kit items. Bandages, syringes, gauze and disinfection creams.

You were startled to rise a little as the sound of loud foot steps entered the room. An enormous man held a bowl of warm water and a cloth. His face was stern while his brows lifted.

“Oh fuck, he’s huge,” you thought, watching how his hard face twitched in a smirk that appeared and disappeared in a blink. You realised with horror you’d murmured that thought aloud.

He got onto his knees beside you, touching your shoulder lightly and softly guided you back down onto the soft cushions. He wet the towel and gently dabbed at a spot on your forehead. You hissed. It stung. You winced and jerked back, quickly apologising.

“Care to share why you were tryin’ to kill my prize Kerry, Miss?” you heard him mutter. Your mouth dropped at hearing how deep, rich and sensual his voice was. You never had heard such a pronoun southern drawl sound so seductive.

He washed the dirt front your face lightly, he let he droplets wash away the marks.

You warmed, feeling butterflies in your belly as you tried to mentally find your bearings, “Wh-what? Could you repeat that sir?”

His brows lifted again, this time a firm frown was on his face, “Miss, you were in an automobile accident, are your brakes broken or are you just a bad driver?”

That’s when the black bull came back to your mind once more. You swallowed, your mouth was dry.

“I didn’t-,” you stammered and shook your head, “I wasn’t trying to hit it.”

He snorted with a hint of disbelief.

You curled in your lips, your eyes skated over the home again. You were almost at the Kent property according to the map address. You would’ve gotten there if it wasn’t for his dumb stupid bull.

You licked your bottom lip timidly, “I’m Y/N Y/F/N, I’m a schooltea-.”

“I know,” he said sharply.

Your eyes widened, “You know?”

“I know,” he repeated. You felt a discomfort in his responses even when his voice sounded like deep warm honey over buttered toast. Maybe his toast was burnt black in way.

You lightly nibbled your bottom lip and dared to ask, “Are...are you Mr. Kent? Sir?”

His ocean blue eyes darkened to the pitch of the night sky, his rosy lips peeled back, showing his white teeth in a tight grimace, “I’m Clark Kent.”

Oh.

You cleared your throat, “You’re Clark Kent?”

“I’m Clark Kent,” he repeated, again.

Granting him a small tight smile you then asked, “So you’re a farmer?”

♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞

CLARK

When you spoke so easily to him, it caught him off guard. Had no one warned you about him? Had the rumours not gotten to your darling ears? When you raised your brows in that inquisitive manner, it only added fuel to his frustration.

“Yeah, dairy and maize,” he grunted.

The delicate curves of your face and those sweet eyes had a curious effect on him; it set his teeth on edge. He was not going to hurt you, but he could if he wanted. That primness about you irritated him to no end. His first instinct – to shock you out of your prudishness – scare you into fearing him, make you see the monster everyone but his daughter called him. Your beautiful eyes were so innocent; it was frustrating that you couldn’t see how vulnerable of a situation you were in. There was something so twisted in his mind that even he was surprised by the urge to protect you from himself.

He tore open a packet of povidone-iodine and cupped your cheek and held the curve of your jaw, “Best hold still,” he warned, his eyes bore into yours, “This goin’ sting now.”

He pinched the wipe and ran it over your forehead. Clark had been focused on cleaning the cut but his gaze flickered up at the pitched whine you made, right into your wide teary eyes. The whimper that came from your lips had the air sucking out of his lungs. What a delicious noise. Your eyes right then were his new favourite colour, he decided. Your delectable lips had turned into an ungodly knot as they quivered in pain. And they were just inches away from his and the unfortunate desire to kiss them flashed in his mind.

He ran a thumb over one of your wet cheeks,

He wondered if your skin was just as soft and sensitive all over...your breasts, your belly, your thighs...the petals between your legs. Your body trembled under him. And the brief thought of making you tremble naked made his loins stir beneath his jeans. Holy fuck.

You’d just met him and made yourself a nuisance but the thought of kissing you sent an overwhelming surge of desire through his body. It was like an electric shock to his entire system. As he drew nearer, he noticed that you smelled exquisite. Your scent was tantalizing and all he could think of was how much he wanted to taste it. The urge to kiss you was nearly unbearable. But you would probably squeal and run out the door if he lifted your dress the way he wanted to and buried his face against your silky thighs to inhale the honey of your cunt.

He launched fast up onto his feet and walked away.

“I ugh, I’m makin’ coffee,” He marched back to the kitchen and turned on the pot for some coffee. No...he needed whiskey. Fucking damn it Lara.

He splashed cold water from the sink into his face. What the fuck was wrong with him.

♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞♞

You

You sat in quiet solitude as he took his time making coffee.

After five minutes of staring up at the garden wallpaper on the ceiling, you heard his foot steps return back to the living room.

You decided that Clark Kent was in fact not a social person and holding a conversation would deem a challenge. But you were stubborn. You came here for a reason and his lack of small talk would not dissuade your mission. In fact, it gave you the opportunity to study his character.

He sipped his cup and cleaned up some more scratches on your face. Very carefully he began peeling band aids apart and applying them to your face. You smiled at some still in the first aid kit. They were children’s bandaids, yellow and printed with ducklings, cute and probably many years old. You couldn’t imagine a sixteen year old girl being caught dead wearing duckling bandaids.

You had hoped to compare him to Lara and perhaps even her mother to see why and what behaviour the girl held. When he leant over you, you studied his expression, hoping to find some clue as to his thoughts. But his face was unreadable; you couldn’t discern a single emotion within his eyes. Without even the slightest word, he pinched your embroidered collar to get your attention.

You licked your lips, unaware of how your tongue movement had captured his attention. You wanted to say something, but were at a loss for words. His physical proximity had utterly paralysed your thought processes. You felt completely overwhelmed by the sensation of his presence and the sight of his face. You were struggling to find a thought or a word that could accurately describe how much he stirred your senses.

He’s so big...God...help me.

You should have maintained your composure and remembered why you had come here, instead of acting like a foolish girl because an attractive man was standing too close to you. You were frustrated with yourself for allowing yourself to be so swept away by his good looks, rough appearance, and masculine presence. You tried to remind yourself that his physicality wasn’t the point of your presence here but it failed to have any impact. Your body simply reacted with desire and longing to the nearness of his person.

You cleared your throat for the thousandth time to ask, “Ah… I have come to speak with Lara Kent, if I may?” as if you hadn’t just crashed your car and almost killed one of his cattle.

You cast your eyes over to the man in front of you. His face seemed expressionless as he stared back at you, but there was something in his eyes – a hint of suspicion, scepticism. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking.

“Lara ain’t here. She’s doin’ her chores out in the paddocks. Probably got her walkman on a higher volume, she didn’t hear your car destroying some of the crop or else she’d have been here by your side like you were some helpless duckling.”

A tiny smile came onto his face at those last few words before it melt back into his set frown.

“I see....sorry about the...corn,” You hummed sheepishly, “And...when might she return inside?”

He sighed, scratching lightly at the corner of his brow, he glanced over across the room at a grandfather clock beside the fireplace, “She should be back any time now....”

You looked at him disbelievingly, your eyes locked on his. You couldn’t shake the feeling there was something more to this man than just being a farmer. “Are you Lara’s father?” you finally asked.

“Yes,” he replied in a clipped yet measured tone.

“And where is her mother?”

There was no denying he was a man of few words, and yet somehow, he managed to convey much more than what was spoken.

His eyes shifted to the fireplace. You followed his gaze. There was a beautiful enclosed vase on the mantle...wait, no-

“Dead.”

-an urn.

Something about that flat, solitary word jolted you, a mix of surprise and discomfort. Yet alongside the shock, there was also a faint sense of relief. Slowly you sat up and with a quick glance away, you stared out the window just beside the sofa. You focused your eyes on the dead and disfigured front garden, dotted with weeds and looking more like a barren wasteland than a place of joy and life.

Clark began packing up the first aid kit. He left to put it away.

Further out you could see your car, the front bumper crushed and totally ruined. Shit. You’d be doing a lot more walking and catching the bus.

When he returned, in his hand was a cup of water and a small bucket.

“It’s salt water, to clean your mouth of the blood.”

You gratefully accepted the water, swishing the foul liquid in your mouth. You spit into the bucket. There was still a stillness in the air that felt like a heavy weight, weighing on you as you breathed in the cool air. You faced him again, hands in your lap now, touching your feet to his floor.

You dared to ask, “And how did you feel about Lara quitting school?”

He shrugged in a nonchalant manner, “It was her choice.”

He was turning to go back to the kitchen.

A palpable and intense feeling of indignation and exasperation mingled together, acting as a powerful driving force, you got to your feet and started to follow him, “But she’s only sixteen! She’s just a young girl—”

You managed to follow him into his kitchen, old vinyl flooring and wooden benches with a deep copper sink. He slammed the bucket and cup into the sink and spun on his heel.

“She’s my daughter,” Clark interrupted, holding his finger up, “and she can read, write, practices arithmetic better than anyone I know in this hick-town. My Lara also knows everythin’ there is to know about livestock and runnin’ a dairy farm.”

The man’s voice held a hint of pride, though even that couldn’t mask the hint of resentment that still showed through. “This is my land, my dairy farm, my house,” he continued. “One day it will all belong to her. She decided what to do with her life, and she decided to harvest and produce milk to the entire county.”

Clark was blushing, hints of his frustration were spitting out. He wasn’t fond of sharing his or his child’s life story, considering all the prejudice they faced all these years. Except, there was something about you, this huffy, and prissy little teacher that made him answer.

You seemed oblivious to the rumours about his past; or else why would you be mouthing off so brazenly without bringing it up... you evidently knew nothing about what made him who he truly was, about the impact of his name on the town of Smallville. You didn’t know how often it was people turned away and ignored him just to avoid associating with him...you didn’t know how much it affected Lara too.

He swallowed loudly, “Now, all that bein’ said, she chose to leave that sorry excuse of a school,” he tongued his inner cheek, trying his best not to curse. He groaned, his knuckles turned white as he gripped his own flannel. It was like white smoke was pouring from his ears and shooting out his nose as he forced himself to take deep breaths.

“And, who the fu-...who are you or I to tell her what she can or can not do?” He licked his teeth, “I’d love to see your smart ass out in the dairy shed and see how much you mess it up, I’ll wager it’s like your driving.”

You bravely jerked your chin up with your hands coming to sit on your hips.

Oh Fuck, he wanted to kiss you

And unbeknownst to him, you would’ve let him. Something about how much he was pissing you off and getting heated made you excited, scared...aroused. Facing the beast in the car was not as scary as facing this beast on your feet.

“I’d like to talk to her anyway,” You said stubbornly.

His brows connected, he licked the bottom of his lip, glancing down at yours, “That’s up to Lara. She might not want to talk to you. Especially if you’re here to ask her to return to that school.”

He leant away from you briefly to turn the coffee pot on to boil.

The hands on your hips cross over your chest, You scoffed, “Right, then you won’t even try to encourage her to graduate from the highschool then?”

That was it. He paused. He smirked, he chuckled mockingly and shook his head at you, “Nope.”

“Why not?” Your foot almost stamped, “She’s a bright girl, she should at least have the option of going to college!”

Clark stepped closer, towering over you, his nose nearly touching yours as you glared up at those dark blue eyes, “You listen here,” the air from his nose was hot against your face, “She’s sixteen, don’t you understand what that means ‘round these parts?” He snorted rolling his eyes, “Hell, how can you? You’re just some uppity, conceited, self-centered upstart.” He then scoffed. “She’s not welcome in that school. That was made very clear. When she wasn’t being neglected she was being bullied. Why the fuck would she want to go back?”

You felt a chill run down your spine as he edged closer, his words sharp and venomous. You bared your teeth in a grimace, frightened by his aggressive manner. You weren’t used to men invading your personal space, shouting curses in your face. As a young girl, boys had turned a blind eye to the shy, bookish girl. Now, as a grown woman, men still showed scarce interest in you.

You were utterly unwavering in your beliefs about education and refused to let him frighten you into submission. Bigger people often used their size to intimidate smaller ones, oftentimes not even realizing the effects of their actions. However, you weren’t going to bow down simply because he was more robust than you. Your beliefs were far too important to sacrifice for someone as boorish as him.

“She was at the top of her class given her KAP results, top in the five percent in Kansas for girls in her age group.” you said briskly. “If Lara could beat that top, think of what she could accomplish with help! She could get a scholarship, become something greater than a dairy farmer, or is having a doctor for a daughter beneath a redneck like you?”

He fluttered his eyes shut. There it was. That disdain he was used to. Little did you know...he was fighting his arousal his erection and the urge to put you on your hands and knees on that kitchen floor. If you wanted to call him a redneck, he’d fuck you like one...dirty and unprotected.

The silence was beyond pregnant until his throat bobbed, “Like I said, it’s up to Lara.”

The scent of freshly-brewed coffee filled the kitchen, but neither of you spoke as the minutes ticked by and the silence stretched on. He backed away and poured two cups of coffee. He poured fresh milk into the cups, real cow cream. He leaned against the cupboards and watched you sip from your porcelain mug, taking in the delicate sight. You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, thinking back on what you’d just called him after he saved you from your car.

Redneck...

How could he be so kind in the face of your rudeness?

“Sorry...I didn’t means to call you a redneck...”

He smiled, this time it was filled with cheek, “Oh, yes you did...but I ain’t no soft Lily. Trust me, I’ve been called worse. You think I can’t handle when some hoity toity teacher goes an calls me a redneck?”

You returned the smile shyly. Looking down at your chest, you pinched the fabric. The front was blazing bright red.

He stepped closer and carefully reached out, pinching your shirt, he said with a calm and steady tone, “Yea that’ll probably stain without a good soak.”

You pinched your nose, “It was my aunt’s, I think it’s vintage.”

Clark set his cup aside and jerked his head to the side.

“I reckon I got something for you to wear. You can keep it and soak the dress in the laundry. Lara can talk to you about this mess and I’ll scrub the blood out.”

For a man so stubbornly spoken, he had been remarkably hospitable to you.

As you glanced up at him, the intensity of his dark blue eyes caught your attention. Something about his gaze made you feel unsure of yourself, your heart racing and a slight feeling of unease growing within you. It was as if he were peering directly at your breasts with a hungry look in his eyes. The thought made you feel warm with embarrassment and your breath caught slightly in your throat.

“I think some of my wife’s old clothes will fit you,” he said letting go of your shirt.

His dead wife? Oh god...

“Oh, I don’t need any clothes. I mean, what I have on is perfectly—”

“Stained,” he interrupted. “You really want to be going back to town looking like that? People might think I’ve gone and bashed you....”

You looked down.

“or raped you.”

Your eyes snapped back up. You didn’t know why he jumped to such a salaciously coarse word.

He murmured, “Come with me, then.”

You followed him down through the hallway of his farm house.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“To the bedroom.”

You stopped, blinking at him, he turned to face you with a bitter smile twisted his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he said crudely. “It’s Saturday. I only rape on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

Your eyes blinked again.

“What’s wrong with Saturdays?” those words slid past your lips without any warning, leaving you dumbstruck when you realized what you’d done. You clapped your hands over your face, mortified that you’d accidentally insinuated the possibility of him committing such a heinous act and not just that but almost questioned his intentions towards you in that department. Heat surged into your cheeks as a flood of embarrassment washed over you. Your brain must have short-circuited; there was no other explanation for the idiocy.

Clark was taken aback by your words, the stunned expression on your face making it clear that you had no intention to say them. It had been ages since he’d seen anyone look so horrified, and it took him a moment to realize that you were acutely embarrassed. You were certainly something of a prude, he concluded, with your dowdy appearance and old-maidish manner. So much so that your slip of the tongue was probably the biggest entertainment he’d had in a while. He couldn’t help but grin as his irritation softened again. Yes, this was definitely a highlight for him.

“Not a damn thing Miss Y/L/N,” he chuckled.

You drew yourself up to your full height, your lips firmly pressed together in a rigid expression. “Please do not make fun of me, Mr Kent,” you stated clearly, though it took a great deal of effort to keep your tone even. His sarcastic comment only served to salt the wound you already knew existed. You knew you fell short in the seductive department, but you didn’t need sarcastic reminders to confirm it.

Clark’s straight black brows drew together over his strong nose, “Make fun of you? What? How?”

You sulked sourly, “I am fully aware of how I look. I know I am not the most stunning woman. But surely...” you paused, your eyes shut, “Am I that ugly to look at?”

The choking noise was loud. He was rather gobsmacked. Did you really just say that to him?

His heart was still pounding from when she had whimpered, a lingering throbbing in his loins reminded him that his reaction hadn’t completely subsided. He chuckled bitterly, the sound devoid of humour, his mind playing over again and again what had happened between them. Why not spice up your life a little more?

“Now, don’t play this game with me Missy,” he said

But the way you avoided his eyes.

“Shit. You’re serious? Come on now girl, you gotta know. You damn well know you’re a wet dream...you’re a real head turner. Make men like me all hot and bothered.”

“Hot and bothered, by what?” she asked blankly. It was impossible. She had never made a man… aroused a man in her life.

Heat had been simmering just beneath the surface for too long, and the irritation he felt in the presence of this prim woman was like a spark to a fuse. His iron control had kept him in check when dealing with the townspeople, but something about her, this prim woman, got under his skin. Frustration filled him to the point that he thought he might explode, the tension and desire rising to a pitch that was almost unbearable.

His intentions had originally been to stay far away from you, but now he found himself pulled close by a force he could not resist. Hands gripping your waist, he pulled you closer until you were pressed against him. His mouth came down on yours, covering it in a hard kiss. “Maybe you need a to be shown,” he murmured, his words coming out in deep and breathless. It made the moment even more intense, his desire for you growing with each passing second. He couldn’t keep himself from kissing you again, his lips exploring yours in a passionate, urgent way that left you feeling completely powerless.

You froze as he gently and passionately moved his lips over yours. You couldn’t take your eyes off his long, thick eyelashes, how they brushed your skin. His hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you firmly against his muscled body, causing you to let out a deep gasp.

As soon as your lips opened, he took the opportunity to probe inside with his tongue as if he couldn’t get enough. You trembled, feeling a strange heat deep inside, growing more and more intense. The pleasure became so strong and powerful that it frightened you, not knowing where this might lead. If only you’d known to buy some lingerie this morning before you left to the Kent property....

There was something powerful about the way his lips felt, their firmness bringing you to a state of ecstasy. You could taste his heady flavor, and his tongue was caressing yours with an intensity that invited you to play. But beyond this physical sensation, there was a warm and musky scent drifting from his body. Your breasts pressed up against the taut muscles of his torso, causing the tips of your nipples to tingle in an exciting yet embarrassing manner.

You opened your eyes in sharp disappointment when he pulled away from you. But his intense black gaze was unwavering, like he wasn’t finished with you yet. “Come on girl, kiss me back yes?” he breathlessly pleaded, his tone suggesting he was far from satisfied.

“I don’t know how,” You confessed, still bewildered to what he had just done to you...and you enjoying it.

His eyes fluttered, “Here, I’ll teach you,” his nose nuzzled yours.

He pressed his lips against yours again, and this time you parted your mouth to accept his education. He explored your mouth and demonstrated a pressured patterned that you began mimicking and returning to him. His kisses this became further demanding, filled with panting.

You suddenly felt a frightening excitement explode through your body, growing beyond simple pleasure and transforming into a ravenous hunger. The sensations coursing through you were no longer merely pleasant but overpowering, your heart racing wildly as it hammered against your ribs. The heat within you was unbearable, an intense blaze spreading through you, leaving you panting and aching for more.

Looking into his eyes, you realized that he had felt the same burning desire that was overtaking you now. You were stunned by the revelation, and it made you feel even hotter. You uttered a soft, unconscious sound as you moved closer to his body, unable to control the sensations he had unleashed inside of you. The yearning was unbearable, and you wanted more of him, his experienced touches making the sensations overwhelming and irresistible.

You had never believed it could be like this, such an intense and overwhelming desire. You had been told that some men could be crude and cruel, but those warnings had never prepared you for the intense sensation of burning desire. You had always made the sensible choice to avoid flirting or attempting to attract a boyfriend, yet, here you were, wanting a man to do those very things to you.

The men you had encountered during your time at college and in the workplace had appeared to be normal, not lecherous sex fiends. You felt comfortable around men, and even considered a few of them to be good friends. But you did not consider yourself attractive, or at least, not enough to attract the opposite sex’s attention.

Men had never scrambled to get dates with you or even managed to acquire your phone number. As a result, you hadn’t been exposed to the intense sensations of a man’s embrace and touches, nor the throbbing sensation of his manhood pressing against your thighs. You hadn’t realized how much more you needed, the feeling of his hands roaming your body awakening a hungry desire that grew within you with every touch.

You instinctively locked your arms around his neck and moved your body against his, feeling the waves of frustration and desire increasing within you. The desire was a blaze consuming your body, empty and aching, hungry for more. The new sensations were a flood, your mind overwhelmed by the feeling of your nerves being assaulted. You didn’t know how to control it, the tidal wave of sensation growing with each movement made against him.

Clark jerked his head back, his teeth locked as he relentlessly brought himself back under control. Black fire burned in his eyes as he looked down at you. His kisses had made your soft lips swollen. Your eyes were heavy-lidded as you opened them and slowly met his gaze.

The desire was plain on your face, a look that suggested he had done more than kiss you. You already looked dishevelled, as if he had taken you in his arms and claimed you. In his mind, he had. He wondered how pretty you would look with a ball gag between your teeth. Despite your delicate appearance, you had moved against him with a voracious hunger, your body moving and seeking more.

He knew with the state of your mind, he could take you to bed right now. You were desperate for him, hot past the point of reason. And yet...he decided that it would be best if he would wait for you to make the conscious decision to be with him. Your inexperience was clear, and he’d even had to teach you how to kiss. The thought was suddenly cut off when he realized just how inexperienced you were. You were a virgin, and it was not fair for him to take that without your full consent.

The notion left him dumbfounded. It didn’t seem possible that you could be so innocent, yet there you were, gazing up at him with eyes that were both innocent and full of desire. Your body was pressed tightly to his, your arms locked around his neck, and your legs slightly opened to let him nestle against you. You were waiting for the next move, as you did not know what else to do. Before him you had never even been kissed. No man had touched your soft breasts or your tender nipples. No man had ever shared his love with you.

He swallowed the rock in his throat that threatened to choke him, his eyes still locked with yours. “Alrighty now, missy, that almost took a dangerous turn.”

You jerked away a little, your eyes fluttered, “oh, really?...”

Slowly, because he didn’t want to drop you, feeling how much your knees might collapse under you, he let you slide down to find your feet. Your sweetness would be the death of him...figuratively and literally if you tried to accuse him of something wayward. He was a fiend, a criminal, a man charged with possibly one of the worst crimes known to man. And you were the new miss innocent school teacher coming to talk to him about Lara only for it to almost become a shit show of either moans or wailing squeals.

You should never have come her. The people of Smallville had a knack for gossiping. Lord knows you’d find out the truth eventually and then you’d never want to associate with him again...

So he released you, despite the overwhelming desire to drag you onto his bed and educate you to all there was to pleasuring a man and yourself. Still wrapped around him like a human scarf were your soft arms. Your fingers had tangled up into his dark raven mane. You almost appeared unable to let him go, drunk on new founded lust. He reached up to take your hands and move your arms away from his body entirely.

The softest sound of disappointment left your wet lips...was he rejecting you now? Had you done something wrong...

Your eyes looked up at him in a desperate plea to continue...but his eyes were staring away and over your shoulder.

“I guess I’ll come back later then?” Came a new, young and feminine voice interrupting your blood rushing thoughts.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

    HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

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[midnightscramble]

Hello, I was wondering if I could request a part two to the recent Portia x female reader. It's put together wonderfully. I've been looking for fanfics like this 😭✊

Sugar, Sugar Part 2 (Portia Featherington x fem!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The Masterlist

Author’s Note: thanks you so much, I appreciate your kindness and am glad to be of service! I took a lot of liberties with this so if it is not what you want feel free to request something else (don’t be shy!). Happy readings to you.

Summary: Portia negotiates with Y/n, who is much more intuitive than she thought. A deal is struck between the baker and the Lady. Penelope follows her mother into town, and debates the contents of her next column.

Warnings: Anxiety, brief nail/skin picking, discussion of being widowed, no Beta read

Mornings at the Featherington estate were not to be described as anything but dreadful. Foul moods persisted in all the women and the men knew to take their breakfast separately. Portia sat with her daughters around a small table and they sipped their tea quietly. With squinted eyes they peered at each other over the rims of their cups.

Flatly, Portia began, "I will be going into town on business today. Penelope, Mrs. Varley will accompany you to the Cowper's garden party."

"I am not in need of a chaperone, and besides I am certain that I will not be welcome there, so I will not be attending."

Portia sighed and put her tea cup in it's dish, "Now is not the time to turn down invitations. Since Cousin Jack, or whomever he was, took off, the Ton has been especially gracious in not associating our good family name with his poor behavior. Let us not make light of their tolerance. You will go to the Cowper's party, that is final."

Penelope inhaled sharply, "Fine. If you would excuse me, I am going to take the rest of my breakfast in my room.” Portia scoffed and waved her hand towards the door, inviting Penelope to leave.

…

Once Portia’s carriage took off, Penelope began her covert exit. She had absolutely no intention of attending the Cowper's garden party. It served no purpose to her, as anyone that Cressida invited would surly be aware the unpleasantness between the two, and thus be tight lipped or quick to quip around her. She would rather spend her afternoon in town, lurking in shop corners and listening to other's converse.

...

Arriving at the bakery, Portia felt a chill run down her spine once the aroma hit her nose. Her stomach sank in anticipation, she could not let the comforting environment fool her, Miss Y/l/n was a business woman, and if she had made it this far then she was obviously cunning. Portia never liked cunning women, they saw through her too easily, identifying her as one of their own.

Y/n's head popped out from behind a shelf at the sound of the shop bell, "Ah, Lady Featherington, wonderful to see you again, how did you enjoy the sweets?" She smiled at the redheaded woman, whose sharp edges and dark dress looked completely out of place among the pastel deserts that surrounded her.

"I'm afraid my daughters and their husbands had gotten to them before I had a chance," She should have lied, said some sort of pleasant remark about the pastries, to butter the woman up. However, it seemed as though regardless of how many times she ran through the interaction in her head, she was unequipped in the moment. She took a deep breath and turned to examine a shelf of bagged goodies with faux interest.

The baker's smile faltered, feeling an odd dissatisfaction at Portia's statement. She pursed her lips to contain her feelings, "Well did your daughter's enjoy them?"

Portia turned back around, "Yes, they have sent me with a list of what they would like to order for the foreseeable future."

"Wonderful, let me go get my ledger and then we can discuss. Why don't you take a seat and I'll be back in a minute." Before the Lady could respond, Y/n had already moved to the backroom kitchen, leaving Portia on her own in the front of the shop. She took a seat at one of the tables and drummed her fingers on the surface. She looked out the windows, surveying the mostly empty part of town.

She was unable to inspect the view thoroughly, as Y/n came back out, with her ledger tucked under her arm, holding a tea cup in each hand, and balancing a plate with pastries on her forearm. If the baker had not interrupted her window gazing, she would have caught a glimpse of familiar red hair, dodging into an alley way to not be seen by her mother.

Placing the cups down, Y/n explained, "My apologies for the wait, I figured some hot chocolate would be appropriate. It's a French recipe I've been tampering with, do tell me if its too bitter?"

Portia smiled politely and took a sip. Surprised, she hummed in delight, "That is quite good, not bitter at all..." The baker smiled widely, and felt her cheeks warm at the genuine compliment. Portia put her cup down and moved her hands beneath the table, picking at the skin around her nails as she prepared herself to breach the next topic of conversation. Y/n pushed the plate of pastries between them, and grabbed one for herself to encourage the other woman to follow suit. Portia didn't take the bait.

Irked, Y/n was about to offer verbally, but Portia beat her to speaking, "Shall we discuss the payments for your fine sweets?"

She tossed her hands into the air in frustration, "How do you know my sweets are of fine quality if you have not tried them?" The other woman widened her eyes, this was not going the way she had anticipated, and the baker seemed to care little for conversational etiquette.

"I am not some pet. I cannot eat on command," Portia scoffed, "but if you must know I am not keen on sweets." Y/n narrowed her eyes, everyone was keen on sweets, and the lie was far too blatant given the way she eyed the pastries. Sucking on her teeth, she figured that this must be part of Portia's negotiation strategy. Y/n had never had a stingy client, hesitant one's sure, but never frugal. They did not negotiate, in fact, they threw extra money at her to express their satisfaction once they realized her talent for baking. In this regard, Portia was unlike other members of the Ton.

"Well that is because you have not tried mine." The baker smiled cockily, her eyes holding an intensity that made Portia stutter her response, "I- That is quite the claim, Miss Y/n."

Y/n leaned back in her chair with raised eyebrows. Portia's cagey behavior somewhat reminded her of herself after her husband had passed, a time where she could barely make ends meet. It clicked with her in an instance, the Featheringtons must be experiencing financial troubles.

She hummed, "Well, then allow me to make a proposition." Y/n leaned forward and put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together, "Every evening you shall meet here with me for an hour and I will tempt you with desserts. For as long as you can withstand, you will not have to pay for your orders."

Portia pressed her lips together, trying not to seem too eager for the deal, "That sounds fair, are those the only conditions?"

Without breaking their gaze, Y/n moved her head to the side in suspicion, "If I hear that while at some social gathering you partook in dessert, then the agreement is off."

"Deal." The baker inhaled and her eyes darkened slightly, something deep inside of her, something nasty and possessive, was all too pleased with this turn of events. Portia was her client, and her client alone. Only her sweets would grace those plump ruby lips- She sat back to try and clear her head.

"Now, what would you like to include in your order?"

...

Penelope watched the interaction of the two women, noting her mother's odd behavior. Portia seemed to teeter between being relaxed by the other woman's presence to flummoxed by it. In her pocket sized notebook, she made note of the strangeness.

...

Evening struck, and as agreed upon, Portia made her way back into town. She made a flimsy excuse to her children about turning in early and made a swift departure. Unconvinced, Penelope followed after her.

Although she knew this was purely business related, she could not stop the way her heart pounded in her chest. It was scandalous to be out this late, on her own, still dressed in dinner attire. However she was undeniably excited to see the baker. She had prepared topics of conversation ahead of time, knowing that a lapse in silence would goad her into eating.

Illuminated by candles strewn here and there, the bakery's ambiance felt particularly hypnotic, lulling Portia into the safety of it's warmth. A table in the center of the seating area was dressed with cutlery and a platter in the middle, covered by a silver cloche. Coming from the kitchen with two cups in hand, Y/n smiled at Portia. She knew that there was not a treat in the world that would tempt Portia on the first night of their deal, so she elected for baking a simple passion fruit cake, decorated with whipped cream and drizzled jam atop.

"Take a seat Lady Featherington," She placed, what Portia noticed to be, two cups of coffee on the table. An odd choice given the drinks well known abilities of appetite suppression.

The woman sat across from each other and Y/n uncovered the dessert. Portia narrowed her eyes and sniffed, "While it does have a delicious appearance, it does not tempt me."

Y/n hid her smirk behind her cup before taking a long sip, "I will keep that in mind when planning for tomorrow's temptation."

Portia nodded and began her scripted questioning, "How did you learn to bake?"

The two women engaged in conversation easily, sharing light hearted details of their upbringings and current lives. Portia had to abandon her planned topics, as Y/n seemed more interested in hearing her talk, asking her questions. The intense attention of the baker made her flush. In all her life, no one had listened to her speak with such devotion to detail and scrutiny of exaggerations. Upon multiple instances, Portia found herself having to change routes as Y/n identified her lies and gave her a pointed look, alerting her that she had been caught.

The hour expired and Portia gathered herself as Y/n bid her a goodnight, "I will see you tomorrow."

"You shall."

...

Portia was smiling as she got ready for bed, remembering the way Y/n threw her head back when she laughed. The memory proved contagious as she found herself chuckling softly.

A knock sounded at the door and Portia's smiled dropped as she was brought back to reality, "Come in."

Phillipa entered her room slowly, smiling brightly, "MaMa, I think I have done it..."

Portia lost her breath for a moment, "Do you mean to tell me- its quite early, how can you be sure?"

"A woman knows when she's with child," Phillipa airily responded while shrugging her shoulders. She rushed forward to hug her daughter.

"Oh, Phillipa, I am so proud of you," She cradled her face in her palms and gazed at her hopefully. "You must get plenty of rest, and pray for a boy." Phillipa skipped out of the room and started giggly, leaving Portia to assume that Mister Finch had been waiting outside the room for her.

As she tucked herself into bed she realized that she no longer needed the services of the baker. In truth, she did not want their meetings to cease. She began to reason with herself; it would be good to keep the house filled with sweets, in case guests arrived at calling hour, she did have one single daughter after all.

Settled, she allowed herself to fall asleep, thinking of tomorrow's meeting.

...

When said meeting arrived, Portia had elected for a simpler gown, feeling like she did not have to put on a show for her new friend. It was a deep purple piece that had loose sleeves, the material heavy enough to keep her warm and light enough to not constrict her movements.

The tables had moved since their last meeting, with chairs stacked upon all but one, an obvious sign of the store having been closed. Adorned with a table cloth and two sets of plates, the baker had set up a table by the window. Y/n emerged from the back, handing Portia her tea cup directly, and motioning for her to follow to the table. The red head followed quickly, smiling at the familiarity. It was only the closest of confidants who could greet her wordlessly.

"I present to you..." Y/n picked up the cloche, "chocolate chip cookies." She could tell the Lady was underwhelmed and was incredibly pleased with the outcome.

The two women sat across from each other, both playing their own game, with the same goal of extending their meetings.

"They do not tempt me, I suppose we shall just have to fill the rest of the hour with conversation." Portia pursed her lips innocently.

"Wonderful, I had a topic in mind," Portia tilted her head curiously, "What was your husband like?"

Portia stuttered, "I well, I got married my first year out, the Featherington family was quite respectable. He was charming enough and titled, there was not much more I could ask for."

Y/n hummed and sipped her tea, "Did you not care much for a love match?"

Taking a moment to think about it, Portia let her eyes wonder around the room, "I was raised without the expectation of one. It seemed to be an extra expense that only fools could afford," she took a breath, "did you love your husband?" For an unidentifiable reason, Portia felt her chest pinch while she waited for the response.

The baker looked down at the table, allowing a small smile to grace her lips, "In a way, I did. He was my dearest friend, but we discovered our incompatibility as husband and wife after we had gotten married."

Confused, Portia pressed, "Incompatibility? As in you argued frequently?"

Scrunching her nose, Y/n shook her head and hesitated to respond, "Incompatible in regards to how a man and woman couple..."

Picking up on the implication, she nodded in agreement, "I completely understand. My husband and I were similar, although it did result in the births of my three daughters, and I would suffer it again in a heartbeat to obtain them. Do you have children?"

"No, there was a singular attempt on the wedding night and then we ceased trying, we came to an agreement of sorts."

Portia could not withhold her gasp, "You only tried once?"

The baker laughed, "With him, yes." Portia blanched and let a laugh escape her out of surprise. It seemed her baker never ceased to scandalize her.

"Do not be confused though. It was a part of our agreement, to free each other, and have relations independent of our marriage. My husband was very compassionate and tolerant, I was very lucky to have found him." With a sudden change of thought, Y/n cocked her head at Portia, "Did you ever take on a partner aside from your husband?"

The red head laughed, "No, there was one man who almost charmed me. He used my desperation for respect and security against me, it was a very confusing, vulnerable time for my family. My affection for him turned out to be nothing more than chasing the feelings he imparted on me, not for the man himself." Cousin Jack had been an ugly reminder of her inability to connect with men.

Y/n nodded deeply, "When I first met my husband, his attention felt like basking in the sun. I learned quickly that same feeling could be found in anyone showing me attention, it just so happened that he had been the first."

"Perhaps someone should write a book, to help guide young ladies through courtship," Portia offered and they both laughed.

"I'm sure if we put our minds together, we could cover it all," Y/n joked.

They spent the rest of the evening laughing back and forth, discussing hypothetical chapters of their romantic guide.

"And I can write the final chapter," Y/n put her hands in the air and slowly spread them as if the title would appear "how to find a lover you actually like," Portia laughed indecently at that and felt he cheeks turn red at the thought. She wondered distantly who the baker invited into her bed, but could not bring herself to imagine Y/n being touched by a man.

Portia wanted to know more, desperately so, however the distant sound of the towns bell tower reminded the women that the hour had ceased. Her questions would have to wait until tomorrow.

...

Penelope watched from a distance as her mother stood from the table. She signaled her carriage to come to her, as to arrive home before her Portia did.

The young woman would continue to track her mother's evening movements until she could identify the reason for them. If this were a simple friendship, the baker could surely visit the Featherington estate during calling hour, and thus its complicated nature was revealed.

She knew it was high time to include her family in the Lady Whistledown column again, it was the only way to avoid suspicion from the Queen. With her sisters behaving themselves, relatively, the burden of being the subject of gossip would have to fall to her mother. However, Lady Whistledown had a reputation for correctness, delivering the truth with accuracy and totality. Penelope would not be able to publish until she discovered exactly why her mother was making nightly visits to the town's favorite baker.

[neoneun-au]

CAN’T HELP MYSELF; CHAPTER I: BADBADNOTGOOD

―PAIRING: wonwoo x fem!reader, mingyu x fem!reader ―GENRE: love triangle au, fluff, mild angst, romantic comedy, suggestive, smut (later chapters) ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 5.8K ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: break ups, angst, mild language ―STATUS: ongoing

―SERIES M.LIST HERE

i: badbadnotgood

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“It’s literally fine,” you state, voice edging on manic as you take another sip from the iced coffee clutched in your (only slightly trembling) hands, “I’m literally so fine.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon in September and you find yourself once again sitting at the counter of your friend’s day job, taking advantage of her waning generosity (i.e. free coffee) while avoiding doing any of the multitude of things you should be doing at this moment in time. The aforementioned friend, Seulgi, stands in front of you–lower half obscured by the fake marble counter–clad in a coffee-stained apron and fixing you with an expression of open concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because you look…I don’t mean this to sound insensitive, but you look a little insane. Are you developing a twitch?” 

“I think I might take up running,” you drown the manic edge in your voice with another sip of iced coffee–groaning in disappointment when all that greets your lips is faintly coffee flavoured melt water from your ice cubes. You shake the container to check the contents and with a wave of bitterness confirm that it is, indeed, very empty. 

“You should consider taking up drinking water as a hobby first,” she says, snatching the cup away from you and tossing it into the garbage can under the counter behind her, “and then maybe we can go from there.” 

You heave a sigh and turn to stare out the window, deepening the cliché of the afternoon. A forlorn widow at a bar draped in pearls and fur.

Thursdays were slow, so you always took your time chatting with Seulgi and sipping whatever drink she was gracious enough to make for you. Today had been a “three iced coffees in a row” kind of day and due to extenuating circumstances (read: an incredibly recent breakup) she was being patient. For now. If the steel in her gaze was anything to judge by, her patience was beginning to run thin. 

“I just think that this is the perfect opportunity, Seulgi.” She keeps her eyes trained on your face–steady and unblinking–as you continue to ramble off your tired-but-wired thoughts. “I have so much free time now to do whatever I want, be whoever I want. I haven’t been single in over three years. That’s so long.”

“It is long,” she nods cautiously. A glass of water is set down on the counter in front of you, condensation dripping down the sides, and without thought, entirely on autopilot, you raise it to your lips and take a sip. A small wave of relief ripples over Seulgi’s face as you do.  

“I’ve been living with Wonwoo for two of those years, as well,” you choke the name out despite how it still stalls in your throat, threatening either tears or a coughing fit or both. You’re too bolstered by your false sense of optimism in the present moment to let it stop your monologue in its tracks. “Not going out, only cooking at home, spending more time playing video games and watching Netflix on the couch than I ever have in my life. I don’t have to think about what he wants to watch anymore, I can watch what I want. I can go where I want. I could watch Glee!” 

“Do you want to watch Glee?” She narrows her brows in suspicion but you wave the glance away with a breezy hand gesture. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want to watch,” you shake your head in frustration, “the point is that I can.”

“Right,” she nods, “you’re single now, which was sort of the goal of breaking up with him in the first place. So…live your life.” 

“Yes,” you nod, mentally shoving the words ‘breaking up’ into a small closet in your mind. Not to be opened until you were sufficiently under the influence of a massive amount of alcohol. “Yes, I can live my life.” 

The bell over the front door of the cafe rings out clear through the air, drawing your attention towards a young couple striding in from the windy day outside. Seulgi pushes herself off the counter in front of you and heads to greet them and collect their order–leaving you to continue to stew in your own thoughts. 

Breaking up with Wonwoo had never really been a part of the plan. Two years ago when you moved in with him, you were certain that it was going to be the last relationship you ever had. The hopeless romantic in you had hitched your wagon to him and he made it so easy to build a home around. Your relationship existed as simple domesticity; in simple romance and simple companionship. It was comforting and easy. And that was what scared you the most, in the end.   

Maybe it was too easy. Maybe you were settling. Maybe there was something more out there that you weren’t seeing because you were too content eating the same meals and telling the same stories. Part of you started to ache for a break in routine–some excitement and adventure that he wasn’t able or willing to offer–and after months of turning it over in your mind you finally figured what you had to do to make that happen.

“Have you found a place to stay yet?” Seulgi’s voice calls to you–yanking you unceremoniously out of your brain-stew before it hit the boiling point. The young, beige clad couple had settled themselves into a corner booth and Seulgi had come to take up her spot leaning on the counter across from you once more. 

“No,” you sigh, shoulders falling. The one sticking point in your resolve to leave your boyfriend (ex-boyfriend now, you suppose) had been the apartment. Aside from it being the home you had made together, you didn’t really have any idea where else you could stay. For the past week you had been sleeping on the couch and disappearing as fast as possible before Wonwoo could wake up. Avoidance became key to your survival. 

A few friends had suggested you keep the apartment and he could move back in with his old college friend Jihoon, but you already felt too bad breaking up with him in the first place to then subsequently kick him out of an apartment that he also had every right to live in. So, maybe somewhat foolishly, you volunteered to leave. 

“What about Jeonghan, didn’t you say he had a room free at his place?” Seulgi nudges the now lukewarm glass of water towards you as she speaks and you take another sip, wincing at the mention of Jeonghan’s name. 

“He did,” you reply, setting the glass back down on the counter with a satisfying thud. From the moment he heard about the break-up he had offered as much accommodation to you as possible. You had been roommates for six months in college and it went as smoothly as it possibly could have at that age, so you knew you could live with him in a pinch. Although you suspected the main driving force behind his offer was to keep his own rent at his massive condo as cheap as possible.  

“And his place is a bad idea because…?” 

“He has like three other roommates already,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands. That was the only catch to rooming with him–strangers. All sense of optimism and bravado vacated your body at the thought of having to get to know new people. You no longer wanted to change your life for the better, you wanted to dig yourself into a soft pit in the earth and sleep for 1000 years. 

“So?” Seulgi asks and you groan deeper at her blatantly missing the source of your frustration, “you’ll have your own room. Besides, haven’t you been friends with him for like…ever?” 

“But they’re all dudes, Seulgi,” you whine, splaying your arms out across the counter. 

“You’ve lived with a dude for the past two years, what’s the difference?” 

“I’ve sworn them off,” you state as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and she just stares blankly back at you. 

“Dudes?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve sworn off…all dudes?” 

You nod, grateful she finally gets it, “yes.” Her steady gaze bores into you as you straighten your posture and readjust your hair before finally coming out with the question you had been meaning to ask since you stumbled into the cafe three hours ago, “can I move in with you?”

She barks a short laugh, shaking her head–her bright orange ponytail waving behind her as she does. You sit, patiently waiting for her response and ignoring the pit of vipers in your stomach biting at your nerves. After a moment she sobers up and brings her expression back to one of practised neutrality, “oh, you’re being serious.”  

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You know I live with my parents, right?” 

“Yeah, but they know me. I’ve met them.” 

“You’ve met them once,” she clarifies, stressing the last word. “I don’t think they really want to have another body in our house. It’s not exactly palatial.” 

“That’s fine, I don’t need much room,” you shrug and she heaves a sigh. 

“_____, you need to find a place that is a more permanent solution than crashing on my parent’s couch. Just look around online for some roommate ads, you can find plenty that are female only.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, gathering your bags to leave. “You’re right, I should just do that.” 

“You’re leaving before close today?” She asks, slightly taken aback at the sudden shift in routine. 

“Yeah, I mean I don’t want to keep loitering and distracting you from your customers,” you nod, slinging your purse over your shoulders. Seulgi takes a cursory glance around the cafe–eyebrow cocked. The singular couple that had been occupying a table in the small space had already left, leaving behind a wayward glove as the only sign they had been there in the first place.

In an effort to avoid as much contact with Wonwoo as possible, you had been doing all of your work (read: moping and avoiding your actual job) from the safety of the cafe walls on the days Seulgi worked, and the library on days she didn’t. It was a nice cafe but with the university students not yet back for the start of fall semester, it wasn’t an especially busy spot this time of year. 

“Besides,” you start, pushing yourself off the stool and stretching out the kink that had developed in your spine from leaning dramatically over the counter for the past 3 hours, “Wonwoo is usually working late Thursday nights so I can have some time alone to browse through rental listings.” 

“Oh okay. Well good luck,” Seulgi waves you off and you think she might look slightly relieved as you push open the door of the cafe and step out into the fresh air. 

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Wonwoo, as it turns out, was not working late this Thursday night.

Instead, as you walk into the apartment at a quarter past 5 in the afternoon, you find him leaning against the kitchen counter waiting for a pot of water to come to a boil. 

His back is turned to you, head bowed forward as he scrolls through his phone. You freeze in place, bag swinging at your side, for a moment–staring at the back of his head as he remains blissfully unaware of your presence. 

If you were still dating, you would have snuck up behind him and wrapped your arms around his slender waist, tucking your face into the space between his shoulder blades. He always smelled like the faint remnants of his cologne–softened with wear throughout the day–and a strange combination of mint and coffee that you could only ever describe as ‘Wonwoo’. 

If you were still dating, he would have laughed softly–silently–at the sudden intrusion while twisting around the pressing his lips to your forehead, mumbling a quiet “hello,” against your skin. 

If you were still dating, you would have taken half of the ramyun he was cooking and sat together eating on the couch while chatting about your days, or watching whatever TV show had been in your rotation at the time. A comfortable stillness would have settled over you as you sunk back into each other as you so often did. With ease and flow. 

If you were still dating you wouldn’t be standing like a deer in headlights, staring at the back of his head. Waiting for the pin to drop. You wouldn’t be frantically trying to think of an exit plan before he took notice of your presence in the room. Your muscles tense to bolt at the slightest movement from him.

If you were still dating you might have known what to do when he finally did notice you there. When he turned to face you and you could see, even in the dim lighting of your small apartment, the redness in his eyes. But you weren’t still dating, so instead of instinctively knowing what to do you just waved at him with your pathetic, useless hands. 

“Umm hi,” you stutter the words out as you let your bag slip off your shoulder to the floor, kicking it to the side of the entryway. “I didn’t think you’d be home until later.” 

“Took the day off,” he replies, turning back around to add two packs of noodles into the now boiling water. You nod and slip off your jacket, feeling distinctly like an intruder inside of your own home. 

The obvious bags under Wonwoo’s eyes didn’t help with that feeling.

In fact, the more you watch him out of the corner of your eye, the more you start to feel like at your core you were actually a very evil person. Here he was, standing unkempt in the t-shirt you had bought for him last Christmas while you stood on the other side of the room from him alive and breathing and like you hadn’t broken his heart only days prior.

The tense silence from moments before is replaced by static in your mind as you let the guilt consume you–raging like a fire through your thoughts and burning everything it touches. ‘Evil, awful, terrible, horrible, bad, bad, bad person,’ it chants–over and over twisting and turning inside of you. A mantra for all the things you’ve done wrong. It buzzes inside of your head so loudly that you hardly notice Wonwoo speaking to you until he clears his throat in question and calls to you by name. 

“Sorry,” you start, putting a lid on the buzzing in your mind, “I didn’t hear you. What?” 

“Are you hungry?” he repeats himself, already setting out two bowls of ramyun on the small kitchen table before you can muster up a response. You take a seat without a word, wincing at the sound of the chair scraping against the vinyl flooring, disturbing the silence like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Thanks,” your voice is sheepish. He nods in acknowledgement and begins to slurp back his noodles, eyes trained on his phone screen as he avoids meeting your gaze. 

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the occasional clinking of chopsticks against the sides of your bowls. You sit, watching Wonwoo and waiting. Waiting for something to happen to break the stalemate. To cut the tension and alter the current status quo. 

You want him to scream. To yell at you, to throw something. Anything more than just…sit. In silence. Looking at his phone. ‘If you get mad at me I will get on my hands and knees and beg you for forgiveness,’ you think to yourself, telepathically sending him the hint you so desperately want him to pick up on. ‘Give me some emotion, for the love of god.’ 

The sticking point in your relationship had always been his introspection. Sometimes it was a boon. He went inwards to see things you often couldn't see on the outside. It was nice, having someone so thoughtful. Someone who sat back and observed; taking note of everything, never reacting blindly. 

But as the days ticked ever onward, and you remained in that same place of ease and comfort, you began to wish he would. React. Make any move purely on emotion. Share his ugly, dirty, messy thoughts–even if they were never fully formed, even if they were retracted a second later. 

Instead he remained–steady, stoic–and the desire inside of you for passion and change burned brighter and brighter until you couldn't stand it anymore. Until it nearly blinded you with its intensity. 

Even during the break-up, when you sat across from him at this same kitchen table, with a combination of tears and mascara running down your face, he sat still and calm. Listening. Observing. You sat there with your heart bared blood red on your sleeves and your feelings spilling out before him from the open wound of your mind–more vulnerable than you had ever felt in all your years of dating. And you watched, splayed open, as he retreated further and further from you, locked his emotions and heart back up into himself. He remained even as you pleaded for him to give you something–anything–other than that. 

So you left. 

And then came back an hour later because you didn’t know where the hell you were going in the first place and besides you had left your wallet and phone behind and what were you going to be able to do without those aside from sit on a park bench. You snuck back in through the front door and expected to see him in shambles on your bed or wailing dramatically along to a comfort film. Instead you found him three games deep into an extended Overwatch session. 

Now, days later, you find yourself once again hoping against hope for him to give you something. Something other than the (mostly) cold-shoulder you had received for the past few days when you did accidentally bump into him. You needed it. It might feel less painful if it felt like he cared more. More than hiding his tears behind whatever wall he had built inside of himself.

The silence bites at you again as Wonwoo gathers the bowls to clean up–checking yours first to see that you’ve finished, the way he always does–and you trail behind him into the small galley kitchen. 

“So, umm,” you start, unsure of what you’re about to say but unable to stop yourself from saying whatever it was anyway. If he wasn’t going to talk, you would. “How’s work?” 

“Same as usual,” he shrugs, setting the bowls into the sink. You can see his shoulders tensing under his shirt as you talk, and that monster of guilt peeks its head up inside of you for a split second before you shove it aside and continue. 

“I think I might have found a place to live,” you say suddenly, surprising even yourself.

“Oh?” His hands still in the sink, and he turns towards you–fully facing you for the first time since that night. The eye contact makes your breath catch in your throat–you can see more clearly now the redness in the whites of his eyes, the dark rings encircling them. Guilt rears his head once more. Regret. And a small–incredibly small, but still present–flush of victory. A reaction, finally. 

“Yeah,” you nod, spurred on by nerves and a desire to keep the tense silence at bay for as long as possible, “umm, Jeonghan offered me a room at his place.” 

“Jeonghan?” 

“Yeah, you remember him. Blonde guy–well I guess he wasn’t blonde when you met him, I think his hair was like…long and purple, or maybe blue–?” you catch yourself rambling, Wonwoo stands–hands poised still over a bowl–clutching a dripping dish rag. 

“I remember him, yeah,” he turns back to the dishes, scrubbing at the bowls but you can tell that you still have his attention. 

“Anyway, he offered to let me move in there. I just need to let him know when and then the room is mine,” you finish the thought and nod as if signing the lease agreement with your words despite this being the first time you’ve even seriously considered the offer.

“Doesn’t he have a bunch of roommates already?” Wonwoo shakes the water off the bowl–from a set of dishes you had bought together shortly after moving in–and sets it gently in the drying rack off to the side of the sink before moving on to the next one. 

“Yeah, like three,” you state, watching his forearms flex and unflex as he scrubs at an old stain in the grey ceramic, “but it's a five bedroom condo and one of his old roommates–Dino, I think was his name? I only met him once at that one murder mystery party they were throwing,” you catch yourself rambling again and take a quick breath to rearrange your thoughts, “anyway he just moved out so now they have an empty room.” 

Wonwoo nods, the way he always does when he is considering what to say, and you wait. Silence creeps back in for a moment–the only sound is the water whirling through the drain–before he turns back to you with one eyebrow slightly raised, “do you even want to live with that many people? You like having your space.” 

“I mean,” you hum, “I don’t really have many other options.” 

“You could stay here,” he says after a breath–voice barely above a whisper–and you feel your heart stutter in your chest. Is this it? Is this the moment he breaks through his walls and fights for what he wants? Fights for you? Wonwoo clears his throat, and you wait, breath held, for him to continue, “at least until you can find something better.”

The hope you had built–a delicate house of cards stacked on his words–crumbles and you can feel yourself physically deflate. “No,” you shake your head, “thanks but…I think this will be good. I feel good about it.” You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more with this statement.

“Well,” he nods once, slowly, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, “as long as you’re sure.” 

“I am,” you try and offer the most assuring smile you can muster despite how entirely unsure you feel about the snap decision, only letting it fall from your face once he tucks the last bowl away and slips into the dark of the bedroom. 

.

.

.

“Okay,” Jeonghan grins, taking the seat across from you at the kitchen table, “house rules.” 

After your last interaction with Wonwoo you had tried in vain to think of any possible reason you could back out of the spontaneous declaration of your new living arrangements. Even going so far as to dig through the personal ads on numerous websites, seeking any even remotely attractive alternative that you could use to move into immediately and hide your shame before it grew big enough to swallow you whole. 

It took only two hours and 10+ ads seeking “female companionship for free room and board” with blurry attached photos for you to give up and just message Jeonghan. To which he promptly replied with an ‘I knew I’d hear from you ;)’.

The move had been relatively simple after that. Jeonghan had roped one of your new roommates, a guy called Seungcheol, into hauling nearly all of your stuff down five flights of stairs to the moving truck you had rented for the occasion and then back out of the moving truck and into your shared condo. Two days and nearly twenty boxes later, you sit across from Jeonghan in the condo you were now going to have to call your home for the foreseeable future.

“Rule one,” he begins, holding up a finger to emphasize the number as if it wasn’t abundantly clear, “wash your own dishes. If the dishwasher is full and clean, empty it and then add your stuff.” You open your mouth, poised to speak, but he stops you with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I know you will, I’m not worried about you, I just have to be excessively clear on this point after the last incident we had.” Jeonghan ends the sentence with a somber shake of his head and you decide it’s probably best not to ask what said “incident” was.

“Second, the movie The Notebook is banned from this apartment.” 

“What? Why?” 

“The last time we watched it it took three hours to peel Mingyu off the couch,” he shakes his head, “trust me you don’t want to see a six foot tall man in that extreme of a state of distress. It’s…hard to watch.” 

“Okay…” the worry you had felt prior to moving your stuff into the apartment metamorphosizes now into pure confusion. You weren’t sure what exactly to expect living with four adult men, but suffice it to say this was not it.

“Rule three is simple: no overnight guests on Sundays.” 

“Why Sundays?”

“It’s the Lord’s day,” he explains, face showing no hint of a bluff as you flounder for a response, mouth agape. “Kidding, it’s really just because if we didn’t have a set day there would always be someone here with the amount of people that live in this condo. It’s just for my own peace of mind. Not that Dino was much of a concern with that and considering…circumstances you won’t be either.” 

“Got it,” you nod, ignoring the sleight and wondering if you should have brought a notepad. 

“Honestly, that’s pretty much it for the hard rules. Everything else is just…be conscious of the people you live with. But I know I don’t have to worry about that with you, you lived with Wonwoo,” he laughs but stops himself as your expression falters, clearing his throat with a cursory cough. “Anyway, we’re all really excited to have you here.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, feeling the weight of the world settle back on your shoulders. You can’t remember ever being so tired. “Thanks again, Jeonghan, for letting me stay here.” 

“Of course,” he smiles, patting your folded hands in a gesture of comfort, “this is your home now, and we’re happy to have you.” 

You glance around the room, trying to place that word in with the surroundings you find yourself in. Trying to make it fit. “Home”. 

The kitchen is a good size, with more than enough space for multiple people trying to cook at once. The fridge is relatively new, stainless steel, and equipped with a water dispenser which was something you definitely did not have at your apartment (Wonwoo’s apartment, now, you remind yourself). The dishwasher is also a welcome addition, and you're happy with the prospect of not having to hand wash every dish you use. 

The apartment in general is in good condition. It is clear, despite your previous assumptions, that everyone here puts some level of care into their living space and you appreciate that. It makes you feel a little better about living with a group of men who (beyond Jeonghan) you barely know. 

But still, despite the relative cleanliness and general coziness of the space, it is still hard to envision yourself ever being able to fit the word ‘home’ here in these four walls. Home is still a word that until recently had only made sense in one place–in the arms of one person. And you had destroyed that. Chopped it's head clean off like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Maybe you don’t deserve the word anymore. 

“So,” Jeonghan begins, offering you a wide smile, “we were thinking pizza for dinner. Something fun and easy to welcome you into the place. Mingyu wanted to cook but I talked him out of it, it’s too formal. Mingyu and Vernon will be home later. I think you might have met them once before. Seungcheol you already know, he’ll be back later too, he spends a lot of time at the gym. If you ever need a gym buddy I’m sure he would salivate at the opportunity.”

You nod, unfocused. You’re following his words but your mind is a million years away. Jeonghan, tuned in as ever, notices you drifting and stops in his tracks. “You must be tired,” he concludes, a knowing glint in his eyes, “why don’t you head to your room and I’ll leave you be for a while. Let you get settled in. Feel free to come out and join us whenever.” 

“Thank you,” you breathe, already halfway out of the kitchen.

“I’ll call you out for dinner later, if you like,” he turns to you, a soft encouraging smile painted over his lips and you can’t help but return it in kind before disappearing down the hallway. 

.

.

.

Five minutes alone and you dissolve completely. 

Every emotion you had been holding back behind the dam of your desire to keep a straight face for the sake of everyone else around you floods forward as you unpack your first box and you fall onto your bed in a what can only be described as a fainting spell interspersed with waves of crying and not uncharacteristic wheezing. All thought to your roommates completely ignored in the midst of the hysterics. 

Somewhere in the middle of the wailing, you think you hear Jeonghan call your name through your door but you’re too all consumed by your sadness to reply to him. Instead you bury your head into your pillows like a flamingo in the sand to muffle the sound of your crying until you fall asleep with your tears drying to a crust on your cheeks.

When you finally come to, the sun is gone and your room is lit only by the light pollution of the city seeping in through your blinds. Your face feels swollen and puffy from all of the tears and your throat is sandpaper–for a brief second you’re afraid you might have lost your voice. A dull headache pounds through your entire skull. You feel as miserable as you’re sure you deserve to feel at this point in time. 

With a sigh you slide off your mattress, letting your feet fall to the vinyl floor with a thud and reach to grab your phone from the nightstand that Dino left behind when he moved out. 

A single text notification sits unopened on your phone. 

[jeonghan] there’s pizza in the kitchen if you get hungry. introductions can wait until tomorrow.

So they did just decide to leave you alone for the time being. Good. Considering your current emotional state, you didn’t think meeting new people was a good idea. The first impression was already shot since you’re sure they heard you wailing through the thin walls of the apartment. 

You consider just going back to sleep without any dinner, but your stomach answers the thought with an insistent rumble that you don’t think you’d be able to stave off for too long before it gets cavernous. You push yourself from the bed and pad out into the hallway–cautiously stretching your head out first to see if anyone else is wandering around. 

Three slices of pizza sit wrapped on a plate in the fridge, illuminated in the dark of the kitchen and you feel your sour mood lift slightly at the sight. You eat them cold, standing in your bare feet and wrinkled clothes alone in the kitchen.

The dishwasher is clean when you go to place the plate inside, but considering time you decide it would be worse to unload the whole thing for one measly plate so you run it under the tap for a few minutes–scrubbing at one stubborn spot of hardened cheese with the sponge. 

“I think it’s clean,” a voice calls out behind you and you startle–nearly dropping the dish in the sink at the sudden intrusion.

“Wha–! Fuck,” you exclaim, inhaling a sharp breath to slow your heart back down to a normal pace. 

“Sorry,” the voice chuckles, low and easy, and you find yourself praying that if you pretend he’s not there he will leave before you have to turn around and face whatever man the voice belongs to. “Did I scare you?” 

No dice. “No, it’s fine I was just thinking about something–” you pivot slowly on one foot and are immediately grateful that you’re lit only by ambient lighting, “–else.” 

Immediately upon turning around you come face-to-face with a dripping wet and uncomfortably bare torso. You snap your gaze up to his face, avoiding further eye contact with his nipples, and the knot of nerves in your stomach tightens. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he laughs again–casual despite his state of undress and your clear distress. You feel your head shake no without your permission, betraying you and forgiving the hidden apology in his words. “Not a great first impression, I gather.” His smile is bright, but a little lopsided and bashful. It conjures up images of your childhood dog when he would track mud in through the house from the backyard, eyes big and wet and brown and sure that any sleight would be forgiven immediately based purely on his cuteness.

“It’s fine,” you clear your throat, words finally returning to you, and glance around for a possible exit strategy while still trying to avoid staring directly at his (admittedly very well built) chest. 

“I’m Mingyu,” he smiles, extending a hand to you and you take it briefly, feeling the warmth of it on your own like a shock. Not an entirely unwelcome one. 

“Mingyu?” you ask, partly to clarify and partly to give yourself a chance to regain your thoughts. You notice his hand is still in yours and you drop it, letting your own hand fall back to your side–flexing the fingers as if to shake off the warmth of his.

“Yeah,” he laughs again and you wish he would stop. 

“You live here?” 

“I do,” he nods, still smiling. “That would be why I am standing in the kitchen at 1:00am.” 

“Oh, umm…yeah of course. Yeah,” you slide sideways against the counter behind you until you’re no longer parallel to him, preparing to bolt back to your bedroom at the slightest provocation. 

“Anyway, sorry we had to meet like this, it’s not really ideal.” 

“No,” you shake your head–thoughts numb from hours of crying and the shock of his arrival in the kitchen. 

“We can re-do our introductions in the morning, hey?” There is a hopeful lilt in his voice and you can't help but agree–feeling a little like a nervous rabbit being placated by clumsy hands. He steps aside and you slip past him, grateful at being on the other side of the kitchen and not trapped between his body and the counter. “Sleep tight.” 

You feel his eyes lingering on you as you shuffle back to your bedroom, but you resist the suffocating urge to turn around and check. The door closes behind you with a soft click and you lean all of your weight against the wood, unsure of your legs' abilities to keep you upright for more than a second longer. 

“Fuck,” you whisper into the darkness and are answered by sirens as they race by outside of your window. “This is not good.”

© 2023, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

[bizarrebazaar13]

anyone got resources for what the court of mongke khan was like? I have a gracious widow fic marinating in my brain

[cxlamarisalxmi]

Being Miguel’s daughter in a universe where he is your Doc Ock

[Platonic Drabble]

c/w: canon divergence and ignorance (Miguel is Doc Ock in your universe), violence, angst, fighting, she/her pronouns, fem!teen!reader

a/n: the beauty of the multiverse is that there are so many different possibilities for authors and fanfic writers to make up in their stories and this has been rotting in my brain for DAYS <3

—

[Unedited]

Life’s far from fair.

That’s something you had come to learn and accept in the years you spent isolated and alone.

You hadn’t always been alone, no.. at first it was you and your dad. And you loved him with everything you had, offering the bleeding heart in your chest to him in the palms of your hands. And before everything went wrong he had tenderly accepted your gracious vulnerability, and offered his own in turn. To him, you were the brightest and most precious blessing he had ever been given.. and to you— he.. was.. everything.

He meant more to you than anything ever had before.. or since—

“You can’t win Widow!”

—but things change.. life goes on, and only the strong can survive. That’s why you couldn’t afford to withhold any power or capability you had.

Regardless of the fact the enemy you were fighting was your own father, the father you had given everything to, the father you believed would protect you from everything until the end of time.

But.. it just didn’t seem to be written into your destiny. Like a cruel joke or slip of the pen on your life’s journey written by a wicked god— you just weren’t meant to have happiness. Maybe you believed you did for a brief moment in your life when things couldn’t have been better. But now, now you know of the cruel evils in this world, and you know now more than ever.. that people have a way of altering your perspective on the world.

People have a way of letting you down. The hurt tremendous and sharp when it comes from a person you had loved with all your heart.

“You have to stop Miguel! This isn’t right! I’m begging you— please don’t make me do this!”

When you first discovered your father’s alter-ego and the criminal activity he was involved in he had done his best to hide what he’d been doing behind your back. Done his best to protect your innocence to the vile things he’s done unto others.

It was a heartbreak like no other, one you’d never felt before and have only been feeling since. Your father, whom you admired and cherished more than anything, was evil.. and things only dramatically got worse when you were bitten by a radioactive spider and became the Neon Widow of Nueva York-12557.

Only a year later —on your seventeenth birthday— did you come face to face with your father as his much eviler side— Doc Ock.

In some of his shared stories that he always told you regarding his work —a genetics laboratory— you had heard of the possibility of psychological and physical altercation. And he had developed a serum that could mimic the attributes of a spider through splicing one’s DNA ladder and atomic makeup.

Before he could complete his tests with the finished product he was thrown out of the lab and fired, Norman Osborn finding his serum to be dangerous with life changing affects on the receiver. He didn’t want that for anybody.. much less his very best friend. So he tried to deter Miguel from the path he had intended to walk by removing him from the lab entirely.

What Osborn didn’t know was that Miguel had been developing something else on the side, mechanical arms connected directly to his brain through the spinal cord. And Norman had caused for them to fuse to his body and alter the way he thought when he had —in Miguel’s own words— betrayed him.

It was by sheer bad luck alone that you had been there to witness your father take the life of his best friend. And it was that moment in time when your own brain had altered to an entirely different path. The fear running so deeply and bitterly frosted through your veins had electrified your entire body. Like thousands of volts of electricity right through your spine.

The feeling didn’t compliment your heartbreak well, heartbreak that felt more like your heart thickening and growing weighted in your chest. Instead of the familiar twinge of betrayal and hurt there was only a sinking feeling, your heart like lead as it sunk slowly through your chest into the gaping pit in your stomach.

And every moment following had been worst than the last, as Neon Widow— the defender of Nueva York you had to swallow your ache and push your feelings aside to uphold the mantle you had taken up. The city needed you, the people needed you… all you needed— was your father. But it was not meant to be.

You’ve had a few close calls with him, every once in awhile he’ll get close to unmasking you and that risk drives every last bit of fight you had to prevent that. If he couldn’t see an end to your battle in which he’d either reveal your identity or kill you then he’d retreat.

You figured he was so intent on taking the mask off your face because you had faked your death as his daughter, and he wholeheartedly believed Neon Widow had killed her. He thought you as your hero persona murdered you as his one and only child.. the light and purpose of his entire life.

Maybe a small part of you felt remorse for his pain.. but… after you witnessed him kill a man and become something so vile and cruel you couldn’t run the risk of him finding out you were Neon Widow. His enemy.

And every time you think back to it your already broken down and tired heart aches a bit more.

You just couldn’t stand to see him be someone he was not, the young and naive little girl within still hiding behind barbed and thick defenses believes in her loving heart that her father is still in there somewhere. The more matured and grown part of you reasons that he had been part of criminal rings and the wrong side of the world since you were young. Just not with you.

And there was a part inside of you alongside that little girl that yearned for her father. That yearned and begged for love so deeply that she was blind to the many arching pathways and dark corners that abide within love.

But you were not so disadvantaged anymore. And you weren’t stupid either. So, whilst sometimes you wished to entertain that innocent little girl you knew first and foremost that your job as Neon Widow was to protect the people. Above all else.

Miguel willed a tentacle from his back to hurl a car your way, your senses tingled as you ducked backwards into a back handspring to avoid it. When you straightened and jumped back up your senses tingled again— he was right on top of you, and you weren’t quick enough to react as his tentacle gripped your throat and lifted you off the ground. He reared it back and threw you with the night of a god into a nearby cafe. The glass window shattering to pieces as you went right through it and several tables within before you tumbled to a stop against the far wall.

When your senses tingled again you jumped backwards and stuck to the wall, a car crashed into the wall you were just against with a heavy impact. The metal crushing in on itself and the windows shattering.

You show a web from your wrist to the building outside and swung back out onto the street, only to be met with another tentacle at your throat. This time he slammed your back hard against the brick wall of the building you’d just attached your web to.

And you grunted as the breath in your legs was forced out with a cough, the impact made your head jerk back and hit the brick roughly. An unfortunate consequence of the fight that made you dizzy and disoriented— enough for Miguel to peel your mask off your face.

And he froze as the mechanical claws of his added appendage tightened around your throat. You grunted with a wince, wrenching your eyes shut before you were squinting them open and staring directly into your father’s.

“[Y/Name]?” He murmured brokenly, more so when he saw the blood gushing from the lacerations on your face. Injuries that he put there unknowing you as Neon Widow were his daughter.

“Dad.” You choked back.

“I-I.. I thought you-you were dead mi vida.” You watched as his hand rose and just before it connected to your face you were suddenly free falling backwards. Strange streaks of light flying past you before you were thrown out of the dizzying array of colors and rushing lights.

You found yourself in a room as opposed to the street you had been on seconds prior, the room was wide and large. With a high ceiling and —as you stood and looked around— several panels of technology.

Your senses tingling made you spin around as the sound of some kind of whirring conveyer erupted in the otherwise silent room. And you watched as a panel above— now revealed as a platform, slowly began to lower. And as it got low enough for you to see on top of it you saw your father there. The fear and hurt in your chest burned for all of threes seconds before it was snuffed out as you noticed what he wore

Instead of the familiar black jumpsuit with a matching trench coat, this man wore a red and blue spider suit, just like yours but if the colors were inverted and slightly different.

And you quirked a brow when he looked to you with the same curious, horrified expression.

“[Y/Name]?”

“Dad?”

—

a/n: kinda hate the ending but oh well lol, it might’ve changed a touch like right in the middle and there’s also a small possibility that it doesn’t make sense how you discovered him but it’s 3 in the damn morning so it’s unedited and i’m more interested in going to sleep :p but hope you enjoyed anyway! <3