#he has the anger of a thousands suns

[casually-eat-my-soul]

I need my stiles to be as feral and angry as Derek if not more. Like it doesn’t matter what scenario or au you put them in stiles has to be just or more insane than Derek.

Like in canon even though stiles was “afraid” of Derek and others werewolves he still squared up. He’d fight god if he could and honestly I’d put money on stiles if he’d had enough prep time, maybe even without it.

Like I’ve read a fic when Derek was a bully (???) and stiles let him get away with hurting him? Stiles would punch him in the face same as he did Jackson and if that doesn’t work cause you know the whole werewolf thing— stiles would hit Derek over the head with a baseball bat.

Please stiles is unapologetically himself and not to be fucked with

[grease-weasel]

HE IS SO SMALL @grimbothefool

[hwan-g]

( 𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑯 ) ୧ ⠁

ೀㅤ۪ pairing. biker/drug dealer! chris x fem! reader : genre. age gap, dark romance, angst, smut : warnings. read at your own risk — mdni ! use of pet names, smoking, explicit sexual content, possessiveness, obsession, severe anger issues, violence, flawed characters that make mistakes : word count. 10.1k

ೀㅤ۪ synopsis. he was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. it’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. no. peace is a foreign word. reserved only for you.

PROLOGUE.

You cannot begin telling this story if you don’t first punch your own mouth. His gun, safety off, shiny and awful in the dead of night, the barrel of it pointing at your temple, a patient irony. It’s three in the morning and the red bleeding is sweet, oh so sweet.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know? He loves you so much, he’ll kill you. He loves you so much, you’re calling for help. Of course, it cannot be your voice, and if he gives you another chance, you’ll say everything differently this time around like—this bed is where he fucked me slow and rough, I think he was trying to bury some part of himself in me, and here, you see, the sheets smell just like his cigarettes, and this, here, is where he brushed my hair, just like this, so careful, but never mind the cracks in the mirror, the shattering is always the same, it has nothing to do with me, everything to do with him.

You hear his voice in your head all the time, haunting, your dutiful ghost; he’s there when you sleep, he’s there when you wake up, a nightmare concealed as a daydream, and you want him to do his worst, you want it to hurt, to scar, to be a permanent mark, because it’d mean you’d loved him; that love has been here and it was ugly and terrifying, and you survived it, even if you could never survive him.

Upstairs, the bed is unmade, stained with wine and your climax. Chris is gentle in all the ways he is not, which is to say he kisses you with teeth, he holds you with fists. You saw him on a black motorcycle once, an impressionable girl in a dark place, lost, searching for purpose, and he looked like a knight in shining armor, he looked like hell and heaven combined, a savior and captor, and you’d wished to crawl inside, to make a home out of him. You’d smiled and waited, you've always waited, you always will.

When he came, he was so cruel, he burned brighter than fire—you believed in him; after all, how can a man be so consumed by flame and not put his own hands around his neck, not succumb to his charcoal painted flesh? You were a fool, and he saw it, and you paid the price for it. He wants to keep you forever now, he’s never going to let you go, do you understand that? Why, why, why did you go ahead and do that?

For what? A scrap of metal heart and a ribcage, bone and muscle?

What about your own heart?

What about the eternal winter residing when he's not there?

ACT ONE: before.

He smiles and the world expands. His face blooms into a thousand different shades; the pink of his mouth curving, the red of his cheeks rounding, the dark of his brow straightening. A stop motion picture, the beginning of autumn, the turn of the leaves, the crisp air replacing warm winds.

His fingers weave through yours, interlocking, thumb running down index, mouth a breath over yours, so close he could graze your lips if he wanted to. You look between you, noses touching, then back to brown so deep you imagine raw honey gliding, real amber in the face of the sun.

Chris. You whisper his name in your head. It sounds like a secret. Your best kept one. Chris, Chris, Chris . . .

There’s blood on his shirt underneath the leather jacket. There’s a loaded gun on his belt strap, a knife tucked in his boot, a razor engraved on the ring he wears, and he’s not so careful with it, and you don’t think you want him to be. You assume it’s normal to want this—if his blood mixes with yours, well, isn’t that enough to take you with him? Isn’t that almost a wedding ceremony, isn’t that almost a declaration of war?

Do you think I’m crazy, you think to yourself. Do you think I’m crazy, would you want me if I am, would you want me, do you want me? You don’t dare say it out loud, but he’s staring at you as if he could eat your face raw—a demon, a demon—and shove the rest of you in the deep freezer, so you decide to bite him instead. You get on your tippy toes and nuzzle into his neck, biting the soft flesh underneath his earlobe.

He doesn’t exclaim, not a hiss, not a gasp, not even the slightest of inhales. He withstands the pain you inflict him, and you feel his desire digging into the inside of your thigh. His arms reach out around you, pulling you to him in that all-encompassing way, and you’re left to witness what can only be the slow consumption of your beating heart. His bike groans under the sudden weight, but he’s got you. You don’t think, then, of what that entails.

“(Y/N).”

The night sky comes into focus, all dark indigo, starless, and the streetlights flicker bright, sounding the late hour. The light never seems to go anywhere near you two, it refuses, it hesitates, and back then you found it all so mysterious and exciting, ignoring the warning bells, swallowing down the instinct of danger, danger, danger.

“Yes?”

Your eyes fall shut at having his rough palm grabbing hold of your face, thumb tilting your head upwards to meet his sizzling gaze. You hold onto his wrist for support, your body floating, mourning the loss of his body heat against the biting cold. He notices this, and moves to shrug off his huge jacket, wearing it over your shoulders in one swift move.

“What will I do with you?” It’s a plea. A threat. Both.

Chris looks down at you, and the earth shakes to its core. He looks down at you, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. You want this, this, this, every day, all the time, forever. You wish to wake up in bed next to him and know he’s yours, wake up and not wish for some other dream so you can find him again. To be awake and want to be awake.

His big hands caress your face, sink into your hair. He stares at you intently, as if he’s holding back from saying whatever’s turning over and over in his head. It can switch so fast, that look, faster than you can blink, a clipped temper, a quick anger. 

You’ve only seen it once, and you’d been quickly turned away. He’s got people watching everywhere, he’s been haunted by darkness and shadows long before you served him that drink in The Bloody Muse. You almost forget about returning to your shift, time slipping away, responsibilities fading whenever you’re near him.

Seungmin will be missing you, Felix will be looking for his good luck charm before he goes on stage. Midnight means you return from dreamland. Still, you have a couple of minutes left. Enough to hear the gunshot, enough to panic and let out a scream and have Chris slap a hand over your mouth, willing you with his gaze to calm the fuck down.

You breathe hard, stiff with fear. He appears perfectly composed, relaxed even. It’s then you realize who he is and what he does, and how this is probably his or his club’s doing. There’s misdirected anger in you ricocheting on all corners. You want to bite his fingers, you want to demand an explanation. You work here, dammit, and he’s kept his bullets away from this place so far, for what you thought was your sake.

Chris was a handsome hypocrite, a skilled liar.

“It’s not what you think,” he says simply, removing his palm from your mouth, shaking his wrist off. “Don’t overreact.”

All of his previous warmth disappeared, instead, the cold, menacing man you know very little of and have never dealt with taking its place. You understand he has to be this way, but you hate that he has to act like this with you too. Because of your reaction. Because you couldn’t keep your cool.

Silly girl.

“What is it, then?” A naive question, so many untrue answers he could give you.

He passes a finger over the cut on your cheek. The cut he gave you. You lean into his touch, desperate for anything, hungry, starving, even. You don’t want him to leave, but he won’t stay. You hate, hate, fucking hate this part.

“Something that needed to be taken care of,” he chooses the words carefully, you can tell, and you decide that, if he wants you to stay in the dark, you will. You have to.

You love him.

“Someone,” you correct, quietly.

Chris smiles, mouth curving, and his hand moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is tender, affectionate. Something inside you cracks and caves, it melts. You would withstand too, you think then. You would deal with anything, put up with everything, for that single touch. For that one single look.

“Someone,” he echoes, his own voice smooth blue velvet, an overture. “You should get inside.”

A sharp pang of bitterness in your chest. “I should?” Because I questioned you?

He drops his hand, and brings his arms over his broad chest, crossing them there. Closed off and done for the night. You unconsciously take a step back, hurt from the sudden change, whiplashed and upset.

“If you don’t want to be late,” he states matter-of-factly, but he says it in this kind of open tone, a mere suggestion rather than a complete dismissal. Yes. “Don’t look at me with those damned eyes, sweetheart, what can I do against them?”

You wipe at your cheeks, and try to fix the mess, try to smooth over, to make right again. “I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Come here.” A command. 

You go like a kicked puppy, your leash short, your loyalty unshaken, despite the scolding. He reaches out and slams you to his chest, a hand pressing the back of your head there, and you inhale him, all of him, memorizing his scent, trying to hold on to whatever parts of him you can in case he decides to never come back for you again. It’s pathetic and it’s pitiful, but this is what you know. This is all you know.

“You’re my girl, you know that?” He mumbles in your hair, his breath hot on your scalp. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around him, and almost cry yourself dry from the prospect of ever losing him. 

You’d die. You’d die, it’s entirely unthinkable. It’s the worst pain imaginable. 

“You’re my girl, baby. I’d never let anything happen to you. Do you believe me?”

You nod your head yes. He squeezes you against him tighter. You feel so safe, then, the safest you ever have. Of course you believe him. You’d believe his every word, you’d follow him into anything, blindly, willingly. You want to please him. To make him happy.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, suddenly and pulls you back to look at him. His eyes are manic, black. “I need your words, (Y/N). Do you believe me?”

“Yes. Yes,” you yelp, your mouth falling open from the sting.

In your stomach, something lights on fire. You rub your legs together, trying to relieve it. He glances down between you, curses. 

You started it. 

The descend. 

It was your fault. 

He’d never touched you so savagely before that night, he’d never shown the same need you had. That he could want you the same way you do. . .You felt so giddy you could squeal, so happy you would gladly reduce yourself to schoolgirl-and-her-stupid-little-fantasies.

“Is this fucking getting you wet?” And he pulls harder, tilting your head all the way. His tongue comes out to lick from the base of your neck all the way up to your lips. You’re on fire, you’re on fire! You moan hoarsely and try to keep your footing. “You like me being rough with you, sweetheart?”

You’re too embarrassed to respond. So, you guide his hand under your skirt. Chris curses again, more lewdly this time, nasty things, words you’ve never heard him say before. Oh, this fucking cunt, fuck me . . . So goddamn wet, baby girl, I bet it tastes so sweet. Will you let me? Will you let me have a taste right here?

“I— I have to go back, I’m—” but his fingers are already dipping into your underwear, his palm cupping your burning sex.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls into your ear. “You hear me?”

You jump, and look around, paranoid. He grabs your face and forces your eyes back on him. He’s got that crazed look again, the one that lets you know he’ll stop at nothing to have this. Out here, in the open. And he’ll fucking make it worth it. You succumb, too flushed, too bothered, unbecoming in his arms, as he backtracks you into the wall next to the exit door, and gets on his knees, tugging your undergarments down with both hands, hooking your leg over his shoulder.

Your fingers dig into his hair, dark eyes staring up at you. In your mercy, kneeling in front of you. Do you love me? Is this you, saying it? Is this your way of showing it? You caress the soft strands, staring back, overwhelmed. The beginning of the end for you. You’ll never escape him after this. He’d never accept it. You’d never survive it.

When his face gets lost in between your legs, you almost collapse, your entire body shaking with the forceful need to come. He licks and laps and sucks your clit into his mouth, and it’s too much, it’s fucking unbearable, it’s incredible, it’s so much, it’s everything, you want more, you want him to stop, more more more, oh my God, please, please—you’re being so loud there’s no way they haven’t heard that, that Seungmin hasn’t, he’s really only around the corner, and what about everyone else, oh God, oh God, you’re close, you’re so fucking close, if he could just—oh, fuck yes, fuck yes . . .

Chris pulls away, his lower face glistening with your juices. You whine at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching. 

“Don’t fucking come,” and he’s getting up, he’s unzipping his pants, and you’re eager to help, you’re eager to reach inside and grab him, free him. “I have to get inside you, baby.” 

His cock is standing rock hard, angry. He wraps one hand around your neck, and the other slides over his length once, twice, you’re so entranced you can’t look away; he’s so big, he’s so erect, and you want him so fucking much, you’d do anything right then, you’d be anything.

He turns you around, and you barely have time to get a good grip on the wall, before he’s entering you with one long, violent thrust. You scream out, pressing your temple on the cool brick, allowing him to take whatever he needs. His fingers squeeze around your neck, tighter and tighter still, until all you see is stars, until all you feel is him slamming into you, his hot body over yours, your mixed moans of pleasure.

I could come to this image forever . . . Look at this fucking ass, you beautiful fucking girl, I never want to stop . . . fucking tear you apart, lay inside you . . . Taking cock so well, made for me, made for me, made for this . . .

His movements turned sloppy and primal, reaching the end, and you, forever following him, forever after him. He was no more than beast, pistoling into you with vigor, all animal, your sides bruised from the way he was holding onto you, but you loved it, you wished he’d never stop, exploding into a million pieces, coming apart under him in vibrant streaks of color and tears. His head dropped on your lower back, whispering there she is, there you go, sweetheart, there you are, my baby, as he gave one, two, three final thrusts, before reaching down and removing himself from your soaking cunt, flipping you around, and forcing you on your knees, his cock in his hand, on the verge of climax.

You open your mouth wide, and he shoves in, fucking into it no more than three seconds before you feel his cum hit the back of your throat, warm and salty. 

“You fucking vex me, woman. Look at the sight of you.”

You breathe through your nose slowly, as he grabs your face and makes sure you swallow, fingers rough, before pulling out at once, tucking his softening length back in his jeans, and lifting you up by the waist.

He fixes your skirt over your ass, and smoothes over the edges, making sure no indecent part of you shows. When you catch his eye, he winks at you. You bubble over like a soda can, spilling everywhere, and he chuckles low and raspy, before reaching for your hand and pulling you flush against him, trailing kisses on your shoulder, your knuckles, your cheeks, your brow.

This is the Chris that looks at you and sees you. The one you love, the one you miss the most when he’s gone. This Chris comes out only when you’re alone, when he’s forgotten what else there is, what he has to do after you go back to the club. For now, he loves you, no violence, no hunger.

You almost weep at the sight of him.

“I’ll talk to your boss,” he murmurs, pecking your lips over and over.

You giggle, and he twirls you once, your arms extending as you try to go towards the door. He pulls you back in at the last minute, handsome, glowing, smiling.

“I haven’t lied to you,” he says, and half of you doesn’t miss the solemn way in which he says it. “I won’t let anyone touch you. Ever.”

You pause for a split second, still remaining in the post bliss of your orgasm, but then you’re moving again, slipping from his grasp, heading back to your drinks and suggestive conversations.

“I wouldn’t want to be touched by anyone else, Chris,” you retort, blowing him a kiss, and disappearing through the big black door, letting it close behind you.

You don’t see the way you leave him standing there, how he closes his eyes and has to breathe through the loss of you; how he drags his feet to go pick up his jacket from the floor. How he inhales your sweet smell, and instantly wants you back, a corpse in his arms that can’t go nowhere.

The corruption began when you told him your name. It invaded his bloodstream and blackened his mind.

He’d rather kill you than have you walk away from him like that.

ACT TWO: in the midst.

Chris fucks you with the purpose of possessing you.

There’s not a minute of peace when you are with him, he envelops all senses, he erases all other thoughts, until all you know is him, his touch, his cock. Months into sharing a bedroom, and coming apart underneath him every night, he’s never once mentioned that incident, the first one.

He’s never apologized for how he treated you, never brought it up. But he’s never once treated you the same since. Now that you live together, he gets to call all the shots, know your exact whereabouts, control what you wear, what you eat, how you come, how many times—he’s fucked you in places you never thought possible. He’s fucked you in front of people, shamelessly; on the banister, in the pool, on the kitchen counter and the office. Against walls and on the hood of his car, parked in the garage, Changbin, the road captain, working on his bike not a few steps away.

No one ever said anything to you, tried anything. They didn’t have a death wish, or they respected Chris too much. His influence was a testimony to his abilities. No one questioned him, but everyone obeyed him. They treated you like one of their own, they protected you when their sergeant would leave the house.

Other things—the shitload of drugs hidden in every trinket, every crevice, places you’d never think to check, and the meticulous way they deliver said product, how the trucks come in the middle of night, motorcycles deconstructed, filled to the brim with cocaine and sent to wherever, distributed to whatever unfortunate person. Chris never touched the trucks, you never saw him near them.

That was Minho’s job.

You spent entire days in bed after the deliveries, fucking, improvising stories of hunters and angels falling in love, how the hunter is always attracted to the angel’s light, how the angel forgives the hunter for his nature, and willingly dies by his axe. Chris bathes you and washes your hair with lavender, then carries you over to the vanity and brushes the strands with such care, you think he’s always loved you, in every life. That, perhaps, he was born loving you, and that this was predetermined; inescapable, inevitable.

He doesn’t sleep. He spends hours making love to you, feeding you; he works for even longer, meetings with the president, meetings with the suppliers, mountains of paperwork that you see him burn afterwards in the fireplace downstairs. If he does close his eyes, it’s flitting, twenty minutes here, an hour there; after he comes down from the high of being buried inside you, after a shower, at night as he watches you sleep, you pretend to close your eyes and feel him get comfortable on your stomach, his lips kissing any spot of naked skin he can find. When he does drift off, you lift your head and observe a man such as Chris Bahng sleep, how he does it, so unaware and off guard, so unlike his usual self.

It’s endearing. You love him the most when you find him in those positions, so peaceful, and a part of you thinks, ashamed—at least no one is dying by his hand tonight. His soul is something you think about a lot, the wretched, poisoned thing, paying for his actions. You asked him once; what keeps him up, why is he so unable to fall asleep?

“Nightmares,” he mumbled against your neck, teasing the sensitive flesh there. “Every time I close my eyes . . . someone is waiting for me. It’s always different, but they always end up dead. Everyone I care about— you. When you’re in my dreams, I can’t stand it. I’m always the one holding the gun. You’re always falling, or— fucking . . . walking away from me. When I wake up, I always check if you’re next to me,” his hand travels to yours, interlocking your fingers. He avoids your gaze. “If you’re not, it’s . . . it gets hard to breathe. I think I’ve killed you, that I’ve finally fucking lost it and, and done it, and the walls close in around me . . . Christ, I sound fucking insane.”

It’s difficult for you to say anything after that, so you slowly make your descend at the foot of the bed, making sure to kiss every inch of him, to let him know you’re right there, that he’ll never lose you, that the day it’ll come to that you’d rather he does kill you, that he does make that decision for you, because you’d have clearly gone mad; you cannot see yourself beyond him, cannot see a future where he’s not there, even as a fixture, even as someone who’s loved you once, a very long time ago. A friend, a lover, it’s all the same, and it’s all him, and you’ll always get whatever version of him you can.

You know you sound crazy, and maybe you are, maybe you deserve each other in that way, but it’s irrelevant to this story. This is not for the faint of heart—loving someone like him does not come easy, it’s not one of those ridiculous words—fate or destiny—or anything simple like that; loving him is hard fucking work, it’s torment and agony, it’s excruciating, and it’s a choice you make every single day, because you need it to live. An addiction, perhaps, though you’ve never been an addict.

You know this is how it feels. The needle in the vein. The snow on your nose. The smoke in your lungs. The burning, the boiling. This is it. When you take his cock in your mouth, when you hear that broken gasp fall from his lips, the familiar groan, the guttural sounds from the back of his throat, and how he grabs the back of your head, forcing you down to the hilt of him; when you’re so full you might as well inhale him entirely, become part of his crotch, his most private part, the one he keeps to himself—you think this is what it’s like to wait on someone’s steps, a beggar, a desperate girl giving her heart on a silver platter for the one in the house, the one holding the reins.

Chris is kind and generous. He opens the door, he allows you to come inside. There’s light and warmth here, but there’s also shadows in the corners, there’s locked doors and no one else around. It’s a lonely house, but he’s right there, all you need, all you’ll ever need. He welcomes you with open arms.

You get lost in the labyrinth of him.

“What the fuck was I doing before you, sweetheart? Who was I, who was I without this fucking mouth, fucking hell, baby . . .”

It’s a savage act, some would call it cannibalism, but it’s only been known as love to you. Your insides are aflame, roasting a pretty crackling orange, when he finally comes on your tongue, his hips lifting, eyes shut tight, your head in his big hands, keeping you there, making sure you’re swallowing every last drop. You do. You do. You‘re licking circles around the shiny, swollen tip one moment, and he’s got you bouncing on it the next, manhandling your ass, facing you away from him, wrapping muscular arms around your waist, ravaging your back with his teeth, biting and soothing, putting out the forest fires himself, braving the danger.

A devouring hunger. Stripped to its most primal state. Everything within you is jumping. No one talks about this—screwing for the sake of the flesh. You need to come, and keep coming, and he does too. There’s no other thought, no other reason. He’d mount you if he could, knot in you for hours, pump you full of his seed. If this is the way it’s meant to be, then let it be. Let him fuck you until he’s satiated. Let him fuck you into your last dying breath.

But his words. You want those for yourself. He whispers them in your ears, his mouth everywhere, the hotness of his breath, the raspiness of his voice—just as lost as you. This is how you need him.

“This cunt is mine, fucking mine, mine . . . Say it,” he drills into you, skin slapping on skin, sweat like water, and your tears, so uncontrollable, so many— “Say it, damn you.”

“Yours,” you comply, your arm reaching out to wrap around his neck. He kisses your shoulder, he bites, he marks. “All of me. Forever.”

“Swear it. Don’t ever leave me.”

“No . . . no . . .” You moan loudly as he reaches deep inside, to spots that make you see stars.

He shoves your face in the mattress, and gets on top of you, pistoling his length into you, hard and fast, chasing after the high he craves. You cry out and take it. The pain is so intense, bleeding into pleasure, overwhelming your body. You can’t feel your own heartbeat anymore, only Chris, only his pounding.

“Such a goddamn slut. Look at you,” he slaps your ass once, “fucking look at you,” twice, three times, four. You sob into the sheets, grab onto them. He’s relentless, he’s so close, you’re so close— “Why are you crying, huh?” He pulls you by the hair hard, lifting your head. You gulp down air, you’re glutinous, deprived. “Did you need my cock that bad? Have I not fucked your needy little hole enough?”

“You have, you have, please . . .”

Let go for me, sweetheart, fuck, you feel so fucking good . . . Never get tired of this pussy, taking me so well, baby, so fucking well, come on, one more, one more, that’s it . . .

Coming felt like the gates of heaven liquifying inside you. Your orgasm tore through you so savagely, you forgot how to breathe for several moments, your limbs unresponsive and extremely sore. Only thing you could do was convulse under Chris’ massive body, and let him ride his own, his nails digging into raw flesh, voice groggy and incredibly deep after three rounds of sex.

“Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you, baby?”

You hadn’t realized you were still crying ugly, terrible sobs. You immediately missed the weight of him as he got off you at once and flipped you on your back, panic-stricken honey eyes searching your face, your chest, any part of you he might’ve harmed.

“Where does it hurt? What have I done?” He kisses your temple, your eyes, he tastes your tears. He’s so worried you almost feel guilty for not responding. “(Y/N), I need you to tell me, sweetheart, I can’t see it, I can’t—is it your—”

“I’m fine,” you pacify him, placing your hands on either side of his face. You’re still breathing abnormally fast, but so is he. The room is spinning. “You didn’t hurt me anywhere, I’m fine, Chris.”

“But if you were, you’d tell me, yeah?”

He was so handsome, so handsome when he loved you.

“I would.”

His gaze was piercing, honeycomb giving way to molasses. His hands were trailing off again, doing their own thing, what they knew best; how to please you. His thumb on your clit, rubbing soft circles, your creamy entrance making lewd sounds that had the man over you growing impossibly hard again.

“And what about this?” A warm, tingly sensation grew low in your belly. “Does this hurt?”

You trap his hand with your thighs, and he smiles. You smile back.

“Maybe a little,” you lie, stretching.

He doesn’t let up. His fingers slip inside again, his other hand moving on himself, veiny and sure. Chris masturbating to the sight of getting you off is perhaps the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Your body is a tool he’s acquainted well with, and has made his sole expertise. So many hours on this bed, learning each other naked.

“Your cunt says something else,” he smirks, pumping his fist over his girth slowly, deliberately, growling low in the process, making you wetter, making you want, want, want. A chain of chemical reactions, you’ve become. “I wanna eat you out, (Y/N), you think you’ll be able to handle that?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he mumbles on your stomach, placing a kiss there, and traveling down, nose dangerously close to where you want him most. “Your face when you come apart on my tongue—I wish I could die between your legs, baby.”

“Don’t say that,” you hide your face in embarrassment, as you feel him get in position, opening your legs wide, staring shamelessly at your swollen pussy.

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want,” he licks it once, tongue pressing flat on your clit and flicking, and you’re fucking gone. You’re writhing, trying to get away, moaning so loudly the whole house must’ve heard you. “This is mine, you’re fucking mine, and you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

He doesn’t get to work much on you, you’re coming apart in minutes. You’re so overstimulated, your legs are shaking uncontrollably, the muscles twitching. He doesn’t seem to care though, because he’s fingering all of your cream on his cock and finishing himself off, an ungodly sight, something out of a renaissance painting, the most explicit one, all well defined abs and veins popping on his neck, mouth formed into a perfect silent scream, as he pumps, and pumps and shoots on your thighs, white thick streaks, hot and sticky.

There’s a knock on the door, a throat clearing.

“Bahng,” Changbin’s voice. “It’s important.”

The room drops in the negatives. You see the abrupt change on your boyfriend’s face, his expression freezing over, his jaw clenching, moving, as he stares at the door like he wants to break it, and then beat his friend’s face in. You get on your elbows and whisper softly, “It’s okay,” to which he ignores.

“What the fuck do you want?” He calls out, furious, getting off the bed and grabbing a pair of discarded jeans from the floor.

“Meeting in ten,” his captain replies, and then there’s footsteps shuffling away.

“I need to shower, anyway,” you try to lighten the mood, reaching over the bed for your shirt. “We’ve been holed up here for hours. I don’t even know what time it is.”

“Why do you need to know?”

You don’t let his tone ruin what you’ve been building for the entire day. He was perfectly fine up until two seconds ago, it has nothing to do with you. You repeat this to yourself as you move around the room, clipping the hair away from your face, wiping the makeup from your cheeks.

“It’s really alright, Chris, you’ll only be gone for a bit.”

He ignores this as well. What he does—he takes two big strides towards you and grabs your face roughly. You meet his eyes, dark and menacing, and keep your cool. You don’t let his anger scare you, you’ve seen it all before. It has nothing to do with you, it has nothing to do with you.

“All you need to know, is I’m still in this fucking room and you smell like my cum, and there’s a lot of fucking things I can do in ten minutes,” he snarls, patting your hair down, bringing your hips together. “All you need to know is you have no use for clocks, because you’re not going anywhere. Am I fucking clear?”

You try not to let your body take over your mind, as it’s happened many times before. He knows your weak spot, he knows how good he can make it feel, and he uses it to his advantage any chance he gets. 

You will not be manipulated. You will stop falling for his words.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” you retorted, suddenly sad. “You’re only being like this because you want to stay.”

To that, he visibly calms, he mellows. “Of course I do. I never wanna be anywhere else. I wanna fuck you until you’re on the verge of passing out, and then I want to take you in the water and make it all better,” he tries to kiss you but you turn your head. There are no words to describe the hurt etched on his face, then. “You’re the only thing that matters, (Y/N). The only true thing.”

“Why do you treat me like this, Chris? Hot, then cold, again and again.”

You might’ve as well slapped him. He untangles himself from you at once, and walks over to the closet for a shirt. Your stomach drops. You definitely said something you shouldn’t have. Who knows how he’ll be now, what he might do. You might not see him for days. He knows how to hurt you and keep hurting you. One coin, two sides.

Nevertheless, you have to know. He never gives you any answers. You’ve given away so much to be here, to be with him. He walks the thin line of having something like that, a line between holding you—broken glass on his shaking palm, recklessly picking up the pieces when they fall, unafraid of the blood, of the cutting and maiming, and the repercussions afterwards.

His self destructiveness has never been more prominent before. Now it’s all you see.

“One true thing, Chris. Please.”

He looked so severe, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eye. When he punches the closet door closed and smashes the mirror with his fist, you don’t think he’s quite there in the room with you anymore. He’s in that faraway place again, in that hole, so hard to find.

Of course, the blood. The blood is always there. It’s been there from the start.

He motions for you not to move, his hair a mess sticking in all directions. Such violence and it’s all within him, there’s nothing you can do to pull it out of him. Only when it lashes out, only when he becomes the weapon.

“Don’t fucking come near me,” he barks, and you stop, you remain perfectly still, your gaze locked to his knuckles, bleeding profusely, staining the carpet. “I will never hurt you,” he rasps, and there’s iron will behind his words. “I will never fucking hurt you, I’d sooner die. I’d sooner fucking die . . .” His eyes fall closed, his breathing deepens, and you’re pretty sure you only have a few seconds before this all goes to shit.

You grab your clothes, and shoes, and where’s your phone, where’s your stupid phone—

“Get out of here. Get out of here now.”

You bite your lip until you taste copper. You won’t cry. You won’t fucking cry. This is not your fight. This is not your problem.

“I love you,” you squeeze out, before you throw the door open and spill down the stairs, the beast bellowing behind you, “GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Changbin puts his hands out, grabs your shoulders. 

Felix doesn’t even have to look at you; he curses, and climbs the stairs three at a time, calling for backup. The demolition has already begun.

You won’t cry. You refuse, you refuse, you refuse.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know?

ACT THREE: intermission.

In a fight, he’s devastating.

You’d told him time and time again, none of it meant anything, not a thing, just some mindless flirting to get better tips, it was part of your job, it was silly, little, nothing, nothing at all. You’d warned him against coming inside the Muse. It’d only cause trouble.

He would only cause trouble. It’s why he had Minho permanently positioned in there, it’s how the club was under Strays payroll, it was his excuse for visiting that night.

Making sure the product was being distributed properly. Keeping an eye out. Bullshit. You were so mad at him. He never showed up for these things, they went through other people. Chris was too important for it. And yet, here he was, disrupting your workflow, beating your regulars into a pulp.

You didn’t recognize anything from the man he was the last time you saw him. He had none of the tenderness, none of the ember in his gaze, no softness; only sharp, obliterating cruelty and the gun on his strap. His fists were bloody, his anger palpable.

Your tables had emptied out, unpaid. You were so angry.

“Try it, motherfucker,” your boyfriend smashed the poor guy’s head against the hardwood floor, repeatedly, in succession, until your voice was scratched raw from shouting for someone to stop him. “Try getting near her again, let me see you. Walk a straight fucking line to my girl, see if you get to live another goddamn day.”

“I didn’t know she was your girl, man! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The man had been reduced to tears, his face so beat up you could barely make out his features under all the blood.

Minho stood in one corner, observing passively, while Seungmin tried to keep his friend back, ever the security guard. Chris was gone, though. There was no way to bring him back. There’d be a death tonight, and all of you would have to pretend it never happened. You think about that. About the first time you lied for him. For them.

“Bet you wanted to fuck her, hm?” He pulls his head up, only to bring him to his knee, kicking his nose broken, and throwing him back on the floor, chairs wobbling and falling over in the storm of him. “That’s what you’ve been coming for, isn’t it, you sick fuck?”

The whimpering is what did it for you. “I didn’t know. Please! Please!” You couldn’t just stand aside; you couldn’t let this go on.

The stage was empty, the band long finished with their set, now sitting at the counter over at the bar, glancing curiously your way. It was infuriating how none of them wanted to get involved. It was too late for this. Too fucking late, and you were tired.

So, you walked over to where Chris was stomping on the man’s ribs, making sure you were in his line of vision. When you got as close as you could, you called out his name. Nothing. You tried again.

“Chris. Chris.”

“I’ll fucking kill him, baby, he’ll never look at you twice, he won’t be able to, I swear it to you.” In what dark, dark place have you crawled into, my love? How do I get there?

You try to keep your voice steady, reasonable. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin shaking his head at you, motioning you to step back, away, out from the line of fire. 

“I don’t want that, Chris. I want you to let him go.”

“What?”

“And then I want you to go home.”

In retrospect, you should’ve heeded the bouncer’s advice. This version of Chris does not belong to you, it has nothing to do with feeling or logical thought. It festered in some terror-stricken hole he’d found as a child, and grew into a large open wound, the heart tree of all inhumanity in him. You’d have to carve it out if you’re to ever save him. But to carve it . . . No. You couldn’t. Not you.

Two terrible things happened that night, things that you’d quicker forget than let yourself remember fully.

His calloused hand attacked your neck, wrapping around it with such brutal force, it knocked the air out of you. Immediately, four men jumped to your rescue, circling you like hounds, yelling at Chris, trying to snatch him away from you.

“Stand the fuck down,” he snarled at them, never taking his black eyes off you. “You think I’d actually fucking hurt her? She can take this, can’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod, willing yourself to breathe through your panic, to combine this touch with the one he uses when he makes you feel good, the pain only pleasurable, only flitting, almost enjoyable. He watches you do this, and something flashes in his expression, a recognition, a moment of clarity. It’s gone as soon as it arrives.

“Don’t ever tell me what the fuck to do, you understand? I’m doing this for you, so you can be safe,” he’s never raised his voice at you, and he’s not doing it now, either. You’d take the screaming over this eerie calmness, this polite rage.

This is the monster under your bed, the demon in your closet. You can’t do anything about this, you don’t even know what’s hiding there.

“I didn’t ask for that, Chris,” you manage to say, placing a hand over the one on your throat. No one speaks, no one moves.

“You’ve no fucking idea what’s good for you, do you?”

“Clearly,” you reply, calmly, bitterly.

You see him swallow, and fight with the shadows clouding his judgment. You see the split decision—and the way he shoves you away, the way he refuses to look at you any longer. 

“Have it your way,” he snaps. He’s still so beautiful to you, even like this, the way a severe thunderstorm is, the way gray clouds can cover an entire sunny day in minutes. Not despite, but in spite.  “But this fucker dies today.”

In a split second, your life—an infinite whirlwind, a dizzying dance with no end in sight—it changes, it shifts, because—Chris takes his gun out, a single click, and shoots the man on the floor beside you. All it takes. A blink of an eye. No one seems to get what happened, probably accustomed to the death looming over, but you—you’re covered in blood now, blood that’s not yours, and you’ve never seen someone die before. You don’t even think it registers in your mind, really. You just stare, and stare, and hope that he’ll get up and go to a hospital, because he looks terrible.

“Don’t feel too bad, princess,” Felix whispers somewhere from behind you. “He was a registered sex offender. Boss found out today. Chris had to do it.”

“Chris is not a hit man,” you say mechanically, paralyzed, something else looking through your eyes, inhabiting your body. 

Where are you? Where’d you go?

“No, he’s not,” he agrees. You faintly feel a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react. “But he’s the one that’ll always get the job done. No matter what.”

This is the second thing. Learning that your boyfriend might be more of a collection of ghosts than an actual person. That the blood sprayed on your legs could be anyone’s, could be yours. The thing is, you weren’t truly scared before, but you are now.

And the terrifying truth—you still love him. You love him, you love him, it beats as sure as your heart, it fills you with guilt and despair, because . . . you don’t even really care. You should, surely. This is a horrible situation. But Chris is standing a mere few feet away from you, and he wants nothing to do with you, not when he’s like this, and somehow that’s more severe, that’s—that’s the real tragedy.

“Take care of it,” he cracks his neck, addressing no one in particular. Any of these men would do anything for him, for the club. Honor and loyalty, above all. “Bring me the books. There’s still business.”

Minho and Seungmin get to work, while a third person goes in the back. You don’t know who, you don’t see them, your gaze hasn’t moved from Chris. You whisper his name again, like back in the alley, over and over, and hope for him to turn around, to look and see, to dance with you, to shake you and make you spill. But he doesn’t. You don’t think he ever will again.

You’re one of them now. He didn’t keep you away, he failed, and so now you know.

“And for fuck’s sake, someone take her the hell away from here.”

You kickstart. “No, I won’t go.” You’re here, you’re here, where would I go if you’re here?

He won’t even spare you a second, a moment. He’s walking towards the bar, he’s lighting a cigarette, his hands are still raw and bleeding. The club is closed for the night, you’re no longer needed. Just another witness, just another person in the room. He can make you feel so small, so incredibly small, like you never mattered at all.

Felix steps up and offers to drive you.

“To the house,” Chris instructs firmly, skimming through pages of numbers. “Stay with her until I come back.”

There’s tears stinging your eyes. You fight not to let anyone see them. There’s so much movement around you, it’s making your head spin. Red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue—the lights never stop turning, they bleed over everything, a dream, a technicolor dream. You lift your hand to your cheek to confirm you’re still real, that you’re still breathing.

You’re sick to your stomach. Not enough. Not enough.

“Why are you sending me away?” You try again, foolishly hoping he’s going to pay you any mind, give you any explanation.

“Come on, (Y/N),” Felix mumbles close to your ear. “You don’t wanna be here for the clean up, trust me.”

Why are you sending me away, why are you sending me away . . . You don’t remember the ride to the club house. You don’t remember much of anything after the click of that gun. It echoes. The man’s eyes roll to the back of his head, a loop of red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue, redfuschiaorangeyellowblueredfuschiaorangeyellowblue

Someone screams.

ACT FOUR: after.

“I’ve never had a moment’s peace.”

Shirtless, with bandages running down his chest and over his shoulder, he looks like a tortured man returned from war. Burned. Turned inside out.

He was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. It’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. No. Peace is a foreign word. Reserved only for you.

You listen, you let yourself become the body he loves. You can’t find it in you to be angry at him, not anymore.

“How can I hold a thing like you in my hands and not break it? When you asked me for the truth . . . I couldn’t think of anything, (Y/N), not a single fucking thing,” he wraps a towel around your head, sure, capable hands pulling you up and helping you out of the bathtub. “What I feel for you is poisonous, it’s disturbing. You don’t want that. You shouldn’t want that. It’s not what you deserve.”

“You’re saying all this like you’re saying goodbye,” you whisper, letting him dry your skin, noticing the way he won’t allow himself to linger too long.

You see his mouth curve, his brow furrow. A strange image. It’s almost as if . . .

“I’ve only ever been a monster. A pathetic fucking excuse of a man, and I cannot keep you caged, I can’t keep being selfish with you,” when he’s once again met with your silence, he circles around you, hides behind your back. “You’re incredible, you know that? Other girls would’ve been running for the hills, but not you,” when he lets your hair fall, there’s a horrifying sound, like the earth ripping apart, the heavens falling—

Chris is crying.

Chris is crying and something is very, very wrong. Nothing feels right. He won’t let you turn around. His hands hold you still, his face is buried between your shoulder blades, and he.won’t.let.you.turn.around.

Your eyes sting with the effort it takes not to break down alongside him.

“You just—won’t—fucking—leave. You won’t give up,” he sobs, and then he’s hugging you, he’s hugging you so tight your ribs burn, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you never in a thousand years ever pictured this man crying, much less in front of you.

“I’m never giving up,” you reassure him, trying to soothe the boy trying to come out, to escape. “Because I love you. Whatever that means for you, Chris. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He feel him shake his head, his hand wraps around your throat, bodies flush against each other. “I want you. I want you without . . .”

He lets go.

You turn to him, tilting your head, looking for his eyes. He exhales shakily, and moves away, grabbing his lighter from his back pocket, the cigarette from behind his ear. He rubs his face raw, then lights it, tip cherry red and burning fast, and he uses a hand to sit on the tiled floor, one arm resting on his knee. You get in front of him, towel forgotten, numb, completely numb.

“The club?” You say, quietly, so as not to anger the spirits, the demons. For no one else to hear but him. “You want to leave the club?”

He chuckles bitterly, and scratches his brow with a thumb, avoiding your gaze completely. Smoke swirls around you like snakes hunting for prey, an ominous presence. “I can’t even fucking say it. It’s been my whole life, my whole life. This fucking place—I know nothing else.”

“We‘ll figure it out. If you want out, we’ll find a way. Chris, these people look up to you, they trust you—”

“No, the fuck they don’t. That trust goes out the fucking window as soon as I walk. If I leave I’m a fucking traitor. If I leave I’ve betrayed all of them.”

You reach for his empty hand. He pulls away. You can’t ignore the Deja vu of this action. “And what about you?” You press, still. “What about what you’ve given for them, for their laws and rules? Your soul, Chris—”

He laughs, then, a proper laugh. When he does, finally, meet your eye, you see it all. The tortured, the choked, the repressed. It will never be easy. Ever. He might not ever make the decision, he might not ever leave. But dreaming about it . . . He has the right. No matter how unattainable, how unrealistic it seems to him. Why has no one ever shown him how?

“That battered, old thing,” he muses at his cigarette. “Lost it a long time ago, baby. Nothing there.”

“I don’t believe that.”

His smile breaks your heart. It looks so defeated, so devoid of any real happiness. “This is why I can’t let you go,” his fingers reach out and touch your bottom lip, the intention pure, nothing more than a reminder you’re still there, still his, but his gaze speaks of something darker, something you’ll never be able to quit.

“I got charges against me,” he says. “If I take the fall, the club remains. If I don’t, it all goes to hell.”

No. No. “Let it,” you choke out. “Let it! Chris, we can leave. We can go. Let’s just go. Please, I don’t—I can’t, I don’t want to lose—”

The biker puts his hands on your shoulders, shushes you, cradles you like a baby. You comply, a million different things bubbling inside you, ways to get him out, words you never said, everything you didn’t get to do yet. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“Listen to me,” he continues, cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. “It’s already done. I’ll be gone for a long time, alright, and I need to make sure you’re fucking taken care of. Be a good girl for me, yeah? Listen to me, (Y/N).”

You couldn’t. You were crying too hard, you missed him already. What you two had was nothing but burrowed time, you knew this, and you still mistook it for forever. This was why he didn’t want to get too close. This is why, every time you tried to hold onto him, he slipped away like quicksand. It was all coming down to this.

“Sweetheart, come on, stop crying. You know who I am, yeah? Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. Listen to me—I’ve hidden money away. I want you to have it, okay? Use it to get yourself a place, somewhere safe. And don’t fucking go back to that club, I don’t wanna hear you went back, you hear me? Do something for yourself, go to school, I know how fucking smart you are, you’ll fucking blow them away. Hm?” He lifts your chin with his thumb, kisses your forehead, staying there, lingering for one, two, three seconds, before he pulls back and looks into your eyes, willing you to agree, to accept the money, to go on living without him. “I love you, alright? You got all of me, whatever’s still there, it’s all yours. Don’t wait for me. Live.”

“I don’t want to.”

He deflates, sighing heavily. “Don’t make this harder than it is, (Y/N). Do what I say.”

You shake your head, sniffling, wiping at your cheeks. “Not without you. I’m not doing any of that without you. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you.”

His expression is pleading, his nails digging into your skin like he wants to crawl inside and change your mind. “It’ll be years, baby. Too many. You’ve no fucking idea the shit I’ve done. They got it all, some fucking snitch went and gave it all away. I’m turning myself in tomorrow, I’m not—I’m not fucking asking you to wait. You’re not. Find some lucky boy that’s got nothing to do with this life, and be normal. I never meant to bring you into all of this. You didn’t—didn’t fucking deserve it.”

“Just like that?” you ask, defeated. You could never picture yourself being with anyone else, no one at all.

After Chris, nothing. Alone. Lonely, forever.

He chuckles, crushing you to him, his arms strong, and steady, and home, home, home. “Just like that. I’ll wring his fucking neck out if he’s not good to you, though. I’ll always keep an eye out, always make sure you’re safe.”

“Can I hear it again?” Such a quiet request, barely anything.

He knew exactly what you meant. Your heart broke, fresh tears making their descent on your face. He wiped all of them away. He held you as if, if it was up to him, he’d never, ever let go.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much, sweetheart. You’ll be alright. I got you. I got you.”

You reach to where you know he keeps his gun. His hand flies out to stop you, gaze flaming with fear, with anger. Ash burns your arm, but you don’t even feel it. You’ve seen him use it; undo the safety, press down on the trigger. It was so easy for him. It’ll be easy for you too.

“Shoot me, then,” you bellow. “If you’re not gonna let me do it myself, shoot me! I don’t fucking want this, I’m not losing you, I’m not getting with someone else! What about me? You got this great plan—did you ever stop to think about what I’d want? If I’d be able to move on like how you’re expecting me to? I can’t just switch off my feelings for you, Chris, it doesn’t work like that, okay? I’ve gone through too much, I’ve seen too fucking much to just—to just—”

He wrestles you down, pinning your body on the floor, and getting on top of you, his smooth, cold gun resting on top of your heart. His mouth had curled into a tortured snarl, a bitter smile, his eyes shiny, crazy. You were shaking, he was shaking. You started crying, he started crying. With his thigh against your cunt, you felt his erection, hard and twitching.

“You think I didn’t think of this first?” He said roughly. “Christ, (Y/N), I’m trying to do the right thing here. You think I’ll be able to fucking kill you? I fucking adore you. I’d rather shoot myself in the head first, get it over with. Don’t ever fucking ask that of me again. I’ll be a dead man the second I do such a thing. I’ll be a dead fucking man if I’m not able to have you. Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Coward,” you spit in his face, and fight against his death grip. “Sentence us both then. I’ll be dead either way.”

He smashes your lips together. It hurts, it hurts, you wanna say, but you don’t think it’ll ever stop. There’s nothing in his way, everything in yours. In the time it takes to unzip his pants, grab his cock and guide it inside you, you’ve mourned him a thousand times over. To never have this again—him, again. . . You’ll die from missing him. You’ll cry yourself dry. There’s absolutely no way to escape this fate. You’re not ready, you’ll never be. How ridiculous it all seems in the end, faced with losing him.

He makes love to you slow, gentle, like he’s never done before. It’s not so much to get you off, than it is to make you understand. He could kill you both, but he’ll never be able to see you again. His place will be hell, the lowest level, the one he’ll have to keep walking for all eternity, while you’re up with the angels. If he doesn’t, if he hides the gun and never thinks of it again, at least he knows you’re somewhere out there, where there might be a one in a million chance he gets to be with you once more. If you’ll take him. Old and grey. He’ll never see you again as you are underneath him right now.

You stay like that on the floor for a while, with his seed spilling from between your legs, your scent all over him. You kiss him and for the first time, he kisses back. No teeth, no fists.

When he moves you over to the bed, he sleeps for the first time since he was born.

He sleeps and he dreams of you, of little hands reaching out, of being away from all this, far, far away. What he would give.

Everything. Everything.

[justporo]

Hear me out! Tav brought a statue of Astarion to the camp but Astarion does not recognize himself in it and does not understand why their leader spent 5000 gold on a random stone man. Meanwhile the party is betting on how long it will take Astarion to guess whose statue it is.

5000 Gold

"He's not... he's not gonna figure it out anytime soon, is he?"

"Sshhh!"

Shadowheart shushed Karlach with an angry frown and a single finger thrown to her lips.

The two of them - along with your other companions observed the scene unfolding on the other side of the camp. Right where a delivery had just been made - and quite an uncommon one.

A giant stone statue, depicting... Astarion - and almost fully nude at that.

You couldn't resist when the offer had been made to you at the carnival at the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. 5000 gold had felt like nothing for the punchline you had been about to make with having a statue be made of the one companion that couldn't remember what he himself looked like.

And Astarion, upon discovering Tav's most recent purchase, had started to throw a temper tantrum immediately, almost fainting when he had heard the paid sum out of your mouth.

The vampire had worked himself into an outright frenzy, screaming, hissing, gesticulating towards the statue, then back to you, then to the skies. Meanwhile all you could do anymore was biting your lip to stop yourself from bursting into the biggest laughing fit of your life.

The rest of the group kept observing from a safe distance.

"Istik", Lae'zel mumbled under her breath. But even the sober githyanki could barely hide a smile.

Shadowheart shushed her as well. Wyll had just been silently shaking his head for the last couple of minutes. Shadowheart had started taking bets on how long it would take the oblivious vampire to realise the cruel trick that was being played on him. Karlach, being way too optimistic, had already lost some coin to the cleric with their estimate of a few minutes.

Only Gale who had been busy this far with some of his thousand books had missed the whole spectacle so far. Just now had the wizard realised that something was going down. He eyed the fighting trio of you Astarion and stone Astarion and then the group of bystanders, trying to decipher the situation. When he couldn't make any logical sense of any of it he went over to the small onlooking group. "I appear to have missed something? What is-"

Shadowheart hissed at him to shut up, causing Gale to flinch back with a hurt facial expression. Wyll though wasn't impressed by the cleric and enlightened his friend: "It looks like our clever leader Tav has taken up the offer of getting a stone statue of Astarion for a bargain of 5000 gold without telling anyone. And now we're betting how long it's going to take him to realise it's him."

Shadowheart stared the Blade of Frontiers down. Wyll merely shrugged his shoulders. He'd faced more fearsome creatures than the cleric aplenty.

Gale just blinked several times at him, letting the words settle. Then a grin spread on the wizard's face. "I bet 100 gold it's gonna take him at least until the end of the day."

Shadowheart's furious expression lightened noticeably and she stretched out her hand to Gale. They shook on the bet. Then everyone turned back to the two Astarion's and you to continue watching the scene.

"Why in the nine hells would you get a statue of some random guy - he isn't that... Well, he is quite handsome!" Astarion yelled at you while you had to hide your face in your hands desperately trying to pull yourself together.

The vampire didn't let up: "Well, if only it had been me, then I would have understood, darling, who wouldn't want that as a piece of decor, but-"

That was it, you broke. Hysterical laughter started shaking you, up to the point where you doubled over and could barely breathe between laughing and crying from laughing.

The vampire meanwhile went through the whole spectrum of emotions known under the sun in a matter of seconds. Angered, confused, flustered. And then finally something in the elf’s brain clicked together.

He stared at the statue then at you, back to the statue and suddenly his hands wandered over his own face as if to grasp it's lines and shapes.

"You...," he started and stopped. Through your tears you were sure you could see the vampire's pointy ears turn bright pink. "That IS me!"

You were barely able to nod as another fit of laughter shook you. Astarion’s mouth opened several times but no sound came out. A rare occasion to the see the sassy rogue so void of words.

Meanwhile, a bunch of moans could be heard from the other side of camp where Shadowheart collected her won gold from the others.)

"Why would you-", Astarion began and his expression was barely readable while your laughter slowly died down and you were able to kneel back on your feet.

"Didn't you say it yourself? He's quite handsome, isn't he? Now you get to see for yourself again."

Astarion pointed an angry finger at you about to throw another fit but then his eyes fell on the statue again. Now with knowing what it was and what it meant it shut him up immediately.

He took a few steps closer to get a better look. His anger at you momentarily forgotten as he gazed upon his own image for the first time in over 200 years.

[azen13]

To Gaze at Polaris

Description: After you manage to escape Jing Yuan's home, the General chases after you to Aurum Alley, intent on bringing you back.

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Nudity, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing Together

Pairing: Yandere!Jing Yuan x GN!Reader

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It is a cold night on the Luofu when Jing Yuan strides through Aurum Alley.

By this time, all the shops, restaurants, and homes have gone dark. There is the faraway din of starskiff traffic, and the quiet buzz of cicadas in the moonlit neighborhood. As he walks through alleys lingering with the scent of day–the smell of tea leaves in particular lingers in his nose–there are no signs of you.

You are good at this, Jing Yuan thinks sadly. He wishes you weren’t.

“Y/N,” Jing Yuan calls quietly, though his voice carries. He does not need to be loud or aggressive to have a presence. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

There is no response.

He sighs. There is no anger in his voice, no vitriol or rage. Jing Yuan–as you have learned by now–is not prone to fits. In fact you’ve never seen him mad, or without at least a fleeting trace of a smile on his face; it's as if he was blessed by Aha THEMSELF. Because whenever he sees you he cannot help but feel light glimmering in his heart like starlight, making it bloom like pink morning glories. They have tender stems, delicate petals and grow in soil that is rocky and dry, but they are growing nonetheless, guided by your light.

He enters a different alley knowing you are hiding in the dumpster. Trivial really, but impressive nonetheless. Your determination is one of the things that attracts him to you most. It is a double edged sword. It comes in various shades and hues. He sees it in your eyes when he challenges you to a friendly game of Star Chess. Or when you’re cooking a new dish.

Or when you are shouting insults at him like if you curse him enough, you can make him disappear. In a way, it has the opposite effect. Every time you sob and plead he coos and reaches out for you, pulls you in tighter with comforting embraces and sweet, cloying words. 

For a few moments, he simply stands there. A part of him wishes that you would just come out. His footsteps are perfectly audible, and you are entirely perceptive enough to know that he has stopped in front of the alleyway. You know that he is there, waiting for you to surrender to his comfort and charm.

But you don’t. 

It drapes his heart in darkness, those flowers wilting when you don’t. He steps forward slowly, eyes fixed on the dumpster, his expression forlorn. “Dearest…please come out. I won’t hurt you.” It’s a promise, and it is one he cannot break. He hates seeing you in pain. He loves your smile. It is radiant in an infinite number of ways: the upturned quirk of your lips; the soft crinkling of your eyes; the way your irises seem to glow. You are a star of glass in his hands, and he is afraid he has shattered you.

But, he thinks, as he continues his slow conquest forward, nearing the dumpster, would that be so horrible? 

His mind flashes to the art of repairing broken pottery–kintsugi–where broken pieces are glued together with a lacquer mixed with gold powder; it is not meant to not hide where the breaks have occurred, but allow them to shine. He could bring you back together, multiply your luminescence by a thousand suns, and he would want you even more. The flowers in his heart would grow and bloom until his veins have become xylem and his tissues petals, every cell in him wanting your light. Craving it. Needing it.

When his hands–gentle and calloused from centuries of spars and fights–lift you from the dirty dumpster, you scream and wriggle in his tight embrace. His heart is flooded by rainstorms, flooding the flowers.

It has been raining for countless months. It feels like dying.

“Shh…it is alright my love,” he murmurs, his arms squeezing tighter around your torso; it’s not enough force to hurt you or bruise you, but enough to keep your squirming contained. “Let’s return home. I think this has been…enough excitement for one night.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He runs you a bath. You smell like trash now, and that won’t do. He wants the best for you. The best food, the best clothes, the best life. Because when he sees your happiness, even if it is as ephemeral as a shooting star, it rejuvenates his soul. 

The gentle smell of jasmine fills the bathroom as he quietly works shampoo into your hair. By now, you have lost the battle. Is it a sacrifice, though? Or have you truly blundered a piece away on this grand chessboard? Jing Yuan has played you enough times to know your strategies and tactics, the most inner machinations of your mind. You lose to him every time, but always put up a good fight. He hopes that pattern holds true for this game you and him seem to be playing every waking moment.

Water cupped in his hands is brought to your head, washing the suds out of your luxurious hair. Gentle kisses are peppered on your bare shoulders and neck, before his hands reach to massage your shoulder blades. This is what Jing Yuan longs for: days spent in pure domestic bliss. The kind of sunlit silence that leaves him warm and sleepy, craving an afternoon nap next to his lover.

He hums a song. You lean a little more against him, exhausted from your little escapade. He smiles, careful not to chuckle, lest he scares you away like one of his sparrows. Later, perhaps in the morning Jing Yuan will have a conversation with you about this. But for now he is content to enjoy this honeyed moment, bathing in your incandescence, enjoying these brief moments of sunlight before the deluge begins again.

When your fingers start to wrinkle like prunes from the water and your eyes are beginning to droop, he knows it is bedtime. He wraps you up in a fluffy towel, letting you get ready for bed as he does the same; his eyes watchful but fond as he brushes his teeth and lets his hair out of its usual ponytail. Searching for the first signs of wind picking up or darkening skies.

The two of you cuddle in bed, though it’s more like Jing Yuan cuddles you, and you tolerate his embrace. His arms wrap around you, loose enough not to hurt but tight enough to anchor him around you. Drift too far away again, and Jing Yuan doesn’t know if he can recover. He needs you. 

He is tired, too. But he is tired in a different way. His fatigue is like that of a mountain carved in twain by the river of time. One day, both sides of that once-mighty peak will collapse. But you give him strength. You are his guiding light. His North Star. His sun. His Polaris.

His breathing begins to even out and he pulls you closer against him, sweet dreams of you and him begin to dance behind his eyelids. Hopefully, he thinks as he lets himself slip into slumber, one day you will forgive him for ripping you from the sky and placing you in his chest, in the space right next to his heart.

[peggyao3]

Here comes the Sun [2/2]

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: Feyd-Rautha is the center of attention for an entire planet, but it counts for nothing because his favorite concubine isn't paying attention during the fight. How dare she ruin his birthday?

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, mixed POVs, mutual pining, gore, cannibalism ❗ (just a lil), Baron being a homie, Feyd has that bratty vibe, God Complex Feyd, jealousy ❗, other concubines begone, arguments, insults, hate love relationship, enemies and lovers, porn with plot, marriage proposal, vaginal sex, knife kink, pain kink ❗, smut in chapter 2, semi-public sex ❗, angst with happy ending

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

A/N: Girly wears a revenge dress, talks shit with the Baron and gets abducted from the banquet prematurely by a boiled egg.

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

Vladimir Harkonnen was wrong. His nephew’s mood is anything but entertaining tonight.

It amazes him how a man in his twenties, who has defeated Paul Artreides, the false messiah of Arrakis, can still act like a boy just hitting puberty when a woman isn’t groveling at his feet. Feyd-Rautha refuses to deliver the annual speech he is supposed to give on the grand balcony, so the undulating mass of merrymakers on the hundred meter wide avenue is left waiting. Thankfully, with spice being dealt shamelessly among the hundreds of thousands, the celebration will soon turn into orgy and bloodbath alike, and the absence of Giedi Prime’s beloved na-Baron will be swiftly forgotten.

Albeit now dressed in a traditional, sharp-cut suit made of thick, synthetic fibers, Feyd-Rautha's face is the same as in the arena, now battling a foe whose main attack is absence.

It is two hours into the banquet when she finally enters and immediately becomes the brightest star in the obsidian colored banquet hall. And it is not due to her radiant personality, though that too is not to be underestimated. It’s because of the golden fabric that flows off her hips and chest like the molten gold and orange that a fiery alien sun might disgorge in a coronal mass ejection.

While even the esteemed guests from other Houses have chosen to match their attire somewhat to House Harkonnen by choosing rich, dark colors like mulberry and midnight blue, she has gone for the most provocative opposite, shimmering like  glossy amber. Instead of a preserved mosquito however, her amber cocoon seals a jealous animal that scowls at Feyd-Rautha as soon as his frenetic eyes target her from across the hall.

Life seems to return to Vladimir’s sulking nephew and his icy rage turns into kindling enthusiasm. Finally he can make his move. Nothing is worse than being ignored.

Strings start playing, each sound a low vibration in their ear drums and under the soles of their feet. The na-Baron and his partner of choice are expected to do the first steps on the shiny parquet. Expectantly, he raises his chin and she would like nothing more than to wrap her arms around his striking figure, cup his jaws that, despite casting a distinct shadow down his neck, have a roundness to their shape that she wants to kiss over and over.

Feyd had wanted her to dance with him. Here she is. Perfectly punctual. All he needs to do is walk over and ask her, but in his eyes, having left him waiting is her first move. So asking another concubine to dance is his.

He thinks he's being clever and proudly watches her jaws clench and shoulders stiffen. The anger in her eyes tastes better than any meal he's had today - until she looks away. She isn't supposed to look away.

As long as the strings play the first piece, Feyd dances with a total of three of his concubines. During and after each dance, his piercing gaze latches onto her like spearguns fired from seething tar, but he only meets the back of her head, and after a while not even that. A supermassive black hole obscures his view.

Baron Harkonnen floats to the woman in yellow and activates a barely used switch on his control panel. His massive frame carefully lowers itself, so he is almost on the ground and she may converse with his face without putting a strain on her neck.

“You missed the main course,” the Baron informs her and she is quite aware. For the main course, she would have been expected to occupy the seat on the na-Baron’s left while his uncle as the head of House Harkonnen sits on Feyd’s right.

“What a shame. I suppose I did catch a migraine in the end.”

“Lady Metulli sat at Feyd’S side instead. I was under the impression she couldn’t quite stomach his appetite.”

The woman in the bright dress nods. She is well aware of Feyd’s table manners. Being his uncle’s nephew, he categorically rejects cutlery and prefers to dig into raw meats with his hands and suckle blood and grease off his fingers - or make her do it. Luckily, she wasn’t there to see Lady Metulli purse her lips around Feyd’s fingers.

With rumbling laughter, the Baron adds: “She didn’t want the pill I offered either.”

“What sort of pill was it?”

“Anti nausea, of course.”

“And where is Lady Metulli now?” She must have thought Baron Harkonnen was trying to slip her a poison pill.

“Throwing up in the bathroom.”

At that, her mouth twitches and then she begins to cackle. The Baron’s gravelly breath sends plumes of vapor from his hookah into the air and she nearly chokes on it, but the coughing somehow only amplifies her laughter. Bystanders keep a wary distance to the strange duo. 

Baron Harkonnen snaps his fingers and a servant scurries to the remaining buffet which was moved to a long, sleek table along the side of the hall. They return with a black metal bowl and one red apple. The woman happily accepts the apple and imagines it's Feyd-Rautha's balls when she violently bites a piece out of it.

In her radiant dress, she occupies the center of the banquet hall like a luminary and Baron Harkonnen is her colossal floating satellite who drags a train of black matter after himself in the shape of his overlong robes.

Currently, Feyd-Rautha is a pale, icy asteroid who bristles in the periphery of these two peculiar celestial bodies, orbiting them at a safe distance. His dance partners have been discarded and the designated parquet is swarmed by guests who are supposed to be celebrating his birthday. But as the day draws to a close, praise and attention slip through his fingers like slippery blade handles. Defenseless, he stands at the edge of the dance floor and feels very alone.

Feyd doesn't know what they're talking about, but he has never wanted to gut his uncle more than right now.

“You should try one of the livers.” Vladimir offers her from his bowl.

“You know I don’t eat human livers.” The nonchalance with which she speaks to Baron Harkonnen makes a nearby representative from House Ginaz snap the stem of their glass.

The Baron hums. If with approval or disapproval, she can’t tell, but he plunges his own hand back into the slippery bowl and fishes a liver out. 

Good for her, that she refused. Feyd's jaw flexes under bone-white skin, imagining all the ways he would break her fingers and his uncle's. Feyd would rather draw a much closer orbit around his favorite concubine, but he will not allow her to let him flare up and burn down with humiliation so publicly.

“It looks like my dear nephew is still waiting for a birthday gift from you.” The Baron glances over to his chosen heir and feels almost sorry for him.

“And he can wait until the twelfth of never,” she spits.

A small, inky smile takes shape amid the Baron’s doughy face. She is a Harkonnen if he has ever seen one. If Harkonnen had hair and an aversion to human flesh. Furiously, she sinks her teeth into the red apple and juice dribbles down her chin, making her a sightlier twin of the Baron whose many chins sport a trail of grease.

She would make a good niece in law.

Night rolls in and the smoggy sky over Giedi Prime is black like ink. No starlight makes it through the thick atmosphere. The buffets have been swept empty by Harkonnen gluttony and the hall waits for one last thing, the finale of Feyd-Rautha's holy birthday.

A gasp sweeps through the guests when the walls slide up into the ceiling and a gust of warm wind seizes them, making skirts rustle and hair waft. Avidly, they spill past the sleek concrete pillars and out on the extended balcony. The putrid stench of Giedi Prime’s industrial landscape rolls into the air-conditioned banquet hall.

It is exactly one hour before midnight when the first firework whistles into the sky, pulling a tail of silvery particles, and explodes with a low bang that eerily echoes off pyramids and power plants.

She too, slowly advances towards the balcony, her attention snared by the extraterrestrial spectacle. The fireworks come in dozens, then in hundreds, blossoming colorlessly in the sky like parasitic cells under a microscope. They're beautiful.

A gasp escapes her mouth, unheard over the booming fireworks, when two wiry arms capture her from behind and pull her against a solid chest. What took him so long? Her belly flips with butterflies as Feyd-Rautha abducts her unnoticed from the celebration, pulling her back back back until the grand view over Giedi Prime vanishes from their view and the festive banquet hall is replaced by corridors like black tunnels. Only the occasional flash of a firework lights up the path before them and the visage of the pale demon who drags her along.

This is not the concubine's corridor.

Hands against her ribs shove her into Feyd-Rautha’s private chambers. Before her eyes can adjust to the darkness, his fingers are in her hair, tearing without care so the hairdo comes apart. “You've ruined my birthday and you enjoyed it!”

“I didn’t enjoy a single fucking second of this day!” Acting nonchalant only works when he’s not on her and all over her with violent hands and seething eyes, when the air doesn’t smell like his perfume oil. Her chest heaves and she will not cry.

“Then I must have imagined you having the time of your life with my uncle.” 

She tries to jerk her head out of Feyd’s grip, but he holds tight and she winces, her scalp stinging. “At least he was nice to me.”

“Perhaps you should be with him then.” Feyd’s jaw quivers.

“Your jealousy is ridiculous.”

“My jealousy?!”

“Well I’m jealous of the other women you fuck. You’re jealous of me talking to your uncle!” The fireworks are nothing compared to their voices, booming like the occasional earthquakes that rattle Giedi Prime’s volcanic crust.

Feyd threateningly lifts a finger, dark eyes simmering. “I asked you to dance with me.”

“Yes, after insulting our relationship.” 

He walks her deeper into his bed chamber, shaking his head as if to deny the allegations but he can’t, not really. It isn’t fair of her, he thinks. The na-Baron of Giedi Prime has many concubines. It’s his birthright and politically profitable. That he has been bedding only one of them for almost a year concerns no one but him.

Her walk backwards is only halted when her thighs bump into the edge of his bed where they lay only two nights ago and she had felt special in his arms, on top of him, under the weight of his body. Now she only feels like a toy and she’s not only sick of it, she also mentally can’t keep going.

“You are the center of the world, but who is the center of yours?” Her fingers curl into his thick suit jacket and he feels the little tremors in her muscles.

A lingering thought infests him, that her first assertion is a heretic belief, not a truth. The people in the avenues celebrate for the sake of it, the guests in the hall would dance and feast for any politically appropriate occasion. Perhaps his position at world's pivot is only one for show, where he is strung up as a puppet. His importance is the figure he represents, not the man he is. 

Feyd would so love to be the center of someone’s world.

His concubine’s face is angled upwards and the far echo of a firework sends a flash of silver over her features. “Making me jealous will only push me away, you dumb creature.” 

Oh.

He does love her fury, and when she insults him, his heart thrums a little needier. But what he doesn’t love is the note of tears that throttles her lovely voice. His jaws clench, fingers twitching against her scalp. He could throw her on the bed and punish her for the ruined day or kiss her and forgive her, but there’s an ache in his stomach that makes him do neither of the two. “I just… Don’t twist the facts!”

“Maybe you don’t have a heart, but I do. I didn’t want you to have it, but you—” She swallows as her voice cracks. “And now you’re chewing it apart with your heartless mouth.” The following shocks her, but it bursts like a weight off her chest. “Be with someone else! I don’t want to be your concubine anymore.”

Feyd’s heart (yes, he has one), drops into a void and he feels sick to his stomach, falling into the hole that gapes where the ground has been pulled from under his feet.

She tears away from him, hair slipping free, but Feyd catches her elbow. And as she turns back around, he viscerally drops on one knee.

“Then be my wife.”

The last firework explodes in the sky and they are left with a silence so quiet, one might just hear the universe’s heartbeat pulsing against the dome of the skies. A breeze wafts in and brushes her golden skirts against Feyd’s bent knee and he waits, trembling. She can’t say no. He would rather die a humiliating death in front of a million worshipers.

“Your answer?”

She knows, being a wife means nothing. Wives are why concubines exist. Wife is the ultimate empty title that has nothing to do with love, at least not among the Great Houses. Does it mean anything to him? Her mind swims with years and years of manipulation and forced assimilation and finally, the held-back tears spill over her cheeks.

“My conditions,” she boldly speaks and takes a deep breath, not allowing herself to fall into mindless euphoria despite how madly her heart beats and her stomach flips with butterflies. With controlled leisureness, she sits down on the edge of Feyd’s bed and nudges the tip of her shoe against the kneeling na-Baron’s sternum. “No concubines. No pets. I will be your only one. I don’t care which rotten cravings decay in your mind, I will be the one to fulfill them.”

Feyd's lips part and he draws in a quick breath. “Yes,” he breathes and his heart lifts itself from the pit that had swallowed it and Feyd inches closer, head craned back. The free hand slides under her skirts, needily catching her ankle.

“There is no need for anyone else. Tell me what you want me to do for you, I’ll do it.”

“I want you to watch the next time I fight.” Feyd’s nose and cheek twitch as the memory of today sends a sliver of rage through his nerves. Within a heart’s beat, her hand curls around his jaws, thumb rubbing over the twitching muscle. “And I want you to accept my proposal,” he growls much more needily. Blood has rushed to his cock, making it strain against the suit trousers.

“First… Hand me your blade.”

A small, gravelly moan rolls over plush lips and he releases her elbow to unsheathe the kukri from its holster. She takes it with deft fingers and presses it against his willing throat, watching with satisfaction as his pointy Adam’s Apple jumps against the blade. “What are you doing, woman?” Feyd drawls, hips weakly rutting into the empty space between them, not angled right to hump her leg, though he'd like to.

“Swear that I’ll be your only.”

“I swear it.” Feyd drawls without hesitation, pupils blown wide. Agitated breath fans her arm. He can barely wait to consummate their betrothal, squirming like a fish ashore, held at arm’s length by her will.

The clock ticks and Feyd-Rautha's birthday is nearly over. Pleadingly, he cranes his neck, shuffling on his knee. He is so eager to be devoted and brought to heel, when will she say yes?!  “Will you be my wife? Please.”

A heavy breath and scrutiny in tearful eyes, then finally, she breaks into a watery smile. “Yes, I will be your wife.” Happily, she sobs into the palm of her hand and the blade at his throat trembles. Feyd gives her no time to cry in peace and hauls her to the floor by the skirts.

The pair goes down on shiny tiles that reflect the golden material of her dress, barely gold anymore in the ambience of his dark chambers. Fragmented speckles of light dance across the floor as Feyd sifts through the layers until he has them bunched around her hips. Her thighs part willingly, latching around his narrow waist. She pulls close what belongs to her, making the na-Baron come flush with her pelvis.

Feyd claims her as frantically as she does him, calloused hands sliding along her waist to finally unwrap the birthday present she’s denied him all day, the only thing that mattered.

“I hate this dress,” he purrs. “You look like the wrong sun.” 

“Cut it off me then.” She offers him his own blade, chest arching off the floor. “Would you rather have me wear black at our wedding?” Excitedly, her breath hitches.

“No.” In fact, he’d be offended if she did. “I’d rather have you wear nothing and paint you black from the inside.” A flash of gold pervades the night when it reflects on the raised blade. A precise slash across her chest makes the bodice come undone between her breasts. The bite of metal misses her skin by a hair’s width. “Handing me back my blade… Did I teach you nothing?” Feyd purrs, sliding the blunt side over her breasts.

“I have my own.” Her breath hitches when her nipples pebble against the knife. Swiftly, she unsheathes her own blade from the strap around her hips under the skirts. The curved tip catches the button of Feyd’s trousers and slices straight through it, cutting a new fly into the thick material. His freed cock bobs against the flat side of her blade, the tip grazing his taut balls in a fatal kiss.

Feyd-Rautha moans, falling over her body to palm at her breasts and slide his mouth against her throat. She doesn’t have enough time to withdraw the blade from between his thighs and the way he whimpers tells her she has caught the delicate flesh. “Feyd, you idiot. Do you wish for me to dismember you before our wedding night?”

She pulls the blade away and seconds later, Feyd’s cock grinds against her center, slicking himself up with her essence. The velvety head rests heavily on her belly as he grinds his balls against cunt, relishing the sting of the wound. Blood drips over her folds, tinting the slick of her arousal black.

Forgotten, her kukri clatters to the floor and one hand reaches for his cock, the other for the back of his thigh, urging him closer as she lines him up with her entrance, wet but unprepared. It’ll be an adequate sting to match that of her betrothed’s incised testicles. Obediently, he follows, piercing her open with his cock head. A long wail escapes her as her cunt yields under pressure, then a startled gasp when Feyd’s knife is wedged inside the tight space between her two front teeth, so she cannot close her mouth.

Her cunt clenches fearfully around the thick length as he makes himself at home with languid thrusts. If the blade slips, he might just split her gums and lip. She doesn’t dare shake her head no and her tongue retreats far back into the cavity of her mouth, whimpering as he fucks her slowly, taking fascination in the way peril makes her slicker and her walls grip him in a fluttering embrace.

“Every rotten craving,” he cites her slyly. “Fuck.” A rapt look overtakes his eyes when she slides her tongue against the bottom of the blade, featherlight. She’s learned it from him, his favored way of testing the edge of a blade.

“You stole my show today,” he rasps, allowing her to wrap her fingers around his wrist to maneuver the kukri away. She pries it from his hand, then hurls it forcefully across the room. 

“You let me.  Maybe you like it when I bereave you, na-Baron.” The blade lands with a clatter.

“You bereft me of my other concubines.” 

The memory of them strengthens her fingers and she rips the jacket of Feyd’s festive suit open, digging her nails into taut, pale pectorals. “The Great Houses will be displeased.”

“Yes, they will be,” Feyd purrs, plush lips twitching into an excited smirk. “Maybe it’ll start a war.” He accentuates the word with a sharp thrust. The madness of his mirth over the idea is only slightly diluted by the arousal that swims in tar-black eyes. If her selfish claim sparks a war, she will have no regrets over it, because Feyd-Rautha is hers, tied by the heart, not by politics.

Her husband to be fucks her with frantic rythm until slick drips down her cheeks and turns the tiles below wet and sticky. They're both still waiting for the final nudge to come undone, so the night of their betrothal may go on forever. Her hands slide around the back or Feyd's neck, demanding kisses from plush lips and black teeth that glint in the dark.

“You looked so beautiful on your knees,” she moans into his mouth. “You should do it again.” Her gaze sweeps over to the balcony door and Feyd's follows. “You didn't deliver your speech, I heard, because you were, aahh, p-pouting.”

“Don't tease me, woman.” Feyd stands and pulls her up with him, arms hooked around her legs. His thick cock still twitches in her cunt as she wraps her legs around his waist. “Take off your dress.”

She obeys without question, heels of her feet digging into his lower back as she pulls the half-slashed golden fabric that's still gathered around her hips over her head. Feyd hums appreciatively, eyes gliding down her breasts and belly to the point where they're conjoined by the pelvis.

“Now my jacket,” he instructs and with a bit of awkward pulling, she manages to free the fabric from the clutch of her legs around his waist, then slides it off his arms one by one. Somehow, even with only one arm he manages to hold her firmly against his chest, slowly rocking his hips upwards, so her mind never stops reeling.

Last of all, Feyd kicks off his shoes and marches her over to the wall, grinning. “Feyd, what are you-? Wait.” A breeze brushes over her bare back as Feyd kicks the balcony door further open with and carries her out into the open, smiling wide with black maws.

A gust of turbulent, putrid wind catches her hair and turmoil swells from two hundred meters below, guttural chanting that could be celebration or it could be war, impossible to tell how many of them will look up to the palace pyramid and see the na-Baron's concubine seated on the banister and the na-Baron between her thighs.

Gasping, she clings to Feyd's shoulders, stripped of color entirely. The reflected moonlight barely makes it past the clouds, so they are swathed in somberness. It is a truly alien world, one that could really use a new sun.

Feyd-Rautha cants his hips, languidly thrusting into her cunt, pale arms circling her. A thread of slick comes off and drips into the abyss below, past the base of his thick cock. “Not the biggest fan of speeches. I prefer demonstrations.”

He fucks her on his balcony that overlooks Barony, the capital of Giedi Prime, cock drilling into her over the perilous chasm.

“You made me swear it, but you never promised me that I will be your only.” Feyd's plush lips curl into a snarl.

“Hmmm…” She pretends to ponder, a flash of amusement on her lips.

Feyd-Rautha however doesn’t take kindly to the playful hesitation and dips her dangerously backwards, smirking. Her life hangs in the arms of a psychopath and below her is nothing but gaping emptiness for two hundred meters. “I’d rather throw us both down there than share you!”

Her heart thrums like a shield, almost pierced by a slow blade. “I’d rather live another day in your arms, my na-Baron.”

Zestfully, he hoists her back up and resumes fucking her, possessive and rough, one hand tugging on her asscheek, the other clutching her waist. Her mind and nerves swim with pleasure. The euphoria of being claimed as his so brutally makes her want to laugh and cry, white teeth bared at the na-Baron.

He too stares at her, waiting, muscles twitching under pale skin.

“You think I can? When under me is death and a thousand Harkonnens watching?”

“You will.” Feyd leers, lips twitching. His cock drives into her center. Whimpering, she slides her hand between their bodies to rub her clit. “No.”

“No?!”

“You will cum from your husband's cock.”

The confidence that drips thick and velvety from his voice makes her head roll back, moaning. Her cunt flutters weakly, climax digging its tendrils into her core, eager to burst into full bloom. She angles her pelvis, squirming in Feyd's grasp, and props up one foot on the railing, trusting him to hold her.

And he does, laughing. Insanity lights up his eyes as he fucks into her, slap slap slap, pubic mound grinding against her clit. She arches her back and his cock nudges her just right, toes curling, lids fluttering.

“There, that's a good girl.”

She comes undone with a long moan, voice carried away by the putrid wind. Feyd-Rautha's lips and jaws twitch and he covers her open mouth with his. His eyes are open when he climaxes and fills her with his seed, their consummation on display for the whole of Giedi Prime.

Trembling fingers claw at Feyd's shoulders, dampened with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves with raspy breaths and he raises a finger, trailing it over her throat and clavicle.

“My birthday gift.”

“The sex?” A gust of wind catches her face.

“No.” Feyd smirks. “You. My wife.”

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

HCTS TAG LIST:

@ughdontbeboring

[luveline]

hey! would you mind writing sirius black x reader (ole flame or something) when they meet for the first time since azkaban at a meeting for the order? thank you and happy holidays!

thank u for requesting, hope this is OK! ♡

—you and sirius both get to go home eventually, 2.2k. fem

You were still kids when Sirius… went away. You thought he hurt James and Lily, and it didn't matter that you loved him because he was evil and cruel and he hurt the people he loved most in the world, and then you were outposted thousands of miles eastward, your life a shadow. 

Remus sent you letters. You always answered, even when it hurt, but his last was too much to believe. You told yourself that someone forged his handwriting through a curse or some new gimmick, and then a second arrived with a smaller envelope hidden inside. 

No name written on it. No Dear anything to begin. 

Things are different to what you've been told. Please come home, it said. This penmanship was shaken like a hand out of practice, but something felt familiar in the curves and dots. 

If Remus’ letter (and the second smaller one too) were in fact telling the truth, it means you did something awful, and so, for a while, you don't go. 

Please, the next letter says, again enclosed within a larger explanation from Remus, I'm sorry. I just want to see you again. 

Getting home isn't as simple as he might think. You have to picture the destination very clearly to disapparate, and you have no sustained recollection anymore of the places you used to go. You remember silly things, slices of memories; the four of them laughing in a big green field, the sweet smell of hair oil to your left; the beige walls of a rented flat where you'd lay in bed for hours, sometimes days at a time, before things got too terrible to sleep; a string-lit garden that last summer, hands of poker on a glass table. These places aren't real anymore. You can't go back to them. 

Upon your request, Molly forwards you an address and a secret code. 

Trains, buses, trains again. A long walk through a cold street. Some secret this or that. You arrive in the night and a frowning face ushers you in, past a painting sealed away and up the creaking stairs. You spend hours sitting on the end of a bed coated in dust waiting for the sun to rise, your back stiff with nerves. You could slip out before anyone else knows you're here, it's not as if Moody would give you away. But why did you come, if you were going to run straight back to your outpost? 

You don't want Sirius’ betrayal to be true, of course. It took your breath away imagining what it would mean if he hadn't done what you thought. If it's all lies (as it seems to be), if he's innocent as he and Remus claim, it means you turned your back on him and left him to suffer, and he's still asking you to come home. 

A few people stir for breakfast. Molly, who's voice you remember, and some younger sounding ones that may be her children, or perhaps the newer Order recruits. Then comes Remus’ voice. He sounds different. Less Welsh, more tired. Homely anyways as he passes your door with someone beside him. 

“...any day now,” he's saying, “try not to worry.” 

“I do worry. I've worried about it every day for years.” 

You freeze up. 

The stairs creak, Remus’ voice moving further away. “She doesn't need worrying.” 

Sirius must stay at the top of the stairs for a moment. He sounds close. “I wouldn't know what she needs.” 

“Come have some breakfast.” 

“I'll write her again.” 

“After breakfast.” 

“What if she doesn't come?” 

“After breakfast,” Remus insists. “She can ignore you once we've had toast.” 

“I forgot how funny you are,” Sirius mutters. 

Hearing his voice fills you with doubt. He sounds nothing like he used to, no easy confidence to be heard, just fatigue. 

You look down at your hands. Hearing his voice has a new emotion sprouting, too. When you first learned what had happened to your friends, you felt anger like a knife everywhere you went. How could he do that to them? How could he do it to you, be that person, ruin everything you'd loved and made together? But later, when anger faded and grief ached, you'd missed the Sirius you loved. Shamefully, in longing pangs, you'd toss and turn to dreams where things were different. 

Now there's a chance he might still be that person, and you're hiding from him in his own house. 

“There's someone here,” Molly says as you leave your room, her voice nearly too quiet to hear from the kitchen. “Moody's told me this morning.” 

“What?” Arthur asks. 

“Who?” a younger voice says. 

A small intermission of quiet. “Well, I don't know,” Molly says eventually, though she must have guessed it was you from the letter you sent. “But I'll need another loaf of bread. You'd better go, boys.” 

“Mum,” one whines. 

“Come on now.” 

The stairs whimper as you descend, the bannister sticky with old gloss under your hand. Paisley wallpaper and drapes catch your eye as you pass the overflowing shoe rack. There must be more people here than you'd thought. The coat stand is similarly overloaded. 

You can see into the kitchen as soon as you take the last step down. Molly stands wringing a dish cloth between her hands, two teenage boys at the kitchen table. Remus stands near her right with a cup of tea, and when he sees you, he genuinely smiles. 

“Oh, good,” he says, the scar that bisects his lip pulling as he takes a sip of tea. 

The teenagers turn to see you. “Bread, boys! Arthur, you can go with them," Molly says.

Arthur doesn't complain. You falter in the hallway, quiet as the trio of Weasley's leave the kitchen in their slippers to take a quiet exit from the front door. They smile politely as they go, but the boys whisper as the door shuts behind them. You wonder if they have an inkling of who you are, and then you wonder what you might say now they're gone. 

Molly remains, inquisitive to know that you need privacy but also the security of her company. She was always smart like that.

“Come in, then,” Remus says. 

“I–” You clear your throat. “I'm not sure I should.” 

A startle of silverware against china. 

Remus gives you one of his looks. It has tears threatening to well. Why didn't I fight to see him more? you think. Suddenly years have passed and he's changed, but his reassuring glances remain. It's like he's saying everything is fine, why wouldn't everything be fine? Chin up, dove.

Sirius appears in the doorway. Dark circles beneath grey eyes, his cheeks gaunt with hunger rather than the sleek sharpness he once possessed. He's still pretty, if wounded. It's as though you've found an old photo of him that's been smudged with age. He's stepped out of one of your moulding albums to haunt you. 

“Angel,” he breathes, his hand clasped low on the doorway, “you're here.” 

You look past him to Molly and Remus. There isn't a reality nor dimension where they'd let him stay here if they didn't believe his innocence. Remus explained it all in the letter and still you worried if he might have gotten it wrong, and simply believed what he wanted to believe, but it's not possible. Remus loved James so much, he would've killed Sirius himself if he really thought Sirius was the secret keeper who betrayed them. 

So. It's a relief to be home. 

You stare at him. “You look tired,” you say quietly. 

“I'm fine. I am.” 

He seems alright, considering. You'd even say he was handsome with his hair pushed away from his face, a dark shadow of stubble around his mouth, but he looks exhausted.  

You're expecting him to say what you'd say. How could you ever think I'd do it? 

Sirius was prone to similar bouts of pride, or righteousness, justice, whatever you want to call it, but he doesn't bother with that now. He looks at you as though you're the only person on earth, gaze narrowed but eyes wide, pain between his brows as he asks, “What's wrong?” 

Your hand finches up to your cheek to wipe the sudden tear away. “I thought I'd never see you again.” Your Sirius. 

“Don't be upset,” he pleads. 

“How can I not be? I left you all alone for so long.” 

He laughs roughly. “Sweetheart, what were you supposed to do?” 

“Not just give up.” 

“You thought it was me. That's the only thing you could've done. Either of you,” he says, gesturing backward with his hand. “It was hard… to know who to trust, at the end. It's not your fault.” 

You really were only kids together, not half as in love as James and Lily, but that doesn't mean you weren't mad for each other. He looked after you. You would've had a life, you think. 

“You were just gone,” you say, looking down at the floor between you, eyes tracing lines of wood grain. “Everyone. There was nobody left. And I just let you go.” 

“Do you want to come here?” he asks. You lift your head. His hand is barely in front of him, fingers open, palm up. 

It's like taking a stranger's hand for the first few seconds. You keep them low between you both, unfamiliar to each other. But, you find, as his fingers wrap around yours in that selfish way they used to do, squeezing rather than intertwining to make all of them fit, he remembers you.

You step a little closer, your arm to his chest, and look up at him through your lashes. It would melt him like a candle near a furnace, this look. He'd be smug or seething about something and you'd sidle in to stand between his shoes, unsure of what to say but determined to be there for him. It's the same now.  

“What's wrong?” he asks under his breath. 

“I left you all alone,” you repeat. 

“It wasn't your choice, okay?” He smooths his free hand from your elbow to your upper arm. 

Molly says something to Remus. He chuckles and says something in return. Happier to admit it if it's only for Sirius’ ears, you say, “I'm really sorry, Sirius. I miss you every day.” 

“I miss you too,” he says. 

You push your arms around his waist and hide your face in his chest, feeling for the lines of who he used to be, the dip of his spine in his back or the soft cotton of one of his old t-shirts. You regret hugging him at all, until he puts his arm behind your head, a shaky breath released against your crown. 

I'm scared, he'd said. But I don't want you to be scared, okay? Barely twenty, he smelled of the sticky red powder on the end of matches after a night doing things he couldn't tell you about. You could tell him you loved him, and he you, but you weren't to discuss Order business. We'll be okay. 

But Lily–

Everyone's going to be fine. I promise. 

“You promised,” you say to yourself. Too quiet for him to hear, but he does. 

“I promised you so many things I'm not sure what one you mean,” he says with a disappointed laugh. 

You pull away, taking his face into two hands. “How do you feel?” you ask, ignoring the tremble working up from your wrists. 

“What?” His eyes are dark. 

“How are you? Did they– I mean, are you okay? Are you sick?” 

“Remus has patched me up. And Cordelia, the medwitch, you know her?” 

“I don't know anyone. I've been away.” 

He nods sadly. “Yeah. Well, you look the same.” 

“I don't.” 

“You do! You look the same,” —he almost sounds happy, his lips curling into a smile— “sweetheart. Sweetheart–” He closes his eyes. 

You push his hair behind his ears. “You don't look the same,” you confess, “you have wrinkles, right… here.” You touch the corners of his eyes. 

“You're still beautiful.” 

“Mm. You can't even see me.” 

“I don't need to see you. I knew you would be.” 

You rise up to kiss his cheek gently. “It's like you're back, like– like, I always felt like you were gone. And now you're home again. You are home, aren't you?” 

He covers your hand with one of his. “You're here, so–” 

You laugh together nervously. “Yeah, I'm here.” 

“I have stuff to do to make it right.” 

“Then we'll do it.” 

“Okay,” he says. He swallows a breath, and wraps you in a surprisingly tight hug. “Did you read my letters?” 

I don't want anything from you. Just to see you're okay. 

“I read them. I'm okay. Don't I look okay?” 

“You look perfect. Just like the last time I saw you,” he says. It startles you how suddenly he sounds like he did when you were young, his flirting drawl, voice velveteen. 

“Not like that,” you laugh. 

He pulls you as close as you can be, rough now, his arms solid around you. “I missed that,” he says, rubbing your back. “I forgot how you sound when you laugh.” 

You've led very different lives. “I didn't forget yours.” 

“You wouldn't. You love having things to hold against me.” 

You stroke his hair. “Maybe a little.” 

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: A debt owed, a debt repaid

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Who are you?”

Veshmal looked across the holographic table at the armored female human who stood stoically at the center of his war room. He was unsure of who the human was but they certainly not who he had requested a meeting with.

Three hours ago he had sent a communication to the human warship holding high anchor and demanded the leader of the human contingent come to his command bunker and explain his forces recent actions. Three hours of being kept waiting within the bustling noise of his command bunker until finally a human arrived only for it to not be the leader.

“I am Sarah Noron, Herald of the Order.” The human spoke through their helmet. The audio broadcasters gave their voice a robotic overtone causing several passing aides to react startled. “The master regrets that he could not be present, but wishes to pass along his sympathies as other matters took precedent.”   

“Other matters took precedent?” Veshmal repeated in a snide tone as his anger swelled.

Raising his hand to an elaborate pin on his uniform depicting two serpents devouring a giant bird creature Veshmal announced “I am the Supreme Commander of this invasion! At my command are millions of warriors spread across this entire planet and thousands of ships in orbit comprising the largest military this quadrant has ever seen!”

Unimpressed, the human warrior looked down at Veshmal. “I assure you that I speak with the authority of my master-“

“That is not the point!” Veshmal interrupted. He strode across the holographic table projecting numerous offensives across the world at came before the human. His sabre slapping lazily against his leg as he stood before them and jabbed his clawed finger against their armor. The taloned finger was not enough to pierce the dense metal but left a small scratch as he continued his beratement. “I asked for your master, not his mouth piece!”

The human warrior made no response but those watching could see as well as hear as they clenched their fists tightly.

“What do you wish to speak of?” the human finally spoke; their voice thick with restraint.

With a snap of his fingers one of the waiting military staff approached the table and entered in several keys. The charts for ongoing operations slowly vanished one by one to be replaced with a single operation dated to have happened earlier.

“Earlier today you broke off your pursuit of retreating enemy forces along the hemlock ravine. A full battalion of motorized and armored vehicles were able to then safely retreat across the only bridge to span the divide before they blew it up behind them.”

Turning to face the herald, if they showed any embarrassment they gave no sign of it.

“Why did you ignore your orders and let the enemy escape?”

“For clarification,” the human began, “they were not “Order’s” but a request made to my master to which he agreed.”

The sheer disrespectfulness of the human’s blunt response stunned several of the gathered officers and made Veshmal turn a shade of green of anger as the human continued.

“For repairing one of our warships some time ago your people earned the gratitude of the Order of the Fallen Sun, and we have come to answer that debt by aiding you here in this campaign. That does not mean however that we are your lackies to be ordered about.”

Before Veshmal could reply with a no doubt harsh insulting remark one of his underlings stepped in.

“To which we are grateful for your assistance,” they said hastily, “but can you still explain your actions?”

To the gathered onlookers the human nodded and pointed to the hologram.

“Acting on the intel you provided, our forces converged on the enemy and hounded their rearguard as our mobile units sought to overtake them and cut off their approach to the bridge.”

The hologram indeed showed human forces isolating and obliterating several rearguard formations that had broken away from the main body to slow down the order’s pursuit while several prongs of airborne vehicles carried infantry detachments to secure the bridge.

“As we came within visual range of the main body of the enemy forces however we soon discovered that the majority of the contacts were civilian vehicles in nature.”

“They were most likely stolen by fleeing soldiers to make up for their own loses in machinery.” Veshmal remarked, but the human shook their head.

“Had that been the case we would have continued with our mandate and obliterated them; but upon further scanning they were shown to be occupied by women, children, sick, and injured who are not designated as combat effectives.”

Tapping their own headset a small projection emerged from the human helmet and overlapped the table’s to show a live feed taken from one of the approaching aircraft meant to cut off the bridge. Several vehicles were largely open top cabins showcasing that there were indeed mostly women and children present. Several other vehicles had been marked with large strange glyphs that signified “Medical” in the enemy’s native tongue indicating they were noncombatants.

“Upon learning of this the information was relayed to my master who canceled the attack order. We then broke off and shadowed the retreating forces until they detonated the bridge.”

No one said anything as the human finished their summary. They were too afraid to incur their commander’s wrath as Vashmal rounded on the human.

“So you admit to ignoring your orders!?”

“Again,” the human began to correct, “they were a requ-“

“Silence!”

In a swift motion Veshmal drew his saber and swung it in a wide arch across the breastplate of the human’s armor. Unlike the taloned finger the weapon carved a small grove across the armor and deformed the Order’s symbol that had adorned the armor.

No one was surprised or sought to intervene with the supreme commander’s action, as it was customary for a supreme commander to kill a subordinate who had failed them. What was strange was that the human made no move to defend themselves. Many had seen firsthand that the human’s reaction time and combat efficiency were well above the standard soldier so they had expected for the human warrior to dodge or even shatter the saber outright with their bare hands. Yet they did nothing as Veshmal continued.

“I did not care that there were civilians present, I wanted that armored battalion destroyed! Annihilated! Vaporized! Do you not understand!?”

Veshmal waited, with saber still in hand, for the human to answer but none came.

The room was now silent as all ceased their activities to watch the unfolding dramatics as the human tilted their head down slightly and brought up an armored hand and felt it over the fresh grove. They ran their fingers across the entire length of the grove that had been churned from their armor before looking back up at the still fuming Veshmal.

“So you admit that you knew there were civilians present when you requested us to attack?”

“Of course I knew!” Veshmal retorted loudly. “There isn’t a single action on this world that does not happen without my-“

It was Veshmal’s turned to be interrupted as the human warrior Sarah reached into a combat pouch and withdrew a metal disk and casually threw it to the ground. The disk clattered loudly before expanding three times its size and hummed with energy.

From it a projection sprung a blue hologram of a warrior easily twice the size of Sarah sitting atop an equally large throne. They wore no helmet and for those watching few could look on for long as this human’s face was horrific to look upon.

Bands of iron stapled themselves across scars while a portion of their lip was missing revealing the teeth behind. One eye shun with the glow of a misty morning’s dew while the other was that of burning embers of a dying flame.

Veshmal straightened himself as he finally had gotten what he had requested; an audience with the human order’s master.

“What news my herald?” the warrior’s voice boomed. “Has the matter been resolved?”

Hands emerged from off screen handing the master datapads of which the master scanned the contents rapidly and gave either a nod or shake in response before handing them back. “I must admit I long for the days when I was youthful and full of fire.” He chuckled as he continued reading datapads. “Oh to feel the breeze of a shredder round nearly splattering your head would be such a fine sensation compared to the monotony of paperwork.”

As if noticing something finally the master held up a hand and the datapads withdrew as the master turned his full attention to the projection.

“Why is your armor damaged?” they said. “It was not there when you left the ship. Has the command center come under attack?”

Before Veshmal could interject Sarah answered her master.

“The Supreme Commander struck me with his weapon after I relayed the reasons for our cessation of attack on the armored battalion.”

She turned to look directly at Veshmal. “Reasons the Supreme Commander was well aware of beforehand but neglected to inform us of.”

“That is entirely-“ Veshmal began before being silenced when the master held up a hand.

Reclining back into their throne the master cusped his forehead in thought as he contemplated what had just been said.

“Herald…” he finally spoke as he continued to stroke his head.

“Yes master?” Sarah replied without hesitation.

“Order all of our forces to cease operations and prepare for embarkation back to the ship. We are done with this war.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Veshmal finally spoke up. “You owe us a debt and you swore to assist us! This war is far from over!”

“Indeed we did.” The master replied as he turned his full attention to Veshmal who took a step back when the pair of human eyes stared at him with pure malice from the projection.

“It is against our order’s tenants to attack the defenseless intentionally and by knowingly lying to us on this matter you have broken the trust of our pact.”

“Therefore our debt has been paid as we will not seek retribution for this deception.” The master finished.

“It is done.” Sarah confirmed as she rejoined the conversation. “All units are disengaging and returning to rally points now. We shall be offworld within the next two hours.”

The master nodded but kept his gaze fixated on Veshmal.

“Now, regarding the matter of your attempted murder of my herald..” the master continued. “I would suggest everyone listening to this conversation to remain where they are and do not interfere. It would be wise to not let your hands drift to your weapons with what is to come.”

Not fully understanding what the human leader was saying, they watched in confusion as the human warrior placed her weapons on the ground and cracked her knuckles in ear splitting fashion.

“Make it quick and then return.” The master addressed his Herald. “The foulness of this war is now a stench I find most…..infuriating.”

With that the projection ceased and the room was left quiet once more.

“What did he mean-“ Veshmal had just began to utter when Sarah’s fist grabbed hold of the saber and snapped it in two.

The Supreme commander had just enough time to look bewildered before she brought the shattered remains of the saber still clenched in her fist straight through his chest and out his back.

Vashmal collapsed like a puppet whose strings had finally been cut, grasping fruitlessly at the wound as he watched the human herald retrieve their weapons and stride out of the command center.  All those present frozen in fear and horror at the swiftness of their leader’s death refusing to even treat the wound medically until the human had finally left the room; but by then their leader was beyond any means of treatment and those who remained now were left the ponderous task of what to do next.

[webshooterrr9]

Stamina

Volleyball AU, in which Miguel is your teammate

pairing: outsidehitter!Miguel x setter!reader

Word count: 1.8k

CW: explicit 18+ content, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, dry humping, praise, arguing because they're both stubborn as hell

fic under the cut!!

The year is 2099, national sports teams are now gender-integrated, making it harder to get a spot on the team, since you have twice the amount of competition. Not to mention that volleyball is a sport heavily influenced by height, and although you’re pretty tall for a female, you’re going up against men who are almost 7’0" or above.

Luckily you placed on the USA team, marking your place as an incredible setter. Now, you’re two years in and preparing for the next Olympics.

During your team practice today, you got into an argument with your outside hitter, Miguel O’hara. You and your teammates were in the middle of running a 6.2 lineup, when you messed up a set towards Miguel. It wasn’t a huge issue at first, people mess up all the time, even at Olympic levels, but the screw ups kept happening. After practice was over, and all the other teammates left the gym, he spoke.

“Are you stupid?” Miguel clenches his fists as you two argue, his uniform sticking tightly to his muscular torso.

You gaze at his tall frame, beads of sweat dripping down his face from an intense practice. You had admired his physique during practice many times before, but you didn’t have time to ogle over him now, not when you were arguing like this.

“Am I stupid? You’re stupid! All of your receives today sucked, you only made it to the ball in time when you had to hit!” your hands find their way to your hips as you shout.

“And your sets have been trash! I could barely get a good hit in the whole time!” Miguel yelled as he stepped towards you. He looked almost intimidating, but you weren’t scared. This wasn’t the first time he had yelled at you before, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean that what he said didn’t piss you off.

“It’s a miracle you’re our main setter with how sloppy you were today.”

“Oh please, you’re lucky to even have your position. The only reason you’re a starter is because you’re a fucking tower.” That wasn’t true. He was an incredible player, but whatever.

You step closer to him, fists balled up just like his. There was a tension between you two, the anger rising. “At least I worked hard to get here, you just got your spot handed to you.” you spat.

Miguel was livid, his face was even more red now than it was from the workout. “Are you kidding me? I had to work for my spot just like everyone else. Your sets are the reason why I messed up today. I bet the coaches didn’t even choose you for your abilities, you probably just slept with them to get here.”

Oh hell no. “My sets are fucking incredible, you asshole!” you shove him. “I wouldn’t be on this team if they weren’t. I’m not a whore like you are.” you were all up in each other’s faces now, glaring at each other with the heat of a thousand suns. “You’re just a lousy snob who can’t adapt to your surroundings. Don’t project your high standards onto me.”

“I have every right to have high standards, we’re on the national team for God’s sake! I shouldn’t have to play cleanup for you all the time!” his muscular chest heaves with his anger, getting even more riled up than you were. So much for the strong, silent type.

“Play cleanup for me? I’m the one who has to play cleanup for you!”

Miguel just glares at you, fuming. You can see his gaze lingering down to your body, but you don’t know if it’s because he’s sizing you up or not. “Just admit it: you’re not good enough to be on this team.”

“I won’t admit to something that’s not true.” All the yelling almost made you out of breath, but you stood tall. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. “You don’t have the stamina to keep up with me… or anyone on this team for that matter.” you breathe out, glaring at him.

“Oh?”

Miguel’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to be eye-level with you. The truth was, his heart was pounding, he had never seen you so worked up before. The sweat shining on your forehead, the panting of your breath, and the fierce look in your eyes was a combo he had never seen before - not up close at least.

“You think I don’t have stamina?” his voice dropped just above a whisper, the question laced with a certain venom. “Try me, chiquita. I’ll show you stamina.”

Jesus Christ.

Oh he definitely did that on purpose. There was no way he made your heart race and thoughts cloud like this on accident. He knew what he said.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Your teammate looked at you in a way you had never seen from him before. His large hands, perfect for a front row player, find purchase on your waist, pulling you closer to him. But you wouldn’t make this easy for him.

“Don’t tempt me, muñeca.” he breathes, dipping his head right next to your ear.

Shit. Nevermind. I guess this would be easy for him.

When he pressed his lips to yours, ever so softly despite the attitude you were giving him, you didn’t reject it. The kiss progressed slowly, tentatively, the two of you unsure of how to explore the situation. The past two years of on-and-off pining for your arrogant teammate was paying off, but you never thought you’d get this far. His mouth kissed yours curiously, trying to read your feelings for him.

The gentleness of the kiss was short-lived, though, as the tension from earlier quickly returned to the surface. You took his face in your hands, cupping his jaw and pulling him closer to you. The inquisitive caress of his lips on yours became a stronger, messier, more desperate call for action. His hands wandered across your back, occasionally dipping down to grip the ass that was shaped by years of playing a lower body sport.

Much to your dismay, he broke away, panting. The flush on his cheeks and the thrumming of his heart was evidence of an excitement he hadn’t felt in a while now.

“You…” his finger lifted to twist a strand of your hair. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.” you said back, completely captivated by the look in his eyes. He was staring at you like you were a goddess, like he was holding a piece of the sky in his hands.

“We can’t do this here,” he whispered. “Not on the court.”

“Let’s go back to your place, then,” you say, running your thumb over his cheeks. He absentmindedly leans into the touch. “You only live like ten minutes away, right?”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” he says.

“Well, you’ll just have to.”

“You like that, sweet girl?”

“God, yes…” you whined. He began to suckle on your clit, the pressure alone enough to make you see stars. You arched your core against his mouth as his tongue flicked over you, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer to him. You carded your fingers through his hair, reveling in the way it curled around your hands.

He moved lower and pushed his tongue into your entrance. He slipped one of his long fingers inside you, massaging your velvety walls in just the way you liked. The two of you moaned in tandem as he made his movements more precise, while grinding his needy bulge onto the pillow below him. You’ve never been with a guy who’d settle for humping a pillow, but Miguel seemed to focus on feasting on your cunt and hearing your pretty sounds to care too much about his own pleasure.

“God, Mig…!” you groaned, letting your head fall back against his sheets. He looked up at you from where he was settled between your legs, still fully clothed but with a look of pure wanton need in his eyes.

“That’s it, mami, let go for me…”

You moaned and writhed as he attached his mouth to your clit once more, pumping his fingers in and out of your entrance with fervor. You couldn’t stop yourself from clenching around his fingers. It was getting increasingly difficult to stop yourself from full-on riding his face. You whimpered as your orgasm slowly crept up on you. “Miguel…”

“Come on, baby, it’s okay…” he hummed against your core, the vibrations of his voice on your cunt making you twitch in delight. He seemed almost as needy as you, rutting against the pillow under him and chasing his high just as you were. “Cum on my face, baby, please.” your wetness was coating his lips and chin as he lifted his face to speak, and he quickly dived back down to eat you out. There was something so carnal in the way he pleaded for you to give into the pleasure he was giving you, the desperation in his voice to have you come undone.

The insane amount of precum seeping through his underwear was soaking his pillow as he thrusted against it, syncing up the timing with his fingers that were knuckle-deep in your pussy. The obscenely lewd sounds of his mouth working against your sex was enough to drive you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the mattress as your wave of pleasure crashed over you, your vision blurring and voice breaking into a sob.

Your toned thighs clenched around his head, trapping his face deep into your core. “God, Miguel… you feel so fucking good…”

Your praise was enough to send him into the throes of his own pleasure, his release soaking the pillowcase beneath him, just as yours had soaked his beautiful face. He pulled back from you, crying out your name as he finished.

The two of you were utterly spent.

After changing his cum-drenched boxers, and pillowcase, he came back to lie down next to you, slumping onto the soft sheets of his bed. You were still catching your breath from the passionate encounter, and so was he. Miguel pressed a soft kiss to your cheek and hugged your waist, pulling you close to him in a comfortable embrace.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby…” he murmurs into your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin. “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.”

“I’m sorry, too.” you reply, turning your head to face him. He looked more handsome than ever, a soft expression on his face that replaced his normally focused one. “You’re not a bad hitter. You’re our best, actually.”

“And you’re not a bad setter, chiquita. You’re wonderful.” Miguel smiles at you, planting another soft kiss on your skin.

“We should make this a regular thing,” he suggests, squeezing your waist.

“Don’t push it, guapo,” you laugh. “We’ll see how you behave next practice.”

“Deal.”

dividers by @cafekitsune

[oxymorayuri]

❞Sure Daddyyyy❝

Part two

If you haven't read the first part yet, you can find it here. ♡♡♡

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓: 生ﾊﾑ

✦ Pairing: trafalgar law x reader ✦ Warnings: insults, use of alcohol, mature content ✦ Spoiler: nope

wordcount: 4292

description: After leaving the deck, you go to your cabin and curse at the dark haired man, but don't worry, you'll soon get rid of all your frustration.

! ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ !

"Stupid ass!" You slam the door shut and lean against it with your back. Now that you're alone in your room, you can finally let out all your anger.

You had a bit of trouble getting to your bed because the alcohol was beginning to kick in.

While kicking off your shoes, you fall into your bed and lie with your face on the pillow.

Annoyed, you growl into the pillow and ignore how hard it is to breathe. Yes, you're angry, but somehow you're also exhausted.

Law knows exactly how you feel about him and, more importantly, how you both feel about each other.

What does he have against it? gosh!

Due to the lack of air, you roll onto your back and your eyes fall on Law's jacket that he once lent you. You crawl over your bed and pull at the jacket, causing it to fall off the clothes rack.

It still smells like him. You take in the scent deeply as you snuggle into the fabric. Your eyes fall on the logo on the back.

"Corazon…" you whisper as your long fingers stroke the lettering. You know exactly what special value this jacket has and yet Law left it to you that evening. You remember it like it was yesterday…

[back then]

After what felt like an eternity, you went back to the surface after the Polar Tang had been underwater for weeks. You wanted to feel the sun on your skin, smell the sea and you weren't the only one. The others in the crew were just as excited as you were to soak up some sun again. You and your bestie Ikakku threw yourselves into bikinis and sipped a few drinks in the sun. Even though it was always noisy on the deck, you didn't want to complain, you didn't begrudge the others enjoying their time on deck. And if you're honest, it was always pure entertainment.

You will still have your peace and quiet at the latest when night falls and you are alone with the moon.

The fresh sea breeze gives you goose bumps, but you don't even notice as you gaze dreamily into the moon's watery reflection. With your hands on the railing, you gaze into the distance. The sea glistens and is calm. Something that rarely occurs.

The evening is so peaceful and in moments like these you almost forget the stressful pirate life.

A faint smirk forms on your lips.

Stressful pirate life? Law does everything he can, to ensure that you hardly ever get into any dangerous situations. You have it pretty easy for a pirate crew, even though you're not that weak. You've begged him thousands of times to at least take you with him. After all, you're a pretty good swordswoman and use Haki. Even the famous 'Hawk Eyes', Mihawk, has complimented you on the way you handle your sword.

Law would never say that you're too weak, or rather he doesn't think that you're weak.. Otherwise he wouldn't have wanted you on his team but it's very obvious how much he wants to avoid the subject. He skillfully changes the subject or threatens that if you don't leave the topic, it'll be a month of toilet cleaning.

You don't even notice when the door of the Polar Tang opens and footsteps come towards you. You only notice his presence when Law puts his jacket over your shoulder.

"A little too lightly dressed, aren't you y/n-ya?"

You're a little startled but relax immediately when you hear Law's voice.

"It's not that cold…" you pout a little as you snuggle into his jacket. Your reaction makes him smirk and he turns his gaze to the moon. For a 'brief' moment, your eyes run over his figure.

He's standing right next to you, leaning over the railing with a bare chest and wearing only his typical jeans.

You suspect that he was wearing his jacket until just now. The biggest proof; it smells like him. Your eyes seem to have been on his torso for a second too long as his deep fake cough draws your attention to his face. Law's look tells you that he's well aware of how you're gawking at him and a blush promptly rises to your face.

The rest was pretty unspectacular and basically the two of you just talked until you yawned and decided to go to bed. Just in front of your bedroom door, you notice that you're still wearing his jacket and hesitantly tug at the fabric.

Actually, you don't want to give him the jacket back and he hasn't noticed… You decided that you would give it back tomorrow as you stepped into your room.

[Present]

And yet you are holding his jacket in your hands. It's already been two weeks, but it's not as if you didn't try to give him the jacket back, but he just left it to you. Sounds strange and it kind of was.

You get up and for whatever reason you take off your top and put on Law's jacket, imitating his outfit. It's probably because you're pretty drunk but you kind of like the way you look in his jacket.

The jacket is open but still barely covers your nipples and only a few curves and your belly button are visible.

His words had only confused you more.

"You can keep it with you if you want." He said that to you as nonchalant as usual when his eyes were on his papers… as if you had just told him dinner was ready or something similar. You just stood in his office with your mouth open and uttered a slightly confused 'sure' as you left the room.

"Oh Law you little bitch… I'm not fifteen anymore where I borrow my boyfriend's sweater…" you curse a bit dirty while you greedily take in the manly scent of his jacket, standing in front of the mirror.

"I'm a woman… I want more."

Your anger, your unsatisfied feelings, Law's smell, the alcohol and perhaps your own reflection put you in a rather exhilarated mood. You felt horny.

A knock on your door brings you out of your wild thoughts.

"Hey y/n-ya? Can I come in?"

You rush to the door and pull it open without much thought and Law stands in front of you with an almost troubled look on his face. His eyes run all over your frame as you stare at him expectantly. Annoyed, you put one hand on your hip, while his jacket reveals a bit of your hip. Law's brain is rebooting every second and he takes a small step backwards.

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you, can I maybe come in?" Wow, he can speak… but his gaze remains on your slightly covered chest. He can't quite process the sight, but he can't look away either.

"Hey, my eyes are up here! But of course, come in…" You cross your arms in front of your chest and go back into the room, while Law closes the door behind him.

Over the last few weeks, he has often wished to see you in his jacket, but he wouldn't have expected such a sight. He wouldn't have dared to view you so nakedly and yet you're standing in front of him. Nakedly... His jacket shows just enough of your skin to feed any fantasies.

You don't miss his stare and you decide to be bold.

"Well, do you like what you see?" You walk towards him with dangerously slow steps. Your eyes are locked and neither of you dares to turn away.

Law can't and you don't want to.

"You wanted to talk to me?" You walk right past him and sit down on your bed… He could only catch your beautiful scent.

"Listen, I don't want any tension between us. Not if I leave tomorrow…" - "Then why don't we release the tension together?" You lean back on your elbows with a playful grin. Law's jacket falls further to the side, revealing more of your fine skin to him. For a split second, his eyes go back to your chest, but he quickly regrets that he can't control himself. You're pleased though, that's exactly how you want to see him. Usually you are the one who always have heavy feelings and Law is the one who keeps his cool, but not today.

You run one hand over your free hip and bring your fingers to your breast. Without making a single sound, Law stares at you with his eyes, looking tortured, as if he can't control himself for much longer.

You don't care about anything from now on. You want Law. Now.

You carefully grab the sides of the jacket to expose your breasts. Law comes closer to the bed, right up to the edge, and even though he doesn't look very satisfied, the excitement gathers in your stomach.

"Please don't y/n…" He begs you, full of agony… but his eyes fly shamelessly over your body. His chest rises and falls a little faster…

But you can't help it either. How could you? After all, he's making it difficult for you too.

The way he stands in front of you, with a look that actually undresses you, which he just can't admit. And the sight of him in his black button up shirt, which he always wears slightly open… His eyes follow your movements greedily, even desperately. You know he wants you. He can't deny that.

But before you can expose yourself, Law grabs your hands and stops you. Your world is shaken for a moment, because Law is suddenly very close to you. His stormy gaze pierces through your skull and you notice a slight anger rising in him.

"Stop y/n!" He orders you. You're pretty good at the anger thing too, if not ten times better! You push him away from you, causing him to take a step back and you stand up. You don't let him refuse you any longer and with quick steps you brazenly fall into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck and your bare chests meet.

"I can't do this any longer Law. Please don't push me away from you." You whisper your words to him as you reveal your most desperate wish.

You're being too much for Law right now, especially since he's leaving the crew tomorrow… But he's actually only doing it for you. He has to do it.

"y/n please understand. We shouldn't be doing this. Who knows when I'll be back…" His words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

You avert your eyes from him, feeling so exposed.

"What if I don't come back?" he searches your gaze and takes your chin to pull your face towards him. A little hesitantly, you look into his eyes.

"I don't care if today might be the first and last time, Law." Law can tell from your eyes how serious you are.

"What if I break your heart y/n? I have plans. Plans that are dangerous." He caringly strokes your cheek with his hand.

You enjoy his gentle touch and it leaves a warmth that doesn't seem to disappear. You hate it when he's like this… People say; live like it's your last day… but Law hasn't understood the real message behind it. Law lives, as if he could die any day and that's why he keeps his loved ones away, so he doesn't cause too much pain if something goes wrong on his missions.

"Law, I don't want to keep wondering what could be, what WE could be. I don't want to live lies…" You rest your hands on his chest and Law wraps an arm around you, to pull you closer to him. He leaves no space between the two of you and you're not sure if you can feel your heartbeat or his.

"Are you sure?" He looks like he just wants to make sure you're ready to take that risk. His voice is almost desperate, as if he will break if you pull back.

"Oh Law, even if it is just once." Law puts his hand over his eyes as he leans his head back. Apparently he is still struggling with himself. Groaning, he runs his fingers over his nose as he squints his eyes.

His fiery gaze sparks excitement in you as he looks into your eyes again.

"Fuck y/n."

You close your eyes as he finally closes the gap between you and his lips rest on yours.

His hands run along your hips as if he had already touched you thousands of times. His touch leaves marks on your skin that you can't see but you do feel.

As you greedily feast on each other's lips, Law grabs your thighs and pulls you up. You wrap your legs around him to support yourself better. One of your hands rests on his shoulder while the other strokes his cheek. For a brief moment, you part your lips to look into each other's eyes. You can finally feel him.

With you in his arms, he walks to your bed and sits down. He leans back a little to enjoy the sight of you and an outright naughty grin appears on his lips.

"Take off your coat for me y/n." No matter how demanding his words are, his voice is begging you. It sends shivers down your spine and without hesitation you slowly brush the jacket down your shoulders.

Law's pupils dilate at the sight of your already hardening nipples. You can no longer ignore the throbbing in your middle and you notice how everything in your abdomen tightens. The feeling is as tormenting, as it is satisfying and impatiently you start to rub back and forth on Law's lap. You don't want to wait long and reach for his belt to undo his pants.

Law's hands go straight to your hips and stop you with all his strength. You look at him in confusion.

"Easy easy, y/n… Now that we're crossing that line, I want to take all the time in the world." His voice is so sensual that it drives you insane and you stop to let go of the belt, only for Law to take the lead. He squeezes you lightly on his erection, causing a shiver of pleasure run through your whole body.

His thumbs press lightly into your inner thighs as he moves towards your panties.

The closer he gets to your underwear, the more you lose yourself in the moment.

You feel the need to touch yourself and without any shame you start to knead your breasts while Law moves you rhythmically over his boner.

If you are almost losing your mind because of this, then you are even more excited, to see what happens when Law enters you.

"You do so well for me y/n. Don't stop touching yourself. Show me where to touch you." He moans seductively to you.

A little hesitantly, you grab his hand and place it on your stomach, just above your panties. Without taking your eyes off him, you slide his hand in your pants and under your underwear, while lifting yourself slightly from Law, so that he can move between your wet folds.

Law is visibly pleased that you decide to lead him straight to that spot and his body responds immediately when he feels your dampness.

With great tenderness, he sinks a finger inside you, carefully observing every little reaction on your face.

You would never have expected that just one of his fingers would trigger so many feelings in you and you let your head fall back.

Law, on the other hand, who is getting hungrier and hungrier, leaves your wet hole and comes up to you, to engage you in a sinful tongue kiss. His hands go over every curve of your body and make sure that a thousand blissful emotions run through your body.

With you in his arms, he turns around that you are now lying under him.

He rests his hands on your knees as he looks down at you while standing between your legs.

As if in a trance, you watch him while he finally takes off his shirt and he enjoys the way you look at him. He proudly presents himself above you and your eyes are allowed to wander over his chest for the first time without any sense of shame.

Law skillfully moves his hands to make sure you are free from your pants and enjoys the sight of you lying in front of him in just your underwear.

He strokes your folds with his hand and the pressure makes sure that your slip gets a little soaked. Law runs his tongue over his lips as if imagining what he might do to you first.

You can hardly ignore the bulge in his pants. The imprint of his hard cock is even more pleasing than you could ever imagine and you can feel your arousal growing.

With pleading eyes, you beg for release. Law just gives you a dirty grin, which makes your heart skip a beat.

"You needy bitch." There's something almost dangerous in his voice, but you're ready to surrender to him completely.

When you hear Law open his pants, you have to pull yourself together to keep your greedy cunt from pressing against his dick. You swing awkwardly back and forth to compensate the pressing feeling between your legs which makes Law laugh.

He gently places his tip at the entrance to your little hole while you are still wearing your underwear.

These indirect touches make you lose your mind and to relieve the tension you play with your nipples.

Law enjoys the sight, every sound you make and the way you touch yourself. He takes his time as he slides his cock over your folds.

It feels like an eternity has passed while Law plays with you.

You close your eyes and let the feelings inside you build up and when you feel Law push your panties aside, your breathing stops.

You get chills as his member touches your soft pussy but he doesn't penetrate. No, no. He smears himself with your natural juices as he rubs his bare cock against you. The warm feeling of his skin on your clit sends a tingle through your body and makes you moan loudly.

Right at this moment, Law can take no more and sinks his tip into you. You are quite tight, which makes him moan as he slowly but firmly penetrates you. You let your eyes fall back as the sensation overwhelms you. Law's tenderness kills your patience.

"Please fuck me hard, Law." Weakly, you blink at him. You can't take any more, you need to release your built up feelings and the only one who can make sure you're satisfied is Law.

"As you wish." Law's lips go up again, you're driving him crazy… the way you're lying there. Like a goddess with one arm over your head and one hand on your beautiful breast. And the way you look… you look so needy. It drives him wild.

Without hesitating for long, he grabs you by your ass and pulls you towards him. Without any real problems, his member disappears completely inside you because you are so wonderfully wet. He grabs the back of your knees while you stretch your back. He penetrates you repeatedly with steady thrusts and a wave of heat shoots through your body. His movements are so energetic that you curl your toes.

"Show me your beautiful eyes y/n." he calls out to you.

Weakly, you open your eyes to look into his deep and intimidating eyes. Law leans your legs against his shoulders, allowing him to penetrate you even deeper. The fulfilling feeling between your legs is a little painful, but when he pulls out again, you immediately miss the aching pain.

"Oh… Law!" Your breathing is out of control, you can't keep up with his pace as Law gets faster and faster.

His breathing gets increasingly louder and sweat forms on his forehead. You are almost at the end but before you reach your climax, Law pushes one last time and his cock leaves your dilated hole. You immediately miss the filling feeling Law gave you but don't worry Law just wants to pull you up to turn you over.

His hand pushes your back down and your ass sticks up in the air for him. Before you can really realize what is happening to you, he is already thrusting inside you and all you can hear is the naughty smacking of your bare skin.

The blood rushes to your head and you struggle to keep your legs steady as Law doesn't stop at pounding into you like it's the last time. His fingers bury themselves in the soft skin of your ass as he moans in a muffled voice.

With one hand he grabs you by your hair and pulls you towards him so that you touch his chest with your back, while he continues to fuck your sweet cunt sore.

"I will always come back to you y/n" He whispers the words so lovingly in your ear that tears come to your eyes. You still can't live with the thought of him leaving tomorrow.

"I love you Law." Law's arm wraps around your torso and massages your breast. The gentle touches and the constant pounding push you to your limits and suddenly every tension in your body is released. You've come and while Law hasn't finished yet, you try to keep your wobbly legs upright.

Law notices that you are struggling to keep your figure upright and places you back on his lap while he lies on his back. Your legs feel numb and you are quite overstimulated at the moment.

"Come on y/n, I'm almost done."

He grabs you by your hips to move you up and down. If it were up to you, you would be enjoying him all night but Law needs his sleep so you savor the last few moments.

With his final thrust, he fills you with his seed and sends himself to a well deserved orgasm.

He pulls your tired body down to him and kisses your forehead, while you rest on his upper body and close your eyes.

"Law let me come with you, please." He brushes a strand of hair out of your face and thinks for a moment.

"You should go to sleep now y/n." You were already expecting an answer like that and you breathe out in defeat.

It doesn't take long and you're in the land of dreams, with the man of your dreams by your side.

The next morning you wake up because of the general commotion outside your room and suddenly it hits you like a bullet.

Law is leaving today! You have to say goodbye!

As soon as you move to get up, you fall back into your bed. Your legs are still a little weak and your core feels a little sore.

So it wasn't a dream and you and Law have finally taken the courage. Further proof of last night is a note Law left you.

"Good morning y/n, I'm leaving at 12. Pack your things and be on time. And drink this. It will help you with your hangover."

You look at the words on the note and read them over and over again. You can't quite grasp what you're reading. Do you understand correctly? Law is taking you with him?

You are so full of happiness that you don't even have the slightest sign of a hangover, but you drink the water anyway and take the pill that Law has put on your bedside table.

You hastily get ready and pack the essentials and when you look at the clock, it's almost 12 o'clock.

Leaving your room, you grab your sword and run down the corridors of the Polar Tang. When you arrive on deck, all your friends are already gathered to say their goodbyes to Law.

As Law's eyes fall on you, a smile adorns his face as he sees your stuffed backpack.

"You got everything?" he asks as he reaches for your backpack. A couple of crew members are visibly confused, as the air between you was pretty thick yesterday, but they're glad that everything is back to normal.

"Yes, I'm ready." You sheathe your sword on your back and give him a big grin.

"Wait a minute, am I getting this right…? Is y/n going with you Captain." Ikkaku interrupts your grinning contests.

"Yea she'll come with me everywhere starting today." Nobody misses Law's loving look and together you get into the small boat, that will take you to the island.

Into an adventure… your adventure.

Masterlist

Whew, I stayed up much longer than I wanted to. Oopsie woopsie. Nightyyyy ❤

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒚𝒖𝒓𝒊 ♡

[kitausu]

Fantasy Novels/Series I Think Are CRIMINALLY Underhyped

Just as the title says, this is simply a list of fantasy novels and series that I think deserve all the hype and yet I basically never see people talking them up. These are not in any kind of order because they're all amazing. If you read any of these please hmu because I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Since the city of Bezim was shaken half into the sea by a magical earthquake, the Inquisitors have policed alchemy with brutal efficiency. Nothing too powerful, too complicated, too much like real magic is allowed–and the careful science that’s left is kept too expensive for any but the rich and indolent to tinker with. Siyon Velo, a glorified errand boy scraping together lesson money from a little inter-planar fetch and carry, doesn’t qualify. But when Siyon accidentally commits a public act of impossible magic, he’s catapulted into the limelight. Except the limelight is a bad place to be when the planes themselves start lurching out of alignment, threatening to send the rest of the city into the sea. Now Siyon, a dockside brat who clawed his way up and proved himself on rooftops with saber in hand, might be Bezim’s only hope. Because if they don’t fix the cascading failures of magic in their plane, the Powers and their armies in the other three will do it for them.

A god will return When the earth and sky converge Under the black sun In the holy city of Tova, the winter solstice is usually a time for celebration and renewal, but this year it coincides with a solar eclipse, a rare celestial event proscribed by the Sun Priest as an unbalancing of the world. Meanwhile, a ship launches from a distant city bound for Tova and set to arrive on the solstice. The captain of the ship, Xiala, is a disgraced Teek whose song can calm the waters around her as easily as it can warp a man’s mind. Her ship carries one passenger. Described as harmless, the passenger, Serapio, is a young man, blind, scarred, and cloaked in destiny. As Xiala well knows, when a man is described as harmless, he usually ends up being a villain.

The Omehi people have been fighting an unwinnable fight for almost two hundred years. Their society has been built around war and only war. The lucky ones are born gifted. One in every two thousand women has the power to call down dragons. One in every hundred men is able to magically transform himself into a bigger, stronger, faster killing machine. Everyone else is fodder, destined to fight and die in the endless war. Young, gift-less Tau knows all this, but he has a plan of escape. He's going to get himself injured, get out early, and settle down to marriage, children, and land. Only, he doesn't get the chance. Those closest to him are brutally murdered, and his grief swiftly turns to anger. Fixated on revenge, Tau dedicates himself to an unthinkable path. He'll become the greatest swordsman to ever live, a man willing to die a hundred thousand times for the chance to kill the three who betrayed him.

Twenty-seven years ago, a Duke with a grudge led a ruthless coup against the empire of Semilla, killing thousands. He failed. The Duke was executed, a terrifyingly powerful sorcerer was imprisoned, and an unwilling princess disappeared.  The empire moved on.  Now, when Quill, an apprentice scribe, arrives in the capital city, he believes he's on a simple errand for another pompous noble: fetch ancient artifacts from the magical Imperial Archives. He's always found his apprenticeship to a lawman to be dull work. But these aren't just any artifacts — these are the instruments of revolution, the banners under which the Duke lead his coup.  Just as the artifacts are unearthed, the city is shaken by a brutal murder that seems to have been caused by a weapon not seen since the days of rebellion. With Quill being the main witness to the murder, and no one in power believing his story, he must join the Archivists — a young mage, a seasoned archivist, and a disillusioned detective — to solve the truth of the attack. And what they uncover will be the key to saving the empire – or destroying it again. 

[verysium]

『02』 出発: departure

ft. rin itoshi, sae itoshi

summary: a star's life is its counteraction against death, an endless deadlock against the brute force of gravity. in the constant struggle between space and time, rin cannot tell if he is being held up or held down. perhaps he has already dictated the terms of his own demise. cw: epistolary montage, mentions of blood in film, rin violently crying and throwing up, highly implied hallucinations, swearing, suicidal ideation, disillusionment and lots of hard angst. word count: 4.9k

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Two weeks after Sae took off from Haneda Airport, his words still lingered inside Rin's mind. His brother had left with a fiery flick of a grin—a gaping, white-hot maw right where his mouth should have been. It blazed then sputtered cold in his gums by the time he turned back around, but Rin still knew what he saw. The smoke never lied.

A triple tap of tongue against hard palate, the message moving fast as light. Something had flickered between Sae’s teeth. Something about split knuckles and brotherly love. Something about calling him back.

But Rin couldn’t hear over the boarding announcements, the roar of engines propelling out of the runway, the heat waves of people out in front. At half past noon, his brother had already departed from Tokyo, ten thousand miles westbound in a floating aluminum dream, reeling contrails through the sky. 

And Rin still stood on Earth, waiting. Like some dumb thing left behind.

It wasn’t until his mother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder that he finally tumbled back to reality, an empty gate at his feet, no arrival or departure calling. The afternoon sunlight had grown dim, splintering against the glass windows and whirring the blood through his ears. His chest felt strangely suspended.

It was in the backseat where it all began. Three floors down in the parking garage. Fumbling through his pockets, his coat had snagged between the door and car frame, ten digits on a crumpled paper sent fluttering to the ground. Looking back on it now, he should’ve thrown that damn thing away. But he was stupid then, drunk on a heat stroke and the beginnings of terminal grief. Right on the exit of the Shuto Expressway, he made his parents turn the car back around and drive ten miles down to the nearest World Mobile, a wretched inhale of hope stuck squirming in his chest. 

It took him several weeks before he finally decided to punch in those numbers, and then another several weeks to call after that. His body shuddered, sweat-faced and suffocating, as he trailed sticky fingers down the waiting screen. The phone rang once then twice. Then rang on forever.

Nobody ever bothered to pick up.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

2013 年 6月 17日 Nii-chan, 

It still feels like you never left. And I say this with a miserable lack of sincerity because you did in fact leave just two weeks ago. Kaa-san still makes your bed. Square corners and all. Your duvet goes in the pile with the rest of my laundry. 

Just the other day, I think I saw your shadow. I was sunbathing on the roof when I felt something brush against my back. Does Spain have big shadows too? I hope so. A country with so much sun must leave those poor shades short and stunted. Maybe they’re just a little shy. Be nice to them, will you Nii-chan? Not everyone can shine as bright as you do.

I hope you’ll make friends soon. Write to me often. I want to know everything.

2013 年 7月 7日 Nii-chan,

How are you? I didn’t receive anything in my inbox, and I checked with Kaa-san twice. She said you didn’t text me, but there is no way such a thing could have happened. Perhaps old age has finally gotten to her, or maybe something’s just wrong with this phone. Either way, I should’ve asked her to buy me a newer model.

On second thought, if you don’t text me, I will be very upset. But it will be a childish sort of anger. You wouldn’t be very proud. You will be pleased to know, however, that I have grown a total of ten centimeters this summer, and my bones are looking very strong and wide. My shots have improved too, and I scored three goals today.

Otou-san took us out to dinner for Tanabata this weekend. He told me it is about time I became a man. I smiled and said I didn’t want to disappoint. But then he said ten and three quarters is no longer a youthful sort of age, and I suddenly felt a little mad about it. I don’t want to grow up without you. 

The festival was crowded as usual. I ate every selection of wagashi then chased it down with some of the sake Otou-san lent me from his cup. Pretty sure that was illegal, so I threw it all up on the way home. But then we all went and saw the tanzaku, so I guess something went right. I wrote down a wish, but I won’t tell you. Otherwise it won’t come true. I hung it up on the highest branch though, so that someday it might reach you. 

Tell me what you think. Text back soon.

2013 年 8月 31日 Nii-chan, 

I did not receive your reply from last time. I think this phone must still be broken. Perhaps you should check on your end. Even if it’s just a greeting, I will be content. Anything from you is fine, really.

I visited the beach again. It was peaceful until the wind blew hair in my face, and I went blind for almost fifteen minutes. I tried cutting it, but Kaa-san got mad at me. After your disaster five years ago, she said she’d never let her sons hold a pair of scissors ever again. Don’t tell her, but I laughed. Inside, you know?

Sometimes I still see the waves in my sleep. The ones at Koshigoe Beach. They cradle me, and suddenly it feels like my head is floating even though my body isn’t. You’d probably think I’m crazy. But lately dreams are the only way I can reach you. 

I do watch the news though. And I train hard. Very hard. I can pass like you now, though not nearly as good as your highlights on TV. Coach says I still need to learn. You always said the same thing. But I am nearly as tall as Otou-san now and twice as strong. That must count for something, right? I hope the guys overseas will like this new me. When I finally come over there, that is.

Make sure you aren’t training too hard. I don’t want you to overstrain yourself. And if you don’t like it there, promise me you won’t force yourself to stay. You’ll pack your bags and come home early. 

Promise me. Please. 

That you’ll come home to me.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For the second time in his life, Rin finds himself on his knees, heaving up everything that has ever made him whole. The bathroom mourns with every dry retch of his throat, and suddenly he’s laughing into the porcelain, clutching at the sides in a mad form of desperation. His ribs shudder—tough in their hurt—yet nothing of substance ever lies between them. He’d smiled out his guts a long time ago. 

Is empty space still a space or just the photonegative of presence? 

Sometimes Rin feels like his body can never truly filled, but it can never be completely emptied either. No matter how much he regurgitates, there will always be more to come. The space inside him widens until it hangs on a threadlike line of limbo: so much to give yet so much to keep. It tugs at him—a crude form of baptism—pulling him up for air and then crashing his head beneath the waves again. 

Another harsh hurl reverberates across the bathroom tiles, this time accompanied by the loud smack of spit. He’s emptied out so much his bowels might just prolapse at any second, the boy inside him turned into some sort of liquid slop, sloshing back and forth in his ribcage. It’s all over the front of his shirt now, the stomach contents soaked for hours in bodily brine, the grief his body tries to hold. No amount of bleach is going to erase the stench.

Some days Rin just wants someone to cradle him like a child does a bird, gentle and afraid to hurt. He had a dream about this once, many moons ago. After wringing himself out to dry, he had gone to work, looping the washing line around his feet until it resembled some sort of upside down noose. Once the wind picked up, he let go of the string like a pendulum, watching his body sway in third person: up and down and up and down. In this reality, he was a creature of feathers and clothespins, his body molting in the breeze. So long as he swung back and forth in this state of suspension, he would remain in the middle, not tethered down enough to live but not free enough to die either. 

He’d simply exist. 

Some nights Rin still can’t sleep. His eyes lay limp in their sockets, two dead weights sinking into bone. He tried to pry them out with his fingers, but they only pressed deeper into his face, rigid and wax-cool to the touch. No matter what he does, Rin knows he will be too late. He can never reverse this decay—the post-mortem withering of his own heart. 

Just this afternoon, he died once again, his body slumped with the hollow weight of disappointment, his spirit sinking like a fault line into earth. He had been drying his hair in the locker room after practice, the friction of the towel’s loops causing small pinpricks of static to echo along his nape. The static had carried over hushed whispers, trailing along his scalp down to his ears. God, he hadn’t meant to overhear.

“Damn it, we’re really done for this season, huh? I’m telling you it’s the striker. We could’ve won this match if it weren’t for him.”

“I mean, if Itoshi were here, he would’ve destroyed their whole team by himself.”

“You mean the older one?”

“Of course I do. Who else did you think I was referring to? The younger one’s just been blessed up until now.”

“Without his brother, he’s just an ordinary guy.”

“Oi, Haruto, shut up! What if he hears?”

“Hear what? It’s not like it isn’t the truth!”

Rin still remembers how his surname burned on their lips, the tip of the tongue caught raw between teeth, the vowels seared into flesh. Itoshi was a burden coming apart at the seams, a title for something he could never possess. They were right and it left him smarting, reeling. He hadn’t laughed a day since Sae’s departure, but in that moment he wanted to shove his whole fist up his mouth and choke for the first time in five resentful months. The laugh had been a silent one, with tears on his waterline and a smile bruised onto his face. 

Ha.....ha.....hah.....

There comes a point in every boy’s life when he simply exists. Still young but no longer impressionable. Salt in the eyes. Salt in the mouth. Take it like a man. When he hawks back the knife, it must come out breathing and clean. Living but not dead. 

His teammates had every right to blame him. 

He can’t score goals like he used to. Can’t run and bleed. Can’t love like before. There’s nothing but shame waiting for him when the realization finally breaches the bathroom air and his teammates scramble off the benches, cleats stained with guilt. They saw his reflection in the mirror, weeping right above the communal sinks.

“R-rin! W-we didn’t know you were here.”

“Y-yeah! You didn’t hear much, did you?”

Rin had never hated his name more in that moment. They uttered it like a euphemism, hand over his stupid bullet-riddled heart, the blood too runny to salvage. It only hurt him more. So he did what he knew best. He clenched his fist, the nails fisted into the meat of his palm, eyes caught on a hardened edge. It didn’t matter if Haruto was his senior. He’d beat him within an inch of his life.

“So you call me Rin now? Wasn’t I just younger Itoshi to you earlier?”

“I didn’t....We didn’t mean...”

“Then what did you mean?”

Only the scurry of shoes answered—two scuff marks against the dirty floor, Haruto’s yelp in the distance. Rin was left all alone again, his thin shadow blown wide across the whitewashed walls of the locker room. 

“Damn coward,” he wanted to yell after him. “Run! Run and tell them how it’s not your fault!” 

But he was just talking to himself.

Is empty space still a space or just a pseudonym for absence?

He hadn't been thinking at the time. Within the liminal space of the abandoned shower stalls, he lent himself a moment of weakness. He let himself cry. The shower head was cold and dirtied, and he stood there for forty-five minutes, waiting to be filled with a warmth that never came. In the end, he let his tears mix with the brackish water, staring at the evidence of his failure before it swirled down the drain. 

He realized he must have been a mistake. There was no other explanation. The real Rin Itoshi was swapped at birth and replaced with someone else. Inside the four-walled confines of the shower stall, his imposter reared its head through the mist, long baby hair drowned down to the ears. He didn’t belong. Not in this body bathed in condensation. Not in this namesake crowned in tempered glass. But by the time the water trickled down to his nose, Rin was already knee-deep in self-doubt, wading his way into misery. What more did they want from him? No one could ever replace Sae Itoshi. Not even his younger brother. 

Not even him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Six hours post-death in the locker rooms, Rin went home and passed out with his head on the toilet seat, two slick fingers shoved up his throat and his luminous guts buried somewhere down the pipe drain. Six hours later, his lids peel back scarlet, gelatinous with haze—a ringing in his ears. Some fucker is calling him again. 

He doesn’t answer. Twice. But the telemarketer is either underpaid or rudely insistent, so Rin finally picks up just to curse him out on the line. He doesn’t need any scripted intimacy. Doesn’t need other people counting his own losses. He just needs to be left alone.

At midnight, he staggers out of the bathroom, fingers absentmindedly flicking off the lightswitch before collapsing into bed. The sheets aren’t even his own. He doesn’t notice until he sniffs the pillow and stiffens. It smells god-awful. Like tiger balm and soothing menthol. Like somebody he used to know. And much to his chagrin, the images come stumbling back: knee-deep in the salted sea, shirasu swimming around his toes. What color were his eyes again? Blue ice between teeth. Sour like a bad star. Oh, what can he remember? Disappointment peeled into spirals. Happiness running down the back of his hand. The blood of an orange, sweet and dripping. He’s forever staring at someone’s back. Always a few steps behind.

Fuck you, Sae.

There’s haunting laughter coming out from the window panes, and he can hear the waves crash on shore in the distance. Two children run across sand. Muted footsteps. One soft thump then another. The vision is so close he can practically taste it. Salt in the wind, in the eyes, in his mouth. The seagulls pluck at his eyes, but he takes it like a man, breathing and clean. Living but not dead.

One of the children stands with his arms behind his back, face hidden by the shadows of the horizon. The ocean spray nips at his burgundy fringe, the hunger of a whole world engulfed in his gaze. In the distance, a younger boy shouts his name, dark hair framed by a cowlick, turquoise eyes smoothed over by water. He runs as fast as his little legs can carry him, his arms filled with bone-white shells.

“Nii-chan, wait for me!”

Sae’s face blurs before he can turn around, and Rin is left staring at the wooden slats above his childhood bed, resenting something he can no longer remember. Why did people have to go and change? Three years later and his brother had gone straight from stealing seashells to swindling stars clean out of the sky. Three years and he still had nothing to show for himself.

He imagines the look on Sae’s face when he tells him this. Conversations over Sunday dinner. The family gathered round the kotatsu, piss-yellow light slicing every dish into halves. He spoons pickled radish and chokes Sae’s teacup till it breaks. Would it be disappointment he sees on his face? His brother’s features crumpled mid-smile, blue-green eyes wounded into a porcelain state. Why? Why haven’t you done anything with your life while I was gone? 

Or perhaps it was anger. Smoke on the lips, bruised fists, and the heat of his mother’s blazing scream. Her son bares teeth and scrapes every syllable of their surname clean. Wrestles her other son’s shoulders down to the ground and shakes until the boy—the real Rin—gurgles and sloshes up inside. Do something, Rin. Do something! Or else you’ll never make it this lifetime.

Both, he could live with. But not this. The silence that burrows into his mind while he sleeps. The constant calling and the phone that just rings and rings and rings. It’s a circle, some sick sort of cycle. Every night he dreams of war—of sights and slights and stars. Things that end then don’t end then never end. He dreams until he wakes up screaming, on his hands and knees begging. Say something, will you? Anything. Fuck, why won’t you just say something?

Three years later and his brother still can't love him in a way he understands. 

But what did he expect? Sae was like that: pale and blistering, beautiful even when burning. Last dream cycle, his brother fell down three stories and erupted into flames, limbs compacted into fine dust. Should’ve screamed but didn’t. By the time Rin got down to him, Sae was already on his feet, sputtering soot from his lungs then flaring back up like nothing had ever happened. As if his hurt was merely bursts of light gathering and bunching, violence in free fall. 

And he was beautiful, Rin thinks. A boy of the blaze, man in the making, hair aorta-red, staring right back at him. By the time Sae opened his mouth, Rin’s arms were already open, ready to embrace the glittering shards. He crumpled before him as a building does a god, set alight on his brother’s palm. Strike me. He begged, blood around his mouth. Strike me anywhere and set me free. 

But that’s not what happens when you die. Not when his brother said it best.

I think I’d die and become a star. 

So he holds onto this life. Bunches it between fingers and twines it around his fist until he knows the person he’s dying for. Until he’s blacked out and dreaming in that damnable backseat again. Experiencing everything in the third person—the news, the screen, the slow-motion reels of an astral body wound up in constant replay. He can only watch as his brother slowly becomes a stranger in his own life again, and it guts him every time.

Sae Itoshi Dominates at Junior Championships, Secures Victory with Hat-Trick. Future Star? Sae Itoshi’s Sensational Performance Stuns Fans and Scouts Alike.

Who the hell is Sae Itoshi? Man, celebrity, celestial body? Not even his brother knows. But what Rin has learned over these past few years is that all stars are really just dead people, housed in a mausoleum of glittery beginnings and explosive endings. It’s binary—circling, really. A blinking eye in the sky, ticking time bomb, crying corpse, then everything wailing before its implosion. Sae could never comprehend this. The smoke-sputtering reality beyond tangible substance. This form of dying. 

But dying isn’t even the worst part of it all. It’s people like him who suffer. Unlucky stars are cursed with another, forced to revolve around each other. If one collapses, the companion gets ejected out the deep end of space and time—stumbling, groping, searching. 

Three years later and he’s still searching. 

Hey Google: Can stars still be seen from Madrid? 

The results for light pollution pop up. In a city of light, even light cannot be seen. How ironic, he thinks, that Sae is now a shining thing, flaring tendrils a million light years away. Post-nebula and he still loses himself in people who look exactly like him.

But that past has already come and gone, leaving nothing but the future behind. In the next dream cycle, Rin too will die, sputtering and choking, like a firework lit from within—violence in free fall. And when the time comes, he will leap off the fire escape, the city blocks spinning and spinning, every second a little death. The faster he falls, the more alive he’ll feel. He’ll drop all the way down until the only way he can go is up. And then he’ll ascend, floating past the skyscrapers, the streets, the sprawling metropolis. His toes curled, caught on the hook of night, the burnt flesh peeling back on bone. Floating until he disappears, his body nothing but white light.

Someday his brother will drown himself in his own artificial brightness. And Rin will follow, screaming, rearing, and set ablaze.

If you die Nii-chan, I think I’ll die along with you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There are rare moments when seasons die a sunless death, quiet and wilting into the earth. Rin’s final birthday without Sae falls on one such month—a red September during which nature bleeds, the autumn leaves rusting around Engakuji Temple. He’s taken up long walks during that time, pacing for hours around the park nearby. Something about taking his mind off things. Something about counting his own losses.

By late afternoon, his hands are shoved fist-deep into his coat pockets, on track to finish his ninth lap around the perimeter. The daylight has long pooled down his back, tiny dollops of brightness slow-dripping and honeyed, settling into the hollow divots of his spine. The mise-en-scène frames him in a languorous ochre—the kind of lighting reserved solely for an aged romance. And the wind plays his lover, its post-meridian breath tender as it brushes against his cheek. It’s all a range of motions from there. He takes another step, adjusts a stray earbud, then tugs his scarf all the way up to his nose. Ten laps now, and he still walks. The only time he ever stops is when he stalls mid-way to check his phone. 

Zero messages received. Message not delivered.

His thumb hovers briefly over the send button. The cursor at the end blinks with an almost human hesitancy before it opens its mouth, swallowing everything back up. The screen clears itself again, reduced to nothing but absence: a small square of light where silence reigns. Rin sighs before trudging home, a thousand words lodged into the back of his throat.

Nii-chan, I miss you. 

The kitchen is empty by the time he slides open the shoji, removing his shoes with practiced ease before padding across the soft tatami. His mother’s gone on an errand for groceries, her hastily scrawled note tucked under his door with a bowl of persimmons. The house is empty, the joss sticks still smoking in the living room, tips warm and powder-soft. He grows heady on their incense, locking himself away in his bedroom and drawing the curtains. His old Fujitsu laptop whirrs to life, propped up against two pillows and an oversized owl plush. This time he puts on a splatter film, splayed on his stomach as he reels through the opening credits.

He can watch without the subtitles now, even converse with tourists at the station in Enoden. He recalls his teammates’ faces last Saturday—breaths held tender, jaws slackened with faux horror—when he gave out directions in perfect English. Sae would’ve been proud, if only he knew how much it meant. But lately, there hasn’t been a single interruption to Rin’s nights alone, despite how desperately he longs for one. The most his English is good for nowadays is translating the kooky foreign films he puts on rotation, ninety minutes of runtime for thirty-one evenings.

He must have gone through a dozen franchises by now: Halloween specials, 90’s vintage, slashers, the paranormal. The American flicks still remain his favorite, mostly because of the chainsaws. Something about the suspense of disembodiment scratches an itch inside his brain. Like the adrenaline before a final goal, moments before he implodes—naked body slathered in pools of primary color.

In the darkness, the films weave together: a tidal wave of light that washes down his bedroom walls. The victim shrieks before she is bathed in an eerie swathe of red, pierced at the helm of a bloodshot lens. Something about her death is both alien and terrifying, and Rin feels himself come alive again. 

At climax, the light from his laptop is nothing short of searing, carving-knife intensity digging slowly into thin, rousing bodies. He can only watch as the killer sharpens his blade, each stroke a day-bright epiphany, cutting little wounds into the night. His figure is lit up from behind, illuminated in such a way that Rin can see his organs and count every one of his ribs. The scene peels back like water, reflecting montage after montage on the glass display case next to his closet. The trophies electrify themselves in the shadows, each silhouette splayed neatly on the shelf and serrated round the rim. The metal handles distort the characters’ faces in two-frame slashes, decapitating nose from ear, eye from mouth. Another scream rips through the background as Rin digs graves into his palm. This time the murderer chases a mother down the stairs, gleeful when her child fails to keep up. 

He’s seen this scene play out before—three years and eleven months ago, when he first got himself killed. It’s the final match against Tokyo Metropolitan Youth, and he’s running on fumes, ten minutes into additional time. There’s only a few more meters to the goal area, the footsteps fast approaching from his left. He has to make an escape. The opponent closes in behind him, knife in hand, and all he can do is run, body barreling straight toward the camera. 

The impact hits him right before the shot, his leg flaring out in some desperate attempt at a goal. The ball soars as he stumbles forward—violence in free fall, the boy inside him lit from within. In the final moments before he combusts, time stretches itself thin over his bones, smoking and exorcized from the fire. The shadow of his killer looms behind him, arm raised with the promise of metal and memory, the blade gleaming in sparse light. 

Got you.

The child on screen turns around, facial features contorted in dramatic horror. Rin can hear her scream before the lips even part. He can already predict this ending. He can predict the next one after this too. Plight of the final girl: last to die but forever immortalized in her own grief and helplessness.

In six months, he will be named the most valuable player for Kamakura United Youth. In another six, he will be hollowed from the inside out, cursed to feel only the loss inside every win. This motion picture has rewound itself one too many times, the credits rolling and taking him along with them. End scene and he’s standing there in a pool of his own triumph—the grass strewn with painted carcasses—a thousand boys dead at his feet. His knees make hard contact with the earth, nothing but penitence in his eyes. This is all he knows: love and its smoking aftermath, the weight of it iron-hot on his tongue. Victory has never tasted so bitter. 

But it always ends the same. For the final girl, the film star, everyone crucified by the crowd. All good auteurs come from a long line of men who have already run out of time, color pooling past their waists, crashing in over their heads. They don’t want to die, so they preserve their souls into billboards, spool strands of silence into substance. They only shoot what is in their blood: the sensational guts, glory, and gore. Because what better way to keep your memory alive than burn it onto the emulsion side of thirty-five millimeter filmstrip?

The red lights have begun to feel suffocating—the last of his breath now a belt around his neck—as the cameras pan down to a mutilated body. Rin secretly envies the child’s soaked shirtsleeves, the ground beneath her perfused in violent color. If only he could be filled with something that beautiful. But instead he was given the body of a pale child filled with longing, constantly waiting for a change and constantly wishing for something to flow out of him. 

Eventually the clock strikes twelve and Rin closes his laptop, the backs of his eyelids whited out, brain overstimulated from the psychedelic screams. His brother’s portrait blurs in his peripheral vision, overexposed from the red glow, staring up at him from the cluttered nightstand. And in the moment, he briefly wonders if Sae left Japan in search of a new image. Perhaps Spain was just ninety minutes of solid technicolor screen where people could scream without horror, where the protagonist could freely bleed. And in the end, there was no death. The audience remains seated in theaters, their memories replaying over and over, bodies forever housed in cinema.

At the director’s cut, Rin’s consciousness falls under, hand still clutching the frame. End scene and Sae’s blown-out face smiles just a little into the darkness.

© verysium 2024 / please do not translate, repost, or plagiarize any of my works

[abigail-pent]

Thoughts on HTN Act Five on ??th reread:

- the joke about the Ninth knowing a thousand shades of off-white is absolutely a 50 Shades of Grey reference

- Ianthe wonders what Harrow's face "could have done to it" - ohhhhh yeah she is doing hella cosmetic "surgery" on Corona. this still isn't explicitly canon as far as I'm aware, but that line makes it pretty damn close

- Harrow Nonagesimus breaks into the Tomb and Harrow Nova breaks into the Anastasian. Baby girl is the same in every universe

- Harrow Nova is "the unfulfilled vow" and "the bloody teeth of the unkissed skull" AND THEN ALECTO KISSES HARROW NONAGESIMUS IN FULFILLMENT OF THE VOW AND SHE BLEEDS. I've connected these things, I've connected them

- ok if Harrow is pulling everyone who's dead into her River bubble, then doesn't that mean that in the BARI Star AU she is actually interacting with the actual spirit of Gideon Nav?

- I don't know if we talk enough about how Harrow actually becomes a full Lyctor after she's stabbed and remembers Gideon. It feels kind of weird that her body only gets Lyctoral healing once her soul is gone from it. The construct in her skull is still there, it stays there until Gideon talks to Mercy and hears her name.

I mean, the weirdest thing about it is it implies that John and Gideon the First were right that they could fix Harrow by killing her. And given that the sort of cav Gideon becomes is explicitly and canonically analogous to the sort of cav Pyrrha is - still conscious and able to pilot the body in the absence of the necromancer's soul - that makes me wonder if maybe this happened to Gideon the First too. Like maybe that's why he's described as such a zombie, and maybe that's why John seems to know that killing Harrow would "fix" her, and Gideon agrees.

- Abigail talks about the place over the River the way John talks about the place beyond the stoma - it's an undiscovered country he knows nothing of, where his power is meaningless.

- Mercy says if Gideon Nav were Alecto, she would have "gone for me already" - so yeah, Alecto wasn't just incredibly weird and creepy, she was directing violence at Mercymorn. Pyrrha later says Alecto wasn't so bad (but that absolutely doesn't preclude Alecto being super violent to Lyctors, Pyrrha would respect the shit out of that), and of course it seems like she and Anastasia loved each other. But: John says that anger was Alecto's sin; The Unwanted Guest implies that that anger may have been John's, but in a different body; and it seems like this anger got expressed at Mercymorn and probably other Lyctors too. When Gideon meets Augustine she says he looks at her eyes in Harrow's face like they were the last thing he'd ever see; which suggests she took her anger out on Augustine too. But why was she angry at them? Was it because they ascended?

- "I gave you one damn job, and instead you rolled a rock over me and turned your back!" Harrow IS the Ninth House for real... (this is exactly the problem Silas has with the Ninth)

- in GTN, in the Cytherea fight, when Gideon looks back at Harrow right after she says "Then we're all dead, Nav, but let's bring hell first" 🤝 in HTN, in the Sleeper fight, when Ortus looks back at Harrow who has just followed his lead to recite the Noniad ... the way both of her cavaliers are a little surprised, but very impressed and comforted, by her loyalty to them and trust in them ... I am very fine and normal about this

- when Abigail summons Nonius: blazing like a flare from an alien blue sun! appearing to hold a book made of blue radiation in her hands! soaking wet! everything smells like water and brine and blood! she screams as though there are a multitude of voices in hers! time seems to slow way down! her eyes become dark and liquid and feral! this is both extremely fucking cool and probably meaningful. the smell and wetness are for the River, the many-voiced quality recalls Alecto and her many voices, the time slowing recalls John's ability to stop time, the eyes recall John's (so, Alecto's) as well. SHE IS ABIGAIL FOR HER MOTHERS AND PENT FOR HER PEOPLE AND I LOVE HER

- I love that Nonius canonically fought Gideon the First, and calls him "a rival and ally". I'm not much of a fic reader myself (heresy, I know) but I absolutely want to read a fic about "we met long ago, and I fought him."

- "Genuinely sad, bordering on very funny" legitimately could have been the tagline for this book

- Augustine says that if it's really Wake, then Gideon has proved "yet again" that he's unfit for any job besides making simple gruels and stews. Yet again??

- it's probably Augustine that Mercy tried to kill tbh

- I think Wake recognizes Pyrrha in Gideon's face when no one else does. That's why she looks at her like that.

- the way Gideon Nav has always yearned for her parents vs the way her bio-parents treat her... oof ohh oww... Pyrrha Dve is the only parent I will diplomatically recognize for Gideon Nav

- Alecto's eyes end up in John's genetic code - Lyctorhood doesn't only meld souls, it melds bodies as well.

- John says Mercy and Augustine killed Alecto because he told them the truth about her; and Augustine says he told them that because Alecto also knew the truth. But ... which truth was it? When we hear from Alecto, she seems to have a fuzzy memory.

Also, worth mentioning that this is a different account than what Teacher offers. Teacher says that the Lyctors asked John to kill Alecto after they ascended and "found out the price." If this account is correct - and why wouldn't it be, it comes from Augustine, who was a key player - then the "price" wasn't the death of the eight cavs, the "price" was something to do with the truth about Alecto. And whatever this truth is, it isn't that Alecto was John's cavalier, because Mercy and Augustine are only finding out about this now. I suspect the "price" is the price of creating necromancy - murdering the 10 billion - and then when Mercy and Augustine know that Alecto is the Resurrection Beast of Earth they ask John to kill her. So I was wrong, and he must have basically told them "lol we've been hanging out with an RB this whole time."

- when John reconstitutes himself, the light he emanates leaches all the color from the room and turns everyone into shades of gray. LIKE WHEN SILAS SIPHONS COLUM. It makes sense that he's taking thalergy from somewhere to build himself back up, but where exactly is it coming from? Alecto?

[jellyfitzjelly]

I wish you would write a fic where…Zevlor accidentally saw shy gn reader (crush) absolutely being enraged with Aradin for being so rude, and disrespectful towards Zevlor!

Sorry for the long delay, anon! I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless. 🥲

Disrespect | T | AO3

Zevlor strolled throughout the Grove, unable to find Tav. He had found himself seeking their presence more and more ever since they arrived. The Hellrider had to be honest with himself: he had been besotted with the adventurer ever since they punched Aradin. They were a shy, pretty thing but steel was hiding beneath this enchanting exterior. Zevlor had fallen hard and fast.

As he was still searching for Tav, he heard voices. He approached the secluded spot, curious. He spotted Aradin and Tav talking.

“I’d love to give it to you and wish you a happy funeral, but I only got the contract. Have it if you so desperately want to get diced by goblins.”

Tav took the contract from the young man, reading it over.

“Now fuck off and go back to sucking horns’ tail.”

“What did you say?” Tab bristled.

“What? Like I haven’t seen you make bedroom eyes to that foulblood. Ain’t that why you had a go at me? So you could suck devil dick?”

“Don’t you dare disrespect him like that,” the young adventurer growled.

“Or what, bitch?”

“Zevlor is a thousand times the man you’ll never be, bitch,” Tav spat. “He’s a hero, you’re just a pissypants afraid of a few goblins.”

Zevlor saw Aradin clench his jaw, bunching up his fist. Instincts taking over, he sprinted and arrived just in time to shield Tav and push Aradin to the ground.

“Have some respect for the person who saved your miserable life,” he growled, eyes burning with anger. “If you dare raise your hand to anyone in this camp, you will have to fight tougher enemies than goblins!”

Fear flashed in Aradin’s eyes. He got up, throwing an angry look to Tav.

“Fucking foulblood. You’ll see, one of these days!”

He walked away, throwing looks behind his shoulder as if Zevlor was going to pursue him. The Hellrider turned to Tav.

“Are you alright?” he asked with concern, bringing a hand to their cheek.

The young adventurer blushed bright red.

“Ah, y–yes, thank you,” they stammered.

Zevlor couldn’t help a fond smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind their ear.

“I am truly thankful for the high regard you hold me to, but you shouldn’t put yourself in danger because of me.”

“Aradin was being disrespectful!” Tav bristled again.

“My life has been a long succession of Aradins being disrespectful,” he sighed. “One more won’t upset me.”

“Was life that bad in Elturel?” they murmured, eyes filling up with sadness.

“It wasn’t,” Zevlor reassured them. “Now, the sun is setting. You should go back to your camp.”

“Could…Could you walk me back?” they asked innocently, but Zevlor could see the blush in their cheek and the eagerness in their eyes.

He chuckled.

“Lead the way.”

[sapphicseasapphire]

IT’S ME, I’M THE FOOL.

This whole time I’ve been saying that people with God Powers TM are Marked. They all have something on their face! (Except Legend, what’s on his face is just scales, don’t be confused).

But this WHOLE TIME I’ve been drawing Sun without her Marks. Like. She’s literally Hylia. She has God Powers, she should have them. Anyway so this is my Sun redesign for real this time. Just pretend that she looks like this in my “I am Sky” comic.

Anyway so here’s some information about her under the cut.

I don’t have a big story for her like I do for Flora because Cryptid Sky’s story barely changes Skyward Sword like at all. He’s formed that the very very end, after the Goddess’s Silent Realm, so most things involving Sun remain the same.

I will say that she didn’t always have her Marks. When she was born as Zelda, her face was clear, like every other Skyloftian. But when she fell to the Surface and began a quest of her own, when she discovered her divine origins, she started to remember. She’d pray at the springs to recover her memories and her powers, and one by one, her face would be Marked.

By the time that Link had secured all of the Sacred Flames and forged the Master Sword with them, Sun was already lost. And in her place stood a Goddess.

I don’t think that people give her enough credit for all she’s been through. Sun deserved so much better, she lost her life to Hylia’s plans just as much as Link did. And when Link merged into Sky, he was merely mimicking the transformation that his dearest friend had already gone through. Sun’s soul is still split in half, still shared between herself and her Loftwing, but in that empty part of her core lies the domineering presence of Hylia herself. Her life as she knew it is over. Is she Zelda anymore? Or is she Hylia?

She loves Link SO MUCH. When she first comes out of their thousands-of-years long slumber, she’s in shock to see that he’s gone. She falls from the amber shards and lands squarely in Sky’s arms, and Sky envelopes her in his soft wings, holding her as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. In the haze, she doesn’t realize the change in her dearest friend. But when she opens her eyes, she’s devastated.

As far as she’s concerned, it’s her fault. She used Link. Forced him to go on this quest, forced him into the Silent Realms, forced him to wield the Master Sword and the Triforce. She’s the reason that he fused with Aepon; she’s the reason that Link is gone.

But Sky laughs the same as Link would, relief in his eyes when she gathers the strength to stand. She holds her hand in his own, and it feels just like the hand she knows. His face is the same, for the most part: his hair is different and he’s got red spots on his cheeks, but the more she looks at him, the more she sees Link. And as they make it through the Temple together, as she watches Groose fawn over him, she realizes that he’s not gone at all.

He’s changed, just like she is. But just like she’s still his Zelda, Sky is still her Link. The guilt still worms its way into her chest, but as long as Sky is smiling, she’s able to see past it.

Sky does not smile for very long, as a certain Demon Lord shows up mere moments later to ruin their happy ending. To be honest, Sun doesn’t remember much of that night. She remembers the anger in Sky’s face as his body trembled on the ground. She remembers the cold cruelty of Ghirahim’s voice against her chest as she was carried away from her Link- her Sky. She remembers feeling so weak and helpless, cursing the Goddess- cursing herself- for being so useless.

And then all she knew was pain. Blinding, burning agony that enveloped her entire being. She thought she was dying, weightless and alone and scared.

The next time she opened her eyes, she was inside the Sealed Temple. Groose held her. Sky was nowhere to be seen.

She cried into Groose’s chest, something she never would have dreamed of doing a year ago, her head still reeling from that feeling of hopelessness, that pain. All at once, she was scared and relieved and safe and in danger. And Groose held her through it.

Sky would stumble into the Temple much later, limping and bleeding and spasming. His right arm would be totally friend and his wings would drag on the ground, feathers in disarray. He’d lean away from Groose and fall into Sun’s open arms. And when it was time to return the Master Sword to her final resting place, he’d do so with a heaviness in his eyes that’s uncharacteristic and a weakness in his body that’s frightening.

Both Sun and Sky take a long time to recover from that. And really, neither of them ever do. But as Sky starts to physically heal, Sun starts to see more traces of her dear Link. Being around her closest friend and newfound lover is healing, and after the adventure they’d had, they don’t leave each other’s side for a long while.

Sun is very protective over Sky, just like she always was with Link. They exchange Loftwing feathers (Sky gives her his own). And just five days after they’re reunited, they’re separated again.

Okay okay okay. This was less about Sun and more about Sun AND Sky, but they’re pretty much inseparable I think. From Sky’s perspective, there’s a lot of confusing feelings that I’ll get into when I actually write a fic (I’m starting a fic!), but Sun just loves him so much. I have a little comic series which is actually a collection of little short stories in a much bigger plot called “I am Sky.” The short comics aren’t all finished (and they can be read as stand alones) but the order they go in is:

“I am Sky” Stories: Pipit

“I am Sky” Stories: Groose (I’m not done with it I’m sorryyyyyy)

“I am Sky” Stories: Zelda

This all takes place after the Demise battle, when Sky is healing and has the chance to sit down and reflect. When he gets the opportunity to learn about himself, the person that his two halves made him. He struggles a lot, but these specific stories have a lot of comfort. He’ll be fine. Probably.

[alwaysonthemend]

Author's Note: Requested by the lovely @mindastreamofcolours Please don't throw tomatoes at me I know this has taken FAR too long (I'm the worst I'm so sorry) But I hope the length is enough of an apology for the wait. If you see any typos... no you didn't

Also sorry if you got tagged twice. Tumblr was against me posting this apparently and I was ✨struggling✨ but I think I got it fixed now.

Warnings: Fem!reader, threesome (no slash) / unprotected sex / spitting / spanking / oral (m. and f. receiving) / hand jobs / masturbation / voyeurism / arguing / josh being josh / jake being a little shit / dom and sub jake / dom and sub reader / soft!dom josh / MINORS ABSOLUTELY DNI. 18+ ONLY PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

Word Count: 7k+

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ✺ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It started years ago – this little… arrangement that the three of you have. And at this point, none of you can even really remember how it had started. But, you suppose, the why and how don’t really matter anymore. 

All that matters is them. 

All that matters is that your life had changed from the very minute you were hired as their makeup artist. Your life changed to revolve around them and their needs. 

And you love every second of it. 

The rules (though none of you have ever really stated them outright) have always been simple. 

One: Don’t talk about it with anyone else. No one needs to know what goes on behind closed doors and no one needs to concern themselves with something they won’t understand. This works for you three and involving others would only complicate things. 

Two: No jealousy. At least, no more than a little showing out here and there. They work together (and they love each other more than anything else in the world) and this cannot ever get in the way. No questions, no pissing contests, no anger, no holding it against each other. There are nights where you leave with Josh and there are nights where you leave with Jake. There’s nothing else to it. 

And finally, three: Never at the same time. 

The arrangement is simple, really. You’re there to help them get their frustrations out now that they’re far too famous to be sleeping around with just any old roadie like the old days. They trust you. And you trust them. It’s easier this way for everyone. They get to blow off some steam and you get the most mind blowing sex of your life – all while getting to travel around the world doing what you love (for a handsome paycheck). 

Plus, there’s satisfaction in knowing that despite there being thousands of men and women out there who would give anything to have them the way you do… it’s you who they go to. It’s you who they trust. 

And anyways, you’re fairly certain that none of those screaming fans would be able to handle them like you can. 

Though it had taken time, you had learned over the years what makes each of them tick – the thing that drives each of them absolutely crazy. 

They’re both so similar and yet so different at the same time. Sun and moon, yin and yang… whatever you might call it – they balance each other in a way that few can understand. 

Their differences are subtle, and yet they make all the difference in the world. 

Josh loves to watch you. He wants to see how your face contorts in pleasure and how your tits bounce when he fucks you. He wants you on your back with your knees up to your chest so he can watch his cock slide in and out of you. He wants to watch you unravel around his cock as he whispers sweet things into your ear. Good girl, clever girl, beautiful girl. All you have to do is lay there and take it – let him pleasure you with his skilled tongue and big cock. Call him baby and Joshy in your sweetest voice and he falls apart inside your cunt, whining and moaning so prettily for you. Josh will give you orgasm after orgasm after orgasm until your body just can’t take it anymore and when you’re finally spent – laying there in a daze,  he’ll grin and kiss you softly. 

And then there’s Jake. Ever the dark to Josh’s light… he wants you to beg for it. He wants you cock drunk and desperate as he brings you to the edge over and over and over again until you’re left as nothing but a whiny mess beneath him. He demands respect. You call him sir or you will receive punishment. You do not cum unless he tells you to. You are obedient to him and him alone (though he always remains a slave to your pleasure despite himself). He likes you on your hands and knees where he can grip your hips and reach around to squeeze your throat as he pounds into you mercilessly. And his mouth. The vulgar things that spew from those plump lips of his leave you blushing like a schoolgirl. You’re his whore, his slut, his pretty little hole that he gets to use for the night. And when he finally, finally lets you cum…it’s the closest to Heaven on Earth that you’ll ever get. 

But yet, as different as they are from each other… they’re the same in all the ways that matter. Your pleasure is at the top of their priorities. As much as you are there to help them relieve themselves on the road… they never take you for granted. At the end of the day, you call the shots and you have both of them wrapped around your finger completely. They’ll follow you into the depths of Hell if you ask them – which you’re sure is where all three of you are headed anyway. It’s an addictive little dance that you all play and you’re sure that it can only lead you all down the path of destruction. And yet… none of you can find it in yourselves to care. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ✺ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You already know that they’re pissed. You can practically smell it in the air as you wait patiently in the green room, waiting. 

They had already been having one of those days – where everything seems to go wrong and they’re both intent on blaming the other for it. You’d been watching them do their dance all day. Listening to their bickering and passive aggressive little remarks at each other as the hours wore on and on. As close as they are… as inseparable as they are, there are days when they can’t seem to stand each other. 

And unfortunately, the tension between the two of them had manifested itself on stage tonight. Of course, you’re 100% certain that none of the members of the audience had even noticed, but you had. And they sure had. 

Josh had been late to the curtain drop. Perpetually late to everything else, he’d always had the decency to at least be on time for his own concerts until tonight. Jake’s shoulders had tensed practically up to his ears at the confused sounds of the crowd as they realized that they were one man short and though you couldn’t see him, you’re sure that the glare that Josh had probably received had been pointed and harsh. 

And then of course Jake’s equipment had malfunctioned briefly, causing him to angrily gesture at his tech to get the problem fixed. It hadn’t taken longer than two minutes and few even noticed the mishap, but the shit eating grin that Josh had given Jake only added to his building rage. 

And finally, the nail in the metaphorical coffin for the night… Jake had decided that it would be a wonderful idea to cut Josh off in the middle of one of his little bits, effectively silencing his joke with a piercing whine from his guitar. 

You’d known immediately that it was over. They'd pushed each other far enough and you would be the one to suffer the (delicious) consequences. It’s just a matter of who gets to you first. 

If Jake reaches you first, you know that you’re in for a night of complete sexual agony and he’ll push you to your limit until he deems you’ve begged him enough for it before finally giving you an orgasm that you’re sure to remember for months to come. And you’ll surely be waking up tomorrow with a bright red ass and a hitch in your step. 

And if Josh gets to you, well… it’s harder to tell with him. Perhaps he’ll decide on a vibrator for the night – getting to watch you fall apart serving as the perfect distraction from his troubles. Or perhaps his tongue will instead be his weapon of choice, using it to make you cum until you physically can’t anymore. 

Either option sounds wonderful and you can’t quite tell which one you want more. The wait will be well worth it no matter which boy is the one to reach you first. 

– 

The sound of the door opening stirs you from your thoughts. You turn to see Josh (the lucky winner for the night) eyeing you like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. At this point, you’re pretty sure that you are. 

“Y/n.” 

That’s all he says. It’s all he has to say. Even from here you can see his eyes are blown wide and his chest heaves as his eyes drink in your form. Standing there, cloaked in velvet, he’s the picture of sin. The gemstones on his suit glitter as he stands there and you meet his hungry gaze with an innocent smile. 

“Hi, Joshy. Something wrong?” The lilt in your voice is sickly sweet, building up the tension that will inevitably make him snap. 

He only hums – the sound rumbling deep in his chest. 

“I think you know what's wrong, baby.” He whispers, dropping his hand down to palm his hard cock through the velvet. 

Well shit you think to yourself, an excited thrum coursing through your veins as slick pools between your thighs. If he's starting something here… he's desperate enough to not be able to wait for the short ride back to the hotel. All the signs are pointing to tonight being one that you won't forget. 

“Bad day?” You question, leaning back on the sofa where you're sitting and giving him your very best doe eyes. 

He nods, a sigh escaping from between his teeth as his hand grazes his crotch– his throbbing length obvious to you through the tight material. 

“Anything I can do to make you feel better?” This game is making you even wetter… the promise of what you know is to come. Without another word, you slide your body downwards until your knees hit the floor. You glance at him, patting the sofa with your palm. “Bet I can make you forget all about today, baby.”

“Fuck.”  He practically moans, biting his lip as he stalks across the room to look down at you. “You gonna be my sweet girl? Help me relax?” 

You nod, your mouth watering at the sight of his cock straining the fabric of his jumpsuit.

He grins devilishly, unzipping his suit and pulling the fabric down so that it rests around his thick thighs. With grace, he eases himself down to sit on the sofa, leaning back and spreading his legs. 

He never wears underwear in these tight suits and you’re grateful as you sit and stare at his cock. Flushed red and rock hard, it curves upwards to rest against his belly. 

Making a show of it, you hold your palm open and allow a string of saliva to drip from your mouth into your waiting hand. Josh groans at the sight and you waste no time as you wrap your palm around his length, slowly pumping him as you keep your eyes fixed on his. 

A flush has overtaken his cheeks and a light sheen of sweat beads at his hairline. He's got his plump bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fights to keep his eyes from rolling back. He wants to watch you stroke his cock. 

You drop your focus to his throbbing erection, flicking your wrist as you continue to tease him. You press your thumb into the spot just beneath his head and a whine escapes him. You keep the pace slow – too slow for his liking. Working him up until he can't stand it anymore. 

“Don't tease, baby.” He whispers, his tone soft but demanding. 

His hand covers yours, halting your movement as he gazes down at you. You know what he wants. You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, flattening the muscle as you look up at him through your lashes. 

“Fuck, there she is. My wonderful girl.” He mutters, placing the head of his cock on your tongue. He doesn't push in yet, instead taking a moment to admire the sight before him: you, on your knees, tongue obediently extended and your eyes glittering in the dim light. 

Slowly, teasingly, he slides his length into your mouth and you close your lips around him. Relaxing your jaw, you allow the blunt head of his length to hit the back of your throat. You gag slightly around it, exhaling strongly through your nose. Placing both of your palms on his thighs, you dig your fingers into the meat of them as you start to bob your head up and down. You keep your tongue pressed into the underside of him, drawing a loud moan from between his pretty lips. 

You pull out all the tricks you know, making sure to gag every now and then because you know it drives him wild. Tears stream down your cheeks and saliva drips from the corners of your mouth and Josh is quickly coming apart beneath you. 

Just as his cock begins to twitch, signaling his impending orgasm, you’re both broken from your moment at the sound of someone clearing their throat. You pull off him, wide eyes turning to be met with none other than his twin – a dark, dangerous look on his face. 

“What a fucking sight.” He says with a grin, stepping further into the room. 

Josh eyes him warily, his cock softening at Jake’s interruption. 

“What do you want, Jake?” You ask him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“You’re kinda interrupting something, here.” Josh says snidely, sitting up straighter and pulling his jumpsuit back up to cover his cock. 

“I didn’t say you had to stop.” Jake shrugs, taking a seat in the chair opposite the sofa. “Just patiently waiting for my turn, is all.” 

You quirk a brow at him. He’s never done this before – neither of them have. You can sense the tension and anger radiating off Josh – and Jake seems entirely too comfortable as he sits there watching, a smug little smirk on his face. 

“Wait somewhere else, then.” Josh demands, sitting up straighter and glaring at his brother. 

Jake only meets him with a grin, sitting back in his seat and spreading his legs to get more comfortable. 

“I’m good here. Won’t take long anyway.” 

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh at his joke and then it's your turn for Josh to glare at you.

“Fuck off, Jake.” Josh tells him, jerking his head for the door. “Be fucking thoughtful for once in your life.” 

Jake sits forwards suddenly, placing his elbows on his knees and narrowing his eyes. 

“That’s rich coming from you, brother. Easy for you to say when you always get your fucking way.” 

“That’s not true and you know it.” Josh snaps, eyes fiery. 

Jake scoffs. 

“Fucking diva.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Boys.” You cut in, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Enough. I’m not doing anything with either of you if you’re going to act like children. You,” you glance at Josh, “now you know that you can be controlling and nitpicky sometimes.” Josh’s eyes narrow at you and he opens his mouth to protest but you start in on Jake instead. 

“And you” You glare at Jake, washing the smirk off his face. “You know that you like to stir shit up and make people mad on purpose because you think it's funny. You both have been acting unreasonable all day and you will not be using me as a piece in your little games with each other.” 

Josh looks suitably chastised and Jake too has the decency to look a little guilty. You rise from your place on the floor, knees protesting slightly. Both of their brown eyes track your movements, their facial expressions exactly alike. Fucking twins you think to yourself. 

“Can you please make him leave?” Josh begs, pleading with you with his eyes and a tiny pout on his lips. 

“No. I’m the one who’s leaving. I’m not fucking either of you until this” you gesture between the two of them, “gets resolved. You both know what room I’m in. Get your shit together and figure it out.” 

With that, you stalk confidently across the room, throwing open the door and making your way to the exit of the venue. Just as you round the corner, faintly you can hear Josh’s voice – angry and high pitched, “You couldn’t even let me have one fucking moment with her, could you? You asshole!” 

Rolling your eyes, you call an Uber and wait for it to take you back to your hotel. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ✺ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You take a nice, hot shower as soon as you get back. You take your time, allowing yourself to relax and forget about your idiotic twins. Once you get out and dry off, you check your phone to see a text from Jake. 

I’m sorry.  

You just giggle at the message. You know he’s never being malicious. But he does enjoy stirring shit up sometimes without really thinking about the consequences. You figure you’ll leave him on ‘read’ for now so he can sit there tonight and stew for a little bit.

Just as you turn it off, the screen lights up again with a text from Josh. 

im sorry baby

You figure you can answer him. He hadn’t been the one to try and involve you in their pissing match anyways. You send him a quick ‘It’s okay.’ before turning your phone off for good. Once changed into a pair of comfortable cotton panties and a tank top, you slip under the covers in the hopes of getting some good sleep. 

–  

A loud knock wakes you. 

Sitting up, you rub your eyes and try to get your bearings. You’d been sound asleep. 

Another knock against the door. 

“Fuck, coming!” You call, climbing out of bed and making your way to the door, fully expecting one of the twins to be waiting on the other side. 

The door swings open and you stop dead in your tracks. Both twins stand across the threshold, matching twinkles in their eyes. 

“Hey, angel.” Jake says kindly, as if both of them showing up at your door in the middle of the night is perfectly normal. 

“Um. Hi?”

“May we come in?” Josh asks you, grinning slightly as he takes in your state of (un) dress. 

“I guess?” You step aside, allowing them both to step into the room (annoyingly in sync as they walk). You close the door and lock it behind you. “Is everything okay?” 

“Wonderful, actually.” Jake says, plopping himself down in the desk chair and swiveling back around to look at you. 

“You and Josh figure things out, then?”

“Yup.” Josh says, popping the ‘p.’ 

“Great.” 

They’re both silent for a minute, making you squirm slightly under their dual gazes. They know something… or want something. You can feel it in the air. They’re up to something. Whether good or bad… you have no fucking clue. 

“Is there a reason that you’re both here?” You ask, sitting on the edge of the bed as Josh comes to stand in the middle of the room. 

“Yes. Though whether or not both of us stay is up to you.” Josh starts, glancing back at his twin for a moment before continuing. “See, we realized that we were both being a little overly dramatic today.” 

“Which Josh started.” Jake butts in. 

“Shut up, Jake.” Josh says, narrowing his eyes again and you’re worried that they’re going to start all over again. But Josh lets it slide. “And neither of us really want to give you up for the night seeing as how we’ve both had such a shit day.” He pauses and looks pointedly at Jake. “Regardless of who started it.” 

“And see… we thought that maybe – just this once, neither of us should have to wait. Figured that maybe we could share you for tonight.” Jake cuts in. 

“Share me?” You ask slowly, brain working a mile a minute as it tries to make sense of his words. Surely he doesn’t mean… right?

“Only if you’re comfortable, of course.” Josh says easily, hands moving about slightly as he speaks. “Or you can tell us to fuck off and we’ll leave you alone for the night.”

You swallow thickly, heart thrumming. 

“Share me…” You echo, brows pinched together. “As in, you both… with me. At the same time.” You speak slowly, still trying to wrap your head around the idea.

“In essence, yes. If you’d like to.” Jake says. 

You’re silent for a long moment – each of them waiting patiently for you to speak again. You’d be a big fat liar if you said that you hadn’t thought about it before. Having both of them… the ultimate sin that your mind loves to throw at you whenever you’re alone. Nights in between touring when you lay alone in bed, your own hand between your thighs to relieve the ache that the twins leave in their absence. Your thoughts – unable to choose, swirling between both of them. Their faces, the same but not, plaguing your mind’s eye and making your aching pussy soaked. Josh’s sugary words and Jake’s dirty compliments echoing through your ears all mixed up. The thought of having both of them at once – as wrong as it may be… just the thought alone usualy has you coming apart in seconds. 

And now here they are, offering you your deepest desire on a silver fucking platter. 

“Okay.”  You breathe out, voice shaky but sure. 

“You’re sure?” Josh asks, stepping towards you and brushing his fingertips down your cheek. “It’s your choice.”

“You won’t hurt our feelings by saying no.” Jake adds, smiling ever so softly at you. 

“And I’m saying yes.” You tell him with all the confidence that you can. Because you do want this. More than anything. You want to be fucking ruined. 

And yet… you’re not sure where to start. This is new territory – one that feels as though it’s too good to be true. Perhaps it is. 

“I believe I interrupted something earlier.” Jake says, once again leaning backwards in his chair. “Perhaps we can start by letting you finish what you started.”

Jake must have sensed your hesitance, deciding instead to tell you where to start. You’re infinitely grateful for him and his ability to sense when you need guidance.This is familiar for you – letting him take control. It’s natural the way his velvet voice tells you what to do. It makes this easy. 

You nod, gaze sweeping to where Josh stands, his face eager as he watches you slide off the bed to come and stand before him. 

“On your knees for me, sweet girl.” Josh whispers, easing his sweatpants off his hips and then hooking his fingers in the elastic of his boxers and pulls them down as well. He’s already hard and leaking, probably aching to be touched after being interrupted earlier. Slowly, you ease down onto your knees. 

“Suck his cock, angel. Make him feel good.” Jake’s voice is smooth as whiskey, just barely above a whisper. 

You do as he says, opening wide and letting Josh slide his cock back into your waiting mouth. 

“Shit.” He hisses, tossing his head back as his tip hits your throat. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair as he begins to thrust into you softly, giving your throat a moment to adjust to the intrusion before picking up his pace. 

You can feel the wetness between your thighs as you sit there letting him use your mouth – the cotton of your panties surely completely drenched through. Something about the noises Josh is making coupled with the feeling of Jake’s dark gaze on you has you feeling like you could come completely untouched before the night is over. 

The sound of a zipper being undone has you pull off Josh and snap your gaze over to Jake – Josh whimpers at the loss of contact but you’re more concerned with the sight of Jake easing his own hard cock from his pants and wrapping his fist around himself. He strokes his hard length lazily, eyes never leaving you. 

“Did I tell you to stop?” He asks, a sharp edge to his voice. “Keep sucking him, angel. You look so pretty like that.”

Josh’s finger hooks beneath your chin, forcing your focus back onto him and you gasp at the sight. His eyes, normally a soft brown, are blown almost black with lust. His cheeks are flushed and his breathing is heavy as he gazes down at you. 

“Focus on me.” He says softly, his thumb coming down to caress your bottom lip. He tugs at it, dragging it downwards slightly before gripping your jaw a little harder. 

You take the hint and open your mouth again. 

“Good girl.” 

This time, you do give him your full attention as his thrusts into your mouth grow more confident. You gag around him and you hear Jake let out a quiet little groan at the sound. Spurred on, you relax your jaw even more, taking Josh even deeper. 

“Oh fuck.” Josh whines, head tossed back in pleasure. “Good fucking girl.” 

His cock twitches on your tongue and he pulls out, a string of saliva connecting his flushed tip to your mouth. 

You pout slightly, having wanted to taste his release but he only smiles at you. 

“Not yet, baby. I wanna savor this.” He caresses your jaw lovingly. “On the bed.” 

You hastily comply, scrambling to sit in the middle of the large bed and looking at your twins – waiting for them to tell you what to do. 

“Look at that.” Jake says with no small amount of pride in his voice as he stands up and begins to strip from his clothes before striding over to the side of the bed. You take a long moment to admire him. 

You eye the way his biceps and forearms flex as he moves, your mouth waters as you admire his plush thighs, and your own thighs clench at the way the strength of his body is balanced by his curves that are so rare to find in a man. He’s nothing short of breathtaking.

“Always so eager to please. Just waiting to be told what to do.”  He hums, hand still lazily stroking his leaking cock. “Strip.”

“That’s a good girl.” Josh mutters, watching you with hungry eyes as you pull your tank top over your head and slide your soaked panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor. 

Josh, the only one still clothed, begins to strip himself – but your focus is ripped from him as Jake comes to stand at the edge of the bed. He grips your calf in his strong, calloused hand, using it to yank your body around and onto your back. There’s no finesse to his movements as he manhandles you into the position he wants, the hunger in his eyes infinitely clear. 

Once on your back, Josh climbs into the bed between your thighs. He settles his weight between them, using his palms to spread your legs wider and exposing your glistening folds. His back muscles flex as his lithe form settles, his amber eyes glittering up at you. 

“She’s dripping.” Josh murmurs, tongue darting out to lick his plush bottom lip. “Stunning.” 

You whine, inching your hips towards him slightly, your core aching to be touched. 

“Desperate little thing.” Jake’s velvet voice rings out through the room, his hand coming down to tangle in your hair. He stands at the edge of the bed, his hard cock merely inches away from where your head hangs off the edge.

Another pulse of need rocks through you as your brain catches on to the possibilities that this position grants you. With Josh nestled between your thighs and Jake’s aching member so close to your mouth, you have no doubts about where this is going. 

As if in answer to your sinful thoughts, Josh swipes a finger through your folds, just barely brushing against your swollen clit and making you jolt. 

“Josh, please.” You whine, spreading your legs wider for him – begging him silently to give you more. 

“She just loves to be eaten out, don’t you?” Jake murmurs, looking down at you squirm on the bed. “Go ahead, Josh. Give her what she wants.” 

Josh relents, delving into your core and circling your bundle of nerves with his tongue. The feeling is sudden – aggressive even, and the stimulation makes you cry out loudly. He hooks his arms around both of your thighs as he begins his assault, using his talented tongue to completely unravel you. 

Jake, never one to let the spotlight last on Josh for too long, taps the head of his cock on your lips. Without hesitation, you open your mouth and let him slide his member between your lips. With your neck hanging downwards, he reaches all the way to your throat with ease. You moan and swallow around him, making his composure crack slightly as a groan escapes him.

“Fuck. Perfect little mouth.” He praises, beginning to thrust delicately into you. “Tap on my thigh and I’ll stop.” He says through clenched teeth and all you can do is moan around his cock in response. 

Josh’s slender fingers suddenly join in the mix as he plunges them into you – curling them in a way that makes your legs feel like jelly as he keeps lapping at your clit with your tongue. He moans as he does so, his hips rutting into the mattress below him as he pleasures you. 

If your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, you’re sure that you’d be screaming from the pleasure. Between Josh’s menstrations and the sound of Jake’s breathy moans as he fucks into your mouth, your orgasm is already rapidly approaching. 

Your arms thrash about widely, finally coming down to fist into the sheets as the crest of pleasure builds within you. Josh is unrelenting, using all the things that he knows makes you fall apart. Jake is faring no better than you, his face twisting and contorting in pleasure. 

“Come on, Y/n. Be a good slut and cum, baby.” He encourages, voice shaky with his own pleasure. “Enjoy it. You’re not gonna get another one for a long while.” 

With that, the band snaps and your orgasm rips through you – drenching Josh’s face as he works you through it. Jake pulls from your mouth, allowing you a chance to get a full gulp of air as you writhe beneath them. 

Josh sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning from ear to ear. 

“Tastes like candy.” He says, licking his lips as he gazes at your spread out form. 

All you can do is lay there stunned for a moment as you recover, chest heaving. 

“She’s a sight for sore eyes.” Jake murmurs, caressing your jawline with his pointer finger. “Bet that pretty pussy is just aching to get fucked, isn’t she?” 

You nod, body already aching for another orgasm. 

“Does my beautiful girl want my cock?” Josh asks, gripping your ankles and pulling so that your head now rests fully on the bed. 

Just as you open your mouth to reply, Jake cuts in with a dangerous lilt to his voice. 

“Don’t assume, brother. Maybe she’d prefer someone else’s.” 

“Doubtful.” Josh snarks, glaring daggers at his twin. 

“Fuck, stop.” You breathe out, sitting up to glare at both of them. You try to keep your face stern, but the thought of both of them arguing over who gets to fuck you has more slick pooling between your thighs. “No arguing.” 

“Your choice then, baby.” Josh grins, a smug smile on his face as if he already knows your answer. 

But in truth, even you don’t know. In fact, you have half a mind to let them continue arguing if only to further fuel the fire between your legs. But you figure that encouraging them would only end in all out warfare. Instead, you just grin at them, a wonderful idea coming to life in your mind. 

“Jake.” You start, turning to meet his dark eyes. “Get on the bed.” 

He grins and complies, eyes glittering thinking that he’s going to get his way. He always does when it comes to the bedroom, but tonight you want to challenge him – remind him and Josh who’s really in charge here. 

Jake crawls over to you, a dominant air about him as he moves to smother your body with his own. But instead of allowing it, you press your palm into his chest and push – shoving his back roughly into the headboard. 

Air escapes his lips in a shocked huff as he stares at you – completely taken off guard. Josh, seeing his expression, laughs quietly.  

“Angel, what-” 

You shush him. 

“Quiet.” You glance between him and Josh. “You both said that I’m in control, didn’t you?” You ask, though it’s not really a question. You all know the answer. 

Jake nods and Josh whispers a quiet ‘yes.’

With a grin, you turn your eyes to face Josh, his lips parted and eyes watching your every move – just waiting for you to tell him what you want. 

Without a word, you nudge Jake’s legs further apart before settling yourself on your knees between them. His chest moves up and down rapidly as he looks up at you. Though he’s letting you call the shots, you’re sure that you’ll pay for it some other time. But for now, you’re going to enjoy it.

“You know, Jake…” You murmur, sweeping your palms up his thighs and feeling the muscle twitch beneath your fingertips, “You love calling the shots. Maybe even more than Josh does.” You drop your hand to play with his cock – lightly pinching his tip between your fingertips and making his hips buck upwards off the bed. “I feel like maybe it might be time for a taste of your own medicine, yeah?” 

A delicate, almost silent whimper escapes him. It’s so quiet that you might have thought you imagined it… but the way his cock twitches and his chest heaves gives him away. 

“Josh?” Josh, sitting silently and watching you, perks up as you finally turn your attention back to him. “Come here, baby. Right behind me.”

Josh complies, crawling over behind where you sit between Jake’s thighs. Without a word, you slowly ease your chest downwards, spreading your own thighs and allowing your ass to stick up invitingly in the air for Josh. You wiggle your ass and a shaky exhale punches out of him, his hands coming to rest on your hips. 

As he does so, you sweep your gaze up to meet Jake’s eyes – his pupils blown wide with want. Opening your mouth, you teasingly lick up his shaft, swirling the tip of your tongue around his head, before pulling your mouth away again. 

“You don’t get to come until I say. Understand?” 

He nods and you wrap your arms around his thighs and dig your fingers into the soft flesh. 

“Words.”

“I understand, angel.” 

Tossing your head back over your shoulder to look at Josh, you ease your hips back towards him again. 

“Let me fuck you, pretty girl.” He begs, his hard cock pressing into your ass cheek as he waits for your permission. 

“Go ahead, Joshy.” You tell him, keeping your voice nice and sweet just like he likes. “Make me feel good.” 

You descend your mouth back onto Jake’s aching cock as Josh enters you with one long thrust. You moan, causing Jake to groan at the vibration. 

“Fuck, just like that.” Jake moans, his hand coming up to grip your hair but you swat it away. You want to enjoy the control for a while longer. 

Josh’s hips slam into yours rhythmically, his pace slow and precise. With each glide of his cock against your walls, his head nails that special place inside of you. It takes all of your focus to keep bobbing your head up and down Jake’s length, making sure to keep your tongue pressing up into him – making him writhe and moan as he fights to keep himself from rutting his hips up into your mouth. 

“Baby,” Josh moans, his voice sounding wrecked as his hips increase their speed. “Fuck, I can feel you fluttering around me.” 

The wet sound coming from between your thighs coupled with the sound of Josh’s skin hitting yours and the sound of your mouth moving up and down Jake’s cock makes a delightfully symphony of pure lust and sin. You know already that this night will forever be cemented in your mind for years to come. You will never be able to think of it without growing wet. Josh’s cock is stretching you so wonderfully and Jake’s pretty noises are making your clit throb. 

Saliva dribbles out of the sides of your mouth, drenching Jake’s cock and just by the sound of him alone you can tell that he’s close. Josh’s pace is beginning to grow frenzied, his breaths coming out in tiny little moans as his own orgasm approaches. Hearing both of them, Jake’s hot, aching cock twitching on your tongue, Josh’s cock hitting all the right places… it’s like every one of your senses has been overtaken with them. Their sounds, the feel of them. Fuck it’s the best feeling in the whole fucking world. And as much as you don’t want this to end, you just can’t fight your orgasm anymore. 

You cry out around Jake’s cock, throat constricting around him as your release rips through you. Josh is a moaning mess as his own orgasm overtakes him, his cock painting your walls as he buries himself inside of you. His hips keep going, overstimulating himself with your clenching pussy as he fucks you through your orgasm. 

Finally he pulls out, murmuring praises for you as he tries to calm down. 

Through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind, you register Jake’s cock twitching on your tongue. He needs to cum, his whines echoing over the roaring in your ears as he holds himself back, waiting for your permission. 

You pull off him, robbing him of his finish and a feral growl escapes him at the loss. You’ve enjoyed not giving him what he wants and the power has gone to your head it seems. But you’ve pushed it too far. 

Faster than what you thought possible, Jake sits up and fists your hair in his grasp. He yanks backwards, exposing your throat for him and you can’t help but moan. 

“Brat.” He whispers, leaning in close to you. His eyes look over your shoulder to Josh, who’s eyeing the both of you warily. “Move.” Jake demands, but Josh doesn’t do it. “Move.” He demands again, eyes blazing. 

A fresh wave of slick escapes you, dripping down your thighs and drenching the bed below at the anger in Jake’s voice. Making him wait, telling him what to do… it had been wonderful while it lasted but this is the Jake that you want. 

“Josh.” You whine, unable to face him fully because of Jake’s hold on your hair. “Do as he says.” 

Gingerly, Josh moves up in the bed. As soon as he’s out of the way, Jake grips your waist and flips you, pushing your back into the mattress as he hovers over you. His cock, neglected and no doubt aching, grazes your stomach and your thighs clench together in the hopes of soothing the ache there. 

“I agree to share you for the night, I let you call all the shots. Fuck I even let Josh be the one to fuck you…” He says darkly, his fingers gripping your sides and digging into your skin harshly. “And this is what I get in return, huh?” He laughs, sitting up just a bit to grip his cock in his hand and pump himself a few times, his precum making it easy for him. “No more nice. You’re gonna lie here,” he says, sliding his tip through your wet folds. “And you’re gonna fucking take it.” 

Josh, breaking his silence at last, leans back onto the headboard and spreads his legs. 

“Be good for him, baby girl. Just lie there and look pretty doing it.” 

The shock of his words has you momentarily breathless but then Jake spears you with his cock, effectively silencing your thoughts of anything other than the feeling of him stretching you. You cry out, hands fisting in the sheets at your sides as Jake starts a merciless pace. His hips are like lightning, pounding into you at a pace that you’ve never experienced before. 

From the corner of your vision you can see Josh, his hand dropping between his thighs, his dick rock hard yet again despite having only just cum moments before. He moans your name at the first glide of his hand over his cock, his knees falling open wider and his jaw hanging slack with pleasure. 

"You look so fucking pretty like that, baby." Josh's words come out shaky thanks to the pleasure coursing through him. "Fucking hell."

Jake, his face contorted in almost a snarl, snaps his hips into yours like a man possessed. It’s so fast and so soon after your last orgasm that your pussy feels like it's on fire – icy hot sparks mixing with the pleasure as your body trembles beneath him. You open your mouth to speak – to demand more or for him to stop you have no idea, but all that comes out is a high pitched, whiny moan. 

“I don’t fucking care.” Jake grits out, licking his thumb and dropping it to circle your clit. Your body jolts, the pain of overstimulation finally melting away to fiery pleasure.

Josh’s moans grow louder, the sound of his fist over his cock matching the pace of Jake’s hips – brutally fast and unforgiving. Your name falls from between his lips, interrupted only by groans and whimpers as he brings himself to the edge yet again. 

"Cum for us, baby. Make a mess." Josh encourages, his hand never slowing.

"Give it to me. Come on, angel." Jake's demand is firm but his voice wavers and cracks as he holds himself back.

The band that has been building and building in your lower belly finally snaps and your whole body goes taut, your muscles contracting and shaking uncontrollably as your release washes over you. Jake’s pace finally falters, his hips stuttering and a loud, feral groan falling from between his plump lips as he finally finishes. Josh’s voice rings out as he paints his hand and belly, his own release hitting him at the sight of you. 

– 

As the fog of lust and wanton, filthy desire finally begins to dissipate, the three of you are left lying there trying to get your breathing back under control. As harshly as Jake had been fucking into you just moments before, he’s delicate and soft as he slowly pulls out of you. His hands caress your sides, his rough fingertips ghosting over your skin and making goosebumps rise in their wake. Josh sits up and leans forward to brush your sweaty hair from your forehead. 

You smile lazily up at them, body still buzzing with pleasure but tiredness leaching into your muscles. 

“Better now?” You murmur, a lazy smile on your lips. 

“Infinitely.” Josh answers you, eyes glittering.

“Thank you, angel.” Jake says, pressing a feather light kiss to your belly. “So good for us.” 

“The best, even.” Josh adds, tone equally soft as Jake’s kiss. “And all ours.”

“All yours.” Is all your tired brain can come up with to answer. And it's the truth. You’re theirs. Completely. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ✺ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

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