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snaileer · 1 month ago

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I’m a Size Medium, Thanks - 2

Part one: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/766471879423885312/im-a-size-medium-thanks

Danny stares into the eyes of what has got to be the grumpiest looking 12-14?10? How tall are children?- year old he’s ever met. And he grew up with Sam!

Danny looks back through the door, hoping to everything that an adult walks through. He is disappointed.

“Well?” The boy snaps, foot tapping.

“Uh, can I help.. you?” Danny says, voice ticking up. That’s what you’re supposed to say at a job right? Or maybe the kid wasn’t supposed to be here, “Do you need to call someone…?” He hopes not, he doesn’t know how or if the shop has a phone, and his… well his is wired through a realm of the dead so enough said there.

“My name is Damian Wayne.” He says primly. And expectantly.

Danny looks outside again, past the neon sign he specifically hadn’t turned on, then back at the Damian kid, blinking. There’s no way this was that ‘Mr.Wayne.’

The kid rolls his eyes impressively well then drops his glare back onto Danny, “Has this absurd incense burned away whatever meager sense you were born with? I am here to have a so-called ‘reading’ with a medium.”

If Danny hadn’t seen this Damian kid walk in with three whisps of shades wrapped around his arms, Danny would have questioned why, but he did, so he doesn’t.

He does, however, say: “Aren’t you a little young… to be like.. talking about death or something?” Though honestly, the incense is a real concern, Danny hadn’t even lit any today, Claire had just left it burning and the whole room was saturated.

“Will you fulfill your job description or not, you peasant?” The kid grits out.

Danny would really rather not. Like really rather not. But nOoo, here he was, waiting for a portal that could show up at any time, pretending he was a medium for a 7 year old just because he could talk to ghosts.

Danny sighs and drags himself around the counter to go into Claire’s weird little seance room. Maybe the fumes will kill him before the embarrassment does.

The kid follows.

Danny drops himself into Claire’s chair with weirdly plush armrests for still being so uncomfortable.

“Alright then, let’s get this over with. I’m Danny, the -ugh- medium. Whatdya wanna know?” Danny says as he kicks his leg out to hit a shade getting agitated and grabby by Damian’s feet. They got way too much of a spiritual boost from this room for Danny to be comfortable with it.

Damian watches him with a raised eyebrow, still not sitting down, “Aren’t you meant to lead the seance?”

Danny’s lip curls in distaste, he huffs a sigh and lets his shoulders drop, opening his mouth to tell this 9-year old something easy about one of his shades and be done-

He spots a sticky note stuck on the crystal ball.

-Danny, don’t forget, the showmanship is important! I trust you know how to meet expectations! Happy first day!

- Claire <3

Danny feels his face go deadpan. He was going to have this woman committed. That’s what he was going to do. She could be studied for the degenerative cognitive effects of being freaking bazonkers.

Danny plucks the note off the crystal ball and crumples it, letting the trash drop to the abyss that is Claire’s plush carpet.

He sighs, looking back up at Damian. The kid snaps his head towards him from where he’d been poking around the curtained walls- weirdo- but Danny beats him to the snappy comment.

“You got any spiritually charged items? Or like… something?” Danny says, taking a guess, he can make the thingy glow, say some nonsense, get paid, and close.

Damian narrows his eyes at him, but slowly moves to sit in the other chair, perched on the edge of the seat. He pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the table.

Pearls.

It’s a clump of shiny white pearls.

Absolutely dripping in ectoplasmic blood stains. So lovely.

Does Claire have biohazard gloves because oh gosh-

Danny hesitantly reaches for the pearls, lifting the strand between two fingers as he looks between it and the 12 year old. “You sure this is what you want to ask about?”

The kid’s glare turns challenging, mocking, “What? Admitting you are nothing but a charlatan?”

Danny grimaces, “Not quite. I mean…” He looks at the pearls again, then at the shade trying to hack away at the kids neck, “There’s definitely someone or something attached to this it’s just… not .. yours.”

“Tt,” the boy clicks his tongue at him, “and how exactly would you know that, charlatan?” Damian levels a mocking look up and down at him.

Danny’s eye twitches as he grimaces a smile, “Part of the job-“ brat. Danny doesn’t say that. Danny can’t say that. Danny has to deal with death obsessed TODDLERS who want to talk about some rando’s gruesome murder just so he can eat tonight. Or find somewhere to sleep. He doubts this will be enough for both.

Maybe if he’s dramatic enough.

Alright get to it then, Danny.

He sighs, dimming the light with Claire’s little remote- he is not so far gone as to turn them green like she had- and actually focusing his energy on the pearl necklace.

“What are you-“

Danny holds up a finger at Damian to silence him, which surprisingly works. He closes his eyes and starts trying to absorb the ectoplasmic remains as slowly as he can.

Feelings of course come with it and- well what’d ya know, he can definitely feel this attached to a ghost somewhere in this city.

“It’s a woman’s… younger than she should have been when she…”

He can hear Damian scoff, “Obviously, anyone could tell me that.”

Danny rolls his eyes under his eyelids, debating the merits of opening one to glare at him when his eyes are definitely glowing.

“She’s still here but-“ Danny says instead, trying to pull on the connection wandering out into the streets, “She can’t come here here.”

“What do you mean?” The boy snaps.

Danny tries to focus harder on it himself, he’s never done this before, tried to find or community with a ghost from an object… it was like Pointdexter and his mirror.

“She’s stuck somewhere… somewhere more important.. it’s dark and narrow and Danny mentally rears back as images flash into his mind. Accompanied of course by a woman’s scream.

An alley. A gun. A man stepping in front of her to protect her- no not her- a kid- Damian- not Damian- looks like-

Danny opens his eyes and drops the necklace. There’s barely any ectoplasm left on it.

Fine with him, he never wants to touch it again.

“Well?” An impatient voice asks and- oh yeah that’s right, the rude ass kid.

Danny pushes the pearls across the table with a finger and looks up at him, “Woman in an alley, that familiar to you?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, “Anyone who knows who I am could tell me the same.”

Danny snaps, “I don’t-!“ This is a child Danny, a child, “Well she was scared for the kid, and now is… proud of him? There’s a lot of concern there, but she still watches him I guess, so that’s all I got for ya.”

Damian scrutinizes him for a minute, silent. Darn, weren’t mediums supposed to be vague as heck so that anything could apply and the person would find their own meaning? But did it count if he was just translating the vibes off a shade half a city away?

“This is…. acceptable.”

Danny nearly sags in relief and moves to stand, “Cool, then-“

“Wait.” The kid holds up a hand, “You said something regarding a disparity in the proposed ownership of the apparition you believed to be related to this jewelry.”

Danny blinks at him dumbly.

Damian scoffs again, “That the apparition attached to this necklace was ‘not mine,’ as you said??” He snarks, putting air quotes up.

Danny slowly sinks back down into the chair. “… Well yeah I mean..” does he tell this 8 year old about the slightly murderous shades he’s got around him? “You have… you have a couple… apparations… yourself. Not related to the pearls that is.” Danny says hesitantly, eyes skipping over said shades.

Damian jerks his head to follow his eyes and Danny shirks back, eyes back on the kid.

“Who are they? Tell me now,” Damian demands, standing to loom over the table.

Danny puts his hands up in surrender, “Whoa, I don’t know about that, they don’t really seem too happy with you-“ Another one tries to slice his hand through Damian’s neck, “I think you did something to them or made them angry at some point. I don’t really think you should try to contact them-“ Danny winces, that could end very badly. Thank goodness for limited ectoplasm access.

Meanwhile, his answer seems to have only made Damian more upset, his eyes wide as he stares down at Danny.

Suddenly the kid turns and stamps towards the door, leaving Danny to hurriedly push the chair out and chase after him to the main room.

Except-

When he gets there Damian is already shooting hushed insults at a man standing amongst the crystals.

The man looks vaguely like Damian, black hair, blue eyes, lithe build, and oh also- surrounded by shades of course.

These ones seem less vicious at least.

Please don’t be here for him. Please don’t be here for him.

Danny really doesn’t want to try and fake his way through another hour or however long it’s been of that.

“Hey there! I’m Dick, Damian’s brother!” The man says suddenly, pushing Damian aside and coming forward with a cheery grin, “Thanks for humoring him!”

Danny tilts his head to see Damian’s scowling face behind the man. Right.

“Uh huh… I’m Danny.” He says, trying not to be distracted by what he’s pretty sure is a baby elephant’s ghost behind him.

“You’re the medium right? We were just so interested to see if that old family heirloom would have anything or not. We-“

“We?” Damian cuts him off with a scoff, “I will meet you in the vehicle Richard. I will not spend another minute in this house of charlatans.”

They both watch as the kid turns and stomps out the door, uncrossing his arms only to open the door and stomp out. The stupid bell rings merrily.

This time it’s not Danny who sighs.

“I wish he wouldn’t say things like that,” Dick says wearily, “I grew up in places like this.” There’s a note of nostalgia to his voice. Danny just eyes the bowl of ‘fertility’ crystals warily.

Dick must see him do it because he huffs a laugh, “I’m Roma, Romani that is. I grew up in a circus originally,” he explains, “So psychic places always just kinda remind me of my auntie’s tents.”

Danny glances at the elephant shaped ghost again, “Wow that makes so much sense actually.”

The guy raises a confused eyebrow at him.

Danny coughs awkwardly, waving it away, “So, money?” He claps, “I’m guessing you’re paying since Damian is…” Danny trails off, opting not to make a final guess on age and embarrass himself.

Dick laughs again and they go over to the counter, “Yep, here-“ He pulls out his wallet, rifling through cash before pulling some out, “Cash only yeah? This should be enough.”

Danny stares at the stack of slightly rumpled bills, “But- huh?…” that was… that was so much…

“Oh I added extra since I’m sure he probably said some things he shouldn’t have, don’t worry about it.”

Dick is already halfway out the door when Danny reloads and jerks upwards, “Wai-“

Could Danny really stop him? Should he? He needed this money but… he stops to count it. $20..40..60..80..100..120….140……160….180……….$200.

Danny blanches. He lurches for the door, no way he can take this much money just for basically acting as a glorified ecto-translator.

Danny stops in his tracks as he steps outside the shop and spots Dick and Damian speaking to a third, much older person, over the hood of a sleek black car.

This person, of course, also has several, several, shades around them.

What the hell was wrong with this family?

Damian turns and glares his way.

Oh ancients what if they were part of the mob or something.

Danny spins around on his heel-

And smacks straight into the glass door of the shop.

…

Ow.

Danny rubs his nose as he fumbles around for the door handle, acutely aware the death covered family was probably staring at him.

He grabs the handle and pulls-

Danny freezes, hand on his sore face stopping. He opens his eyes as he yanks again. Nothing.

Oh heck, he just locked himself out didn’t he?

No please no, they were so definitely still staring, no way they weren’t. Danny pulls again and it finally-

He looks at the door handle in his hand.

Then at the door still closed in front of him.

Then back at the door handle.

Just the door handle.

Crap.

Danny nearly weeps, clumsily fitting the door handle back on and still adamantly refusing to look and see if Damian and his absurdly rich family has left yet. Other people on the street are also starting to stare. The same reason he can’t just use his powers.

He finally gets the handle back on and gingerly lets go of it.

Ok. Deep breath.

Claire warned you about this. With a sticky note, but all the same. Extra key is taped on the bottom of the fire hydrant right outside the shop. You’ve got this.

Danny turns, kneels, and frantically begins trying to find the key on the absurdly dirty fire hydrant.

His hands come away black with grime, but thankfully he has the key.

He puts it in the lock and turns it, hearing what may very well be the newest sound of his nightmares: a snap.

Most specifically the sound of the key snapping in Danny’s very hands.

Danny stared at the half of the key still held between his fingers.

Did he do something to this city? Was this his fault? Could he not just sit in a closet and wait for the portal to open and go home?

Danny sags against the door, and resigns himself to his fate. Maybe he can go get food… with the money he left on the counter. Great.

Danny peeks his eyes sideways and catches the guy, Dick, finally getting into their car.

Okay, just a tiny bit just a bit. Danny holds the key again, focuses on the lock in the door jam and….. intangible!

He yanks the door open and jumps inside, door closing against the flutters of quickly fading shades on the street.

And more than one scream at them but hey that’s not his problem.

Mostly.

Danny revels in the cool lighting of the shop, glaring at the stupid broken key in his grimy hands. He drops the useless bit of metal on the counter, pockets the cash and wipes his hands on the backside of one of Claire’s million wall curtains.

It leaves a black stain that basically disappears when Danny folds the fabric over it.

Oh well.

Technically the shop was still open.

And technically, Danny didn’t know if the lock did or didn’t work right now.

He went to find whatever storage closet Claire used to store her absurd number of crystals.

He finds it- finally- and using the keys he left in the store to begin with, he is able to unlock the perfect place to sleep tonight amongst several packages of…. Some kind of incense powder… or something. He doesn’t really care because that plan of hiding in a closet till the portal opens? Yeah, Danny’s putting that into action right the frick now.

He bends down to start to lay out his sweatshirt over the cardboard bed-to-be.

A bell rings in the distance.

Danny is going to destroy that bell on the door, he swears it.

#Danny phantom #batman #batfam #danny fenton #dc #danny phantom crossover #batman and robin #bruce wayne #tim drake #young justice #Damian Wayne #dick grayson #dpxdc #dp x dc #dp #red hood #Gotham #nightwing

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donaweasley · 6 months ago

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Pale Blue Midnights

Pairing: MCU!Loki x Fem!Reader

Plot:

I, too, did a pollen story! That’s it. That’s the plot! 😆Except that it’s not exactly pollen but something else but ultimately strange flowers are at play. Well, simply put, it’s sm.u.t with a plot.

Warnings: Sm.u.tttttttttttt

Read time: ~32 mins

Enjoy half an hour of pure se.xua.l pleasure with the god of mischief!! 😉😏🫠 MINORS: Don’t you dare peek!! 🤨

“Careful now!” She warned Loki in a low but stern voice. “The last time Banner went on an expedition like this, he accidentally smelled a flower and…”

“And what?” Loki would never admit but he was half scared of even hearing the consequences.

“Well, … let’s just say that Nat and he didn’t get out of the room for three days straight!” She concluded with a chuckle.

Loki’s brows almost touched his hairline at the realisation. A part of him - the wild spirited part - immediately conjured up a forbidden image of himself tangled in sheets with his current mission partner. An image that had often haunted him in the darkness of the nights when his heart was restless or when his body yearned for her. This mischievous side now secretly wished to find an aphrodisiac that would put them in a similar situation.

But the logical side of him was scared to death. He knew that it would not be wise to be trapped in such a situation, not with the woman who trusted him with her life, the woman who addressed him as her BFF - a sweet but woefully distasteful Midgardian vocable, as he liked to put it.

A joke about Romanoff and Banner danced on the tip of his tongue but he dared not utter it lest it should come back and bite him in his royal arse.

Both of them were wearing safety suits, masks, safety goggles and gloves. So, there was almost zero chance of any contact with any toxic organism or pollen. But with ‘Mischief’ being his middle name, who knew what he might land up in!

He decided to divert the topic. “Why are we doing this again?”

“For the same reason we humans have been exploring Mars,” his mission partner answered without looking at him. “And because it’s better than running around and knocking people out or killing them,” she added with a smile. “Sometimes I get so tired of it!”

“Well,” Loki replied with a shrug, “that is the real fun!”

“Hmm,” the woman was deeply engaged in investigating a pale-looking, small blue flower that bloomed in bunches on a small plant.

“Found something interesting?” Loki waddled through the tall grass and weeds to where his partner was.

“Yeah, look at these…” Her attention was still robbed by the flowers. “I think I have seen them somewhere. They look very familiar. But…”

“They look harmless,” Loki extended a hand to examine a flower. The bottom of the pedicle was covered in what looked like tiny hairs that stuck to his glove. He tried to pull the flower off of him with his other hand but they just stuck to the other glove. No matter how hard he jerked his hand, the flower just would not come off.

Giving up with a sigh, he started to remove a glove.

“Don’t!” His teammate warned him once again.

“I am a god! These frail Midgardian things do not affect me.”

Before she could protest, he had already pinched the pedicle. What followed was a hiss, accompanied by a small jump, and a set of bleeding thumb and forefinger. What had appeared to be harmless hair on the stem, turned out to be a wrap of fine thorns.

“Damn!” Loki threw the flower to the ground.

“Damn you, you idiot!” His partner cursed him. “One day you’re going to get yourself killed because of your overconfidence!”

The said god shot her a deathly glare but it went totally ignored as she was busy squeezing the blood out of his wound.

“Do you feel anything pricking inside?” She asked. Concern veiled her face and wrapped itself around her throat.

It was her softness, her caring nature that always knocked the wind out of him. And it did so again. Loki whispered a soft ‘No’ as his eyes fixated on her countenance and her actions.

“Are you sure? Don’t hide your discomfort behind your ego.” A panicked (Y/N) pulled her mask down, and raised his fingers to her lips to gently suck the blood from the cuts one by one.

A shudder trembled down Loki’s body. Thankfully, she was too busy worrying about him to notice his wide eyes, dilated pupils and flushed face.

With a sudden jerk, Loki pulled his hand away from her. “I’m fine,” he huffed.

“Well, there is nothing to be disgusted about. The saliva kills any germs that might be lingering on your cut.” Though she narrowed her eyes in mock anger she certainly sounded hurt.

“I never said it was disgusting!” He protested.

“But your action said so!”

“I pulled away because-” How could Loki explain that he had to pull his hand away because her actions were doing unspeakable things to him!

With a frown, she silently waited for an explanation.

“Because I did not want you to accidentally swallow any poison or anything,” he concluded in a tone that was much softer than where he had left.

This time, it was her turn to feel butterflies in her stomach. Pushing all rosy thoughts down because c’mon!, the charming god of mischief could never like her back, she pulled her mask up along with her professional demeanour.

“Let’s finish this before you get yourself into more trouble,” she mumbled, and continued down the trail that they had taken before the blue flowers so temptingly distracted them.

—-

Loki woke up in the middle of the night to find himself covered in sweat, with his heart beating thunderously. At first he feared that it might be the effects of the flower that had pierced its thorns in him not many hours ago. But as the fog of sleep gradually evaporated, the reason became embarrassingly clear to him.

It was not any fever or infection that woke him up. The indecent scene that had popped up in his mind during the expedition, regarding his teammate, had morphed itself into a vivid dream, and had engulfed all his senses.

They were in the midst of a meadow. And while he knew that they should have been busy examining flowers, they were far, far from it. Pale blue flowers surrounded them, as if witnessing and spurring them on. And them?

Well, Loki was lying on the moist grass, the soft sun caressing the pale, sweat-glistened skin of his naked back. His mouth was busy sucking the slender neck of his teammate who was writhing beneath him in a stark state of nature, while his hands pinned her arms down to the ground.

Her bare legs had wrapped themselves around his own as he kept on rubbing himself against her plush wet folds, trying to find his release and hers. Their moans echoed in the trees encircling the meadow. The sky watched as he flipped them over. The wind tickled their aroused skins as she sat atop him like a queen perched atop her throne, and looked into his eyes like a huntress staring down at her prey. Loki’s throat went dry when she brought his hands up to her breasts. And when she started moving her hips - oh, the way she moved, like a dancer with a murderous intent - the grunt that left the sorcerer’s throat told the entire world of his pleasures…

These kinds of dreams about her weren't new to him, true, but this one was so detailed and realistic that he still could not wrap his head around what he saw. He had no idea his mind had the capability of conjuring up such a thing.

After helping himself to some water and breathing deeply to calm his nerves, the sorcerer laid down to try and get some sleep. But glimpses from his recent virtual activity kept flashing before him until he could fall asleep again, and then taunted him a little more after that, too.

—-

The next morning, after the entire team had almost finished their breakfast, (Y/N) pulled Wanda to a corner.

Hesitation was etched on her face as she fidgeted with the edges of her phone and looked around nervously.

After a little nudge of encouragement from the redhead, she finally asked but with a shaky voice, "Have you…have you ever had…uhm…dirt- uhm… indecent dreams about your…your coworker?"

Wanda's eyes widened at the question and a slender hand flew to her mouth to cover the prominent O and the giggle that was about to follow.

"Why, who did you dream about?"

Before the other person could answer, another woman slid into the conversation.

"Loki," Natasha confidently threw her answer to the duo.

"Shhh! Shh!" A panicked (Y/N) tried to keep things down.

Wanda's eyes became wider, if that was even possible. "And how do you know?"

"She has been fumbling and stammering around him since this morning. At first I thought it was her usual crush thing but heightened. But then I heard this question, and everything just…clicked!" She snapped her fingers and winked.

“I don’t have a crush on him!” (Y/N) protested in a hushed voice.

“You do!”

Both her friends opposed simultaneously.

Defeated, she hid her face in her hands, and mumbled almost incoherently, “Am I that obvious?”

“Well,” Natasha began, “your state of heart is as clear as a dazzling day to everyone in the compound.”

(Y/N) groaned.

“But not to Loki,” the spy added.

This made the former peek through her fingers.

“Yeah,” Wanda chimed in, “he’s a bit thick in the matters of the heart.”

“So, you’re saying he doesn’t know yet?” (Y/N) sat up straight.

Seeing her spirits, Romanoff rolled her eyes while a little red glow sizzled on Wanda’s fingertips. “Well, I can change that,” she lifted her hand and swirled her fingers.

“Or maybe,” Natasha joined, “I can go up to him and tell him everything to his face.”

“No!”

“Then tell him yourself.”

“No!”

“Coward!”

“M not!”

“Whatever! Just tell us about this “indecent” dream you saw, and we'll try not to pester you,” Nat tried a bargain.

"And that's why I did not want to tell you!" (Y/N) whisper-shouted.

“All the details, please!” Wanda’s face broke into a wide grin.

—

It took her more than just words to shake her friends off. They were having more fun watching her drown in sheer embarrassment than they were interested in listening to her story. In the end, however, she succeeded in keeping her secret to herself.

Grinning to herself, she was walking back to her room when she almost collided with someone. She did not need to look up to see who the tall person was. His scent engulfed her. As soon as it hit her nostrils, the air around her seemed to change into a feverish smoke.

“Sorry!” A sheepish smile was all that she could afford.

“It is alright. I was not looking either,” the (in)famous SilverTongue stammered through his words.

One look at her brought back all the scenes from his latest dream in technicolour, and he had to cough the awkwardness down his throat. It was only after his discomfort subsided that he noticed the red cheeks and ears of the other person.

“Are you feeling unwell?” His eyebrows knit together.

“What?”

“You look…flushed!...Do you have a fever?” Loki placed the back of his hand to her forehead.

Only the heavens knew the strength it took her to suppress the moan that threatened to escape her! Closing her eyes, she bit her lips to forbid any sound from escaping her.

Little did she know that this struggle of hers was making things difficult for the person in front of her. Loki removed his hand quicker than he had planned.

“You should… you should get yourself checked,” he advised. “Who knows what bug you might have caught yesterday.”

“I’m fine, really,” she cleared her throat. “Just… could not sleep well. I think I shall take a nap. Should be feeling fine by evening!”

Loki hummed in agreement.

“Are you well?” She asked after some hesitation.

“Yes! Why do you ask?”

“Well, you look… how do I put it? It’s as if some thought has been consuming you. You’re not your usual confident, mischievous self today. You okay?”

The trickster was surprised at how well she could read him. Almost choking with joy, he nodded, “I am fine. There is something going on in my head, yes. But it is nothing to worry about.”

“Good. Well then, I shall go get some rest.”

With a smile, they went their separate ways, each grinning like an idiot and praying that the other person does not know about it.

—-

Y/N was sitting by the window, reading a book when the knock on her door startled her. Keeping the book on the nearest table, she almost jogged towards the door to open it. On the other side stood her favourite teammate - the raven-haired god from outer space.

“Wanda told me everything,” he declared in a deep baritone. “Romanoff told me about the dreams you are having. Tell me,” he took two steps inside, making a stunned Y/N walk backwards, “do you dream about me often? Hmm? This innocent face of yours… these naive-looking eyes of yours… Oh! And all the dirty thoughts they carry! Tell me, pet, do you often fantasise filthy things about me?”

He had already won the game when he started speaking in that rich voice. And when he called her “pet”, she could not help but clench her muscles and rub her thighs together.

Loki did not fail to notice that. When she did not respond but simply stared at him open-mouthed, he slowly nudged her chin to close her mouth, only to tantalisingly swipe his thumb across her bottom lip.

“Do you?” This time, his question was breathed upon her mouth.

“No!” She managed to croak.

Loki narrowed his eyes towards her, as though disbelieving her. It worked, for the truth spurted out of her in the form of a whimper.

“Yes.”

“Yes?* He asked again like a big cat playing its last game with its prey.

“Yes!” She breathed.

“Oh my poor little darling!” Loki purred. “You should have told me sooner. I would have loved to end your misery!”

With these words, he bent down to suck the side of her neck and mark her. When he released the bruised skin, his lips followed the trail of her jawline until they reached her chin. Taking it gently between his teeth for a while, he licked a long stripe from the hollow of her neck up to her panting lips.

“Do you touch yourself when you think of me?” His hot breath on her earlobes seemed to take the life out of her.

She did not want to reveal her secrets before him and yet her hazy mind kept betraying her.

“Yes!” She confessed.

“Mmh! Had thought so!” He growled. “Show me!”

“I-I… no… No, I can't!” Her face went beet red.

“Well then… I shall find out for myself. Do you touch yourself here?”

His long fingers found their way beneath the hem of her shorts to her inner thighs. There, they brushed the skin very lightly, stoking the fire within her core.

“Or is it here?” His fingers trailed upwards.

“Here?” His slender, sinful fingers skimmed the surface of her bare mound while carefully avoiding the very spot that had her squirming.

“Loki!!” Her whimper was met with a triumphant smirk.

“What? I am only trying to find out where you touch yourself. Am I not on the right path?”

“Please!!” Damn! She was begging, against all the protests of her now-moderately sane mind.

“‘Please’ what, pet?” His lips were brushing the shell of her ear. “Tell me what you want from me. I am a benevolent god. I shall not deny you of your pleas. Not when you squirm and beg like that!”

Her tongue tried to hold itself but her body was on fire. It was only by giving in that she could find release from this torment.

She screwed her eyes shut. “Please touch me, Loki!”

“Well, I am touching you.” Loki continued his sweet, smooth torture. “Is there anywhere specific that you want me to touch, darling?”

Damn this god of being an asshole!!!

This time she looked up in his eyes, and spoke with a lewd confidence, “Touch my cunt, Loki. Make me cum.”

The growl that escaped him was enough to take her to the peak. As nimble fingers entered her, the god’s eye became hooded and his mouth parted, releasing a sigh that landed on her mouth, only to be chased by his hungry lips on them.

They buried their moans in the other's mouth. When Loki pushed her against the nearest wall, she tried to pull him closer. But Loki freed himself out of her hold. Worried, she opened her eyes to find the god slowly kneeling before her. Staring deep into her eyes, he pulled her shorts down with him. And when his knees landed on the floor, so did her shorts.

Sitting face-to-face with her dripping folds, he gently stroked his fingers along the length of her left thigh, all the way down to her calf. Slowly, he picked the leg up, and put it on his shoulder. Licking his lips in the most sultry way she could have imagined, he buried his face between her legs.

The delightful scream that forced itself out her throat was probably heard by all inmates of the compound. But that did not stop Loki from exploring every corner of his delicious treasure.

A loud knock on her door made her spring out of the moment.

“Maybe they did hear my scream,” she thought “Shit! But wait…what…the fuck?”

Loki was nowhere around. She was lying on the bed, her side-pillow tucked in tight between her legs.

So, was that all…another dream?

The knock on the door had now transformed into banging.

“Are you alright in there?” It was Steve’s voice. “Why did you scream?”

So, I had actually screamed while dreaming?? Shit! Fucking shit!!

“(Y/N), I’m going to come inside.” Steve was absolutely worried!

No no no!! He cannot see me in this mess! I shan’t be able to face anyone again!

“I’m fine, Steve!” She shouted back. “I…uh…I thought I saw a spider, and I screamed. It was only a small bug.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Absolutely fine! Just got a silly little scare.” She forced a laugh.

“Fine then. I’m gonna…go” Steve sighed in relief although his words sounded hesitant.

“Yup! See you later!”

When she was sure she heard the captain walk away, she let out a long breath.

“Fuck! What the hell is happening? Why do I-”

Realisation hit her like a brick. It had all begun after their return from the plant-hunt.

“Those blue flowers…d-did they really affect me? … Did they affect Loki? He was the one who was actually pricked!” The scenes from that fateful day kept unfolding in her mind. “Damn! Is that why he has been behaving awkwardly? ... But wait, if this flower is indeed an aphrodisiac, why am I having troubles only around Loki? Is it because I like him or…is it because we were both affected by the same flower? Fuck! I must find out.”

—-

At dinner, (Y/N) observed Loki closely. Well, she had always “observed” him rather closely but this time it was more like analysing a target. She realised that he was fine with the rest of the team - even with the other women - but when around her, he fidgeted a lot. Even his glances towards her were hesitant. And yes! He did avoid physical contact - even the slightest possible brush of their little fingers.

There was definitely something going on.

“Sam,” her sudden approach startled the soldier who was busy looking for dessert in the fridge. “Hold my hand.”

“What?”

“Hold my hand!”

“But why?” He looked at her as if she had grown two heads.

“Just … I need to test a theory.”

A smirk surfaced on his mouth. “I knew you’d warm up to me one day.”

But the glare that he received for an answer made him quickly take his words back. “Just kidding! You know that well, don’t you!”

Sam curled his fingers gently around her extended arm.

“What now?” He asked curiously.

Eyebrows knit together, her eyes darted across the tiled floor, trying hard to gauge her body’s reaction. Nothing; she felt nothing.

Pursing her lips, she hummed. “Well, thank you, Sam!” With a pat on his upper arm, she walked off, leaving the man a handful of questions in his mind.

So, her theory was correct: it was only Loki who was affecting her. And apparently, it was only her affecting the god. She had been training with others; she felt nothing. Loki had been training with everyone else with ease. But when they were paired together, the air that they breathed seemed to turn into an erotic enchantment. The discomfort was evident on both their faces. So much that neither could focus during the session, thus resulting in a quick end to their sparring.

Once everyone had started retiring for the day, she decided to put her plan into action. She had wanted to stay behind or follow Loki down whichever corridor or floor he took; whatever it took to find him alone and confront him.

It had almost worked. Almost. But with Steve in the middle of a serious conversation with her, all she could do was watch out of the corner of her eye as the trickster walked out of the sitting area. Now, had it been anybody else, she could have excused herself without a second thought; she would have amended for it later. But this man - the captain - held an entirely different zone of respect in her heart. Never in her life could she interrupt him.

Luckily for her, the conversation ended soon enough - just in time for her to jog down the corridor where Loki resided but only to catch a glimpse of him as he disappeared into his room.

Damn!

But she had enough! She must know!

Cursing under her breath, she marched determinedly up to his doorstep.

But that was it.

That was where her confidence melted into a puddle. This was not any man that she had to talk to. This wasn’t Bruce or Tony with whom she could discuss the most embarrassing subject and yet turn everything into logic and science. No! This was the biggest crush of her life, staggering on the verge of becoming - perhaps - the love of her life! And she was going to ask him if he has been having filthy dreams about her just as she has been having about him! Could it be any more complicated!!

Fiddling with her fingers, she stood for a while in front of the closed door, replaying the plan over and over again in her head.

Okay. This is it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask him, and I’m going to solve this mystery once and for-

The door swung open before she could even tap on it! Loki stood at the other end with his brows scrunched up.

Her first instinct was to run. But she stood her ground. Afterall, she had some self-respect, right?

“You have been standing there for quite some time now,” Loki stated but it sounded more like a question.

“Well, I… I was…just passing by.” That weird, sheepish smile appeared on her face again.

Loki sighed. “First, they call me the God of Lies for a reason. And second, your feet are eclipsing the light from the corridor thus making them clearly visible under the door.”

Hanging her head low, she let out a long sigh. “You got me!”

If only she had seen the smile that broke out on Loki’s divine countenance. Or maybe it was good that she had not, for it might have increased her desires even more. They had already started weaving themselves in every cell of her body as soon as her eyes had landed on the god.

“Now, will you tell me what is going on or should I read your mind?” Loki urged.

She was surprised by his confidence! He sounded nothing like the person who had returned with her from the expedition.

Has the affects of the flower worn off of him?

“Loki, I need your help!” She tried to hold his hand in desperation, only to find her own pass through thin air with a green glimmer.

Her plan was to check Loki’s pulse in the guise of holding his hand for help. Had his heart rate been abnormally high, she would have asserted her doubts, and would have straightforwardly asked him if he had been having weird dreams.

What she never expected was to be met with an illusion. The Loki at the door now frowned in worry as she looked up at him in confusion.

Why would Loki create an illusion for talking to me? Why- Wait…

As she walked right through the facade, she saw it all evaporating, eventually revealing the real Loki who was standing near his writing desk. Distress was clearly written on his face. He looked so helpless that all plans and plots vanished from her mind. Her answer was right in front of her. She did not need to play games now.

“You should not be here.” There was an earnest plea in his eyes. “Please, leave!”

The sight of Loki leaning against his writing desk - fingers clenched on the wood so hard that it looked like the desk was going to split in two, face partially covered by hair that was dishevelled from running his hands through it, partially unbuttoned shirt, half-opened mouth and glazed eyes - made her visibly shudder from the electricity coursing through her veins. But that did not keep his desperate words - words which were more like a warning - from reaching her senses. It turned her on and yet worried her.

“Loki, you do not look good. You-you look like you’re in…pain!”

“I told you…” the god’s voice was more strained than before, “you…should not…be here!”

She took two careful steps forward. To avoid anybody else from accidentally walking in, she had softly closed the door behind her. They needed to sort this out between themselves first.

“Loki,” she called soothingly, “if this is about the flower, … you can tell me. … If it helps to know, I…I was…I am…affected by it, too!

The Asgardian’s eyes widened. He swiftly advanced towards her - well, almost did - but quickly retreated back to his safe circle.

“So, you must be-”

“In pain?” She did not let Loki finish his sentence. “Yes! Very much!”

“And,” he continued, “have you done anything to…get rid of it? Or-or soothe it?”

She shook her head slightly. “No.”

A nod, slight for most people to notice, accompanied a whisper of a breath released by Loki.

“And … you are dreaming of…?”

For a short while his question floated between them, searching for an answer. She looked deep into his eyes. Pleadingly. Hoping that he would understand what her tongue was too ashamed to confess.

He probably did. He looked like he did. But he needed assurance, for it seemed too far-fetched for even him to believe that his fantasies could come true in such a miraculous way! He could not be so lucky, could he?

When Loki did not say anything, she decided to say it aloud, all shame be stripped aside.

“You!” She declared. “It is you that I dream of, Loki!”

It took him all his godly strength to hold himself back. But he knew that his resistance was thinning out. The enhanced effects of the flower, her presence in the closed space, and now her confession - everything was making things all the more difficult for him.

“I’m burning for you, Loki!”

And indeed she was! All the things that were triggering the powerful god were affecting this human as well.

Loki inhaled deeply, only to be engulfed in her scent even more.

“I am sorry!” Her lips trembled. Her eyes betrayed her resilience with the first wave of tears. “I know this is all very embarrassing for you. I … I swear, Loki, I never wanted it to be this way! I-”

“I never wanted it to be this way either,” Loki’s words crushed her. Of course, he would never want anything to do with her, not even what could have been a shadow of a romance!

“I had wanted this to be very special,” he continued. “I had wanted to do it right. To court you first, to woo you, to steal a kiss or two from you, and then … and then make you mine.”

His voice was strained, just like before. But his eyes were feral now.

Damn, they scorched her! Loki’s words were killing her!! But her lust-driven-yet-dejected mind could not wrap itself around them. None of it made sense. Why would Loki want to court her, kiss her … “make her his” … ? Unless …

Oh!

The realisation left her shocked and elated at the same time. But she needed enough proof to believe it.

“Are you- What are you saying? Why would you- Loki, I think this is not you but the effect of the flower speaking.”

The god laughed. “‘Effect of the flower’? Darling, I have been having all kinds of thoughts about you for years now! Thoughts that would warm your chest with love. Thoughts that would make you blush crimson! … That wretched flower has only heightened it all And made it unbearable!!”

It was all too much to take in. Her state of disarray - limp shoulders, wide eyes and a half-open mouth - told Loki that she had not yet grasped the entirety of the situation.

“Oh darling,” he spoke with hope in his eyes and joy on his lips, “you do not yet know what the flower was, do you?”

She shook her head in a daze.

“It is called ‘Midnight’s Bane’. Or ‘Boon’, as some like to call it. I found out about it in one of our old books from Asgard.” He took a few slow, deliberate steps towards her as he spoke. “It has some … medicinal uses. But it is famous as a catalyst for … midnight’s activities, if you know what I mean.” The smirk that he wore would have made even an unaffected person’s knees go weak. “It does not make two people fall in love, no! The flower simply increases what one already feels for someone. … And if you are dreaming about me, if you want me just the way I want you, then it can mean only one thing.” Loki placed a gentle hand on her cheek. Her eyes fluttered in response. “That you love me … just the way I love you.”

She did not need further convincing. In one swift motion her lips were on his. Her arms had wound themselves around his neck, pulling him as close as possible.

The dam finally broke.

Loki held her face with both hands, greedily devouring every moan and whimper. In the miniscule break that they took to breathe again, they drank in the sight before them, further intoxicating themselves. (Y/N)’s finger’s began making quick work of the remaining closed buttons on Loki’s shirt. But he was impatient. Removing her hold on them, he pulled the cloth over his head.

If it was humanly possible to be more aroused, (Y/N) certainly had hit the next level. Placing a quick but deep kiss on her open mouth, Loki tugged at the hem of her blouse. The lifting of her arms over her head was permission enough for Loki to pull it up and discard it on the floor.

How and when the rest of the clothes got scattered around the room remained a haze. All they remembered later was that it was somewhere between heated kisses and lots of shameless touching.

Loki picked her up by the hips, and sat her on the writing desk. She probably landed on an old open hardbound. Neither cared.

While his mouth worked on her neck and shoulders, eliciting hisses and moans from her, his large hands travelled down her body, taking note of every curve and plateau, until he reached her thighs. There, they rested for a brief moment, kneading the satiny skin beneath his palms, before venturing towards the soft flesh on the inner side. Very slowly, he parted her legs open, and stepped inside. Her immediate reaction was to wrap them around his slender waist. With her bare heels pressing on his bare butts, she nudged him forward until his arousal was pressed against hers.

Both of them groaned loudly. With hooded eyes they looked at each other, trying to seek the obvious consent that had been there right from the beginning. When her hand wrapped around his length to line him up with herself, he almost swooned.

“This is going to hurt,” he warned her.

“I know, and I don’t care. Just take me, Loki! Please! Make me yours.”

He could have come right then simply from her words. With one hand on her back, and the other holding himself, he entered her slowly, passing carefully through the tight wetness.

Loki was aroused like never before, ready to devour the woman sitting brazenly naked in front of him - the love of his life - and yet, a part of him could never forget to take care of her, to worry about her.

When he had buried himself fully within her, they both rested their heads on the other’s shoulder for a brief moment. It was an outworldly feeling - it seemed like the perfect end to all those years of pining, like the perfect beginning to their story of being together. It felt like the perfect cure to all the burning desire that they had been enduring for the past few days. Most importantly, it felt right. It had never and would have never felt so perfect with anybody else.

(Y/N) patted his backside lightly. As if afraid that he’d hurt her, Loki started moving slowly, carefully. The pace was sensual, romantic but excruciating as well! The drug running in their veins demanded more. Their bodies demanded more.

“Loki, please!”

She did not know what she was asking for but he understood. Steadily but quickly, he accelerated, earning himself sultry moans and breathy chants of his name as rewards. She felt like her body would have given away had Loki’s strong arms not been holding her.

“Oh (Y/N)!”

Hymns of each other’s names and repeated confessions of love brought them closer to release. When his movements started getting sloppy, he reached between them and placed his thumb on her bundle of nerves. When she cried out and her back arched,he whispered with hot breaths in her ear, “Come with me, love. Please.”

It might have been his ministrations down south on her body or it may have been the way he rasped the word “please”. Some magic worked, and she came crashing down on him, flooding him, drowning him in her ecstasy. That was the final tug on the restraint that Loki had put on himself. He came inside her with a loud moan of her name, surrendering himself to his lust completely.

Thanks to the desk, Loki found some support for his limp body. As they rested on one another and kissed each other feebly, having experienced the most epic orgasms of their lives yet, she eventually came to realise what she had been sitting on. She tried to look but with Loki still buried inside her, it was impossible.

“I think I’m sitting on a book,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Oh?”

The moment he pulled out of her, she whined at the sudden emptiness inside.

Loki laughed. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that I am done with you, love! Give me a few minutes, and I shall fill you up again.”

The filthy look in his eyes, the promise in his voice, and his tender dominance made her walls flutter that very instant. Loki grabbed her butts and lifted her off the desk, while she wrapped her limbs securely around him.

As he carried her to the bed, his eyes landed on the tattered and soaked pages of the book that she had been sitting on. Pausing in his tracks, he tilted his head and smirked.

“What is it?” She asked curiously.

Following his eyes, she found the poor book - an open testament to their raunchy activities - and clicked her tongue.

“Can you fix it?” She looked back at him.

Stealing one look at her, as though accepting her simple challenge, he held her securely with one arm, and extended the other towards the book, reverting its fate with a subtle move of his open fingers. Once the pages were crisp and readable again, (Y/N) understood the cause of his amusement.

Staring back at them from the pages was a hand-drawn picture of the same flower that caused all these “fateful” events. Her eyes swept through the descriptions about the flower.

“Pale Blue Midnight’s Bane”, the title read. In smaller words, it added, “ Also known as Midnight’s Boon”.

Loki chuckled. “We gave the flower what it wanted. Literally.”

It made her laugh. “Well, at least it put an end to years of misery! We should be thanking it.”

“In a way that it likes?” Mischief was sparkling in Loki’s green eyes.

“Exactly my thoughts!” She resonated.

Loki was not gentle this time as he threw her on the bed and hungrily watched her curves jiggle. She was surprised to find that she rather enjoyed being manhandled by the trickster. He hovered over her like a hunter over his prey, and started his assault on her chest.

“Loki?”

“Mmh?” His mouth was full and his tongue busy.

“Shouldn’t we inform Banner about our discovery?”

“Later,” he exhaled right before shutting her up for the moment with a long and deep kiss that made both their heads spin.

***

Taglist!

@huntress-artemis @evelyn-kingsley @dryyoursaltyoceantears @modestlyabsurd @anukulee @eleniblue @foxherder @thesevendeadlycringes @mysterydiz @lloydmustache

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nekropsii · 1 year ago

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ALPHA TROLLS RANKED BY HOW WRONG THE FANDOM AT LARGE IS ABOUT THEM:

This is a personal challenge, based entirely on my own experience and perspective, and also ranked from Most to Least Correct. I was bored, and thought this might be fun.

Putting this under a cut, because it's long as hell.

MEULIN LEIJON

People get her mostly correct, from what I’ve seen… Most of the time, fan content of Meulin is absolutely recognizable as Meulin, but her pride in her deafness + joy of learning new ways to interact with the world through/due to her disability is always removed, and I do not often see people tackle the Toxic Positivity aspect of her character. That seems less like character assassination, though, and more like a combination of people not actually playing through the Openbounds, people not being able to fathom disabled people (especially those who gained a disability later in life rather than being born disabled) being happy, and general fandom distaste for the idea of touching anything uncomfortable, especially when that uncomfortable topic is highly mundane, normalized, and potentially applicable to them or their loved ones. Meulin’s toxic positivity was, of course, commentary on Tumblr’s ecosystem at the time, so… It was much harder to touch back then.

ARANEA SERKET

People tend to get her general, broad strokes personality right, but unfortunately she gets treated pretty roughly for the crime of Being A Serket. People refuse to understand her motivations, and she often gets demonized for what she was doing around/during [S] Game Over, even though that was something she’d gotten pushed to and also was cool as fuck to watch. God forbid a woman do anything.

DAMARA MEGIDO

People are right about the racism, 100%. It is completely despicable, hard to look at, and extremely blatant. She does, however, have character outside of that. No, it isn’t “whore”, it’s more like “angry, dysfunctional abuse victim”, and she’s genuinely a very interesting and tragic character. But, again, people are right about the racism, so she gets to be placed way up here.

MEENAH PEIXES

She is such a chaotic little bastard. I love her. I really do. Please understand that she genuinely does not understand the concept of consequences. This girl didn’t have a Lusus, she didn’t have parents, it was functionally illegal to tell her “No, you can’t do that.” That would fuck up literally anyone’s moral compass. That’s not me hand waving away all the fucked up and bad shit she’s done, we all know what she did, but people tend to forget this aspect of her character and it pains me deeply, because it is a very genuinely interesting concept that I want to see more of. She’s capable of regret, we’ve seen her feel it, I just don’t think foresight is her forte. No one raised her to consider consequences, or help her experience them in a healthy way, because nobody raised her period.

Also, her ass is not butch, she is the girliest girl in the entire comic. She is about hot pink and glitter and kiss marks and unicorns and cute little puns and you will respect that. She is not masculine. Her ass is not masculine nor is she butch. Let her be her hyper-feminine self.

LATULA PYROPE

Please for the love of god there is more to her character than “Gamer Girl” and “Mituna’s Girlfriend”. You are falling for her fucking ruse. Please. Please. Please recognize that her entire character is about internalized misogyny, and being forced to overcompensate for misogyny in gaming circles as a gamer who happens to be a woman. Please. I’m begging.

KURLOZ MAKARA

His character is not that deep, it’s mostly just a string of events he is mysteriously, inexplicably involved with. The Makaras are extremely Function Over Form- their characters practically do not exist, they're mostly just plot devices that exist to push the story along. I'm sorry to Makara fans. You just invented a guy in your mind and decided he was real. He is also not that soft, though, and his relationships with both Meulin AND Mituna are not healthy. Hard to stop people from ascribing cutesy squishy lovey dynamics to random men who happened to have looked at each other once, though. Some people truly haven't graduated from 2012.

HORUSS ZAHHAK

I am begging people to consider that maybe the biggest issue here is not that he is “Bad Otherkin/Therian Representation” and is in fact maybe the fact that Hussie was actually making fun of Systems when he was writing Horuss. Because Horuss is canonically a system. He uses the word system. He uses the word switching. He uses the word host. He literally talks about his Plurality at length in extremely upfront, plain terms. I don’t know how him being “Bad Otherkin Representation” was and still is the main discourse about him. It makes me insane. That is a commentary that truly writes itself. Talk about having your priorities out of wack, honestly...

PORRIM MARYAM

No, she is not a MRA, she’s just a regular feminist who happens to live on a different planet with different politics and social hierarchies from Our Real World Earth’s USA. Whatever argument you’re about to pull out of your ass to say that she sucks is bad. She already explained what she meant by that, in more detail, very clearly, and she was right. Half the time she’s literally just giving you factual information about what Beforus was like, and literal plot synopses. She isn’t saying anything insane. She’s literally normal. I don’t know why people cannot handle or process this. Porrim has not ever said anything controversial. If you disagree with this you’re either misconstruing her on purpose or you fell for Kankri’s bait, and that’s just fucking sad at that point.

Also, she’s more than a sex object, and her tits are not huge. Honestly, half the shit she was saying was just “I am more than my sex life”, and so many people took that and made her main character trait her sex life. Just pathetic.

RUFIOH NITRAM

This man is a fucking war criminal and I will stop at nothing until he is behind bars for his crimes against Damara. Raging misogynist. Total fucking cunt. Just the worst. If I talk any more about this, this part will be 1,000 paragraphs long. But also, I’m begging people to recognize his relationship with disability, too. He was similar to Meulin in the sense that he didn’t mind his disability, and his biggest gripe with it was the way that Horuss tried to “fix” it… Which is an interesting way to expand upon how Beforus’s culling system is not only very explicitly ableist, but mimicking real world systemic ableism. I also want people to recognize that Hussie is actively having a conversation about the reclamation of slurs with Rufioh’s character, and how not letting people reclaim such language is doing nothing but giving the word power against them while stripping away their own personal agency. Rufioh’s a complicated guy, and he’s interesting and also the worst, and I am really tired of how he gets watered down to nothing but “Pretty Boy Victim Of His Inexplicably Psycho Ex”.

MITUNA CAPTOR

Holy Fucking Shit, You Guys Are Ableist.

KANKRI VANTAS

To this day I see people saying he was just Hussie making fun of SJWs. To this day. To this day people think Hussie was trying to make Every Tumblr Leftist look bad, and that he hates them Because They Are Leftists. When will people recognize him as a bootlicker to the oppressive class and the violently bigoted. When will people recognize that. When will people recognize that this is more of a commentary on the legitimate real flaws of Tumblr’s politics at the time. When. When.

When will people stop portraying him as a lovey-dovey Catholic Whore. I’m going to stab my fucking eyes out and then kill everyone in this building. Me when it's based and cool to ship an aroace character with a sexual predator. I GUESS.

CRONUS AMPORA

I say this with every ounce of sincerity I can possibly muster as a person: What the literal actual fuck.

#homestuck #homestuck fandom #alpha trolls #beforan trolls #dancestors #damara megido #rufioh nitram #mituna captor #kankri vantas #meulin leijon #porrim maryam #latula pyrope #aranea serket #horuss zahhak #kurloz makara #cronus ampora #meenah peixes #nekro.pdf #nekro.txt

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coco-loco-nut · 4 months ago

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007 - part two

pairing: oscar x reader

summary: maybe a soulmate isn’t the worst thing to happen to you

masterlist part one part three requests open

——————

Oscar sent you a text that night. He was a little disappointed when it took you a couple days to reply, but that was quickly made up when you sent a time and location. The mystery around you is thrilling to him.

You wait in the corner of a cafe for Oscar, sipping a flat white. Your eyes immediately find him when he walks in, locked in on him. He quickly orders and makes his way to you. Oscar barely gets in a hello before you get down to business.

“I need you to know something before anything happens. I live a very dangerous life and I don’t plan on stepping away any time soon,” you leave certain things unsaid, like the very real chances of you dying. “It’s hard for the soulmates of those in my line of work. Suddenly the danger meter means more to them, and it can disrupt their lives,” you lean forward a little, subtly emphasizing how important it is.

“I’m a Formula One driver, I am familiar with the risk of dying. I know the risks associated with being your soulmate,” Oscar says and you bite back a remark about his job still being safer than yours. You need to try and be less standoffish.

“Right. Well, I can’t say that I know how to proceed with this. I’m a bit new to the whole thing,” you are a little embarrassed.

“I am too. We can handle it together,” Oscar smiles. He wants to reach across the table to hold your hand, but he doesn’t want to push it so he sips his coffee. “Tell me more about you, all I know is that you do a really dangerous job,” Oscar prompts you.

“Bold statement coming from someone who also has a really dangerous job. I really enjoy traveling, dislike paperwork. When I’m not working, I like reading or taking small trips. Um, I have a cat who is the light of my life,” you pause as Oscar lets out a laugh. “Tell me more about you, more than what your background check tells me,” Oscar sees the playful glimmer in your eye.

“Well, I’ve been getting into cricket and basketball. When I was a kid, I went through this phase where I thought I was a car,” Oscar admits.

“I would always sneak around as a kid, acting like a spy. I guess both of our childhood fantasies worked out,” you hide your bittersweet feelings. Oscar notices but doesn’t push it.

“So I guess you would be the Holly Shiftwell to my Lightning McQueen,” Oscar tries to bring up your mood but you give him confused look.

“But they were never romantic partners?” you say, a little confused with how happy Oscar looks. He’s just happy you have seen the movies and seem to like them enough.

“Semantics. What are you doing now that you aren’t chasing down criminals in the paddock?”

“You mean your soulmate? I’m being forced to take a break from missions right now. Apparently I’ve been hogging all the action and need to help in HQ for a few months,” your distaste for the orders is clear on your face.

“You can join me at a race. If you want to,”

“Really? I don’t want to be a distraction and I don’t know anything about Formula One,” you hesitate, not wanting to impose.

“I want you there. Who better to teach you the sport than me?” Oscar reassures you.

“Well, I guess I will have to take you up on it,” you take the little leap of faith. It’s not something you would normally do. But your soulmate is worth it… right?

You and Oscar agree to a race that is around a month later, giving you time to get to know each other and for him to teach you different aspects of the sport. The month still doesn’t seem to be enough as you arrive at your first race as his soulmate.

“Hey,” Oscar pulls you into a hug as you stand at his hotel room door. He presses a kiss to your forehead before taking your bag as you walk in.

“How was media?” you ask, making yourself comfortable on the bed beside him. It’s clear that he hastily straightened up the room when he got back from free practice.

“Boring, I was counting down the minutes until you got here,” he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you hum in response. You relax into his warmth, taking in the familiar scent that you’ve found comfort in.

“I couldn’t wait to get out of the office too,” you admit a few moments later. You left a little early to catch a flight here for the weekend.

“Still stuck on paperwork? I must admit, it’s nice not having your danger meter spike,” Oscar murmurs, a little sleepy.

“What’s on your mind?” Oscar observes your distant look when you don’t immediately reply, having learned how to read you more.

“What would you say if I left my job?” you say quietly, almost a whisper. Oscar sits up, needing to properly look at you.

“I’d be a little confused because you love it, but ultimately it’s your choice,” Oscar says, silently asking you to elaborate.

“Well, as soon as someone finds out who I am my cover is blown, putting both of us at risk. It’s a lonely life, and when it was only Boots and me that was okay, but I don’t want to be alone anymore,” you admit, not expecting to feel emotional about it.

“I’ll support you either way, but I don’t want you to quit just for me. What would you do if you left?” he asks, feeling a little guilty.

“The longer I stay in action, the more dangerous my missions will be. Most of mine before didn’t interact with targets, but things will get more dangerous from here. It’s what I’ve worked for my whole life. As for what I would do if I left…” you pause for a second, letting Oscar absorb everything. “Well, your security is seriously lacking, and as your soulmate I think I should do something about that. I was also offered a higher up position that would take me out of action for good,”

“Having my own personal security guard who is also my soulmate? That could be dangerous,” somehow you don’t think Oscar means the kind of danger that would raise your meters.

“Oscar!” Your cheeks flush as you bite back a laugh, acting scandalized. “Alright, I’m going to shower before bed,” you slide out of his arms, looking back at him, knowing what he is about to suggest. “No, you can’t join,” you laugh as he pouts. You two aren’t there yet, but he is proud at how comfortable you are around him.

Oscar leaves early in the morning for free practice, promising to meet you at the gates when you arrive for qualifying. You happily take the extra time to sleep.

Qualifying is your test run. You get a feel for the team and race environment while keeping a low profile. Arriving for the race is a different thing.

“Ready?” Oscar asks as he parks at the circuit. He looks so cozy in his hoodie, and to be fair, you woke him up half an hour before having to leave.

“Yeah, let’s go,” you nervously smile. You are never nervous, but this is different. You are dressed fashionably, but nothing that makes you stand out too much. Your dark sunglasses help hide some of your features as you walk in on Oscars arm. You both look happy as you walk in, and the media notices.

“Oscar!” Logan calls him over, you recognize the American from your initial background check.

“Hey. This is my soulmate, Y/n. Y/n, this is my best friend, Logan,” Oscar introduces both of you.

“Hi, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you hug Logan, taking him by surprise.

“Aww, you talk about me?” Logan coos at Oscar.

“You came up in her background check on me,” Oscar says causing Logan to let go of your hug.

“Weird, but I like it. We are going to be great friends, Leiter and Bond,” Logan rolls with it. He remembers the first time Oscar mentioned you and that’s enough for him.

“You are a sexier James Bond, license to kill and all,” Oscar chimes in, trying to flirt and joke at the same time.

“Oh baby, no. That is nothing like what we do,” you accidentally slip up, and Logan’s eyes widen.

“I thought you were joking. I will keep this to myself though. That’s so cool. Can we watch those movies together?” Logan quickly says, not wanting you to worry. Your initial coolness that Oscar described to him over the past month makes more sense to him now.

“We should get going, I don’t want Zak and Andrea to get mad,” Oscar says, leading both of you away.

“This is the McLaren motorhome, you are welcome to sit in the drivers lounge or in my room while I am in the meeting. Afterwards, I can introduce you to Charles and his girlfriend,” Oscar offers as you look around.

“They should have better security here,” you tut, looking at all the different ways you could easily get in.

“Don’t worry, other teams aren’t coming in and stealing our secrets,” Oscar kisses the side of your head as he leads you upstairs to his drivers room.

“I could always do some recon,” you slyly smile, anything to help him win.

“That’s okay, I don’t need that to win. I have you motivating me,” he smiles, one which falters as a man with brown curly hair comes barreling towards you.

“OSCAR! Is this her? Hi, I’m Lando,” the man, Lando, says, extending his hand.

“Y/n,” you coolly reply, defenses going up as he pulls you into a hug once you take his hand. Oscar can tell you are uncomfortable, Lando springing himself on you.

“Let me help her get settled and I will be down,” Oscar says, cueing Lando to go to the meeting without him. “You are going to look Lando up, aren’t you?” he asks with an amused smile once you are in the safety of his room.

“Yeah, get ready for all his dirty laundry to be aired,” you lightly laugh.

“I look forward to it. I need more blackmail on him. I’ll see you soon, this meeting won’t take long,” Oscar promises, leaving you alone. You spend the half hour he is away looking up his teammate and some other drivers.

“Did I do something wrong?” Lando asks Oscar on their way back to the drivers rooms.

“No, she just wasn’t expecting you. Y/n is pretty guarded around new people, it stems from her job. She will warm up to you,” Oscar replies, not wanting his teammate and soulmate to hate each other.

“Does she work for the government or something?” Lando jokes, a little too accurate.

“Or something, don’t worry about it,” Oscar says, excited to see you again. You wait at the door for Oscar.

“For a professional driver, you have a lot of traffic violations,” you tell Lando, who notices the amused glimmer in your eye and relaxes. Whatever you did during the meeting seems to have worked.

“I have the need for speed,” Lando smiles, happy that you’ve warmed up a little. “Wait, how did you-“

“Don’t worry about it, we will see you later,” Oscar cuts him off, taking you to Ferrari.

“So, Charles is your fake adoptive dad? He has a fairly clean record, I couldn’t find much on him,” you comb over what you learned in your mind.

“Oh, Max is going to love you. You both have cats and you could prep him for whoever he is meeting with,” Oscar laughs, glad that you are taking the time to know his coworkers even if it isn’t the traditional route.

“Max Verstappen? I don’t usually do hits, but I will take out his father for free if he wants,” the way you say it so casually causes Oscar to almost choke.

“I will let him know,” he says, a little unsure how one replies to that.

You are quick to befriend Charles and Alexandra, the latter offers for you to join her while watching the race. You politely decline, but promise to join another race. Oscar takes you around to some other drivers, including Max, before introducing you to more people at McLaren.

You settle into the garage as the race starts, nervous as you watch Oscar on a small screen. You are aware of cameras that are pointed at you, but you ignore them. They don’t know you, all they can do is speculate.

The race is going smoothly until lap 37. Oscar is fighting for position when you fell the sickening twinge of the meter on your arm increasing. Your eyes are glued to the screen as you listen to the team radio, feeling a pit in your stomach.

Carlos and Oscar made contact which at minimum punctured Oscar’s tires. You hear his frustration, but you are just glad that’s all it was.

“Check the front wing too,” you hear him say after confirming he’s okay. He makes it back to the garage safely due to the incident being close to pit lane, but they retire his car due to other damage. Oscar seems too calm to you as he exits the car. Even you would show more emotion in that scenario.

Oscar’s eyes meet yours and before you know it, you are on your feet walking to him. He wraps you in a hug and you gently rub his back. You hold each other for a minute, taking a moment ground each other.

“You okay?” you practically yell over the noise and he just nods, guiding you out of the garage.

“That’s not the win I wanted to give you,” Oscar sighs as you walk back to his room after he gets weighed.

“I hope I’m not bad luck,”

“Never. You are good luck, that should’ve been worse than it was,” Oscar reassures you. A small part of him is happy to be spending time with you.

“I’m sorry your race ended like that, you were driving so well,” you frown, as Oscar squeezes your hand.

“Nothing I can do now, next race is a new opportunity. I have to go do media, do you want to watch the rest in McLaren?” Oscar asks, wanting to know where to find you later.

“I’ll go to Ferrari and watch with Alexandra,” you decide, needing to have friends around here. Oscar nods, leading you to your new friend. He kisses you goodbye before you walk in.

“Hey, are you okay? Those are scary, no matter how minor,” Alexandra greets you when she notices you.

“Yeah. Osc is fine, I’m just upset for him,” you shrug. You’ve seen your partners in danger on missions, but this is a whole different ballgame.

“Grab a seat, want a coffee?” she asks, making sure you are comfortable.

“No, but maybe you can teach me better than Oscar,” you watch her face light up as she immediately dives into sharing her knowledge, explaining everything to you as it happens.

“Come and meet some of the others. Oscar will be pulled into meetings,” Alexandra says, pulling you away from Ferrari.

“Shouldn’t you be with Charles? He must be looking for you,”

“He can wait,” Alexandra waves your concern off as you galavant around the paddock.

Your great experience with the WAGs further conflicted you if you wanted to stay or leave your job. And it all came to a head when you were brought in on an emergency mission once you returned from your weekend away.

This might be your most dangerous recon mission yet. Your part is simple on paper, get in, copy the digital files, get out. It wasn’t simple in execution.

You just skimmed the files, getting crucial information that will stop the operation. Now for the hard part - getting out and getting away.

You slip out of the room, when you hear footsteps getting closer and closer. Just like the stereotype, you slide around a corner and hold your breath, praying they don’t turn your way. They are so close you can feel their body heat beside you. You focus on remaining calm, but this is the most on edge you’ve ever been. You close your eyes as you feel your stomach drop.

This is it. You can see Oscar’s face as he opens his driver room door, two agents standing outside. The agents are solemn as they deliver the news - you were captured and killed on a mission. Every word, every moment is played perfectly in your mind. And your cat, Oscar will have to take care of Boots, a constant reminder of you.

Oscar sits in his post FP2 meeting when it happens, feeling the sickening feeling of your danger meter telling him you were in danger. After it being normal for the past few days, his stomach drops at how high it is.

“I need five,” Oscar runs out like he’s about to puke. You promised in your hastily written letter that you’d try to be safe, but all you really said that you had to leave, couldn’t take your phone, and it was an emergency. He naively thought that you wouldn’t be in the field, that you were just needed on the sidelines. He wasn’t completely wrong, you helped from the side for everything but your part in the operation.

“Oscar? Hey, are you okay?” Lando asks, walking into the room where Oscar disappeared to.

“I- I don’t know,” Oscar looks at his arm, silently pleading for the meter to go down. Lando sees it and just sits beside Oscar.

“Wanna talk about it?” Lando says after a few seconds of silence.

“She left a few days ago with only a note and her cell phone behind. Got an emergency call while I was out. Poor Boots, he must miss his mom. And I know she’s not abandoning me, but I think I finally know how my mom feels about my career,” Oscar says after a minute.

“I assume she’s in the military, or like, a detective to be in danger, and that’s pretty badass of her. I know she came off as cold initially to a lot of us, except when she’s with you and some of the girls, but I can tell that she really likes you. And she seems like she holds her own,” Lando starts listing everything he likes about you from the couple interactions you had during the race day. It helps distract Oscar, calming him little by little.

You step around the corner as soon as the voices fade and come face to face with a security guard. You quickly land a few punches, knocking him out. In the moment you are grateful for your disguise and the cameras that are currently disabled thanks to your team. As you quickly exit the building, you notice another guard tailing you. You quickly get into your getaway car, turning it on and pressing the throttle. It lurches under you, making a hasty exit as they chase you.

Glances in the rear view mirror tell you that you aren’t out of the woods yet. You send a small prayer that Oscar’s talent will be enough as you speed down the street. The car just isn’t fast enough, you are being hunted and the hunter keeps creeping closer and closer. Once again you hope your luck hasn’t run out as you will the car to go just a little faster.

Lando stays seated beside Oscar, trying not to stare at the meter on his teammates arm. He watches the tears run down Oscar’s face as the meter creeps higher, higher, then drops.

#f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader

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goblinontour · 3 days ago

Text

My Head, Your Chest

or what was supposed to be a study session

warnings: fetus!al, fluff, smut, munching, that’s it

word count: 7.6k

The notebook in your hands feels sticky. It’s only getting worse with every passing minute, and you can’t decide if it’s from the heating being turned all the way up or your growing distaste for the subject at hand. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the bonus heater lying between your legs right now — a mop of messy brown hair pressed to your stomach, radiating heat like he’s made of fire.

He’s burning up. Burning you up, too. Your brain is overheating, and it’s mostly from the endless studying you’ve been at for what feels like decades — though it’s probably only been a couple of hours at best. But it’s also from him, from his fever that flared up a couple of hours ago — or rather, restarted.

Alex got sick on Sunday, and now it’s Wednesday, and you haven’t seen him since that first day of misery. He’d stayed home, groaning into the phone about how he couldn’t come to class the next day because he was “in no state to show me face” and because he, quote, “don’t want ya to catch me death.” You’d rolled your eyes but kept your distance, though by Tuesday the missing him started to outweigh your good sense. And, apparently, his missing you did too.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you were both excellent at lying to yourselves. It’ll be fine. It’s just a cold. What’s the worst that could happen? So here you are now, stuck in a poorly ventilated room with his feverish body sprawled across you, the sticky notebook, and a mounting pile of regret that isn’t nearly strong enough to pull you away from him.

“Yer not even lookin’ at the book anymore.” Alex mutters, his voice thick and groggy as he shifts slightly, his cheek brushing against your stomach.

You glance down at him, his face flushed from the fever and his hair damp at the edges where it clings to his forehead. He looks utterly pathetic. And completely adorable.

“You’re not exactly making it easy to concentrate.” you point out, tapping the edge of the notebook against his shoulder.

“Not me fault.” he says, tilting his head up just enough to give you a lopsided grin you can’t even see. “You’re the one who insisted on revisin’ while I’m dyin’ here.”

“You’re not dying.” you say, rolling your eyes but reaching down to brush a hand over his hair anyway. It’s warm — too warm — but the way he leans into your touch makes it impossible to pull away.

“Feels like it.” he mumbles, closing his eyes.

“You’re dramatic.” you counter, but your tone is soft, betraying you.

He hums, something low and pleased, and nuzzles closer to your stomach. “Missed ya.” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, like the admission costs him something.

Your chest tightens, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Yeah.” you say, your fingers still threading through his hair. “I missed you too.”

And there it is — the real reason you’re here, risking a cold or worse. Because the ache of not seeing him was worse than the ache of a sore throat or a runny nose could ever be.

“You know,” you say after a moment, “if you’d just stayed in bed and let yourself get better, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Don’t care.” he murmurs, his words slurring slightly as his fever and exhaustion start to win out. “This is better.”

And damn it, he’s right.

“What are you studying for anyway?” He doesn’t bother lifting his head, just peeks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You never told me.”

“Lit class.” you reply, flipping the page of your notebook with a sigh. You’re trying to focus, really, but the words keep swimming, your concentration slipping like sand through your fingers.

He hums, soft and lazy, and the vibration of it buzzes against your skin. “Figures. You and your books.”

There’s a warmth in his tone that makes your chest feel lighter, like maybe you’re not so annoyed at this assignment after all. Your fingers find their way into his hair again before you even realise what you’re doing, brushing through the mop of brown in slow, absentminded strokes. It’s soft, even though he hasn’t bothered washing it properly since he got sick, and the motion is soothing — more for you than him, probably.

You feel his weight shifting as he turns his head. Before you even lower the notebook, you know what sight is waiting for you, and when you do — oh, there they are: two wide, ridiculously gorgeous puppy eyes staring up at you, full of a kind of innocence and curiosity that makes your heart ache. He blinks at you and, for a moment, you think you might melt into the mattress entirely. You’d keep him in your pocket if you could, tucked safely away where no one else could see him.

“Literature, huh?” he asks, his voice soft and scratchy but tinged with amusement.

“Yep.” you say, struggling to keep your focus on the…the…the notebook, right. But your gaze keeps drifting back to him, to the way his nose is scrunching up slightly, to the faint pinkness in his cheeks — whether from fever or you at this point, you can’t tell, but you really want it to be the latter.

“You could help me, you know.” you blurt out before you can think better of it. “If you want this to go faster.”

His brow furrows slightly, and he blinks again, slower this time. “Help?”

“Yeah.” you say, gesturing vaguely at the notebook with your free hand. “I haven’t got a poet in my bed for nothing, you know.”

He snorts, his nose wrinkling even further. “I’m no poet.” he mutters, his voice soft and sheepish.

His pupils are blown wide now, and the faint flush on his face deepens. You can’t help but grin, biting your lip to keep from teasing him too much. He looks unbearably cute, so cute, all flustered and disheveled, and it takes everything in you not to lean down and kiss him right then and there. You want to bottle the image up and keep it forever.

“Anyway.” he says quickly, his voice rising just slightly,

There’s a pause, with a sniffle that’s only half-real.

“I don’t wanna rush you.”

Twice.

“Not much else we could do with the state I’m in anyway.”

The third one is loud and deliberate, as if to seal his point, followed by a tiny, self-satisfied smirk that he’s trying — and failing — not to show.

You narrow your eyes at him, your lips twitching as you fight back a laugh. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

He just grins wider, and you shake your head, lowering the notebook to your chest, gently pressing it there with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay.” you say. “Goodbye, Mr. Poet.” you tease, and you’re smiling fully now as you try to bring the notebook back up, but two of his fingers reach up before you can and stop you.

He blinks at you, his grin faltering for a second, confused. “Goodbye?”

“Yep.” Your hand turns out to be stronger than two little digits, so you raise the notebook, blocking his face from view, but not before you catch the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck.

“Don’t be mean.” he grumbles.

You smile to yourself, hiding it behind the barrier. You don’t need to see him to know he’s smiling too.

He’s smiling, smiling, smiling like a fool, staring up at the ceiling lamp that hums and flickers faintly with the effort of staying on. But it’s not the dusty lightbulb above him that he sees. No, he’s not really seeing that. It’s you. His mind is too full of you. That image of you from ten seconds ago — your fingers still buried in his hair, your face tilted down, concentration etched into your features as you tried to make sense of whatever nonsense your notebook held — is branded behind his eyelids. Burned into his brain. A picture he doesn’t want to blink away. It’s like you didn’t even realise how tender you were being.

She’s so pretty when she’s reading. And sleeping. And laughing.

You’re all he can think about. The way your nose crinkles when you tease him, the way your eyes soften when you think he’s not looking. She’s so pretty when…he thinks, the words tumbling through his head like a mantra.

He feels his smile curve wider, his dry, cracked lips stinging at the corners — a small price to pay for the way his chest feels so light. His nose feels raw with each breath, like he’s inhaling sandpaper, and his throat is sore from the constant sniffles, but he doesn’t care. None of it matters, because you’re here, and he’s nestled between your thighs, and your hand is in his hair like you’ve forgotten it’s even there. The discomfort barely registers because his mind is stuck on one simple truth: She’s pretty all the time.

The heat of your body pressed against his is its own kind of medicine, in a way. You feel like the most perfect pillow to ever exist, your legs warm on either side of him like a blanket, the faint press of your hand against his scalp like the softest lullaby. His chest rises and falls slowly, the fever haze making him feel floaty, untethered — but then there’s you, keeping him right where he wants to be.

If he could breathe properly, he thinks he’d let you smother him between your thighs if you asked. Hell, he might let you do it anyway. Nothing left to lose, right? Not when he’s already in your hands. Not that he’d tell you that, not out loud. He doesn’t even want to move. Not now, not ever. You’re soft, even where the curve of your thigh meets his jaw. He could stay here forever. He wants to stay here forever. You could tell him to stay right in that spot, and he’d agree in a heartbeat, all grins and lazy nods and whispered okay, yeah, whatever you want, babe.

He sighs, his smile lingering as his eyes flutter shut. But even in the darkness, you’re still there. You’re everywhere.

And then, without warning, he lets out a soft huff of laughter, his chest barely rising with the effort.

You glance down at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” he rasps, his voice low and scratchy, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s holding back another laugh, his nose scrunching up in that way you love.

“Nothing?” you press, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, nothing.” He sniffles, then lets out another laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Just…you. Us. This.”

You roll your eyes, half-hearted. “You’re delirious.”

“Probably.” he agrees, his grin widening.

Your fingers, warm and gentle, return to his hair, and he practically melts into you, his smile softening into something quieter. His body goes slack, the tension in his muscles easing as you comb through the messy mop of brown strands. He hums softly, a low, contented sound that makes you feel like you must be doing something right.

“You’re such a sap.” you tease, but your voice is just as soft as your touch.

“And you love it.” he murmurs, his words slurring slightly.

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Damn it. You’re right.”

“Always am.”

And then he smiles again, bigger this time, like he’s remembering something wonderful.

“What now?” you ask.

“Nothing.” His voice is soft, almost dreamy. “You’re pretty. And warm. And I don’t wanna move.”

Your chest tightens, and you can’t help but smile down at him, even though he can’t see it.

“That’s fine.” you whisper. “You don’t have to.”

You’re trying — really trying — to stay focused on the open notebook in front of you. The lines blur slightly, not from the light or your eyesight but because your brain keeps wandering to the boy sprawled between your legs. Your fingers trace over a sentence you’ve read at least five times now, pretending you’re annotating something important, but it’s mostly to stop your hand from drifting back into his hair.

Your pen’s been bouncing against the page for the last five minutes, aimlessly doodling in the margins, and he’s been watching the rhythmic movement with a narrowed gaze. You’re doing your best to ignore him, trying to cling to whatever shred of productivity you can muster, but it’s a losing battle.

He’s making it impossible to concentrate.

“Y’know,” he says, voice muffled against your stomach, “you don’t have to keep pretending. We both know you’ve read the same sentence like, twenty times.”

“I’m not pretending.” you argue, though the half-smile pulling at your lips betrays you.

“You’re doodling stars.” he points out, glancing up and tilting his head like he’s caught you red-handed. “And...what is that? A smiley face?”

“It’s a sun.” you correct, but it doesn’t help your case.

He snickers. “Right. Big, happy sun. Sure. Sooo educational.”

“Some of us care about passing, Alex.”

“Some of us also care about not wasting time when we could be doing something way more fun.” he shoots back, raising a brow as if to challenge you.

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to look back at the book. “Just let me finish, okay?”

He lets out a sigh and he melts further into you, turning his head so his cheek rests on your stomach. You can feel the faint tickle of his breath through your shirt.

When you don’t respond, he sighs again, louder this time.

“What?”

“Noooothing.” he says, drawing the word out, his tone soft and a little too innocent. “But…you’ve been reading forever. And I’m bored.”

“I told you I have to finish this.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand lazily in the air, like the excuse is flimsy and totally not worth acknowledging, but he at least has to pretend. “But you’ve gotta be done soon, right? What’s it been? Like, three hours?”

“Try twenty minutes.”

“Feels like three hours.” he mutters under his breath, dragging his cheek against your leg as if to emphasize the unbearable weight of time. “How much longer?” he whines.

“Not much.” you reply.

He’s purposefully pressing himself closer, as though to remind you of his presence. His fingers start drawing lazy shapes against your thigh, tracing little circles and stars that feel like they’re burning into your skin.

He’s still shifting, still fidgeting, until finally-

“Can you finish already?” His patience naps, and the next second he’s reaching out to pinch your left thigh just hard enough to make you yelp and jump.

“Hey!” you exclaim, startled, and with the motion, his head tumbles off its happy place and lands unceremoniously on the mattress. “That hurt, Al!” you laugh, rubbing the spot where his fingers dug in.

“Sorry.” he says, though the way his lips twitch tells you he’s not sorry at all. “Now come back ‘ere.”

“Fine,” you mutter, mock-annoyed, even as your hands instinctively find their way to his hair again and the word is more soaked with affection than you intend. You don’t bother picking the notebook back up — there’s no point. He’s already won.

He doesn’t say anything outright, doesn’t directly ask you to drop the studying altogether, but the way his hand reaches out, fingers brushing the back of your knee, says enough. It’s magnetic, the pull of him. And somehow, your hand decides it prefers the feel of sliding the notebook to the side, tucking it beneath the pillow, out of sight. Out of mind. Because the better sight — the prettier sight — is right here in front of you, and you’d much rather look at that.

It’s hard to care about literature or studying or anything else when he’s looking at you like that, all soft and sleepy.

“Happy now?” you whisper, and Alex’s grin widens.

“Hi.” he whispers, small and soft and gentle. Your little secret.

You can’t help but smile back. “Hi.”

And just like that, it’s happening again. That thing where a single sound from his mouth manages to send little needles shooting across your skin, a rush of pinpricks so intense it’s almost unbearable. It’s like your body’s betraying you, begging for more of him, for another word, another breath, another touch.

It’s dramatic, you know it is. Borderline ridiculous. But the worst part is, you can’t stop yourself. You need him to speak again, need it more than you need air, because if he doesn’t, you’re certain the whole world — not just your world, but the whole thing — will shatter.

And it’s terrifying, the way you’ve given him this power, handed it over so willingly. He’s just one person. One little man with messy brown hair and sleepy eyes and a smile that could probably melt steel. He shouldn’t have the ability to do this to you, to make you feel like he’s holding the universe in the palm of his hand.

But he does.

Because he’s him. And he’s him in your world, too.

“What?” he asks as he studies your face.

“Nothing.” you say, shaking your head. Your voice wavers just enough to betray you.

“Don’t look like nothing. You’re lookin’ at me funny.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!” you insist, but you’re smiling now, and now he definitely knows he’s won.

“Yeah, you are.” he teases, and his hand finds your thigh again, but this time it’s soft, his thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you look at him. His eyes are wide, and so warm you think you could fall into them and never come back.

“Just you.” you admit finally, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at right now. Then he leans up, his hand slipping from your thigh to your waist as he climbs up and presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re too good to me.” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips.

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping you. “I think you’ve got that backwards.”

“Maybe.” he says, smiling again. “But I’m still gonna keep you. Or do me best to.”

The needles are back, prickling every inch of your skin. You don’t fight them anymore because you’re not sure you’ve ever been happier to fall apart.

“Kiss me.” you say, no hesitation, no second-guessing. The words fall out of your mouth like they belong there, because they do. It’s not a question or a request, it’s a need.

A simple fact. An urgent one.

You’re not shy about it anymore, not nervous like you were the first few times. It’s the only thing on your mind, the only thing that’s been on your mind since the last time he kissed you. That was Sunday. Sunday. Three whole days too long without his lips on yours, without the weight of him pressed against you in the way only he can manage — clumsy. But perfect.

And now you’re so close. He’s tilting his head, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a soft smile as he leans in. His face is redder than usual, his nose runny and chapped from all the tissues, and his eyelashes are clumped together from the fever sweat he refuses to admit is still lingering. But he’s close now, so close you can feel the ghost of his breath brushing your lips, and you’re already bracing for the warm, electric touch of him.

So close.

Almost there-

“Achoo!”

The sneeze comes out of nowhere, loud and violent, and though it’s not directly in your face — it’s to the side, thank God — it echoes in your ears and leaves a faint ringing behind.

Your lips feel colder now, colder than they have in days, and still untouched.

“Bless you.” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

He’s already resigned back to defeat. You can tell by the way he slumps against you, his body going boneless as his head drops onto your shoulder. His face presses somewhere between your neck and the pillow. His breath is still uneven from the sneeze.

“Sorry.” he mutters.

You really want to laugh, but instead, your heart twists a little. He’s so pitiful like this, all sniffly and congested, his hair sticking to his forehead and his body too warm where it’s draped over yours. And worse than that, you can feel it — the way he’s trying to burrow into you, his nose nuzzling the crook of your neck like it always does, only to stop.

He can’t even smell you.

His nose is too backed up, and he can’t even get a whiff of his favorite spot, that little patch of you where your perfume blends with your shampoo, where the natural scent of you is so strong it’s intoxicating. It’s his weakness, his favorite thing, and you know it drives him mad every time.

Now, though, it’s like it’s just out of reach.

“God, this sucks.” he groans, and the whine in his voice is almost enough to make you coo. “I can’t even smell you. Can’t kiss you. Can’t- ugh, I hate this.”

“You’ll be fine.” you say softly, trying to soothe him.

“No, I won’t.” he argues, his words muffled against your neck. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“It’s just a cold, Al.”

“It’s your cold now.” he counters, tilting his head to squint up at you. “’Cause I definitely gave it to you. So, really, I’ve ruined both our lives.”

“Our cold.” you correct.

“Mhm, yes, that’s more accurate.” he drawls, stretching out the syllables like he’s some sort of scholar, emphasising each one in a way that could almost be annoying.

It works, though, because it puts another smile on your face, and he can’t get enough of that. Not now, not ever.

He shifts against you, sliding around on you like a slippery eel in a way that feels both deliberate and entirely uncoordinated. He doesn’t know if it’s because his body feels like it’s made of jello or if he’s actually becoming jello, but either way, after much unnecessary wriggling, his journey ends with his face planted squarely between your boobs.

Even his fever-ridden brain knows this is some kind of holy grail situation. He feels like Eve, staring at the apple. Too tempting. Too perfect. For a second, he’s completely still, like even his brain can’t comprehend the jackpot he’s just stumbled into. His breathing slows, and you swear you can almost see the little wheels turning behind his eyes.

“Alex…” you warn softly, but he doesn’t budge.

“Hmm?” he hums, his lips pressed to your shirt. He doesn’t even bother to lift his head, doesn’t even try to look apologetic. He inhales — or tries to, because his stuffy nose makes a pitiful little whistling sound — and then, without any further hesitation, he pulls himself closer.

“Al.” you try again, but it’s too late.

He gives in.

He’s already gone.

It starts with the softest little nuzzle, his nose brushing lazily against the fabric of your shirt, followed by a soft, open-mouthed kiss that sends goosebumps racing down your arms. Then, before you can say anything else, he takes it a step further, his teeth grazing you ever so lightly.

“Ow!” you exclaim, though it doesn’t actually hurt. It’s more surprising than anything, but the sound only seems to encourage him.

“Oh, really?” he murmurs, and then he does it again, this time with a little more bite, sinking his teeth in just enough to make you squirm.

“Alex!”

“I’m bored.” he says. He thinks that’s a perfectly valid excuse for whatever he’s doing.

“So you’re taking it out on me?”

“Mhm.”

And just to drive the point home, his right hand joins the party. It lands on your other boob, the one he hasn’t nibbled yet, and he gives it a squeeze like he’s trying to test its density…or something.

“Alex, do you mind?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He looks up at you with those big, brown eyes, feigning innocence even as his fingers curl a little tighter around you. “What? I’m just…conducting an experiment.”

“An experiment?” you repeat, deadpan.

“Yeah.” he says, his grin widening. “It’s, uh, for science.”

“For science?”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop him, and he knows it. He knows it because his grin turns softer, and his fingers give an extra little squeeze like he’s thanking you silently.

“So now you’re a scientist and a poet?” you tease, trying to maintain some semblance of authority.

“Multitalented.” he replies with a shrug, before nuzzling back into your chest.

His fingers stay where they are, squeezing and testing and exploring, warm and curious and just shy of being inappropriate, and you know you should probably tell him to stop. But you don’t. Because you’re pretty sure you’d miss it if he did.

“You’re comfy.”

“You’re heavy.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Warm and lazy and messy in all the right ways. And if his hand tightens around you just a little more? Well, you’re not about to complain.

“My head hurts.” he announces to the room like a royal decree. It’s meant for you, but maybe it’s also for the plushie sitting precariously on the edge of your desk, or the birds that might be outside, perched on the tree branches and peering in like nosy neighbors.

“I don’t know…” you start, dragging the words out.

He squints. “What?”

“I always thought your head felt pretty good.”

The room freezes.

He gasps, the kind of exaggerated, cartoonish gasp that would make anyone else laugh, but the widening of his eyes and the way his ears turn red makes it clear it’s at least half genuine. “You dirty girl.” he says, scandalized, but with a grin that betrays him.

You raise your hand, palm open and waiting.

It takes him a second to catch on — he always takes a second — but when he does, he grins even wider, and his hand meets yours with a weak high five. It’s soft, almost an afterthought, but then his fingers linger, catching yours on the way down and sliding them between his, intertwining them. It’s second nature.

It’s quiet.

And then he says it.

“Want me to give you head?”

You blink.

Now you’re the one going red. You weren’t trying to be dirty, not really. Or maybe you were, but not like that. Not like this. But here he is, taking your playful little jab and running with it, all the way into the realm of no return.

Your hands fly up to your face like a shield. “Oh my god.” you mumble, voice muffled behind your fingers.

He shifts, sitting up slightly so he can peer at you better, his smirk growing as he watches you squirm. “If you wanted me to eat your cunt,” he says, far too casually for the words coming out of his mouth, “you could’ve just said so.”

You groan, sinking further into your hands, like maybe you can disappear into them if you try hard enough. “Oh my god.” you repeat, because what else is there to say?

“Asking’s free.” he presses, leaning closer now, his voice dropping just a little, just enough to make your stomach flip. “Do you?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want it, but because you do want it, and the fact that you do makes your skin burn.

“Yeah.” you whisper, so quiet you’re not sure he even hears it.

Of course he does.

“Alright.”

And suddenly, his hands are on your thighs, warm and steady, and he’s smiling at you in that way that makes you feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just the two of you. His feverish warmth is radiating off of him, and it’s like you can feel his heartbeat through his palms.

He leans in, his nose brushing against your arm as he nuzzles closer, and you can’t help but shiver, your hands still half-hiding your face.

“Don’t be shy now.” he teases, his voice low and rough. “You started this, remember?”

“Okay. Okay.” You exhale deeply, as if the sound itself can steady your nerves. You’re psyching yourself up, trying to convince yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. It’s not like you haven’t done this before. It’s also not like it doesn’t make you nervous every single time.

“Mm.” he hums. He’s looking at you, not touching yet, just…looking. His eyes are heavy-lidded but sharp, scanning every detail, and it’s enough to make your skin tingle.

Then his hand reaches out to find the waistband of your leggings, pinching the fabric lightly between two fingers before letting it snap back against your skin with a soft, harmless pop.

“We’ll take this off, I think.” he murmurs.

“You think?” you ask.

With his fingers already hooked in the band, he tilts his head and smirks. “Yeah.” he says, nodding slightly. “I think so.” He pauses, though, his hands stilling for just a moment. “Is that okay?”

You nod, your fingers brushing over his as you whisper, “Yeah. That’s okay.”

“Alright.” he says, more to himself than to you.

He pulls, inching the leggings down your hips, over your thighs, and you can feel every soft graze of his knuckles against your skin as he works them down. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, drinking in every inch of skin that’s revealed, and you can feel the heat of his gaze as much as you feel the cool air brushing over you.

“You’re teasing me.” you accuse, a little breathless.

“Am I? Maybe. Can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t do much to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

He tugs the leggings all the way off, letting them drop to the floor in a heap before his hands find your thighs again. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. The way he’s looking at you makes your whole body buzz with warmth.

“You’re so-” He stops himself, biting back the words with a small shake of his head, like even saying them out loud would be too much for him.

“So what?” you ask.

His hands tighten just slightly and he lets out a breathy laugh. “Just. You.” He shrugs, his grin turning sheepish. “You’re so you.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say, and yet it makes your heart flutter like crazy.

“So perfect.” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache.

His fingers keep their steady rhythm, tapping lightly on your inner thighs, playing a melody only he knows. It’s calming and maddening all at once, especially when he leans down, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It’s barely a kiss, more of a whisper of warmth, but it’s enough to send a shiver rippling through you.

Then another. And another.

Trailing higher and higher.

Each kiss is unhurried, as if he’s got all the time in the world, as if this moment deserves its own pace, one that matches the quiet intimacy building between you. His lips linger longer with each press, warm and slightly chapped, and when his nose brushes against your skin, you can’t stop the little gasp that escapes you.

“Okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with just a hint of nervousness.

You nod, feeling your throat tighten as his thumbs press just a bit more firmly into your thighs, holding you open. “Yeah.”

His lips curve into a faint smile. He doesn’t say anything. He just tilts his head and kisses higher, closer, each touch of his mouth a little bolder. And when he stops for a second, you see him wet his lips with a quick flick of his tongue before diving back in.

You’re sure it’s an unconscious move, but it makes something hot twist in your belly.

His hands are still on your thighs, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns, and then he hooks them on the sides of your underwear. He hesitates, looking up at you again, his brows slightly furrowed in an almost boyish way.

“Can I?” he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

He tugs gently. The process is far from seamless. The fabric catches on his fingers, then again around your knees, and he fumbles with it, muttering under his breath.

“Damn things are stubborn.” he grumbles, and you bite back a laugh. “Sorry.” he says before finally managing to slide them all the way off. He holds them in his hand for a moment like he’s not quite sure what to do with them before tossing them aside with a sheepish grin.

“So smooth.”

“Hey, I got there in the end, didn’t I?”

“A little clumsy.” you tease.

“Yeah, well…” He trails off as his gaze lowers, and the words seem to leave him altogether.

He’s staring, openly, unabashedly, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and you can see the exact moment it hits him. That oh my god, I’m the luckiest guy in the world look that makes your cheeks burn and your heart stutter. His tongue darts out again, wetting his lips like he’s preparing to say something. He doesn’t. He just looks.

“Alex.” you murmur, your voice trembling just a little.

He blinks, as if snapping out of a trance, and shakes his head. “Sorry.” he says. He doesn’t stop looking. “It’s just…you’re so…”

His voice trails off, and you think for a second that he won’t finish the sentence. But then he does, in a voice so soft you almost don’t catch it.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words tumble out of him like they can’t be helped, and they land so softly, so tenderly, that you feel them wrap around your chest like a warm blanket. It hits you square in the chest, the way he says it, like he’s not just describing how you look but how you are.

“Am I doing okay so far?” he asks, his lips twitching into a teasing grin.

You laugh, though it’s shaky. “Yeah. You’re doing fine.”

“Fine?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow. “I’m aiming for better than fine.”

You shake your head, unable to stop smiling. “You’re doing perfectly.” you admit, and his grin widens.

“Good.”

His gaze dips again, and he licks his lips one more time before lowering himself closer. His breath brushes over you and when his lips meet your skin again you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you.

He doesn’t miss it.

“You’re shaking.” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a look that’s equal parts concern and smugness.

“I’m fine.” you manage, but your voice wavers, and he smirks.

“Perfect, huh?” he teases, echoing your earlier words.

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when his hands squeeze your thighs again and his lips are so close, so maddeningly close, that you feel like you might burst from the anticipation.

And then he whispers, so softly it’s almost like he’s talking to himself, “God, I’m so fucking lucky.”

His mouth presses against you, and the first touch of his tongue is both heaven and hell. It’s soft at first, as though he’s trying to map you out, figure out what makes you tick. But it doesn’t take long for him to find his rhythm, and when he does, it’s devastating.

You don’t understand how something so simple can feel so good. It frustrates you to your core, quite literally, that you can’t wrap your head around it — how his tongue, just a part of him, can undo you so completely. It’s maddening. It’s blissful. And worst of all, you know it will eventually have to stop.

But not yet.

His tongue moves with purpose now, parting a slick, wet path that makes your legs tremble. Any softness is gone when he presses harder, sliding his tongue into you, and it’s enough to make you gasp out loud. Your hips buck, but his hands are firmer, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs to keep you in place.

You feel the press of his nose against your clit, unrelenting, as he works his mouth on you. It’s not gentle — nothing about this is gentle. It’s messy and hot and overwhelming, and you’re not sure what’s holding you together anymore.

Your hands find their way into his hair, threading through the messy strands, and you pull. Hard. His groan vibrates against you, the sound sending shockwaves through your body, and you tug again just to feel it one more time.

The room feels stuffy, the air thick with heat and the heady weight of everything happening between you. You’re panting, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and it feels like there’s not enough oxygen in the world to keep up with what he’s doing to you.

“Alex.” you gasp, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

His response is a growl against you, muffled but unmistakable, and he doubles down, his tongue and lips moving with a newfound urgency.

“Fuck.” you whimper, your voice breaking as your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t falter. If anything, he leans in harder, his tongue plunging deeper, and the obscene sounds of him working you over fill the room.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, and you can’t help but arch into him, chasing the sensation, chasing him. You’re not even sure when your fingers started digging into his scalp, but you feel the way he groans again, the vibration traveling straight through you.

“Please-” you choke out, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for. More? Less? A moment to catch your breath?

“Fuck.” he mutters, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against your skin. “You’re gonna rip it all out, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” you manage to say, your voice breathless and shaky.

But Alex doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up for a second, and when his tongue flicks just right and his nose grinds against that perfect spot that makes your toes curl, your head falls back, and your vision blurs.

“Fuck, Alex…” you cry, your voice trembling, your body trembling. Everything feels wet and hot and unbearable in the best way.

You tug at his hair one last time, harder than before, and he groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

His mouth is everywhere and nowhere at once. His tongue slides deep, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to write something inside you, but you can’t read it. You can’t think. All you know is the way his nose bumps against you every time he presses forward, and it’s like an accident he keeps having on purpose. He pulls back, just a little, and you think maybe he’s going to stop, but then he tilts his head and dives back in. It’s messy, wetter than it probably needs to be, but that only makes it better. The sound of it fills the room, fills your ears, fills your head.

“There-” you gasp.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through every nerve in your body. You’re not sure if it’s a response or if he’s just satisfied with himself, but you don’t care. It feels too good to care.

His nose nudges against you again, harder this time, and your hips jerk up without permission. His fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you down, keeping you where he wants you.

“Stay still.” he murmurs, his voice muffled by you.

You don’t stay still. You can’t.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Your thighs are trembling. You don’t know how much more you can take.

“Come on.” he murmurs against you, his breath hot and humid. “Let me have it.”

You don’t think you could stop yourself even if you wanted to. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your back arches, and everything inside you feels like it’s shattering and coming back together all at once.

His tongue keeps moving, and his hands keep holding, and when you finally come undone, it’s all his. Every last bit of it.

You’re gasping, trembling, your hands still tangled in his hair, and he’s still there, still licking, still taking everything you have to give.

“Fuck…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and he pulls back just enough to look up at you again.

He’s grinning, his lips shiny and red, and he looks so damn proud of himself.

“Hi.” he says, his voice soft and teasing, and you can’t help but laugh, even though you’re still catching your breath.

“Hi.” you manage to say back, your voice weak but warm.

And then he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh — maybe you should let him stay there forever.

“That was quick.” His voice is soft, laced with a little shyness and something hopeful he’s trying to hide. “Was it good?”

You’re still still floating somewhere far away in the haze he’s left you in. Words are a struggle, but you manage to muster, “Yeah, yeah.” You sound as wrecked as you feel. “Good.”

He smiles. “Good.”

You don’t say anything, but your fingers curl gently into his hair, holding him there for just a second longer, as if to tell him without words: I don’t want you to move.

But he does. Slowly, his lips trace a path upward, leaving soft, fleeting kisses along your skin. Each one feels like a promise, like he’s trying to tell you something he doesn’t have the words for. When he finally reaches your face, he pauses, hovering close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers, even though he doesn’t need to.

You nod, barely moving, and that’s all he needs. He closes the space between you, his mouth soft and warm against yours.

He’s savoring it. And then you taste it — you. The faint, lingering remnants of yourself on his lips, and it makes something in you twist and melt all at once. You kiss him deeper, your hands slipping down to cup his jaw, and he sighs into it. He’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have.

It’s messy and sweet, his nose brushing against yours, his lips moving against yours like they’ve always belonged there. You pull back for a breath, but he chases you, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek. He can’t bear to let you go.

“You taste good.” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and the way he says it isn’t teasing — it’s awestruck, like he’s genuinely been left amazed.

You watch as he wipes his chin and mouth with the back of his hand, but then his nose scrunches, and his face freezes. “Oh no…” he mumbles, already covering half his face with one hand while the other gestures toward the nightstand. “Gimme the-”

It takes you a second to catch on, your blissed-out brain working slower than usual, but then you see where he’s pointing. “Oh! Here” you say, grabbing the tissues and passing them over.

“Thanks.” he mutters, barely getting the word out before he sneezes into a wad of crumpled white. Twice. The force of it rocks him forward, and you can’t help but laugh softly as he sniffles, wiping at his nose like a kid.

“Bless you.” you say, your voice still a little breathy.

He looks at you through watery eyes, his cheeks flushed from the sneezes or maybe from everything else. “Thanks.”

You think he’s done, but then he takes another handful of tissues and surprises you by leaning down. His movements are gentle, careful, as he wipes between your legs and up your thighs. It’s clumsy and sweet, and your heart squeezes in your chest at the sight of him being so tender.

“You don’t have to-” you start to say, but he cuts you off.

“I know.” he says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. “But I want to.”

You let him, how could you not?

Once he’s done, he gets up to toss the tissues in the trash, and you take the opportunity to tug your leggings back up, your hands working quickly before he turns back around.

When he does, he looks at you for a moment, his hair a mess and his cheeks still pink. There’s something soft in his eyes, something warm that makes you feel tight all over in the best way.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet but sincere.

“Yeah.” you say, smiling up at him. “Are you?”

He grins, a little lopsided, a little tired. “Always, with you.”

Your face heats at the words, and you roll your eyes to cover it up. “Cheesy.”

“True.” he counters, plopping down next to you on the bed.

He’s close, so close, and you feel his warmth as he leans his head against your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek. “What now?” he asks, his voice low and a little hoarse.

“Rest.” you say simply, because he looks like he needs it, and maybe you do too.

“Rest sounds good.” he agrees, his eyes already half-closed.

a/n: I feel like the smut is lowkey bad lmao. Anyway. Based on some requests I cannot find right now but someone said something about pegging sick al once and another was about tutoring and I did neither of those here but they did inspire it!

#alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x oc #alex turner fluff #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #fetus alex turner #smut #goblinontour

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dlscenarios · 5 months ago

Text

How I Long For Our Trysts

Anthony Bridgerton x f!Reader SMUT

I finished reading The Viscount Who Loved Me & i'm already missing this fictional man like he's my husband that went off to war.

Also ofc the title is a Taylor Swift reference. What else is new?

Cw: AFAB Reader + a few brief mentions of Reader being a lady, Bridgerton-typical society talk, Reader & Anthony are pretty handsy, No foreplay, Unprotected sex + Creampie

You were going to be the death of him.

Anthony Bridgerton always knew he was going to die young, but he'd always thought it would be a similar death to his father's — sudden and perhaps by the stinger of a measly bee — yet the agonizing wait for you to appear in the doorway of his study might do him in first.

His mother had invited what felt like hundreds of singles in the ton for another one of her house parties at Aubrey Hall. The woman was relentless in her task of marrying off her children, although she seemed to focus more on Anthony than his brothers. To the viscount's dismay (he was ashamed to admit his simultaneous delight), you were one of the invited guests. Anthony's mother had no idea that you and her eldest son had already become well acquainted with each other, having met earlier in the season.

You had a distaste for society and its strict rules, something that both intrigued and infuriated Anthony. You conducted yourself in a way that haunted his very being. Had you been a smidge less cynical, you would fit Anthony's idea of a perfect viscountess exactly.

Since your first meeting, the viscount would see you everywhere. At the shops, the park, every ball, there was even a time Anthony could have sworn you were in his bed beside him only to find out it was just an all-too-real dream. In hopes of getting you out of his head, he began pursuing you. Not in hopes of marriage, Anthony had carefully planned out every minute you shared together to avoid such a thing, but in hopes of turning his dream into a reality. And it worked. It worked far better than Anthony thought it would. Every moment he spent getting lost in your body felt better than it had with any of the women he had slept with before. He craved you more than he had ever craved anything in his entire life. While your moments together were fleeting, he made every minute count and seared the memory into his brain.

Now that you were under the same roof as him, he could barely hold himself back. His siblings had coerced you to join their game of Pall Mall earlier in the evening and each time your ball and his sat near each other, it took every ounce of Anthony's strength not to pull you to the side and kiss you senseless. After the game, he stepped closer to your side, inconspicuously whispering into your ear to meet him in his study at midnight. If everyone else in the house was asleep, he could have you all to himself for hours. As long as the two of you ended up in your respective bedchambers by dawn, no one would be any wiser.

While waiting for the clock to strike twelve, Anthony tried to keep himself busy by going over a few papers, but eventually the dry scratching of his quill and the flickering light of the candle beside him began to make his head spin. Tossing the pen to the side and rubbing his face with his hands, the door finally creaked open. Leaning back in his chair, a smirk grew on Anthony's face at the sight of you shutting the door behind you.

"Took you long enough." he quipped, gazing at you with tired eyes. You returned his smile and approached the desk.

"It is better to be safe rather than sorry, my lord. I did not want to risk someone catching me outside of my chambers like this~" Your hand began to fiddle with the hastily-tied knot on your robe. With a light tug, the robe was untied and fluttered open to reveal that you donned only a chemise under it.

Anthony sucked in a breath, dark eyes trailing over your figure. Yes, he had seen you in less before, but you looked too damned stunning in everything you wore, no matter how many layers it consisted of. Even at the social events both of your families "coincidentally" attended, he could not tear his eyes away from you.

You stepped closer to his side, his hand wasting no time in settling on your hip. He was looking at you like how a puppy eyed its beloved owner. You kept that analogy to yourself, knowing full well that he would rid it the moment he became aware of it, but it was perhaps the most beautiful look he had ever worn. Your opposing hand came up to graze his cheek before your fingertips peaked into his hair. Anthony's eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your hand and turning to press a soft kiss to your palm.

"Always so eager." you said, smiling down at your lover. You caught the faintest, briefest smile on his lips before he kissed your palm once more with a deep hum.

"You cannot blame me." Anthony's voice was low and filled with passion as he replied, "Not when I have the prettiest lover in all of Great Britain," he paused to squeeze your hip, his fingers digging into the fabric of your chemise, "Right at my fingertips."

"Aw..." you teased, leaning down to meet his lips. Anthony lets out a low moan into the kiss as his hand slides from your hip to around your waist, guiding you down to straddle him in his chair. Your warmth was the comforting sort, the image of you in his lap serving as a reminder that Anthony had you. You were his, sitting so prettily above him, and deep down, while it hurt his pride to admit such, Anthony knew he was yours.

In the glow of the fireplace, the two of you held each other close, hands exploring previously conquered patches of skin. You had tugged his vest open as one of his hands slid under your chemise to grab your ass. His lips had left yours to trail hot kisses along your neck. Your breathy pants fanned against his ear while he suckled your clavicle, wishing so desperately that he could leave a mark. Anthony knew he couldn't. You were out in society, someone the viscount had sworn to never rope into his rakish encounters. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin your reputation and find himself at the receiving end of your relative's pistol.

Anthony let out a low growl, pushing away the niggling reminder that he had compromised you. What a hypocrite he was. Had one of his sisters been in your position, he would have ripped their lover to shreds, but something about you felt different. A warm and welcoming feeling that Anthony had never experienced before. A feeling that was suffocating him as he lifted his head to peck your jaw before guiding you into another kiss.

You yanked at his shirt, ripping the top buttons out of their holes. Anthony groaned as your hand trailed down his clothed chest, grazing over his stomach and inching closer to his waistband. His lips leave yours, pressing a feather-light kiss to your cheek before his own hand slips down to meet yours, expertly unbuttoning his trousers.

Anthony Bridgerton was never a patient man, something you had known since your first night together. He was never selfish — in fact, he was quite a generous lover, always checking to make sure he wasn't moving too fast — he merely found it difficult to hold back at times. You were a drug. Perhaps the only thing that could make him completely drunk, aside from the occasional brandy. As he freed himself from the confines of his pants, he gazed up, his dark eyes shining with a lustful glint as they met yours.

You shifted above him and pulled up the skirt of your chemise enough for him to line up with your entrance. His free hand rested on your hip before slowly guiding you down to take him in. With a groan, he squeezed your ass as you situate yourself in his lap. His hands slid up to your hips, urging them to roll toward his.

Anthony held you close, enough for him to lean forward and mouth at your clothed chest. You always felt like heaven, so hot and tight. You made him feel alive. Anthony groaned against your chest as his fingers dug into your skin, mirroring the new grip you had on his shoulders. Your soft moans against his ear spurred him to help quicken your grinding, guiding you along the length of his cock.

Before you had met the viscount, you had known of his rakish ways from Whistledown's column. The woman had never been wrong so you had no reason to disbelieve her reports on Anthony's past conquests. Opera singers, actresses, several women in London's brothels, he had allegedly bed them all. He was the biggest rake in all of Britain, yet as he held you tight and fucked into you as if he loved you, you couldn't bring yourself to regret meeting him. It could have been your inexperience in these sorts of encounters, but you could have sworn the Anthony Bridgerton you saw during these nights was a better man than the one Whistledown knew. He was always so attentive and skilled and beautiful and...

You contracted around him, ripping a gruff moan from your lover's lips, his gaze focused on your connection as he controlled the movement of your hips. His short nails bit through the thin cotton of your chemise, his own hips thrusting up to meet yours.

"Fuck..." Anthony groaned almost too quiet for you to hear. He always found it hard to last longer than you, yet another difference between you and his past lovers. He was already close and, judging by the way your moans took on a higher pitch, you were not far behind. One of his hands left your hip to slip under the bunched front of your dress, thumbing your clit in the exact way he knew you liked.

You squeaked out a moan, your grip on the back of his shirt hardening. "Anthony...Oh god, Anthony..." you repeated his name like a prayer.

Suddenly, your orgasm hit, stilling your hips and moaning into his shoulder. Like he always did, Anthony coaxed you through your release, continuing his ministrations and pressing soft kisses to the side of your head. Once your moans subsided, the hand on your clit left to rest on your back. You kept your face buried in his shoulder as he panted into your ear, his own sounds growing closer together as he chased his release.

You lifted your head enough for Anthony to steal your lips again. With another groan, he thrusted up into you one last time before his come began to fill you. He held you tightly against him as he deepened the kiss.

You moaned and weaved your hand into his hair. You didn't want the kiss to end. The moment it did meant your time with Anthony was coming to an end. You would have to return to your bedchamber alone, knowing the man you had accidentally started falling for was under the same roof.

Meanwhile, Anthony had no plans of letting you go once leaving your lips to catch his breath. He glanced to the nearby clock. It was only one in the morning, plenty of time to keep you locked in the study with him. He should be free to have you until six, when the maids would begin wrapping their wake-up calls on the residents’ doors. After only a few gulps of air, Anthony's lips were back on yours, keen on having you in every position he's dreamed you in.

Anthony Bridgerton never planned on catching feelings. Hell, his entire plan for the season was to find a wife he wouldn't fall for, yet as he admired you in the euphoric state he had put you in, he was starting to think his plan had failed.

#anthony bridgerton #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton smut

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feyascorner · 1 year ago

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4 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. Astarion, if anything, you are sure is a liar. It’s impossible to tell what he’s truly thinking and whether his words hold an ounce of truth. You just wish you’d been an exception.

With lidded eyes locked with your own in a trance you can’t break ahold of, he sinks his teeth into her neck.

You’re at a complete loss of words, and you feel nothing but shame knowing that rather than the distaste you should feel, you feel something else.

Bitter. Not jealous, no, not quite, but really damn bitter.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 7.6k words,,, but have a bit of Astarion POV somewhere in here featuring Gale!!

You’re dying again.

But rather than the usual nightmare consisting of him pinning you to the ground with his hands on your throat, he’s standing above you. In that dark alleyway a week ago, where the spawn had nearly taken your life. The ground feels muddy again, and despite there being nothing at your neck, you still can’t breathe.

And then, you’re alive again, lurching up from your mattress with sweaty skin sticking your nightwear to your body. After your eyes adjust to the bright sunlight flooding into your room through the window, you sigh.

You want to ask if he’d been real. If he’d truly been there that night, saving your life against the spawn despite his words just the other night. Despite the stomach-churning way, he looks at you.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

It doesn’t take you long to get ready. When you clamber out your door, your eyes glaze over his own, standing still as a rock just beside yours. Even though you know he’s right there, just a wooden door away, it doesn’t feel like it at all. He feels like an illusion—perhaps a ghost to haunt you for what you’d done to him. He’s been here for days now, and somehow, you feel further from him than you did when he was just a shadow of your past. Lingering. Driving you mad.

In some ways, this is worse.

Especially with the way your last interaction concluded, you’d expect yourself to feel nothing but negative turmoil for him. Yet, with the dreams haunting you every night and the endless afternoons you spend wallowing in your experiences with him in the past, it’s hard to do so.

Even more so when the terrifying force of hope grabs hold of you like a shackle to the heart.

You’re not sure if what you saw that night as an angel was really him or if you were simply hallucinating as a last-ditch attempt to console your imminent death. You hope—no, you question if he’d been the one to save you and fetch the Fist. Unfortunately, you have nobody to ask, as none of your other companions seem aware that you’d “seen” Astarion at death’s doorstep and the embarrassment that floods you intends to keep it that way.

It had to be him, surely. Why else would he have been at Elfsong Tavern that same exact day? Why else had Petras seen him the night before that, murdering that blond elf seconds after you’d been there?

Astarion, if anything, you are sure is a liar. He’s like this by nature, like an instinct resulting from the centuries spent under Cazador’s dreadful rule. It’s impossible to tell what he’s truly thinking and whether his words hold an ounce of truth. You just wish you’d been an exception.

‘Did you save me? Why?’ you want to ask desperately. You curse your past self for ending your last conversation that way. You’d hoped it would’ve at least gone a bit better.

“Perhaps we should throw him back in the Duke’s dungeon,” Lae’zel grumbles, tearing at her piece of bread as she sits on the armchair in the living space downstairs. Why she prefers such stale food is beyond you. “That istik is clearly not helping.”

“Give him time,” you mumble, thankful that at this time of morning, most of the house is still asleep. Only you or Lae’zel seem to be awake at the break of dawn. “We don’t have much of a choice anyway, given nobody else we know is a vampire spawn.”

“I’ve already given him tenfold the time I wish to give him. If it were up to me, he’d already be dead.”

“He is dead.”

She doesn’t laugh. You snort and reach to the cabinet, where instead of your usual supplies, you find a bottle. The crimson liquid at the bottom is scarce, but there’s just enough for a few more sips if you ration it right, which is what you assume he’s been doing, considering he hasn’t asked once to go hunting.

You wonder if he’s feasted on the necks of poor beautiful maidens in the city, captured by his charm and lured to an untimely end. You imagine their long, silky hair falling across their face as they bare their necks for his teeth, wincing the first few moments they sink down. But afterward, it would feel intimate—close, even—as he lets their blood sully his own. And once he finally pulls away with a piece of their lifeline, he’d grin down at them with stained lips painting them like lipstick…

Your brows furrow, but not for them. You seriously hope he just fed on goblins, or something along those lines. You’d even look past gnomes.

“T’chaki. Whatever disgusting thoughts you’re having, I suggest you stop,” Lae’zel snaps, and you blink. “And put that bottle away. You look like you want to devour it yourself.”

You do so sheepishly. “Please tell Gale to take Astarion to the forest to gather more blood. He’ll starve to death at this rate.”

“That would be ideal. Though I wouldn’t have the pleasure of putting my own sword through his chest.”

Your frown is visibly apparent, and it deepens her own. “Such a declaration shouldn’t displease you. My people believe an attempt at murder is enough to declare war. You should be trying to kill him, should you not? He is hshar’lak.”

“For the last time, I’m not going to-”

“She’s right, you know. As rare as that is,” you nearly jump at the cleric’s voice, though Lae’zel only glares. She’s leaning on the doorway, chewing on a half-eaten apple. “I won’t force him to leave, but I do hope you seriously reconsider your decision to harbor a vampire spawn. We trusted him once, and it didn’t end so well. I’d prefer avoiding making the same mistake again.”

He saved me, you want to say. The words are on the tip of your tongue before you reel them back, sealing them into your own heart. “Why are you awake so early?”

“We’re out of supplies,” she says. “I’m going to the market. Care to tag along? I wouldn’t hate the company.”

Your eyes flicker to the stairs as if expecting something, but you force yourself back to your companions and nod. “Alright.”

He was a magistrate.

At least, that’s what he remembers. His memories of the days before his heart stopped beating are fuzzy, like they’re muffled by water as he drowns in the unending 200 years of torture. Even without Cazador, even after stabbing through his corpse a dozen times, it doesn’t feel enough. It will never be enough.

He hears the front door open downstairs and finds himself lowering his book a tad to peer down outside the window his bed is pressed up against. You clamber out, stumbling over yourself as you tie your boots halfway through the door. He can hear you calling into the house through the thin glass panes. “Apples, pork loin, what else?”

“Bread and cheese!” another shout downstairs. It’s the cleric, he deems from the tone of her voice.

“Right, right,” you snort, waiting for her to catch up with you.

His eyes don’t leave you as you make your way down the street, eventually vanishing as you round a corner leading to the main marketplace of the city. And when you’re finally gone, his attention flits back to his book, rereading the page for what feels like the millionth time.

He likes reading—as much as he can, anyway—when he’s not hunting or running from the sun as if it’ll chase him down even in the shadows. He has three books. And if someone were to ask, he’d be able to recite them all by memory.

He had a fourth one, once. One you’d gifted him, but no longer does he want it. It sits under the bed, gathering dust for what he hopes to be forever.

He hasn’t spoken to you in days, and he expects nothing less. He hasn’t spoken to anyone, really, only receiving glares from Shadowheart, ignored by Lae’zel, and—well, Gale, he supposes, offers conversation, but Astarion’s the one to avoid those particular interactions. The wizard’s absence is not the only one he’s grateful for.

Yours, for one, after how your last conversation ended, is not one he wants to risk another of. Yet, the past few days, despite never daring to approach him, he’s seen you looking from afar with the eyes of a kicked pup. But the second he comes too close, your guard is up again, your words curt, and sentences abruptly ending in his presence. Only when you think he doesn’t notice do your true feelings surface in this pathetic display. He almost pities you.

Unfortunately, in all the realms of words he’s described himself as he has never considered himself a sympathetic person.

He revels in your obsession with him. One that he will no longer reciprocate.

He glances at the empty jar of blood on the bedside table and clenches his jaw.

A hefty bit of time later, when he’s sure most have left the home, he climbs down the stairs where the first floor is still overtaken with darkness. The curtains have been put up in a clumsy manner, but they do their job efficiently enough, as he’s allowed to pace across the wooden floors and reaches for a drawer beside the sink. There’s a glass bottle of animal blood inside–it’s running dangerously low.

“You look awfully drained.”

Astarion fights the urge to groan at Gale’s voice.

“If that’s your attempt at vampiric humor, I hope you’re aware it would only have hungry spawns lunging for your neck,” he shoots back, snatching the bottle and popping it open with a swift move of his thumb and lifting it to his lips. He drinks, gulping down whatever’s left. While on any other occasion, he’d feel appalled at not even using a goblet, his hunger has been itching at him for days, now. If he didn’t know how foul Gale’s blood tasted, he might’ve even considered the damned wizard.

“I’m warning you, I taste positively terrible.” Ah, he must have been staring.

“I assure you, I’d more likely scout the city for rats before drinking another drop of your blood,” Astarion retorts back, setting down the glass bottle. “Now, please hurry and tell me what in the hells you want before I escape for those aforementioned rats.”

“Adjusting well to your life here, I presume?”

Astarion stares at him like he grew a second head.

“I was jesting.”

“You do a poor job at it.”

Gale sighs irritably. “You haven’t come downstairs in days; we’d thought you were dead already…again.”

“I’d rather not be in the presence of multiple people who appear ready to lop off my head at any moment,” Astarion snaps. “As much as I’d love decapitation for my cause of death, now is not the right time for such events.”

Neither of them laugh.

“The others…” Gale takes his time talking as if he’s searching for words that aren’t there, and it makes Astarion’s eye twitch. “You understand why they’re apprehensive about you being here. In all honesty, I am too.”

The spawn’s brows knit together, and he rolls his eyes. “Whether or not they want me here, it was their choice to keep me trapped in this bloody house. Even when I insisted I didn’t know a damned thing about what my dear siblings were up to, your leader chose to “take responsibility” for me...whatever that means. So by all means, Gale, just open the door for me, let them know I won’t be returning, and you’ll never see me again.”

Astarion expects him to yell at him, snap at him, maybe even cast a spell, but he expects him to do something with the words that spill out of his mouth like vomit. But instead, the wizard opens his mouth, shuts it again, and seems to be in thought. “I haven’t heard you talk for so long in ages. Nice to know your endlessly running mouth is still there.”

“You’re one to talk.”

He snorts, his eyes flitting to the curtains messily nailed onto the wood surrounding the windows, and Astarion can see his face fall. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you go, for I’ve made a promise with Tav to check in on you in place of themselves…and the others, of course. And I may be a man of many words, but I am not a man of lies.”

Astarion almost laughs at the irony. “Is that what hiding the bomb in your chest was? Honesty?”

“Oh, please,” he waves him off. “That was eons ago! And besides, I’ve got that all sorted now, so no more eating magical pairs of shoes…thank the Gods. Though the magical enhanced gems weren’t so bad-”

“Please tell me someone other than yourself will be hovering over me like a parasite.”

“I’m afraid not,” Gale smiles. “Lae’zel wouldn’t hesitate for a vampire head hanging over the fireplace, Shadowheart would most likely place a curse on you, and Tav rarely comes home at all. So, unfortunately, and also most fortunately, you are stuck with yours truly.”

Astarion groans. And though he’s about to shoot him with another quip, the front door swings open, and Shadowheart steps into the house. When she notices him standing beside the kitchen, her body visibly tenses.

“You’re supposed to stay in your room.”

“I’m also not supposed to starve to death in that room, as much as I’m sure you’d approve of that.”

Her gaze flickers to the empty bottle of blood, and immediately, her face hardens. She narrows her eyes, and Gale, as usual, steps forward. “Now, Shadowheart, let’s not get too hasty-”

“If you are ever starving to death,” she glares. “You best hope not Tav is the only person around. If you ever even ask them for their blood again, I’ll show you just how much blood you have stored up.”

Astarion scoffs, grinning. “Such a terrifying foe you are. But there truly is no need to worry so much. I don’t need their blood, and I never intend to ask them for a single drop again. Not anymore.”

Shadowheart looks only half convinced, but after a moment of contemplation, the atmosphere turns less rigid, and she sighs, stepping backward. “I really did not miss having a vampire in our home.”

He’s about to let out another condescending laugh when he hears a shift in the dirt outside the open door. Neither of the others seems to notice. “And for the record, if you ask me for blood, you’ll end up even worse.”

Right then, he watches you step into the house, arms stuffed with paper bags filled to the brim with fruits, meat, and bread, and you nearly stumble on your own legs as you try to guide yourself to the kitchen counter. “Did we really need this much for just a week?”

“Of course we did. My famed stew is not made so haphazardly, you know. It requires skills, talents, and lots and lots of patience-”

You finally set down the groceries and notice Astarion’s presence in the room. He knows you do because of the way your posture straightens, becoming more guarded. It makes the corner of his lips lift in a way that’s sure to make you uneasy.

But when your gazes finally meet briefly, you turn away as if it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

His eyes widen. Did you just ignore him?

He shifts, just enough to catch your attention, but all you do is listen to Gale’s ramble about his bloody stew. He’s sure nobody on Faerun gives a damn about his soup at this very moment, and you're no exception. Yet you’re clearly preferring his words over Astarion’s glares in such a blatant display.

You are ignoring him.

“Moving on,” Shadowheart groans. “We’re going to investigate the families of the spawn victims. We’ll let you know if we find anything. Oh, and tell Lae’zel she needs to move her weapons out of the living room before I throw them into the sewers myself.”

Gale shudders. “I’ll tell her, but certainly not those exact words.”

Astarion’s eyes follow you the whole time as you wait for Shadowheart at the door, hand holding a sheet of paper which he assumes to be the list of victim families. And the entire time, you refuse to even look in his direction.

It evokes something in him. He’s not sure what, but it does. Annoyance, he supposes.

Gale finally turns to him when you and Shadowheart shut the door closed behind you. “Now you and I can get groceries for you…as long as it’s only animals, of course.”

Another hour with the wizard might drain him of what remains of his life force (which is very little considering that he’s dead), and he thinks a few hours might just be the cause of his perishing.

There are too many bodies. Too much blood that reminds you of the evil that you believed was dealt with. Their families weep, and you can do nothing but stand to the side, watching as they claw at the Fist’s uniforms, begging to know what could be done. Begging to see their loved ones again.

You feel selfish, almost. Having finally seen your own former beloved, you only allow yourself to watch from afar, afraid of getting any closer.

So you’d escaped the town square, fleeing to the roofs where you could properly assess any potential victims’ families and determine if they were even worth approaching in the emotional wreck they were in. The list of bodies nearly crumples under the crushing weight of your own hands. The silence looming across the rooftop patio is far more relaxing than the chaos below.

Well, save for the company perched beside you.

“So what’s with your lyre?” Alfira blinks. “Where is it?”

“Sold it.”

“Why? That’s such a waste!” she frowns, rubbing at a smudge on her own instrument. “It was made of such fine wood too…I do hope you didn’t undersell that beauty.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe I should’ve sold it to you at a higher price.”

“If not your lyre…” she tilts her head, scooching her stool closer to yours. “Then what are you playing nowadays?”

“I don’t play anything.”

Her eyes widen. “You don’t play anything? What does that mean?”

“I quit, Alfira,” you sigh, finally turning to look at her. “I’m not technically a bard anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Once you’re a bard, there’s no backing out of it. It’s in your very blood,” she explains, lifting her own lyre to you. “Go on, play something. I know you have it somewhere in you.”

Your face falls at her offer, but she remains firm, urging you to go on. It’s only when you realize she has no intentions of ignoring your words that you finally take the lyre into your own hands. It feels too foreign. It’s not your own instrument, but it’s a different kind of familiarity than that. While your fingers used to itch to sing their tales, you now feel nothing, just an empty husk of what once burst with inspiration.

Still, you try, even if just for show. Your finger tugs at one of the strings, letting it snap and vibrate its hum. You try another and another, but they’re all disjointed, barely managing to hold on to one another before your brows furrow, and you drop your hand. It just doesn’t feel right.

You hold it back to her. “I told you.”

“Well,” she looks down at her lyre. “I’m sure even the greatest bards have struggled with their music from time to time. It’s just a bump in the road.”

No, you want to tell her. It’s the end of the road, and there’s nothing you could possibly do to solve it, because you’ve already tried it all.

“Here, I started a new song,” she smiles hopefully. “Maybe it might spark your own musical talents. Care to listen?”

While a part of you is hesitant, the way she excitedly clutches onto the lyre makes you relent. “Sure.”

She begins to sing, and even if it’s better than it had been when you last saw her in the grove, it’s shaky. You suppose she must always be like this when producing a new song, at least until she grows accustomed to it. Still, it fills the air with a calm melody and drowns out the sounds coming from below on the streets, which you’re grateful for.

The breeze feels nice on your skin. You let your shoulders drop, closing your eyes as you drink in the notes produced by her lyre.

“I don’t need their blood, and I never intend to ask them for a single drop. Not anymore.”

The words echo in your head. It shouldn’t hurt you, really, you didn’t intend on giving it to him anyway, but a sick part of you wishes he could’ve at least asked, and you could’ve been the one to reject him. Not the other way around.

It feels like getting rejected for a confession you never made.

You blame yourself for eavesdropping.

“So? What do you think so far?”

You barely register that her song has ended, forcing you to focus back on the bustling city below. With a clear of your throat, you nod. “It’s good, it’s just…”

Her eyes seem to glow as she leans towards you, curious to hear your next words. Why she has so much faith in your advice is beyond you. You’d helped her with her last song, but it’d just been a stroke of luck that you managed to capture the emotions she wanted to convey through its notes. It certainly did not help that you hadn’t touched an instrument in months. “...Nevermind. I’m not sure what I was trying to say there.”

Her smile drops, and she holds her lute closer to her chest, nodding. “I see. It’s a shame.”

What she’s referring to, you’re not sure.

She digs through her pocket, managing to scrape out a crumpled sheet of paper which she puts on your lap. You do your best to make out the words messily scribbled on the sheet, which you determine to be the unfinished song. While you shoot her a wary look, she pushes the paper back to you when you attempt to offer it back.

“I have faith in you. More than anyone else, for a song like this,” she smiles. “You don’t have to help me finish the song like last time. Just absorb it. At least read the lyrics for me, will you?”

You want to say no, but you end up pocketing the sheet instead.

After you say your farewells, leaving her to continue humming to herself, you regroup with Shadowheart. Your own spirit falls when judging from her expression, she’s had even less success than you.

“We’re going around in circles,” Shadowheart sighs beside you. “None of the families know anything, and as much I’d love to stay an hour at each house to console them, at this rate, we’ll die of old age before finding these spawn…are you listening?”

You blink, snapping back into attention as you turn to her. “Did you say something?”

She raises a brow at you. “And what are you so distracted for?”

Mourning something that hasn’t happened, but you don’t tell her that. “It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t appear convinced, but neither does she pry. You’ve always had a mutual understanding with her when it came to one another’s secrets—don’t push. And even when either of you want to, you stay true to your silent agreement. You’re grateful for it at times like these.

Suddenly, there’s a bump to the left of you, not enough to make you stumble, but enough to make you glance back. They’re small, and you assume they’re a halfling or dwarf, despite their shoulders seeming too narrow. However, you forget about the details when your eyes hone in on their bare feet, absent of any shoes, much less socks. Something is wrong. Very wrong. When you look back up, you barely catch the way their hand slips back into their cloak, and immediately, your own flies into your pocket, where you’re now missing your dagger.

Shit.

You break into a sprint, forced to ignore Shadowheart, who calls out for you from behind, as you try to chase the hooded figure who swerves through the crowd of people on the street. Despite the people who curse and hiss as you shove through them, you’re only barely managing to tail the small cloaked figure, and in no such world are you willing to lose that dagger under circumstances that are not your own.

It’s pathetic, you know, to hold on to such a small part of him for so long. You’re sure he’s thrown away all of your own belongings, so why hold onto the dagger he kept strapped to his chest for months, holding it near his heart? You reckon this may be a blessing brought upon the gods who pity you, and you ponder if they’re watching you now, laughing at your pathetic display of desperation.

Still, you refuse to let it go like this.

The figure turns an alley, and your feet pick up. It’s a dead end.

You screech to a halt, slipping out a smaller blade that glints in the light allowed to seep into the isolated corner, eyes narrowed. The figure stands with its back to the wall, and you gawk at the way their shoulders shake as if they’re laughing to themselves. “Give it back, thief.”

They don’t budge, only continuing to tremble, and eventually, you’ve had enough. You march toward them, yanking back their hood with your knife, readied to retaliate if they dare, but immediately, your face pales. At the same time, Shadowheart finally manages to catch up to you.

“Hells, this crowd is a disaster,” she hisses, dusting off her shoulders. Then she shoots you a frown, eyes flitting back and forth between you and the supposed thief. “Whose child is that?”

You realize she hadn’t been laughing but shaking from fear.

She’s tiny. Unnaturally frail for her age which you guess to be around 9 or 10, which you note before letting her go from the grasp you have on her cloak. And from up close, you see that her bottom lip has been gnawed raw, still red from the last time it bled. She’s grasping onto your dagger for dear life, looking up at you with wary wide eyes, and you find your face relaxing. You bend down on one knee so you’re not just staring down at her, sighing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, really.”

Her trembling eases a bit, but her grip around your dagger tightens. In her hands, it almost looks like a sword. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you angry. I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

Shadowheart steps to stand beside you. “Please tell me this child isn’t yours?”

“No, of course not!” you snap, and she snickers. You roll your eyes and turn back to the girl. “I won’t hurt you; I swear my life on it. But I need that dagger you’re holding.”

She hesitates, her eyes desperately searching for honesty in yours.

“It’s—important to me,” you mumble sheepishly. “Please.”

You watch her glance between you and the blade in her hands multiple times, then slowly reach it out to you. You offer her a smile, sheathing it beside your hip once more. You feel whole again. “Thank you. Now, I won’t tell your parents this time, but you really can’t go around stealing people’s things–”

“Berry!” she blurts.

You blink, and she picks at her own hands. “I live with Miss Cora.”

The puzzle pieces click in place.

“You’re the one Cora has to lull to sleep.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you regret them with how her cheeks puff and paint her face a light shade of pink.

“You’re one of the orphans, then, I presume,” Shadowheart crosses her arms. “Any reason why you’re lurking in the city—without shoes, might I add—and robbing people of their belongings?”

“I wasn’t trying to steal,” she insists, then meets your eyes. “I didn’t know how else to talk to you alone.”

“Alone? With me? Why?”

“I know where Roger—I mean, Miss Cora’s husband went that night,” she looks down. “I didn’t know who else to tell. I wasn’t supposed to be out…but I needed fresh air. And…And I saw…”

You hold your breath. “Where did he go?”

“It was the Blushing Mermaid,” she splutters. “He went and never came back. I-I can’t tell Miss Cora…If I do, she’ll hate me and kick me out. I can’t leave, so please, don’t tell her.”

Shadowheart leans to your ear. “That’s not possible. He couldn’t have been there.”

No, you think. You’d been there. You’d been at the Blushing Mermaid that night, and while you weren’t exactly in the best state of mind, you surely couldn’t have missed a literal murder taking place. Regardless, you shake away your lingering doubts and take her shoulders.

“We won’t,” you assure her. “For now, I need you to go back to Miss Cora. It’s not safe in the city by yourself right now.”

She wipes at the tears threatening to spill from her eyes with her arm and nods firmly, readjusting her hood and cloak so that her entire body is covered once more. You place a hand on her head.

“Thanks for telling me, Berry. I’ll find out who did this to Roger, and you’ll be the first person to know,” You manage the best smile you can at the moment. “And please, next time, just tap my shoulder.”

Her lips purse, and she flees to the Highberry residence.

“Well,” Shadowheart finally uncrosses her arms. “At least we have a lead now. It was starting to feel hopeless—though I’m not sure if this is a lead at all.”

Regardless of your own doubts, time is running out. Every night you spend with no progress is another waste of nearly a dozen lives in the city. So you shove aside your skepticism and sigh. “It can’t hurt to try.”

“What do you mean he just left?” Lae’zel seems just about ready to stab her sword through Gale’s chest, and you can’t bring yourself to blame her.

“I’m telling you, he just vanished! Into the thin air, nearly,” Gale groans in exasperation, throwing up his arms. “We were returning from the forest after his hunt, and I didn’t even look away. One second he was there, and the next-”

“He’s a rogue, you foolish wizard,” the githyanki hisses, and you cross your arms beside her, offering Gale no sympathy. “We must go search for him, drag him back, and keep him pinned to a wall with a spear.”

At this, you balk. “Well, no, we’re not going to-”

“And you,” she spins around to you. “You must stop defending the spawn over your unreciprocated feelings. Your urges to make love may remain, but his does not.”

Your face flares, and you hear Gale nearly drop the book he’d been holding.

“I am not—”

“It’s painfully obvious to the rest of us. It’s been days since he joined us, and all of us must deal with your imploring eyes while he seems promptly set on ruining every conversation any of us have with one another,” she continues, and as such, in Lae’zel fashion, she does not hold back the sting of her words. “I am indebted to what you’ve done for me, and for that, I cannot stand aside and watch you reduce yourself to this lovesick mutt over a bloodsucking leech.”

Gale clears his throat. “Lae’zel, now I believe that’s more than enough to-”

“Seal that mouth of yours, wizard, before I rid of it for good.”

He does so immediately.

You stare at her, appalled at her words. Imploring eyes? Lovesick mutt? You don’t even want to mention the bloodsucking leech comment. All you can do is keep yourself from opening your mouth, in fear that something that sounds dangerously close to defending Astarion might escape against your will.

A smart choice, as Lae’zel sighs, her patience wearing thin.

“You are a warrior. One of the most formidable I’ve come across,” she scowls. “Do not disappoint me this way. You do not owe him anything. That kainyank is the one who nearly took your life.”

A part of your heart cracks. You ignore the stinging in your palms as your nails dig into them, unsure what you’re even supposed to say at this point, and you fumble over your own words dying to escape your throat. Because you do owe him something. Because if your suspicions are true, you do owe him for the night you encountered the spawn, and the night before that, when you came across Petras. Being indebted to him feels like another battle in itself, and you’re not sure if you want it to be true or not. You don’t have the heart to tell her that.

So instead, you snatch your dagger from where you’d last placed it down and march for the door.

“Tav, please, don’t leave like this,” Gale reaches for your arm, but you yank it away.

“I’m going to bring him back,” you say, but it’s more of a demand. A tone you rarely use toward your own companions, but you can’t bring yourself to care at the moment.

Lae’zel hisses as you’re halfway out the door. “You are a fool to be unable to see that he does not care for you.”

He had saved you. A person who does not care about you does not bother to save you.

You clutch the dagger close to your heart, and you ignore how cold it feels in your hand.

By the time you’ve run through most places he could possibly be, you finally arrive at the Sharess’ Caress, panting as you stare up at the taunting aura of the building. You don’t know how many hours have passed since you left the house–-perhaps days, or even minutes, but every second feels like a million more than it should. You push through the door, barely managing to catch your breath, as you’re immediately greeted with the aroma of a thousand different perfumes.

The fumes make you scrunch your nose, and you’re quickly slammed into the last memory of entering this place. The woman at the front desk, the windows draped with curtains to prevent most if not all the light spilling into its halls, the music echoing from the more private rooms for personal viewing…

You hate it all.

“Ah, savior, you’re back!” a voice says, and you flinch at it. One of the drow twins, Nym, waves you toward her, but you don’t budge. “It’s been months since you last rejected my advances, hasn’t it? I suppose you couldn’t resist yourself and came back-”

“Where is he,” you spit, your voice wavering. You don’t mean to be rude to her, truly, but your patience is close to nothing, and you don’t know how much longer you can go before you have to take a rest and return to the house in shame. At the very least, you have to drag Astarion back with you.

She pauses, then motions upstairs. It seems she understands the urgency in your tone because she steps out of the way, urging you forward. So with a nod of acknowledgment, you march up the stairs towards one of the more luxurious private rooms.

Door after door, you’re greeted with an empty room. Only when you come to the final room do you hold your breath, fist nearly shaking from merely knowing he’s on the other side. Lae’zel’s words echo in your head like an insistent tadpole, unable to force it to leave or quiet down. You opt to overrule it with the sound of the door swinging open.

There’s a woman.

Though you manage to release your breath when you see that she’s fully clothed, the collar of her shirt is pulled back, revealing her neck for the spawn who has his fangs bared inches from her skin. She doesn’t seem to notice you despite the ruckus you made entering the room, too lost in the man in front of her, but he does. His attention flickers to you and stays there, not showing an ounce of surprise as if he expected you here.

With lidded eyes locked with your own in a trance you can’t break ahold of, he sinks his teeth into her neck.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks and all you can do is stare in disgust, eyes wide but your legs unwilling to unplant themselves from the wooden floors. Your sandwich from earlier threatens to hurl the other way, and your nails dig into the skin of your palms, nearly breaking the skin. You’re at a complete loss of words, and you feel nothing but shame knowing that rather than the distaste you should feel, you feel something else.

Bitter. Not jealous, no, not quite, but really damn bitter.

He tears away from her neck, blood staining his lips as you remain planted in the ground. The woman gasps, and her hands fly up to her neck. Even now, he’s only staring at you.

“Thank you, dear customer,” she rasps gratefully, despite how pale she looks. He doesn’t even acknowledge her until he wants her out.

“You can leave now.”

She looks back and forth between you and him, surely noticing how he doesn’t seem remotely fazed at how you’re glaring daggers at him and nods, scrambling to leave.

The door shuts with a loud thud.

You watch him reach to wipe at his mouth, your voice hollow and cold. “Are you done?”

“Clearly, seeing as I made her leave.”

“We agreed that you wouldn’t drink from people.”

“We agreed I wouldn’t drink from people in the house,” he corrects, pacing toward the window where the moonlight had illuminated him as he drank from the woman’s neck. “I kept my word.”

He leans against the windowsill, and you take a step toward him, still keeping a hefty distance. “She’ll report you to the Duke. My word won’t be much help if he insists to throw you in a cell.”

“This is a house of pleasure, my dear. Nothing gets out of here if you have enough gold,” he laughs, throwing his head back. “How else do you think I’ve been getting my share of blood if I hadn’t gone around murdering the innocent?”

Your teeth grit together, eyes narrowed as you scan the state he’s in. Despite appearing nearly dead just hours earlier, his skin now seems to glow against the moon, the bags under his eyes having gone missing and leaving a wide grin on his face instead. If this was a few months ago, you’d admire him, but not now. You want to punch it off.

“You don’t look happy, darling,” he fakes a frown and makes his way closer to you. You swear your heart stops for a moment when he brushes his knuckles against your cheek. “Is it that woman? Are you jealous?”

You slap his hand away.

“Gods, is this all a game to you?” you blurt in exasperation. “I’m trying to understand you, Astarion, I really am. And all you keep doing is–”

“There is nothing to understand. This is just who I am.”

“I’m not a fool. Will you, for once in your life, please drop this mask and just talk to me?”

“What in the hells makes you so sure I’m lying? I must have made quite the impression on you when we still considered ourselves allies.”

You try not to flinch at that.

“You were there that night,” you say, but it comes out like a question. “When I was attacked by the other spawn. And the night before that with that guy from the tavern. You killed him without even drinking his blood.”

At this, the tone of your conversation shifts, at least from his end. His eyes darken as you take a step back. “Who told you that?”

“Petras.”

He seems taken aback for a moment but quickly recovers. You wish you could do the same. And the laugh that escapes his throat sounds like he pities you. “My dear, I didn’t realize you were so naive.”

You blink.

“He’s deceived you, I’m afraid. Probably covering for his own arse to stay on your good side. What spawn would want to risk pissing off an adventurer capable of killing a vampire lord? In the time we were apart, I’ve done everything in my power to avoid you at all costs. You can see why, can’t you?” he gestures to the air between you. “I mean, look at us, darling. We’re no good around each other.”

It hurts more than you’d like to admit, but your stubborn streak forces you to keep going. “That night with the spawn-”

“I must say that I’m rather flattered that I was the last thing you saw at the hands of death,” he laughs, and it sends shivers down your spine. “But I’m afraid that too was a gift from death. I, myself, had no part in it.”

“But why were you there then?” you’re starting to sound desperate. You want to slap your hand over your mouth but something tells you that would be even more humiliating. “Why were you with the Duke in the morning?”

“I was captured by the Duke days before he brought me to you. He spent the time interrogating me, and in the end, I gave him nothing, as I will do with you. I only found out about your—predicament when he did, and he decided you’d fare better in gathering information I do not have.”

You would’ve preferred to die in battle than to feel the crushing feeling of your own chest. You want to curl up in a hole and never crawl out.

“Now, is that all?” he asks, drinking in your defeat like a trophy he wished he could place on the top shelf of a glass cabinet. “Any other accusations you have to throw at me?”

Lae’zel had been right. Shadowheart had been right. All of them had been right, except for you. This was far more than you could handle, and you had been foolish to think otherwise. The hope you held onto now dwindles into a small flame that can easily be blown out by a few selective words--those of which he has full authority over.

“Have you always been this cruel?” Tears threaten to well in your eyes, but you force them back, veiling them with all the strength left in your voice. Now, you just sound angrier. “You’ve never been a good man, but you weren’t a heartless one either.” You wonder if maybe that was a lie as well. The loving words, the soft touches, the gentle eyes. That perhaps the guise you’d thought you’d seen through was not a guise at all.

“Is that what it was then?” his face falls. “Did you stop the ritual to keep a feeble man by your side?”

Feeling is not weakness, you want to scream at him, but you know it'll do no good.

“Ascension would have changed you, and it’s not for the better. You know what Raphael said. I just did what I had to for the sake of your safety.”

“Power would have made me safe. From the world, from the sun, from people like you. Now I rot away in this destroyed city with nothing to feed on but stolen cattle and rats.”

“You’re not listening to me. You would’ve lost your soul, and become like Cazador–”

His composure cracks at that. “Don’t you dare speak of that devil.”

“Don’t give me reasons to.”

The air is thick enough to slice with your dagger. With squinted eyes, he scans your face before continuing slowly.

“Darling,” despite the term of endearment, it doesn’t sound endearing at all. “You are searching for sympathy from a man who does not have any left to give.”

“You did have sympathy,” you hiss. “With Yenna, with Shadowheart, with the owlbear, with Lae’zel, Karlach, and the rest of the damn city, you did. It wasn’t obvious, but you felt for them.”

“Perhaps once. For a fleeting moment. That moment is not now.”

There’s nothing that you can say to that, really. All you can do is stare at him, eyes wide and unable to choke out words, crying, screaming, anything. But now, the dagger you carry everywhere feels twice as heavy and twice as cold. You want to search his face for any signs of deception, but you’re too afraid of what you might find, so you force your eyes to the ground.

Silence hangs in the air like a chain tightening its hold around your lifeline.

“I was fine,” you whisper, face burning. “I was getting better. I was getting over you, and you came back.”

His hands limply fall to his sides. “You are the one who refuses to let me go.”

When you don’t respond, afraid your voice will crack and give out the last of the thin thread that holds you together, he steps toward you again, now a mere feet away. All you can see, and what you’re willing to see, is his chest as he breathes out his words. “Do you hate me?”

You have no idea, truly.

“You should.”

Lifting your head, you focus on his eyelashes rather than his eyes. Doing otherwise might provoke you to do something you’ll regret. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

The pause feels like another lifetime as your heart pounds rapidly, your palms feeling too clammy, and your throat too dry. He blinks, slowly.

“Yes. More than anyone."

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seijorhi · 1 year ago

Text

invidia ii

a (very belated) christmas present for my beloved wife @iwaasfairy who has, for two years straight, begged me for more shinnosuke content. i hope you like it bby! kuroo tetsurou x female reader, kuroo shinnosuke (oc) x female reader part i w.c 3.1k tw: noncon/dubcon, slight daddy kink, (forced) infidelity, yandere themes, nsfw, smut, age gap, i guess hints of breeding kink, dilf kuroo

“Why did your parents split up?”

Mid-way through pulling on a pair of old, grey sweatpants, mopping at beads of water from his shower still rolling down his bare chest, Shinnosuke throws you a curious look, but shrugs easily enough.

“They weren’t ever really ‘together’ to begin with. They tried the whole co-parenting thing to start with but mom… they never loved each other. Hell, I don’t even think they liked each other most of the time beyond–” he breaks off, his nose wrinkling in distaste. It almost makes you laugh. “Anyway, dad always said she had one foot out the door from the start. Dad was the one who stuck around to raise me.” There’s no animosity in his tone, he says it like it’s the simple truth. You’ve never met the woman, never having shown up to any of the Nekoma games, his graduation, any of it. You’ve seen a picture or two, overheard the odd phone call, but for as long as you’ve known him, the only real parent in Shin’s life has always been his dad.

If there’s anyone he idolises, it’s his father.

Which is why the words that he says next – casting aside the damp towel in the general direction of the laundry basket (boys) and sauntering on over to join you in bed – take you entirely by surprise. “We’ll go visit her in Golden Week. I want her to meet you.”

And again, the words are just that; words. Shin kisses you, a sweet peck on your lips, and wastes no time in scooping you back into his arms and settling back with a contented sigh. They’re just words, but there’s this look in his eyes when he says it that makes you think he means something more.

Your stomach flutters.

—

‘You really wanna break his heart like that, kitten?’

—

“Still not feeling any better?” Shin asks, brushing your hair back to feel your forehead. The beginnings of a frown start to take shape, teeth gently burrowing into his bottom lip, but he straightens and sighs, and that hint of discontent smoothes over like it had never existed in the first place. He strokes your hair again and offers a small, sympathetic smile. “No temperature, that’s gotta be a good sign, right?”

You’re a coward.

“It’s not my head, I just…” don’t have any visible, plausible symptoms for the fake illness that’s currently keeping you curled up in Shin’s bed. Away from the creep who’d smiled and fucking winked at you Christmas morning. “I just feel off.”

“Poor baby,” he coos, laughing when your face screws up and you swat at him.

Right now, swaddled in his hoodie, his fingers carding through your hair and that stupid, impish, almost believable grin beaming down at you, you want to forget. To pretend.

Because there’s a pit in your stomach. A bitter, gnarled, seething mass. This moment right now, in Shin’s bed, it’s like glass, paper thin and already cracked, it can’t possibly last, and yet you’re clinging to it so desperately, head buried in the sand, willing yourself to pretend, from one heartbeat to the next, that what’s happened won’t break the two of you.

That your stomach doesn’t threaten to upend when you catch sight of those hazel eyes peering down at you – the same shape and shade as his father’s.

You shudder out a breath, and what little levity there was between you two gets sucked out with it. Shin’s expression gutters.

Yeah.

His fingers don’t leave your hair, though. Playing idly with the strands as though the suffocating tension in the room doesn’t exist at all. “Dad’s taking us out to dinner tonight,” he tells you. Reminds you, because you knew all of this beforehand. Everything but the party. “Do you want me to run by the pharmacy to get you something?”

Another tap at the fractured glass.

That’s Shinnosuke all over, isn’t it? You might’ve been the manager back in the day, but it was always Shin who kept an eye on his team, on you, to make sure everyone was good.

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll–” the words get stuck in your throat. “I’ll see how I feel in an hour or so. ‘m still a little tired.”

“You want some tea, sweetheart?”

‘Shh, sweetheart, you gotta keep it down.’

A cold sweat breaks out on the nape of your neck. No. No, no, no, no–

“Baby?”

You flinch like he’s slapped you, jerking away from the hand he’s wound in your hair. The startled look he shoots you borders on wounded, but you’re already squirming towards the edge of the bed, stumbling to your feet like a newborn foal. “Bathroom,” you manage to eke out, your voice sounding far too strangled and hoarse to pass as anywhere near the realm of fine.

Shin doesn’t follow, doesn’t so much as utter a word – all kicked puppy confused – as you throw the door closed behind you and collapse back against it, a sweaty, ashen mess.

He usually calls you love. Baby. Princess when he’s being a little shit.

Sweetheart’s a rare one.

Your heart races, a runaway train pounding in your chest. His eyes, his touch, sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.

Another shuddering breath in. Out.

Fuck.

There’s a knock – not at the ensuite door, the sound’s too muffled for that, and you didn’t hear Shin’s footsteps (though you’re not sure you would, over the pounding in your ribs) meaning that the knocking’s at his door.

There’s only one other occupant in the house. Though you try your damndest to fight it, there’s no stopping the wave of panic that stabs through you. Shin’s door creaks open, soft voices barely creeping through the gap in the door, and your fingers go rigid, nails clawing at the black and white flooring as though you can ground yourself by breaking through it instead.

You don’t realise you’re crying.

Not until the droplets splatter on the tiles by your feet.

—

You should’ve left days ago.

After Christmas, when you’d ducked out from under Shin’s arm and lurched for the nearest bathroom, when it’d finally clicked for him that you violently hurling your guts up wasn’t the result of a simple hangover, you’d tried. Short of admitting the truth – and swinging a bat at the bees’ nest – convincing Shin to leave his dad’s place goes about as well as drawing blood from a stone.

He’s even less thrilled about the prospect of you going back by yourself, leaving him to spend what’s left of the week with his dad like they’d planned.

There’s only so far you can push without breaking something. You, probably. You and Shin, almost definitely.

Even so, you might’ve had more of a backbone if he hadn’t been so… Shin. All coaxing and concerned. Logical to a damn fault.

‘You don’t wanna be stuck in a car driving for hours when you’re feeling shitty, love, and besides, dad’s place is bigger than ours. Comfier. You’ll probably be on the mend by tomorrow anyway, so there’s no point in us heading back.’

If you weren’t trying to salvage what’s left, or maybe clinging to the idea that you can – and want to – then it would’ve been easier just to go.

You wouldn’t still be here, stuck in the house of the man who’d– who’d raped you.

You wouldn’t be avoiding your boyfriend’s eye.

You would’ve screamed the whole house down before Kuroo Tetsurou ever bent you over the kitchen counter.

But the gentle extrication in the early hours of the morning, Shinnosuke’s lips brushing against your cheek, the sleepy rasp of his voice as he mumbles a quiet, “Love you,” before slipping away – you barely stir, cozy and safe and content.

He loves you. Shin loves you.

A while later – minutes, maybe, or hours, it’s hard to tell when you’re still in the grips of sleep – the mattress dips under Shin’s weight, and those strong, sculpted arms seek your warmth again, you only sigh and lean back against him.

“I love you,” you whisper, not yet willing to open your eyes and face another day of lying to him.

The arm slung over your waist curls tighter, his face nuzzling into your neck. The kisses he leaves there aren’t affectionate, exactly, they’re not gentle, when teeth catch, nipping sharply at your skin, only to be soothed by a lave of his tongue.

And the laugh that rumbles at your back – a shade off your boyfriend’s – is anything but nice.

“Yeah? Fuck, you’re sweet in the morning.”

This time, you don’t hold back. You shriek, kicking out like a wild thing – or you would have, if Kuroo’s hand hadn’t clamped down on your mouth, if his weight hadn’t shifted so that rather than lying curled up behind you, he’s half on top of you, pinning you down to the mattress with a thigh lodged between yours.

“Uh-uh-uh, we were doing so good, kitten. Don’t you wanna be daddy’s good girl?”

Your only answer is a ragged noise, torn from somewhere deep inside of you. He chuckles again, grinds against you, his cock a thick, unignorable presence pressed at your ass. There’s nothing but the thin cotton of your sleep shorts separating it from you, and from past experience, that barrier won’t do much to deter him for long.

Kuroo rolls you onto your back and slots himself nicely between your legs. Naked, you realise with a fresh stab of fear.

You scream the moment his palm leaves your lips to capture your wrists, scream for Shinnosuke – for anyone – so loudly that it feels like you’ll bleed for it. Let him come running, find you pinned and squirming, terrified beneath the man who raised him.

Let it be the final crack that obliterates everything.

If Shin sees you like this, utterly petrified, on the verge of being raped again and still thinks it some kind of a betrayal, let him choke on it. You don’t care anymore, you just want someone to stop this.

(Shin wouldn’t, would he?)

But Kuroo only snickers. Leans over to lick along the edge of your lashes, where hot, glistening tears are already spilling over, trickling down to disappear in your hairline. “Your boy’s not here, but we don’t have long ‘til he gets back. You’ll forgive me if we bypass the foreplay this morning, right, sweetheart?” You shudder, goosebumps prickling where his breath washes over you, and you squeeze your eyes shut and violently – pointlessly – shake your head. “We’ll have to save eating your pretty little cunt for next time.”

All too eager, he hungrily captures your lips again and yanks down your shorts, taking your panties along with them.

Christmas morning, you’d been shoved face down over the kitchen counter while he’d fucked you from behind. You’d give anything for that distance right now. At least then you hadn’t had to endure his suffocating warmth, having him squeeze and grope at your tits over your old, threadbare tee.

You wouldn’t have to writhe away from his mouth while he rucks your bare thighs up either side of his hips, dragging you closer.

Even with your eyes screwed tightly shut, you can’t pretend that this isn’t happening as Kuroo spits and a heartbeat later the thick head of his cock slowly – agonisingly slowly – splits you apart.

You forget how to breathe.

Eyes popping open and back arching up into his chest, your fists clutch desperately at the sheets of Shin’s bed, trying to squirm away, only the grip he has on you makes sure there’s nowhere for you to escape to. He’s big, long, mostly, and you’re too tight to take him easily, especially without any prep. The spit doesn’t help any, and Kuroo doesn’t care, groaning out in pleasure as inch by inch he pushes himself deeper, until at last he’s seated firmly inside of you. “Good fucking giiiirl,” he purrs, a kiss pressed to the tip of your nose.

A tiny, drawn out whine is all you can manage when your lower half radiates pain.

“Gonna fuck this perfect pussy nice ‘n full,” he tells you. “Give you everything you need, sweet girl. You can take it. I know you can, you just gotta breathe for me.”

But unlike last time, he doesn’t allow you the luxury of a minute to adjust. His hips draw back and punch forward, jolting another mewling gasp from your lips. And again. And again. The pace isn’t violent so much as intense, like each thrust ignites something inside of him that burns for more.

He clasps your wrists in one hand, pants into your open mouth between frenetic kisses, groans out your name in that shuddering gasp.

“Mine,” he pants, beads of sweat dripping from his chest, his chin, rolling down onto you. “You’re daddy’s girl– fuck!”

Your cunt reacts accordingly, flexing around his cock, easing its passage so that the wet, lurid sounds of him fucking you quickly fill the air. A betrayal that has your cheeks flaming.

The muscles in your thighs burn, Kuroo all but forcing them back towards the bed, his weight driving into you with fervour. A quick adjustment to the angle of your hip and his cock hits a spot deep inside of you that has you choking on a moan of your own, a burst of bright, sizzling pleasure bleeding through the pain.

Kuroo grins ferally at the sound of it. Drops his weight on an elbow and bucks into you, hitting it again. Your inner walls twitch, squeezing and slick, dragging noises from you that make you wanna burn with shame – that, or cut yourself loose entirely. You can’t muster resistance when he swallows them down, sucking on your tongue, moaning into your mouth. His momentum turns rabid, his hand no longer encircling your wrists, but entangled with them, pressing them down to the mattress. “Almost… there…” he grunts, gasping as he curls over you, abs flexing.

A shudder rolls through him, his hips faltering just as something vital shatters inside of you, toes curling, white hot pleasure exploding from your core, rippling through your whole body like the aftershocks of an earthquake. With your pussy spasming around his cock, your body taut and locked with pleasure, Kuroo hurtles off that cliff right alongside you, a strangled noise somewhere between a moan and a growl escaping him as he pumps your cunt full of his seed, all but collapsing atop of you afterwards.

It takes a minute before he peels himself off of you; pushing himself up, braced on elbow so that he’s not crushing you entirely, Kuroo waits, buried inside your warmth, for you to stop trembling with the after effects of your orgasm, for his cock to soften and both of your breathing to even out.

Waits for those glazed over eyes to focus back on him and once again fill with tears, stroking a hand through your sweat-dampened hair as he does so.

“You should go take a shower before Shin gets home,” he says after a minute or two, his voice a low purr. “He can’t be far off.”

But aside from rolling off you to allow you up, Kuroo makes no moves to follow you, or so much as get up off the bed. Naked, his cock soft and glistening with your juices, one knee propped up, he watches you stumble like a newborn foal into the bathroom (only half managing to close the door behind you) with damn near predatory intent, a smirk teasing at his lips.

It’s where Shin finds you a short while later, curled up on the floor of the shower, shaking through silent sobs.

—

Shin doesn’t let go of your hand the entire trip home.

Uncharacteristically sober, he says little aside from the occasional murmur to check in with you – always unanswered – and keeps you tucked close, as though a fraction of distance between you might pry you from his side entirely.

The hours pass in a haze of… nothing. Your tears dry. Numbness takes over. You move like a robot, Shin guiding you every step of the way until you cross the threshold of your apartment.

He never asks what happened. You suppose the smell of sex in his bedroom and the bruises and love bites scattered over your body tell the tale well enough. Shinnosuke’s never been stupid. He’s not dense.

He’s not heartless, either.

In the sanctity of your tiny, shitty bathroom, you shower again. A proper shower this time, with the water turned up full blast, scrubbing viciously at your skin– or at least, you do until he steps in and takes over. You’ve never thought of your boyfriend as particularly gentle, but he pries the loofah from your hand with a delicacy you didn’t know him capable of and takes care of you, cleaning you up with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

You pretend not to notice how his eyes (so like his, sharp and hazel) narrow into a scowl every time he spots another bruise, another mark left by his father. Once or twice his fingers begin to ghost over them, burgundy fingerprints on your thigh, a love bite sucked into the delicate skin above your collarbone, only to catch himself, swallowing tightly and resuming his task like he’d never faltered in the first place.

When you’re done, he dries you both off and helps you into fresh clothes – a pair of comfy sweatpants and an old hoodie of his and guides you back to the living room, setting you down into his lap on the couch.

“I–” his voice is hoarse. Quiet, especially in the stillness of the apartment, and when you glance his way, he awkwardly clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I went to the pharmacy. I thought– I thought…” he trails off again, dropping his gaze. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Your heart twists, and it’s your turn to comfort him. Or maybe you’re comforting each other, shifting slightly in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around him and draw him in close, burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the fresh, clean scent of him. “No. I– it wasn’t…” but the words don’t come. You flounder.

What are you supposed to say? It wasn’t his fault? Wasn’t yours?

You should’ve said something earlier? Should’ve fought back harder – against both of them, should’ve grown a spine?

A beat passes in the tense, thick silence, and when it becomes clear that you’ve got nothing for him, he makes an odd sort of huff that sounds almost irritated. You frown a little, but you don’t fight it when his arms pull tighter around you, when his cheek comes to a rest against your hair and his hands seek yours, curling around your wrists and stroking at the skin there.

“We’ll get through this,” he vows. “I love you, this doesn’t change anything. It won’t change anything.” His lips meet the crown of your head in a soft kiss. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kuroo x reader #yandere kuroo tetsurou #yandere kuroo tetsurou x reader #oc: kuroo shinnosuke #tw: noncon

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mediumgayitalian · 9 months ago

Text

———

She brushes another kiss to his hidden face and settles against the car door, holding him. She thinks for a moment and decides on something old, a tune she heard on the radio once upon a time and never heard again; she’s warped it, now, no doubt about it, humming it from memory so long it’s changed to whatever she has made it. But Will recognises it from years of lullabies, picking up on the swooping baritones and mumbling the words into her shoulder.

“You know, that Han Solo shrine up in your room makes a lot more sense, now that I think about it.”

The melody dies in his throat.

“Mama.”

“I’m just saying.” She bites back a smirk, swatting away his smacking hands. “There was a point in time I thought it was admiration, you know, but you have a lot of posters of that open vest —”

“Mama!”

She acquiesces, this time, never having seen his poor face so scarlet, trying and failing to keep her laughter to herself. The tear tracks have long since dried and his breathing is steady, now, gangly limbs tucked into her ribs and hanging off the bend of her thigh. Flopped all over her like he used to to when he was young and she was still touring, when the world was too loud and too bright and too mean and she hid him from the sun. Her hands in his hair are to touch instead of soothe.

“Who’s the boy?”

“No.”

“C’mon, babydoll.” She pokes at his ribs, grinning widely when he rolls his eyes to hide his smile. “Tell me.”

“It’s nobody, Ma, gods.”

“Yeah, right. Not like you were comparing having a crush to killing someone in cold blood twenty minutes ago. Clearly it’s somebody.”

He, very pointedly, doesn’t answer.

Unfortunately, he forgets that he gets his stubborn from her.

“Hm. Can’t be anyone I haven’t heard of in a few weeks, or else it wouldn’t be bothering you. What names have you mentioned?”

He looks at her in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

Absolutely, she would. Her smile widens.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it ain’t Chiron, ‘cause then I’d have questions —”

“Oh my gods! Stop!”

“— an’ I doubt it’s that security fellow, with the eyes, although if it is no judgement —”

“I’m throwing myself out of this car! Right now! I’m gonna lay on the road ‘til someone hits me!”

“— Lord, you don’t mention many names. You’re a recluse, baby. You gotta make more than two friends.”

She stills. Will, perhaps guessing where she is going, makes a noise of deep, personal agony.

“Oh my stars, is it Cecil?”

“Ew, Ma!”

He strains against her hold but she tightens, hooking her elbow around his shoulders and flexing her other hand, pretending to examine her nails.

“It is, isn’t it? I mean, he is a very handsome young man. And he has a good heart, too, despite the — how to put it — distaste for the law —”

“I just threw up in my mouth! Right now! Stop it!”

“I should probably stop letting him stay in your room when he stays over, huh, that one’s on me —”

He wrenches himself away from her, finally, clambering over the seats and gagging like the mere idea makes him nauseous.

“Ew! Ew! I do not have a thing for Cecil, oh my gods, I might as well marry my cousin! Augh! I’m gonna throw up for real! Why would you even say that, oh my —”

“Alright, alright!” she laughs, kicking his rapidly repeating shoulder. “Holy Jesus, you are dramatic. I should call up camp and tell him you’re out here retchin’ at the mere thought.”

“Good,” Will says darkly, voice muffled from how deeply his head is buried in his hands, “make sure to also tell him he is a weasel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that I am going to deface his vintage Hot Wheels collection.”

“Y’all have a strange friendship.”

“He’s not my friend, I am stuck with him via circumstance and because he refuses to leave me alone.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, refraining from pointing out the friendship bracelet he is currently wearing with a CM on it and that has not left his wrist in four years.

“Alright, alright. Not Cecil.”

He scoffs in agreement, ignoring her rolled eyes.

She wracks her brain for other boys he’s brought up in their phone calls, aside from people in passing. Mostly he mentions patients, really, answering her endless inquiries — it will never stop astounding her that he baby can practically sew heads back on bodies; she tells people he’s in med school and preens at their wide, impressed eyes — but there are other people he mentions, in between that and the pranks he’s frequently pulling with his friends.

“There was that boy you were so excited to keep around. Nick?”

“His name is Nico,” he corrects, and then immediately goes scarlet. “I — I mean, I have a friend, named Nico, not that —”

Her grin gets sharp as nails.

“He is — unwell! He’s travelled a lot, he needs monitoring so I am — monitoring him, you know, out of concern for his safety —”

“Nico and Wi-ill, sitting in a tree —”

“Oh my gods are you five —”

“You are steaming! I can actually feel the heat pouring off of you right now! You love him, you want to kiss him, you —”

“I am never telling you anything again in my entire life!” he hollers. “Never! Next time I think I should tell you something I’m just gonna — swallow glass!”

She snickers. “Drama queen.”

He sticks out his tongue as she situates herself back in her own seat, turning the keys in the engine. His puts his dirty converse on the dash despite her grouching, reaching over to fight her for control of the radio, flapping his hand excitedly when she lets him win and something bright and overdone starts playing. His bandage stays where it is, tied loosely around his wrist.

“I’m glad you told me, you know.”

He smiles, small and genuine, leaning into the palm she cups around his cheek. The dimple in the centre of his right cheek is back, the scrunch of his freckled nose. She presses a lingering kiss smack dab in the centre of his forehead and he leans into it, trusting.

“I know.”

#okay THATS it #do i like this as much as the first part? no it’s less impactful. but it is fun so idc #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #naomi solace #will solace & naomi solace #solangelo #fluff #my writing #fic #longpost

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furybymoonlight · 6 months ago

Text

See Me (Now) - Part III [FINAL]

Pairing: Trent Alexander Arnold x OC/Reader

Warning/Genre: NSFW! Smut, Age Gap (3 years), Fluff, Angst, friends to lovers

Part I

Part II

***

“Drink.”

“I already did.”

She said, puzzled.

“Drink more, gonna have to make sure you’re perfectly sober and hydrated when I fuck you senseless at last.”

***

It was one in the morning. The streets of Liverpool were mostly empty as Trent’s G-Wagon made its way through the city. The man had just spoken to her once, in the beginning of their drive, to make sure that she’s using her seatbelt and that she’s not cold. He also didn’t play any music to fill the silence, which gave her a hint into his state of mind. He never drove in silence, except when he’s really tense or angry, or worse, both. It didn’t help that even in that situation, her body was still buzzing, not with alcohol, but a highly sexual charge, courtesy of the driver of the car.

Had they just done…whatever the hell it was? It still hadn’t fully registered in her mind, but she guessed it was real, because her lips were swollen, and her body was still burning. She had also now become hyperaware of everything about him, like the way he effortlessly steered the wheel with one hand, the hand that has touched her in ways that she had never even imagined, or how even in the dark of the car he still looked devastatingly handsome.

The tension in her took a hike as she entered his house, more of a mansion really, which he had just recently bought. She had never been there before, but she had seen the interior during their video calls. The living room was so grand, it could have fit dozens of her small crampy student apartment. She hugged herself, the fiery sensation in her body ebbing away. She suddenly felt small and out of place. Him and her…they were really worlds apart now.

“How much did you drink?”

He asked, catching her off guard, and all she could do was stared at him because she had no clue at all.

Seemingly catching on that her silence meant that she had drunk too much, Trent’s jaw tightened.

“I’ll get you something to eat.” He said before he made his way to the kitchen, leaving her alone.

She looked around her, wild questions and scenarios jumbling in her head. What was she doing here? Did he truly like her more than just life-long friend? If he liked her then why the hell did he kiss the girl in the club? Who was that girl anyway? Was he just playing with her now that he’s famous?

Her stomach dropped at that unbearable thought.

If he did treat her just as his plaything…it would destroy her, but even if he truly like her as a woman, should they really cross the line? They had a different life now. Would the risk be worth it? Their connection was everything for her, she had never imagined her life without him.

Her head spinning, she took a seat on his ridiculously large and comfortable sofa. A tray with a glass of water, a banana, and some crackers suddenly dropped on to the table in front of her, courtesy of the younger, who settled beside her.

“You should have these.”

His cold, rather indifferent tone ticked her off, she couldn’t help but scoff at him.

“You’re mad at me, really?”

His gaze pierced her, luscious lips curled in a sign of distaste.

“You were seriously drunk and glued yourself to a random stranger, even you’re still a bit drunk now, can you blame me?”

“You kissed another girl.”

She bitterly said, then grimaced when she realized it possibly didn’t make any sense to him. God, she hated how she sounded like a jealous girlfriend, when he wasn’t even hers. To her surprise, he simply shook his head.

“No, I did not. A random girl kissed me and I removed myself immediately. Ask my mates if you must.”

Her eyes rounded at his unexpected answer, suddenly feeling like a weight had been lifted off her. Silence filled the room.

“I…” She stopped, suddenly at loss of what to say. She took a sip of water and slowly rose from the sofa, intending to put some distance away from him. She needed to think, and she couldn’t, not with him being so close.

A gasp left her mouth when Trent pulled her back, and she somehow found herself sitting sideways on his lap, arms splayed across his broad chest. He circled her waist with his left arm, one hand cupping her face, so she had no choice but to look at him. Her heart slammed against her chest. He was so close that their breaths mingled together.

“Trent –“

“You have been avoiding me, and I let you play your game. I thought if I was patient enough, you’d come around, that at the very least we could start to talk again, really talk.”

“Well – “

“But hey, there you were, getting fucking wasted…dancing with some random fucking guy in that dress. That guy could easily be a criminal you know. Did you do it to get back at me?”

He bombarded her, rich brown eyes glinting with ire, voice sharpened with dark emotions.

“No!”

She managed to break free even though she stumbled. Feeling like she was in the danger of suffocating any minute, she walked to a large glass window in the middle of the living room, slowly as she couldn’t trust her legs at that moment. She knew the window was facing his vast garden but currently it was pitched black outside. She crossed her arms, feeling his eyes drilling her back. The room was comfortably warm, but she felt strangely cold.

“It wasn’t like that. I saw you with that girl…and I…I just wanted to escape, to not think at all, hence the drink…and Dan.”

“Dan?”

“The guy’s name…I think.”

“You can’t remember your alcohol intake, but you remember his name? Really?”

Her mind was so hazy in the club that she hadn’t really think much when he said he didn’t like it when she danced with other guys, but now….was it jealousy in his voice?

She turned around to face him, who was suddenly standing tall just a few feet away, throwing daggers at her with his eyes. She let out a deep breath, then asked her question. Her bravery improved by the alcohol which still had a grasp on her, though not by much.

“Trent…do you really like me?”

“Do I – are you seriously asking me that?”

He looked at her like she had grown two heads.

“I do. Do you really like me as more than friends?”

“I kissed you a week ago, told you today you’re all I see, then kissed you again…and more, and you still ask me that?”

The anger in him appeared to be gone, replaced by disbelief. His words rang true, but she just somehow couldn’t believe it.

“This is just….all too sudden isn’t it? Like - if you hadn’t kissed me that day of my return, I never would have guessed. Trent – wait -”

In a flash, he was right in front of her, cornering her against the window. She tried to push him back, but he deftly trapped her wrists with his left hand, bringing it above her head, then stepped forward even closer. Their bodies pressed together, as close as could be with their clothes on. Her heart missed a few beats and her body instantly lit up.

“You said you wanted me to see you, but you didn’t see me at all do you?”

Before she even could process his question, his lips claimed hers in a hungry kiss, destroying her train of thoughts in an instant. He kissed her the way he played football, passionate, relentless, like he could do it forever, and she wished he really could.

Still keeping her mouth and wrists hostage, his right hand traced her heated skin, along the side of her neck, down to her shoulders, then to her breasts. A muffled moan left her as he kneaded the swollen peaks, the dress a meaningless barrier. He then continued down, his hand slipping beneath her dress to squeeze her rear and pressed it forward against his still covered hardness.

“We still need to….talk..”

She said in a breathless moan when he finally freed her lips and wrists to suck hard on the skin of her neck, sinking his teeth in several spots. She shivered, molten heat dripped down straight to her core. It would leave marks and it would take work to cover it. However, as she had just found out herself in that second, him marking her was a total turn on.

“Okay.”

He said against her shoulder, voice thick with desire, while unzipping her dress, and the next second she was clad only in her strapless bra and panties.

“What –“

“We’ll talk, but first… jump.”

As if spellbound, she did as he asked, wrapping her arms around his neck, and her legs around his waist.

“Good girl.”

He whispered against her ear, making her flushed even more, if it was possible. Propping her with his arms, he carried her across the living room and towards the – kitchen?

Still carrying her, he took an opened bottle of water in the middle of the kitchen island with one hand and brought it to her mouth.

“Drink.”

“I already did.”

She said, puzzled.

“Drink more, gonna have to make sure you’re perfectly sober and hydrated when I fuck you senseless at last.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that and her throat all of a sudden felt dry indeed, so she drank, feeling the cold water did nothing to dampen the fever inside of her. He then put the bottle down before claiming her mouth again, smothering her senses. The next thing she knew, she was lying on his bed stark naked, moaning with his mouth suckling and fondling her aching mounds.

“Have imagined about these babies for so long…”

He muttered before lavishing kisses down her abdomen, fingers pinching her tautened peaks, making her back arched. The fire in her was raging and getting more unbearable by the seconds.

“Trent – please - ”

She weaved her fingers through his soft springy hair. She knew they should talk first and set thing straight before doing something as big as this, too much was at stake, but her common sense was gone at that moment.

“What do you want baby?”

“Just….you.”

Moving back up, he pressed their foreheads together, their eyes locked, hips instinctively grinding against her soaking core. He already divested his clothes but still had his briefs on, and she needed more...friction. She could see the carnal longing in his eyes, as she was sure reflected in hers as well.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. She had never been more nervous. She wasn’t totally without experience. She went on a few dates and had one, albeit very fleeting, relationship before she went away. She knew Trent had had some girlfriends as well, all of them short-lived, though she didn’t recall he had any in the last couple of years.

“I want you too, you have no idea how much.”

He muttered against her mouth before snatching her lips again, as if he couldn’t help it. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before staring at her again.

“But first…”

He trailed off and swiftly rolled on the side to sit against the pillows. He then easily arranged her to sit in front of him in a kneeling position, facing him with his hips between her folded legs.

“Let’s talk.”

It took her a couple of seconds to understand what he was talking about. What the-

“Now? Seriously?!”

“Hmmm.”

He said, settling his hands on the small of her back, suddenly sounded not too certain. He chewed on his lower lip and her eyes dropped to his mouth. Damn it, she wanted to have a bite as well.

“Don’t get me wrong, I want to sink myself in you so bad, I am dying to, you can literally feel how much…but I don’t want us to do this when you still have doubts about me. I don’t want you to regret this, ever.”

She felt like laughing, crying, and kissing him at the same time. If her body wasn’t currently shouting for him, she would find their situation comical. Her and Trent, naked, in bed…just talking. Gotta hand it to him to still have logic at a time like this. Feeling like he was way older and more mature than her now.

“All right.”

“Do you like me?”

He asked her bluntly.

“I do.”

She said, managing to look straight at him although she couldn’t help the blush on her face. His lips tugged into a sincere smile.

“How long?”

“Looking back now, I think I started to feel differently for you quiet a while before I moved away...you’ve always been special to me Trent, you know that, but when I finally had to go away…there were times that leaving you felt like it was unbearable.”

Her fingers trailed along his defined jaw before she brushed her lips softly against his.

“So yes, I like you, more than that actually - but it’s fine if you don’t love me back – yet – I – I mean the important thing now is you like me too. I –“

He shushed her with a soft kiss of his own, looking deep into her eyes with unabashed affection.

“Three years then…well…I win…try five years. I was seventeen, just lost a match and beating myself up because of it, staying all day in my room. So afraid that was as far as I could go in football, that I would never make it to a first team anywhere. That I would just disappoint my family who have sacrificed so much.”

She gaped at him, in total disbelief of what she was hearing.

“You burst into my room, telling me to man up and return to training, you said I’d make it into the team because I was bloody brilliant, but that even if I didn’t, it didn’t matter...you smiled and hugged me, and said that perhaps I hadn’t seen it yet, but there’s more to life than football and that whatever path I treaded in life, you’d be with me every step of the way. That’s when I knew you’re it for me.”

Gently tucking the strands of her hair behind her ear, he continued his shocking confession.

“So I tried to be there for you for everything, hoping in vain that you’d notice me as more. I watched you go on dates, so I dated as well, wanted to erase you from my mind, which turned out impossible. Then there’s Ben, the guy’s name couldn’t be more boring, honestly, just like his personality, thank God you came to your senses quickly with him. After him, you said that you’d focus on your study, so I held my tongue, quite content with being your go-to person, even though it broke me that you’re so far away.”

“Trent…”

“I had a plan for your return you know, asking you out on a date and all…but you started spouting nonsense about being a sister and I just couldn’t cope with it anymore, so I kissed you.”

He kissed her then, slowly at first, before delving his tongue inside her parted lips, hands smoothened the naked skin of her back, creating delicious shivers as they passed. Her world shifted as he toppled her down onto the bed, him on top of her, propping himself on one forearm so he didn’t crush her, his other hand tantalizingly gliding all over her naked body.

“So yeah, I’ve loved you for five years, wishing that every smile, every hug, every call, every message that we exchange means more to you. Five fucking years…going crazy with countless dreams about you, some sweet, others are wild, and the rest…’’

He pressed his still clothed arousal against her flooded entrance in a teasing manner, earning him a soft moan from her.

‘’…borderline illegal that you’d perhaps run away from me if you knew.”

‘’I…had no idea.’’

That’s all she could say to him. Her heart filled with overwhelming emotions, shock, relief, passion, lust, and so much happiness and love that she felt like she could fly at any moment.

‘’Well now you know.’’

He said as he bestowed a kiss on her forehead then her temple.

‘’So see me now…kissing you..’’

He whispered before kissing the spot behind her earlobe, then down to ravish her mouth.

‘’See me now… pleasuring you…’’

His mouth hovered against the valley of her breasts then captured one pebbled tip into his mouth, rolling the other with his fingers, before switching up the treatment. She shuddered as another stream of pleasure pooled at the center of her.

‘’See me now…worshipping you…’’

She could feel his hot breath on the junction of her thighs and then he delved his tongue into her, slithering through her wet folds. He played her like a violin, and her body was a tight string, getting tighter with every tantalizing move of his tongue.

“You taste better than I imagine baby…my all-time favorite flavor.”

He said, voice heavy with desire, then he licked her upward from the bottom of her weeping core before twirling the swollen nub right above her entrance and gently sucked it. Massive electric current ran through her body and she was done, a high pitch scream of his name left her mouth. He seized her mouth again, letting her taste herself, before aligning his pelvis with hers, his arousal now completely uncovered, eyes almost black with unbridled passion.

‘’See me now… making you mine.’’

Trent buried himself inside of her in one swift move. She was more than ready to receive him, but still as he filled her to the hilt, a little sense of discomfort appeared. He was thick.

He stared at her with concern, muscles tensed as he held himself back.

“All right? Just breathe baby.”

He peppered her with kisses, whispering sweet nothings in her ears to give her time to adapt. It wasn’t long before she rocked her hip, signaling him to move, but he held her still.

“I’m clean. Are you still on the pill?”

She nodded. She hadn’t been dating for a long time, the pill had been more of a convenience means to regulate her period, at least until that moment. It made her realize then just how close they were, how she told him deeply private details about her, hell, even her parents didn’t know that.

“Good...for now. One day I hope you won’t need to be.”

Before she could think about his words, the younger began to move, and her brain shut down. He took her in an unhurried pace, his eyes locked on hers, clearly wanting to savor the moment, but her body was still so sensitive from her previous release that it didn’t take much for her to reach her peak again. A simple twist of his hip and her body quaked involuntarily, eyes fluttered shut as another wave of storm washed over her.

Trent stopped moving, taking a long count to inhale and exhale in an effort not to follow her. Her muscles finally loosened, though barely, and he pulled himself out. A whine left her mouth without she realized it.

“So greedy for me.”

He teased, before making themselves lying sideways and spooned her from behind, embedding himself in her again. He thrust into her in a fast pace then, branding her across every part that he could reach with his lips, one hand playing with the rigid tip of her breasts, his right on her hip to anchor his thrusts.

“Give me more babe.”

“Trent….I can’t…”

She said even as the pressure of another climax began to build quickly inside of her. She had just experiences two best releases of her life, she couldn’t bear a third one. He nipped at her neck.

“You’ve made me pining over you for years baby….I want more…you need to give me more, babe, one more.”

He sounded so demanding that even in the throes of passion, she still had it in her to give him a side eye.

“Look who’s the greedy one.”

She returned his teasing, expected him to chuckle at her jab. Trent cradled her chin between his thumb and forefinger to make her face him, before giving her a rough, thorough kiss which rendered her breathless.

“When it comes to you Princess? You have no idea.”

He said without any humor, eyeing her with absolute possessiveness. He continued to ravage her then, keeping their eyes locked together. It’s like he needed her to literally see him as he’s owning her.

He grazed a certain sweet spot within her, and she jolted, her moaning increased by numbers, yet she still couldn’t look away, trapped by his intense gaze.

“That’s it….such a good girl for me…only me.”

He hissed as he felt her inner walls began to tighten again around him. He felt unbelievable inside her, crazily good, that she lost her mind.

“Baby please…Trent…”

His name came out in a pleading voice. She was on the verge of a burning cliff and he was the only one who could bring her to absolution.

“Come for me, Princess.”

He gave a hard thrust before pulling himself back until his tip is almost out, then drove deep into her for the final time, meshing their mouth together at the same time. She burst then, breaking to pieces as her walls wonderfully clenching him, pushing him through not a second after. She then felt his warmth filled her, but her eyes had already begun to close. She was wholly spent.

“Mine....at last.”

She vaguely heard him and felt his arms around her. The sound of his heartbeat, though still fast, lulled her to the dreamland.

Ray of sunshine seeping through the large bedroom window roused her from her sleep. Her eyes flickered open, she found herself still wrapped in Trent’s embrace. For a second she tensed, couldn’t remember where she was, then last night event flashed through her brain and she relaxed. God, she was sore all over, rarely used muscles throbbing inside of her. She slowly turned around, finding him still deeply asleep and smiled. He looked so adorable in his sleep. Kissing him on the cheek, she grabbed the nearest shirt that she could find, and made her way to the kitchen.

“Excuse me Miss, have you seen my girl by any chance? I think she is around your height, pretty smile, sexy as sin, wearing number 66 on her back?”

In the light of day, he looked just like the sweet Trent that she usually saw around their family. She rolled her eyes at his cheesy lines but couldn’t resist a blush and a smile. He’s just a cute dork sometimes, well, a half naked cute handsome dork with chiseled form and grey sweatpants which was hanging enticingly on his hip.

She looked away in the pretense to turn off the stove, though it was already off.

“Hmm...I think she is right here.”

She said, trying hard not to get flustered.

“She definitely is, and ooh bonus point! She’s making me an omelette for breakfast, just the way I like it. That’s like, two of my fantasies coming true.”

He admitted, giving her his adorable smile, showing his pearly white teeth. She smiled at him, couldn’t hide the fondness in her gaze.

“You’re such a dorky cutie pie sometimes, do you know that?”

He put a hand against his broad chest in an exaggerated movement as if he's offended.

“Excuse me? I am not. I am a grown up fella.”

“One fact does not negate the other you know.”

He tilted his head then, doe eyes flickered with mischievous glint.

“Hmmm. Want to know what else you’re doing with this so-called cutie pie in his fantasy?

Cornering her against the kitchen counter, his hands slipped beneath her shirt, one squeezed her breasts, another dipping between her legs.

“What?”

Her voice came out breathless.

His whisper against her ear was a promise of an immediate action, sending tingles to her every nerve ending.

“My number….plus three, with you all tied up.”

Author’s Note: Aaand that's it! Thank you all for reading my first ever Trent story! Phew this took a while cause really, I love smut but writing smut is hard! Hopefully you enjoy reading this as much as I love making this. Apology for any mistakes as again, I'm not a native. Anway this turned out faar longer than I imagined :A: hope you don’t get bored. Let me know what you think and thank you for reading! <3

#trent alexander arnold #england nt #football imagine #liverpool fc #trent alexander arnold smut #trent alexander x reader #trent alexander x you #football fanfic #fanfic #taa66 #copingwithtransferdrama #lfc #moonlightwrites

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cute-sucker · 10 months ago

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stupid boy (part 1/2)

[13.04.2024]

note: this is like a childhood series that i kinda wanna do...enemies to lovers obviouslyyyy!! (depends on what y'all want - but i might do a series for it/i will be adding a part 2 thooo) heavy inspired by rina kent book. words: 1,180

⊹˚. ♡

rafe was someone constant in your life.

from when you were little, with scraped knees, lolly pop in hand. you had moved to kildare when you were seven years old, and couldn't fit in at all. you felt like a lost cause, moping around the house. you didn't know who he was, yet you knew there was a bold boy next door, who climbed trees and claimed to have seen peter pan at night.

yet, you didn't know this about him when you were a small seven-year-old, no you met him at your lowest.

when your parents told you they were getting divorced.

"honey, your dad and i.." your mother began, and both of them shared a knowing look, and then your mother leaned closer to you. you felt the turmoil in the air, yet little seven-year-old you didn't know what was going on.

"your mom and i are getting a divorce." your dad finished the sentence.

divorce.

the word sounded foreign to your lips as you tried to whisper it out, the words were too cold as you tried to stretch it out. it didn't sound good.

"what does that mean?" you asked slowly.

at this your mother winched, "we'll be having a break. you won't see your dad a lot. maybe for a while," she finished, giving your dad a cold look. he seemed to cave into himself, and when you tried to meet his eyes he gave you a sad smile.

you heard your voice go shakey, "divorce?"

"honey-listen, you'll have two christmas, two birthdays-" your dad began almost to console you.

instead, you felt your heart race and hot tears pool in your eyes.

the question you begged to ask was 'why,' and then you wanted to scream, yell and tear the house down.

but you did none of that, instead, you sat there, your hands shaking and hot tears streaming down your face. as a seven-year-old this was too much to process, too much to think about.

your pretty dress was drooping, and before you knew it you were sprinting as fast as you could, a horrible croaking coming out of your mouth. the wind whipped in your face, and your chest heaved as you made it to the park.

the park with its whimsical trees, and its cool wind. you picked berries nearby, and let yourself get dizzy on the swings. the slides were high and daring. it was the place of adventure, and to you, it was a place of safety.

suddenly a small hand tugged at your hair. you gasped looking up to a roguish boy who squinted down to look at you. he had deep cobalt eyes, and eyed you with distaste. you knew him...he was rafe cameron, a year older than you and lived nearby.

"why are you crying?"

your lip wobbled, as you felt your tears fall to the ground. he pulled your hair again, and you cried out.

"get off me!" you cried out, wincing as you held your hair to your head. he seemed to go still but peeked at you curiously. you felt annoyed now, and instead of crying you glared at him.

he looked confused now. "look you're not crying anymore."

"yea' cause you're a big idiot." you spat at him, still rubbing the spot on your head. he was a daring boy to do such a thing to you, and if you weren't so messed up you wouldn't hesitate to beat him up.

"why are you crying?" rafe asked you again, and this time you sniffed and turned away from him.

"just cause."

he shrugged now, "i make my sister cry sometimes," he confessed sheepishly, "i shave her barbies hair off, and dad told me i should stop."

you frowned at him, "that's not really nice."

"well, you're not nice either 'cause you're lying to me right now."

that was a fair point, and you found yourself defensively clutching your dress, your hands reaching for something to ground you.

"my parents are getting divorced."

saying out loud made it more real.

"that's it?"

you felt your anger bubble up now, giving another cry. "what do you mean that's it? they were talking about different holidays, and i heard them fight. they scream and yell and- and i'm really scared."

at this, the boy sobered and kicked the weeds under his foot.

"sorry."

you shook your head at his apology, swatting him away. he was an idiot this boy, a mean one at that too. you couldn't believe what he was saying to you. this small idiot of a boy.

"can you leave now?" you told him, ordering him almost. yet he didn't respond to you. finally, you raised your voice, fists balled up. "leave me alone!"

"why?"

he looked confused, dangling his feet below the bench, and staring at you with that intense look. you wondered where his parents were, and then second you wondered if your parents were looking after you.

you struggled for words now, "i don't like you very much, and you're mean, and-and i don't like people seeing me cry."

"i'll tell you a secret."

this piqued your interest, and you tried to pretend like it didn't. but the rafe seemed to notice the way you twitched in interest, and grinned at your curiosity. he inched closer to you, bumping his shoulders next to yours.

"what is it?" you asked him annoyed, yet you couldn't help but look up at him.

"you look ugly when you cry."

your breath caught in your throat, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. the fleeting moment of curiosity evaporated, replaced by a surge of hurt and anger.

"how dare you?" you muttered, your voice trembling with indignation. "that's not a secret, that's just mean!"

the rafe's grin faltered, his cobalt eyes widening in surprise at your sudden outburst. but instead of apologising or backtracking, he seemed to double down on his callousness.

"hey, i'm just being honest," he retorted, his tone defensive. "if you don't like it, tough!"

"why do you hate me? you don't even know me," you cried out.

finally, he stiffed, and then folded his arms, and then whispered something under his breath. you couldn't help but gruffly sigh, as you noticed he wasn't going anywhere.

"what did you just say?"

rafe scowled now, "i was gonna tell you to smile more, 'cause you'll look pretty then, but you interrupted me!"

"-and that will make what you just said to me?"

rafe's scowl deepened, but beneath the defiance in his gaze, you caught a glimpse of something else—a flicker of uncertainty, perhaps even regret.

"i thought you might feel better," he muttered giving you a dirty look. yet behind his eyes, you saw confusion.

"well, it didn't."

with that, you turned on your heel and stormed away, refusing to give him a piece of your frustration.

he was a stupid boy.

#rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe imagine #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe obx #drabble #outerbanks rafe #enimies to lovers #childhood friends #light angst #part 1/2 #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron prompt

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sashiavi · 1 year ago

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𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝙰𝚟𝚒'𝚜 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚃𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚁 2023

#11•𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕•#11

𝙳𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚌 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ².⁸ᵏ

Diluc Ragnvindr was a Nobleman, drowning in unimaginable amounts of Mora, he was a bachelor, a businessman, a tycoon. He led a busy life, taking on a heavy wealth and a responsibility generationally entitled to him. Such a commodity often came in handy through the other aspects of his life - Paying off sketchy low-threat hooligans to bring him information, keep him in the loop of the criminal underworld. He was strict through both day and night, in the business world two dimensions apart. The Dark Knight Hero - Though he had a distaste for the kitschy name - was a monumental part of his life.

Diluc somehow landed himself in an elusive auction, held by an anonymous hierarchy - he had reason to believe they had connections to the Fatui, and may have research or documents or anything he could abuse to take them out. He sits on one of the many pews in the room, face skilfully hidden from the other patrons participating in the auction, some of which he personally recognised. Lawrence clan politicians, a few stray knights of favonious, breaking their vowed code of ethics, even a Kätzleinan he could vaguely recognise from the outskirts of Monstadt.

The auction drags on, completely uneventful, nothing he hadn't seen before - Delusions, Adepti relics, monster loot and stolen art. Not once had he lifted the wooden paddle in his hand, he was starting to think this auction was a real waste of his time. Until, an announcement piques his interest.

"Up next is an exclusive piece, an exotic pet all the way from Inazuma - Starting bid is Two Hundred Thousand Mora!" The Announcer chirps, moving across the stage performatively. What kind of animal would be worth such a high starting bid? A Kitsune? A rare fish? He doesn't have to ponder for very long. A large, cube object is wheeled onto the stage, covered by a thick, dark fabric. Whatever the creature was, it was under there. The Announcer dances across the stage, grabbing the fabric and tugging it off with a quick swipe, revealing the creature inside of the cage.

A young woman is revealed, nearly nude, clad in just enough fabric to be considered undergarments. She sits on the side of her needs, fingers clenched into her palms. The most noticeable feature on the girl is her large ears and tail - they were shaped like a Shiba's, or even a wolf's, round and fluffy and twitchy. Murmurs swim through the crowd, both in confusion and excitement. Diluc sits straight, they were auctioning off a person?

"This sweet, lovable thing is the best companion a Gentleman could ask for! Obedient and pliant, she will do just as you say, no matter how ludicrous it may be" the Announcer grins wickedly at his last line. Diluc felt a little ill, his moral compass spinning in every direction, surely he could.. He should do something? She'd be better off with him than any other slimy scum in the room. Without a second thought, his paddle raises into the air.

"Oo~ I see some interest in the crowd! C'mon folks! I like her and so should you!" His irritating voice booms through the venue. It's a vicious fight, the price attached to the girl goes up and up, reaching into a number many could never fathom. Diluc's heart races.

"This thing is as handy as a pocket on your shirt~" God Diluc was sick of him. The battle is coming close, the number continues to grow. It comes down to him and some other Nobleman, a Lawrence clan big shot waving his paddle up into the air, he ought to report him sometime. Diluc had to do something, to save this poor girl. He raises his paddle high and shouts.

"Two Million!"

The crowd gasps, even the Announcer looks shocked. No one in their right mind would try to outbid him. And he was right.

After the event, Diluc is taken to see his 'prize'. The poor Puppy girl was still locked away in her cage, shivering from the cold metal. He sneers at the attendant, demanding the key to the lock and ushers them away, leaving him alone with her. The lock clicks open and the door creaks loudly, shrill rusted metal on metal squealing from the movement. Up close, he gets a better view of her and Archons, she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen - albeit a little roughed up - nothing a warm bubble bath and a touch of Adelinde's charm couldn't fix. He reaches his hand out to her, earning a whimper, the Puppy girl nearly throws herself at him. Diluc is taken aback, surely she was scared, or apprehensive to even look at a man. She presses a kiss into his jaw, soft on his 5 o'clock shadow.

"Master..?" Her eyes look up into his, glimmering with something - it seemed she wasn't all there. He shakes his head, awkwardly patting her crown before standing, prying her body off of him. He removes the thick heavy cloak off of his form and wraps it around her shoulders, clasping it just under her neck. She tilts her head, ears flopping to the side, eyes wide and curious.

"D..Diluc… Just call me Diluc" He tentatively pets her head.

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The sweet Puppy Girl adjusts to the Dawn Winery easily, tagging along with Adelinde during her daily chores around the estate. She keeps herself busy, doing all she can to help out. Diluc workshops a way to get the sweet girl back to Inazuma, though with the current lock down of the Electro nation, that proved to be a difficult feat.

Diluc pampers the girl in the meantime, giving her the tastiest treats and prettiest trinkets. Spending time with her, reading and learning about Mondstadt's history. He grows close with her, eating nearly every meal together, taking walks through the estate's gardens, and shopping in the markets of Mondstadt. To the outside eye they would seem to be a couple - not that Diluc particularly shut down the notion at all

The day turns to night, the Winery grows cool with the setting sun, candles light up the space. The Puppy girl feels restless, not at all matching the calmness of the night. A knock raps at Diluc's office door, with a short welcoming beckon it opens, revealing the girl. She pitters over to Diluc, her bare feet thudding against the floorboards of his office. She reaches up, looping her arms around his neck, stuffing her face into his chest. Her tail droops and sways in discomfort, she wobbles on her spot, standing on unbalanced tippy toes just to hug him.

"Hot.. Master Diluc.. 'm hot" The Puppy cries into his chest. She never dropped the 'Master' in his name, he doesn't think he hates it. Her skin did feel feverish, warm against his already blazing form. Diluc soothes a palm over the small of her back in an attempt to comfort the sweet girl in his arms.

"Hot how, are you ill?" He whispers.

"Hot in my head.. 'n down there" She squirms against him. Oh. It was only a matter of time he supposed, most hybrid races experienced secondary genders - She must be going into heat. Diluc grits his teeth together, eyes narrowing in thought, surely he should.. He didn't know what he should do. Call Adelinde? Albedo? Sucrose? Was she a canine? What is she? Diluc's thoughts are cut short when he feels a soft pressure on his neck.

He cranes his eyes down, finding the sweet Puppy Girl nuzzled into his neck, pressing into the beating pulse points under his skin. He swallows, his Adam's apple grazes her nose. She was scenting him, he was sure, imprinting on his skin. He fights a moan and ignores the soft swell of his cock in his trousers. He feels her tongue lick at his throat, small canines nip at his skin. His hands hover over her hips.

This was the exact thing he was trying to save her from, and here he was being a hypocrite. A dirty pervert no better than the other Noble scum in the city. He raises his hands, nearly pulling the poor Puppy Girl tighter into his chest, he doesn't, however. He releases a shaky breath, in an attempt to calm himself.

"Want you Master Diluc… Need you~" The Puppy Girl cooes softly into the skin of his neck. His brain was doing backflips, he was sure he was going to pass out. She is asking - He has no time for mental gymnastics, the Puppy Girl pulls him by the collar of his shirt, right in the direction of his master bedroom.

He falls into bed with her, the Puppy Girl snug in his lap, fluffy tail wagging happily. She noses and kisses at his neck, against his pulse points, nipping at the soft spots she imprinted her scent. Diluc's head fogs a little, unaccustomed to the shivery tingles her kisses shoot through his body. His length presses hard against the seam of his pants, it takes everything in him to not thrust up into the pretty Puppy in his lap. He doesn't have to, he muses, the girl straddles his hips, pressing her pussy into his clothed cock. He feels her arousal through his pants, Gods she wasn't wearing panties, his cock twitches hard into her. The Puppy Girl squirms in his lap, humping her puffy clit into his groin, hot slick easily soaking through his trousers.

"Feels ouchy, need it Master Diluc~" The Puppy Girl pulls from his neck, eyes bleary and wet as she looks down at him. She hiccups and humps his lap, face flushed and feverish, doing anything to fix the burning heat in her cunt. Diluc nearly growls, his palms grab at her soft ass cheeks, pulling her into a delicious pace. It didn't count - She could get what she needed without his thick cock nestled inside of her. He wasn't like those other Noblemen. He was just helping her. He couldn't deny how aroused she made him, her cute, dumb little head tilt. How she needed assistance for nearly every little thing. Archons and he was there to help her, help her bathe and eat and relieve herself in his lap.

The Puppy Girl keens in his lap, squeezing his hips with her thighs, tail wagging and ears pinned to her head. She digs her nails into his chest, biting at her lip as she grinds her puppy cunt on him. Diluc's pupils blow wide as she cums on him, hiccuping the prettiest little whines, pathetically humping his clothed cock. She messes in his lap, her creamy Puppy cunt drooling through his pants. She leans down, crying a kiss into his lips, begging for comfort. And he gives it to her, kissing back into her lips, rubbing his palms over her back.

Gods she was too cute to just stop here.

"More.. need more.. M-Master~ please, pleaseplease!" She cries, fat little tears trickle down her cheeks. The pretty Puppy Girl paws at his pants, rubbing over his hard cock, fumbling to undo the intricacies of his button. Diluc huffs a warm laugh, cupping her face with his hands, soothing his thumb over her cheeks.

"..'s okay Pup.. I'll look after you.." He meant it. Sincerely. Diluc easily pins the sweet girl to his soft mattress, slowly stripping the two of them. He pets at her puffy nipples and pretty clit. There was a pang of guilt at the back of his skull, easily washed away by how intimate and real the moment felt. This sweet Puppy coming to him for her own selfish reason, trained to please and yet she trusted him. The thought spurs him on, kissing firmly against her lips, becoming rougher with his hands, petting her heavily in all of her sensitive little places.

He slips his fat cock head between her slick folds, oozing with her creamy arousal, begging to have a Pup fucked into her. He feels the pang again, his brain screaming at him - this was a bad idea it said. Diluc couldn't care, she wanted this, it didn't count he wasn't like them, he was doing the right thing. He kisses at her eyelids, over her nose and to her lips. He dotes on the sweet Puppy in his arms, just popping the tip of his cock into her cunny, leaving sweet kisses to her face. If she weren't laying on her tail it would be wagging like mad. Her ears twitch every time he slips his thick head into her little cunt.

"Please make the ouchy go away Master~ need it bad" The sweet Puppy Girl whines, chin wobbling with pretty tears. How could he deny her when she asked so nicely.

He bottoms out in her Puppy cunt, heavy balls pressed into her ass, thick, fat tip kissing at her cervix. The sweet girl mewls, wrapping her legs around his hips nice and tight. Diluc groans, rocking his cock into her warm, gushy pussy, nice and slick from her heat.

"..'s good, good Master~ need it, need more of it, feels ouchy still!" The Puppy girl attempts to fuck back into his cock, rocking her hips up, tightening her legs. Diluc tuts in mock sympathy, steadying her hips, locking her down. He relishes in the soft cries of the sweet Puppy below him, squirming around, trying her best to relieve the ouchy feeling in her tummy.

"Settle Pup.. M-Master's gonna fix the ouchy.. M'kay?" He taunts at her, pulling his hips back and fucking her with one hard thrust. The sweet girl keens, nearly bursting through her bottom lip with her teeth. He grins, pushing his cock into her in slow, hard thrusts. He convinces himself it's to let her get used to him, yeah, going nice and slow for her. The sweet girl continues to whine, begging for more. Who was he to deny her?

He grips the underside of her knees, pushing them up, exposing her drooling folds wrapped around his thick cock. He pushes her into a pretty little mating press, just what a dumb Puppy needs. The pretty Puppy Girl whines into the air, clenching her sweet cunny around his length. Diluc growls, mounting her sweet puppy cunt with his cock, fucking into her at a delicious pace. Her creamy pussy gushes on his length, sucking him in greedily.

"..'s good Master! Master, Master, Master! Feels good- good in my- ah~" The Puppy girl babbles on his cock, crying stupidly as he fucks her good. The name spurs Diluc on, yeah, he was her master. Her big strong master there to coddle and kiss her and fuck her right when she needed it. His balls slap into her pretty ass as he fucks into her, his body clapping loudly into her skin. Gods everyone would know what they were up to, he hoped they could hear. Hear just how spoiled his pretty little Puppy was, how good he could make her feel, show them just how good of a master he was, taking care of his pet.

Diluc throws his head back with a growl, his thick bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat. He uses the bed as leverage, bouncing the pretty Pup back on his cock. The sweet girl continues to mewl and babble, praising her Master with the sweetest little words.

"Feels good! Feels- making the ouchy go away~ love you Master! Love you love you love youuu~" She cries, fucked stupid on his cock. Gods she was delusional and he loved it. He could feel her puppy cunt tightening on his length, squeezing at him deliciously. Her hot slick never stops oozing over his cock, making the prettiest mess all over his heavy balls. He shows a little mercy, bringing his thumb down to her swollen puffy clit, circling the sweet bud quickly. The Puppy girl keens, ears pinned back, pretty lips parted, sweet canines on display with her downturned smile.

The sweet Puppy looses it, squirting messily over his cock as he fucks her. Her pretty puppy cunt squirts with every heavy thrust he fucks into her, messing all over his front in pretty spurts. The Puppy girl cries and whines and sobs on his cock, her cunny milks him with her orgasm, pulsing and clenching hard on his length. He presses his cock so sweetly into her pussy, cumming thick, creamy ropes right into her little puffy hole. He marks her puppy cunt with his cum, making sure to fuck it deep into her aching cervix. He slows his pace, plugging the sweet Puppy up with his cock, making sure he'd bred her puppy cunt good with his cum.

"Feels better?" He coos, brushing any strays locks from the sweet girl's eyes. The Puppy girl tilts her head into his hand, nuzzling her nose right into his palm. She smiles dopily and peers up at him.

"Feels better.. thank you Master~" She says airily. She hums and wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a cuddle.

Diluc's brain tries to fire, attempts to berate him and tell him that what he did was wrong. He's too distracted however, by the pretty Puppy Girl in his arms.

Not a usual kinktober prompt bUt I wanted to let other genshin boys experience some puppy love 😔 since it's what I'm knOWN for hauhwua

This took a long time and I apologize my babies i so sorry </3

Also did you know that it takes 2 million Mora to ascend a character to lvl 90

alSO if you have any kinktober prompts & characters you wanna see I am very happy to try them - I've lowkey abandoned my list bahHshksks

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Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always Appreciated! Lmk If There Are Any Mistakes And Tell Me What You Think Hehe

♡KinkTober Taglist♡

@heath-sama @yejiswifex @hunnibunnix @bleh09 @madsw9 @py-schi @wizzardcatwithastick @shiningpaint-marbleheart @cherrytomato2 @i-am-silver @your-tears-taste-sweeter @kqzutcra @themusingsofmany @kaijubxnny @tericula

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

#ʚ•*°SashiAvi's Kinktober°*•ɞ #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin x y/n #afab reader #diluc x y/n #diluc smut #genshin diluc #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc x you #hybrid reader #puppy girl reader #diluc x puppy girl #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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cosmorandom · 1 month ago

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I hope we get to see more of Aster's acting capabilities from a more introspective view point. It's so fascinating to me how he and Morvay are almost opposites when it comes to communicating with real emotions.

Morvay is joked around to be insatiable and shameless with how horny he is, but that's because he's so honest that it becomes his detriment. Morvay is so accepting of his own emotions, how he functions and presents himself that what people might think of him is a mere afterthought. I'm sad that a lot of people miss it, but Morvay acts largely by his own emotions and desires, it's only at really important moments that he sets aside his own wants in favor of the most optimal outcome. And even then, he'll show hesitation or a clear distaste for it. It's not just lust, Morvay is so unbelievably honest to both himself and the world that it gets used as a punchline for innuendos. And because of this, Morvay can't lie (at least, lie by himself without instruction or guidance) or act to save his life.

Aster on the other hand is harder to read. In his SSR intimacy rooms (as well as his R room I think) Aster states that in order to keep up the appearance that he's a human being, he's had to stage his own death and pretend to be his own descendant. Because of this, Aster had to learn how to talk, act and present himself differently across his fake lives. Not only that, but most obviously, Aster is a businessman, a morally questionable one at that. We've seen multiple time throughout events and stories that Aster has the ability to manipulate and pull strings for the convenience of both himself and Eiden. Aster would also need to act in these cases. He needs to put a front, make himself look desperate or powerful. Make it seem like he's on his last legs or have exactly what the other party wants.

Even outside of business, Aster acts. He's kind of a brat, loves attention, pretends to be angel while being into hardcore BDSM with him as the Dom.. And I can't help but wonder... What if the writers addressed this on a deeper level? With both morvay and aster.

Imagine an event or a chapter with Aster questioning his own honesty. When Eiden praises him, is it real gratitude or is it him desperately clinging onto a master's love? When he makes money, does he truly enjoy the feeling of income or is it the feeling of owning something, controlling something, that makes him happy? When he parades himself to be cute, generous, wise and a person worth adoring, is that a true display of ego or is Aster reassuring himself? Reassuring himself that he's a person worth loving because of all the years of solitude and neglect? You could say the "pretending to be okay" has been done by Eiden, Edmond or Olivine, but those guys are usually aware of themselves to a degree. They pretend to be okay for the comfort of others, but in Aster's case, it's pretending for the comfort of himself.

Imagine if we could tie this into Morvay as well. Because Morvay has been true to himself since his birth, surely Aster would want to know what that's like. To simply be yourself without consequence, to be that "shameless". Hell, Morvay could probably help Aster realize his baggage in this way, though he may not be fully aware of it. Even though they've been living together for nearly a century, the way they live is so different from one another. Morvay has always been himself despite his ups and downs, and Aster has changed in order to cope with the pain of being abandoned. Imagine Aster, genuine and confused, asking Morvay "How do you do it? How do you live purely as yourself and not like anyone else?"

And y'know what, let's add Eiden in here as well!! Because as much as Eiden knows about the struggles and traumas of his clan members, the game very unfortunately hasn't gone very deep with him and his familiars. I hope to god Chapter 16 goes into them more, and addresses what Huey's disappearance has done to these poor men. Aster especially. Morvay is open as a public bible (ironically), but even Eiden misunderstands or can't get a full read on Aster. He knows the familiars desperately miss Huey, and were devastated at Huey's disappearance, but imagine Eiden finding out just how much deeper their trauma goes. Imagine Eiden holding his familiars close and promising that he's not going to abandon them, not going to leave them without a word, and that he loves them dearly. That would especially destroy Aster.

This particular statement may age poorly, but imagine if Aster and Morvay never once heard Heuy say that he loves them? Like, yes, he may have shown gratitude and praised the familiars doing their jobs, but imagine if they never got a full blown "I love you" from the man? And what if Eiden was the one to finally deliver that message for them? God. DEVS HIRE ME I'LL WORK FOR FREE SSRs (/j)

#nu carnival #nu: carnival #cosmorandomrambles #nu carnival eiden #nu carnival morvay #nu carnival aster

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 3 months ago

Text

I'm BACK, my Darlings!

Link to full AO3 fic

Tags and CW for this chapter: murder; rigged gladiator matches; the Baron being the fucking worst; mentions of child abuse/CSA/incest; the Bene Gesserit; mentions of smut/exhibitionism (no actual smut in this one, sorry there will be soon) early pregnancy; Feyd's mommy AND daddy issues; I take a couple of minor liberties with Feyd's birthday arena fight; blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied sexual assault; implied/references sex trafficking; Geidi Prime's culture; mentions of matricide

CHAPTER ELEVEN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY

You reach the box, noting that the more obscure sisters have sat in one section, while Margot and the Reverend Mother sit in the other booth, with room for you in between them. All stand and turn to you when Idrisa announces your arrival.

Behind her veil you can see the Reverend Mother’s eyebrows raise at your dress, your painted-black lips.

“I imagine the na-Baron had a hand in your outfit?” she asks as you all sit down.

“He had an idea for how he wanted me to look on his birthday, your Reverence,” you say.

“Have you spoken with him?”

“A little, your Reverence,” you tell her. “I just finished helping him prepare.”

It’s safe to assume that she’ll be observing you as well as Feyd. You wonder if she wonders how much leverage you’ve truly gotten with him. You wonder if she’ll want the graphic details when the two of you speak in private later.

“How did he seem?” she asks.

“While we haven’t discussed it much, he’s pleased about my recent development. He seemed indifferent to the prospect of the match, however; he’s participated in so many since he turned eighteen I think it’s somewhat routine for him.”

“It’s reckless, sending the na-Baron into the arena when he’s only just secured the bloodline,” one of Bene Gesserit sisters says.

Both her Reverence and Margot glance your way in a silent invitation to explain your husband’s people’s customs.

“He’s in no danger, Sister,” you say. “The na-Baron’s matches aren’t traditional matches so much as they’re executions. His opponents aren’t fighting at full capacity, so it’s impossible for them to have the upper hand.”

“And you’ve seen these executions in practice?” she asks.

“Yes, Sister. Just once, the night before my wedding,” you tell her. It was ostensibly a gift, but meant to serve more as a warning .

“But these other matches…?” she starts.

“Are real,” you finish for her. “The victor gains their freedom, should they survive.”

You explain the figures clad all in black, their faces obscured with headpieces resembling curved horns and armed with long hooks, as Picadors. “They essentially act like sporting referees,” you tell them. “But by and large they don’t interfere in any of these matches; just about everything is allowed.”

And then the festivities, as they were, begin. The announcer’s voice is amplified so loud the echoes of it reverberate in your chest and nearly make your teeth rattle as he gives the name of not each individual fighter but their Houses and planets, succinct enough that anyone can understand, accompanied by the sound of drums. You can sense the distaste from some of the Sisters, the ones who sound younger, as the first match commences. For your part you try to give nothing away, face schooled into a mask of neutrality, and keep silent other than to answer polite questions about your home world and how the cultural differences between it and Geidi Prime. ( “Oh, there are many, Sister. Our culture’s also militaristic and public executions aren’t uncommon but we don’t have arena fights like these.” ) There’s little audience bias from the crowd; they just want to see two men trying to kill each other. The closest it gets is when a non-Harkonnen who’s nonetheless from Lankiveil is pitted against another fighter. For a brief moment you assume that the crowd will favor the Lankiveil fighter.

That moment passes, because throughout the crowd many start shouting something that you’re pretty sure means “ traitor. ” You shouldn’t be surprised that here, Abulurd Rabban’s defection hasn’t been forgiven, and neither has anyone who’s refused to fall in line with Harkonnen governorship in their claimed territories. You wonder what Feyd thinks about that and watch as the Lankiveil man puts in some good offense–before one of the Picadors shuffles closer and catches him in either side of his neck with both hooks, leaving his opponent to finish the job. As the man gurgles, blood spilling from his throat, you hear the loudest cheers so far.

Time narrows down to Feyd’s showing. He’ll be armored by now, dressed, ready to make his first proper public appearance in a month, and even as the cheers die down from the past match and the blood is swept to the ends of the arena, the audience can feel it. Horns sound, and you gasp as you notice what look like bursts of black plasma exploding in the air with splattering noises. Fireworks, or the closest thing Geidi Prime has to it, stark against the plain white sky.

You’ve been practicing the Harkonnen language every day, but you’re far from fluent yet. Not even conversational. You understand only bits and pieces as the excitement in the announcer’s voice ramps up, booming throughout the colosseum.

"Under sljdgkjo our ghiel black sun, we welcome iwelkgnle sljeifgwaln our beloved leader Baron Vladimir Harkonnen,” the voice booms. “His lwkejlw jkslanlwe fjldklwel of blood and honor, pwoerl the holy birthday of our beloved na-Baron, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen!"

You hadn’t realized what the word for blood was a month ago when you saw your first arena match, or that that’s what the crowd was chanting for. You feel a chill run down your spine as you keep your posture straight, your face impassive.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” her Reverence asks. You wonder if she knows the language and just wants to know how much you understand.

“Some, your Reverence,” you say. “They’re introducing him now as the main attraction.”

And when the cheers get even louder, chanting Feyd’s name, you look down and there he is, moving in long-legged, purposeful strides with a blade in each hand.

You take a breath as you pull up your binoculars and watch as Feyd-Rautha takes to one knee, bowing deep in the direction of the Baron.

“He doesn’t bow to you?” one of the Sisters asks. “You’re his wife. You’re carrying his child.”

You shake your head. “He wouldn’t. That’s not how they do things here,” you tell her as you can’t look away from Feyd, who raises his head for a moment, trying to focus in on his face. He looks up not at you, but at his uncle with a cold glare before rising and getting into stance.

As Feyd activates his shields, and you can’t help but think he looks reptilian under the Geidi Prime sun.

“In celebration of our Na-Baron Feyd Rautha, we slheo a lwehfoew tueigh , the alsg three lsgjwoq of House Atreides.”

Atreides . Geidi Prime managed to drag the last of the Atreides military into their dungeons, their fate to be drugged and killed in front of the House that caused their destruction. A straightforward execution would be more dignified than this pretense of a match.

You can’t help the unease, even growing disgust brewing as you watch three doors slide open to reveal three men, all shirtless and wincing against the harshness of the infrared sun, and as Feyd’s eyes slide towards each door with a detached, calculating look.

You can sense the Bene Gesserit Sisters watching you, wondering what you actually think of your brute animal of a husband as you try your best to keep a straight face.

Two of the men are broader and bulkier than Feyd, not like it will make any kind of difference as they trudge forward, stumbling, trying to adjust their grips on their blades.

“Do you… like seeing this?”

You force yourself to stare ahead. “It doesn’t matter if I like it or not, Sister,” you say. “I’m expected to support my husband in this.”

Of course you don’t like seeing this. But from the way Feyd paces, swift in his execution, gnashing his teeth and snarling like a beast desperate for a challenge and still riled up with pent-up energy, it doesn’t seem like he takes any satisfaction in doing this.

He’d seemed like he was getting some amusement out of his last arena showing, playing with his opponents and taking as much time with them as he felt would be entertaining for the thousands of fans in the audience and disturbing for you and your family.

He appears to get no such amusement now as he prowls, frustrated at the utter lack of challenge. Maybe it’s because the chance to slaughter the greatest of his House’s enemies is hollow and unearned this way. He’s an adult and yet the Baron’s been so quick to keep him safe from any real danger other than himself. Maybe it’s finally getting to him that he’s not even expected to be able to beat members of the Atreides army in a fair fight, especially since it looks like the dungeon-masters selected burly, powerful-looking men for the spectacle even as the drugs render them weak and sluggish.

But then there’s the third man. Although he’s leaner and, from what you can tell, older than the first two, as soon as he gets his bearings of the unforgiving Geidi Prime sun he strides forward confidently and with purpose.

That can’t be right , you think.

“That last fighter isn’t drugged,” Margot says, gaze sliding over to you as if to ask, Did you know about this?

“No, it would appear that he isn’t,” you tell her as your heart speeds up and you can feel yourself blanche. “They must’ve been keeping him healthy for this.”

“Do you know why?” another woman asks.

“I do not,” you admit. Maybe Feyd wanted a proper challenge. Maybe he wanted to grace his audience with a real fight this time to show his own merits.

But then you zero in on Feyd and the flash of open incredulity on his face as he tilts his head and seems to realize the situation, when the soldier swipes and evades him with far more ease than the others, gets in a strike to the chest that would’ve killed him without his shield. You’re pretty sure that had he not been distracted with the first two soldiers he would’ve noticed the difference immediately.

Feyd didn’t plan this .

You look, horrified, across the arena into the Baron’s stadium box. The Baron doesn’t notice you, of course, but he smirks as he glances down into the arena.

What’s the purpose of this, you sick, awful man? you want to ask him. Are you trying to get him killed?

You look back down at Feyd, who you realize must’ve been looking at his uncle thinking the same thing before he looks back at his opponent, who he fixes with a smile. The monochrome landscape makes his black teeth look nonexistent within the cavern of his mouth as he acknowledges the Atreides fighter, turns off his shield, and unclips it from his armor for everyone to see before tossing it and his second blade to the ground.

You want a fair and honest fight, you’ll get a fair and honest fight, he seems to tell his opponent, the Baron, everyone in the audience. The two begin to circle one another, reevaluating each other and the best way to strike. The Picadors step in closer.

You inhale, exhale, in the second before their match starts in earnest. He’s been training since he was a little boy; he spars every day. He’ll be fine, you think, as Feyd and the Atreides soldier look each other in the eye. You’ve seen him do drills before; he’s well-coordinated.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s fast. He’s good . You’d taken it for granted that of course, he’d be competent with a weapon, but you’ve never seen him properly fight before. You hadn’t realized how graceful and swift he is, a good match for the lean and limber soldier he’s fighting, who goes on offense with the hatred and desperation of a man with nothing left to lose but the chance to take one last Harkonnen down with him.

Feyd looks like he’s having the time of his life.

The smile never quite leaves his face as he counters every move, and you’re sure there’s an excited gleam in his eye that your binoculars can’t quite pick up. He smirks and winks at the other fighter, like this is a fun, improvised dance rather than a fight to the death. Almost like he’s flirting.

Your heart pounds. The Atreides fighter’s undeniably skilled, has all the same strengths as Feyd, and has adjusted quickly to the unpleasant atmosphere and harsh light of the Geidi Prime sun, not to mention the Picadors taunting him with their prowling. No other opponent would do to make Feyd seem like a genuinely credible fighter. You watch as Feyd sweeps the legs out from under the Atreides soldier and go in for the kill, only for his opponent to evade him and get back up to resume fighting.

You wince as one of the Picadors pierces the Atreides soldier’s shoulder blade with their hook, thinking, That will make Feyd look weak. Feyd must be thinking the same thing, because the moment the soldier cries out in pain Feyd snarls and bellows at the Picadors for their interference. Like cockroaches they recoil and scatter, releasing the soldier and leaving just a small piece of metal lodged there, presumably to keep the man from bleeding out before Feyd has the chance to kill him. No interference, no cheating, no advantages. Man to Man .

It’s not lost on you how inhuman Feyd looks, especially against his opponent. You also don’t care; you just need him to win, you think as Feyd disarms the Atreides soldier, only for the ensuing scuffle to land them both in the sandy ground, grappling for the remaining blade.

For a moment they’re both flat on their backs, and in that moment, you realize that the soldier has the blade and the upper hand as they both slowly get up, locking in, equal force and resistance in a perverse embrace.

The blade’s so close to Feyd’s eye; the Picadors encircle them but don’t dare get any closer as he keeps the tip mere centimeters away. You can’t breathe, your sweaty hands shaking as you clench one fist in the skirt of your dress and force yourself to hold the binoculars with the other as you watch Feyd, from his coiled frame to his narrow face and can hardly believe what you see as you flutter the setting in closer.

He’s laughing .

And then he stops laughing as he pulls the knife to the side, past his head, turns it around in their combined grip and plunges it into the other man’s stomach.

The moment lasts for what feels like years, the Atreides soldier’s expression turning from shock to disbelief to growing horror as the light starts to fade from his eyes. You think Feyd says something to him as he gently cradles the man’s face with one hand, as if he’s trying to reassure him even as his other hand has a blade wedged in him, and you’d give anything to know what he’s saying.

And then the other soldier’s dead, finally going limp, and Feyd pulls the knife out, getting up and showing it to all of the arena. The crowd erupts into elated, blood-thirsty cheers that don’t let up as he silently strides away, one arm still raised in victory. The fireworks go into a frenzy as the crowd chants Feyd-Rauth-A! like the beat of a war-drum.

It’s not until Feyd’s returned to the Colosseum's underbelly like a monster that was summoned from it only to return from the bowels of the underworld from whence he came, that anyone in your booth finally speaks.

“Your husband is impressive, indeed” Lady Margot says.

You won’t see Feyd for a while; apparently he is to bathe and change before having a private meeting with the Baron, while you are to speak privately with her Reverence, at least according to the attendant who leads the other Bene Gesserit back to the guest wings to rest before the upcoming celebrations.

Maybe the Baron will provide a decent explanation for surprising his nephew with an opponent who actually stood a shot at killing him .

Idrisa trails behind you and the Reverend Mother as house servants lead you to a room with expansive floor-to-ceiling windows offering an excellent view of the black sun and sky that from the interior resembles a sickly gray. More servants come in with herbal tea with lemon for the two of you and you sit in silence for a moment, the Reverend Mother ignoring her tea as she watches you and you let her, wondering what information you’re giving her in your fixed posture and delicate sip from your cup. You glance over at Idrisa, who stands in the corner with her head bowed.

“Your husband’s showing in the arena was quite revealing,” her Reverence finally says. Even more than your dress .

“I apologize. I had no say or knowledge of the fight. I don’t believe the na-Baron did, either,” you tell her.

“The Baron acted in an unorthodox manner,” her Reverence says.

“I’m sure he must have been confident in the na-Baron’s odds of winning in a fair fight, even if it was...a high risk,” you say, trying to sound diplomatic and keep the anger and desperation out of your voice, “to put him in such a situation. Surely he must know how important the na-Baron’s role is both for the sake of Geidi Prime and for his service to you.”

Her Reverence almost smiles. “We’d prefer to keep the na-Baron alive as long as we reasonably can; he has the markings of a Great House leader, and of course your safety is more intact with his protection, but our main requirement of him is securing a son, and he’s accomplished that.”

Were her words supposed to be comforting? Your hands feel clammy and sweaty as you try not to wring them in your skirt.

“Yes, of course, your Reverence. I agree, I’m safer with him, much as I found that hard to believe at first. We’re,” you hesitate, “more compatible than I think either of us anticipated.” You try not to blush as you say it, can’t quite look her in the eye.

“Even powerful men are malleable,” the Reverend Mother says.

“He and I spend time together outside of the marriage bed as well, so I think he likes my company well enough,” you add.

You can hear your mother’s voice clear as day in your own head, warning you, Think very carefully about what you’re going to say and who you’re saying it to .

You find the words as if sounding them out, “Still, I cannot help but be concerned,” you say, “about the role the Baron will play in my children’s lives, especially any sons I’ll have.”

You realize that she knows what you mean without you having to say it as she hardly blinks. “The Baron’s health has been declining steadily over the years,” she says. “It appears that as of late he hasn’t quite had the stamina to indulge in some of his baser inclinations.”

So you also knew and let it happen? Did Feyd not have a single adult in his life actually looking out for him? Revulsion swirls in the pit of your stomach. “All the same, I don’t want to take that risk,” you tell her.

The Reverend Mother’s gaze grows sharper. “Walls have ears, young one,” she says, and you recoil, briefly. For a woman who must be at least seventy, even without using the Voice on you she intimidates you more than most men you’ve met.

“I understand, your Reverence,” you say quickly. “But if I’m to provide my firstborn son everything he needs to grow into the man he’s meant to be, everything you need for him to serve you and the Empire, then he’ll need a safer upbringing than that of his father.”

The Reverend Mother purses her lips for a moment, and you try not to wince, realizing how transparent and sophomoric your attempt at manipulation is. Still, you’re desperate. She can sense it, and lets you stew in your own juices for a moment.

“Feyd-Rautha’s father was and remains reviled on Geidi Prime,” she says eventually. “Elsewhere he’s seen as a decent man brave enough to distance himself from a cruel House and forge his own path. And yet he was still cut down in his forties, his legacy erased. Much like the Duke of Atreides recently.”

Why are you telling me this? you want to ask. Are you implying that it’s better that Feyd was raised by a pedophile than by a pacifist?

“Tell me this, do you honestly feel you have his devotion?” she asks.

You want to say a definitive yes. You think about how he holds you close at night, remember him nestled against you. You think about how diligently he trains you, insists on eating with you, encourages you learning to speak his language with him when he could ignore you except to come inside of you whenever he so chooses. “I…I think so?” is what you manage, though, when you think of his fervent loyalty to an uncle you’re pretty sure he despises. “I think I’m getting there, earning it,” you add. “I know part of his wedding vows was to keep me safe and I think he intends to keep it. But he is still Harkonnen.” And the Harkonnen who taught him all about politics has devotion to no one but himself .

You expect the Reverend Mother to berate you for your only middling success for a moment. Instead, and whether it’s to comfort you or for her own purpose, she picks her tea up, considering it but never lifting her veil to actually drink it. “The Baron did everything in his power to mold Feyd-Rautha exactly to him. In the mind, anyway. And in some ways he succeeded.” He took a seven-year-old boy and turned him into a bloodthirsty sociopath like him , she doesn’t need to say. “But I’ve heard and now have finally seen it for myself that despite all this, he has a sense of honor. And that comes from Abulurd Rabban, a decent man who loved the family he chose and forged for himself.”

Your throat feels dry as you think about how this woman has shared more about Feyd’s father than Feyd ever has, and yet your tea sits forgotten on the table in front of you. Your heart beats faster. You try and find the words.

“So…if my husband had to make the choice between mine and my children’s safety…and his uncle’s demands…”

“I think you know,” the Reverend Mother says. “The Baron’s time is coming to a close, once he’s served his purpose.”

“And what,” you clear your throat. “What is that, exactly?”

“Laying the groundwork for his nephew’s success,” her Reverence says. “Lady Fenring told you about how we tested your husband.”

“Yes, your Reverence,” you tell her.

Her gaze pierces through her veil as she looks at you. “It’s not just a test to determine pain tolerance, or self-control. It’s a test to determine if someone has elevated themselves above their animal nature. Neither the Baron nor Rabban have ever taken such a test,” she says. “Neither of them would survive.”

You look at each other, an understanding settling in between the two of you.

There’s a knock at the door and you both look towards the door, which opens to reveal two guards and Feyd, who’s changed into long robes that cover him from his Adam’s apple to his boots.

He inclines his head towards the Reverend Mother. “Your Reverence,” he says, the gesture polite but his tone clipped.

“I trust your meeting with your uncle was enlightening?” she asks as you both rise to stand.

“It certainly was, your Reverence,” he says, and you can sense an unspoken topic simmering under the surface, something you’re not yet privy to. Something they haven’t shared with you yet . But you’ll find out. If you’re to play a part in their greater schemes, all the plans within plans that they make, you need to know what you’re in for.

“I understand your festivities are imminent,” the Reverend Mother says. “So I’ll take my leave.” She practically glides past the servants on her way out.

Before she leaves, though, she turns to Feyd once more. “Oh, and congratulations on winning your match,” she adds.

Feyd shakes his head when a servant wordlessly offers him a fresh cup of tea and looks back at you.

“It’s a shame we won’t be alone for long,” he says. “Uncle wants us in the banquet hall soon for my celebration dinner.”

“Did he provide an explanation for what he did earlier?” you ask him.

Feyd says nothing for a moment, compressing his lips into a thin line. “I saw the look on both your faces,” you tell him. “No one told you about the undrugged soldier; your uncle ambushed you.”

“He claimed it was a birthday gift, the chance to prove to my people that I’m a warrior and not an entertainer.” He seems to hesitate before adding, “It’s far from the worst gift he’s ever given.”

That I very much believe. “You accomplished it,” you tell him.

And then he adds, “The other gift is governorship of Arrakis.”

You do a double take, hoping you heard wrong. “You’re replacing Rabban?” you ask.

“They’ll announce it soon,” he says. “He’s been hemorrhaging both spice and soldiers. It’s embarrassing.”

“Does he know?” you ask.

“He’ll find out soon enough,” Feyd says.

Then you’ll be gone , you think, heart sinking. I don’t want to be left alone with the Baron here . “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re to do no such thing,” he says. “I won’t bring you and our son into enemy territory in the middle of war; it’s too dangerous.”

“The Reverend Mother said herself that I’m safer with you,” you tell him. You feel yourself flush, desperate and angry. I need help. I need protection. Everyone says they’re looking out for my and my child’s safety and yet they deprive me of what I really need . You can hear yourself raising your voice as you say, “No offense, husband, but you’re the only Harkonnen man that I trust.”

Feyd reaches out and you flinch before he can cup your face in one hand, his eyes darting across your face. Your breath comes faster, straining against the straps that barely cover your breasts. You think about the Litany Against Fear and think, no. He needs to know that I’m scared .

“No harm will come to you,” he says. “Not here, especially not after your pregnancy’s announced. The people will be overjoyed to know we’ve succeeded in continuing the Harkonnen line. The first royal birth on Geidi Prime in over sixty-five years.” His hands move to your waist. “You’ll have the best medical care the planet has to offer. I’ll keep in correspondence with you whenever I have the time.”

He leans in closer, gently presses his forehead against yours. “Make no mistake, Y/N Harkonnen,” he says. “I wouldn’t be separated from you if I didn’t think there was a risk.” You exhale, closing your eyes.

“Ever since I’ve come of age I’ve been used for spectacle, ornamentation. Fighting rigged matches with no real risk, used as a mascot and an image and not for what I was made to do.

“But now I get to live my purpose; I get to extend the Harkonnen line, I get to lead my men into battle. For the first time I have real responsibilities and I’m going to fulfill them.”

You listen to his words, hear the conviction in his voice, and think about how there’s a part of Feyd not molded by the most cruel and depraved parts of this planet; an albeit twisted honor code, a sense of loyalty. Perhaps the Reverend Mother was right in thinking it comes from his father, because it’s not his uncle or brother.

“Will I see you again before our son is born?” you ask.

He moves his hands to yours, taking them in his grasp. “I swear it,” he says. “And I swear I’ll never allow any harm to come to you and our children.”

Would you kill the Baron for us? you want to ask, knowing you can’t. Not here, not now. But soon.

Do you have his devotion?

Yes. I’m certain.

“Now,” he says, pulling away. “Tonight, we make our first public appearance as husband and wife since the wedding. You said something last night about your years of training for the political aspects of marriage?”

“We wish to thank you all for attending my dear nephew’s twenty-sixth birthday,” the Baron says, hovering in a manner that makes him loom over even the tallest of heads as all stand, him at the seat of honor and his nephew on his right side and you beside his nephew. Of all the Bene Gesserit guests, only the Reverend Mother and Margot are here for the banquet. You imagine the always-veiled Sisters have to eat in the privacy of their quest quarters. You notice Count Fenring as one of the distinguished guests–he must’ve only arrived today. The age difference between him and his wife is all the more noticeable when you see them together. There are other non-Harkonnen guests--it is a prominent birthday for a member of a prominent House, after all, but for the most part it remains, like in the arena, a sea of bald heads and black fabric.

Before anyone is permitted to sit down and eat, the Baron calls for a toast. Everyone else has wine, and the ruby-red juice in your own wine glass looks enough like the real thing that people won’t ask questions yet. We’ll give it a few weeks time, you think. Stagger the news in between this and when Feyd’s officially given governorship of Arrakis. Wait until a test from a Harkonnen doctor can confirm it and then we can announce it to all of Harko .

“To the na-Baron, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and to his prosperous future!” the Baron says, raising his glass and taking one long sip as everyone cheers Feyd, and finishes his sip with a flourish before passing his glass to a servant to set down on the table for him. His thin lips are already tinged red as he turns to his nephew, takes Feyd’s face in one hand, holding his chin, and presses a quick kiss to his lips. Feyd doesn’t react beyond a slight twitch of his jaw. You look down to stifle a flinch.

“Now, let us truly celebrate,” the Baron adds, and people cheer again in response.

When you all sit down Feyd turns to you, takes two fingers under your chin and raises your lips to his. It’s not a passionate kiss, probably won’t even smear your lipstick, but it’s a slightly longer kiss than the one he just had from his uncle.

Maybe it’s for show; he wants to pass on the image of obedience. Maybe he wanted to get the taste of his uncle off his lips. You see the Baron look at you with a brief look of distaste before the food and drink can distract him and the courses can start flowing.

Either weddings by design are much more formal and quieter on Geidi Prime than birthday parties or the Baron wanted to show as much decorum as possible towards your House for the one occasion.

The banquet makes up for a small portion of the evening, quickly giving way to drinks and more food passed around as people disperse from tables to either stand around in the middle of the room or lounge on chaises and oversized armchairs that line the walls. The fireworks continue in earnest outside, while inside people feed on delicacies passed around on trays and drink wine out of goblets and harsher liquors out of metal tumblers. You make do with distilled water and sips of the same wine-colored juice from dinner.

Generals and off-world politicians alike toast Feyd both in the Imperial Standard and Harkonnen Battle Language. Once again Feyd stiffens in the presence of Margot Fenring perhaps even worse with the Count present, his interactions with both of them polite but tense on his own end. He never directly looks at her, you notice. Funny thing, she doesn’t seem surprised or uncomfortable at his coldness. Neither does her husband.

( “Isn’t it strange,” you overhear one of the Harkonnen captains say to another, “That they have three daughters together and I hear none of them look like him.” )

You try to file away the growing discomfort of it. I’ll unpack it later, you think, as today’s discoveries have been pretty illuminating towards why your husband claims to dislike the Bene Gesserit. You try not to dwell on it for now, just trying to act the part of the demure and effortlessly poised political wife. With Harkonnens you stay silent, to the side and slightly behind Feyd. With other Houses you engage a bit more, agreeing with the compliments people give Feyd, who for his part plays the statesman rather well. The Baron has, much as you hate to admit it, a level of wit that if he were another man you might occasionally find charming, but it’s always clearly manufactured. While he still carries an intimidating presence, Feyd uses his combination of quick-thinking and brevity to his advantage. He offers the occasional wry quip among the required pleasantries. You think to yourself that, despite superficial appearances, the two of you make a decent-looking couple.

That said, you do catch a few people frowning at your hair, clearly wondering why Feyd hasn’t insisted on shaving it all off.

Yeah, well, not that it’s any of your business, but he happens to love my hair and can’t keep his hands off of me , you think, offering a polite smile and raised brow at one such bewildered-looking Harkonnen man, who quickly looks away to avoid being caught staring at the na-Baron’s wife.

Through it all slaves either mill around or weave in and out silently bearing trays either to serve food and drink or to take away used glasses. They’re discreet, as they’re meant to be, but you can’t help but notice a couple of differences, things you’re certain hadn’t been present at your wedding reception.

Some of the slave girls who stand against the wall are in transparent dresses under which they’re all nude. A few don’t look like some of the attendants you’ve seen; they’re curvier, with distinct markings you can see under the gauzy fabric. There are also a few men, young and fit, wearing only loincloths. Their body types also range in size, some slight and lean, some built with thicker, denser muscle. You glance over as a Harkonnen soldier approaches one of the men with his wife trailing behind him. It doesn’t surprise you that the higher-ranking women only ever approach any of them in the company of their husbands, but that when they do it’s not for one specific type. Women, men, both appear to get used. You glance at Feyd, who seems indifferent to it all; politely accepting congratulations on his arena match and happy birthday wishes. He must be used to the implied debauchery of it all.

After a while it starts becoming uncomfortable, standing around in boots meant more for ornamentation than practicality, and Feyd senses it.

“Come now, wife, I think we’ve earned a bit of a sit-down,” he says, as if you also fought in the arena earlier instead of just standing for a while, and gives you his arm to guide you to an armchair wide enough to serve as a couch.

“Thank you,” you whisper in his ear as you sit down, before he sits down beside you and wordlessly pulls you into his lap. In your surprise you shift, trying to make sure that you don’t expose any more skin than you already have, pulling the skirt of your dress over the slit along your thigh and hoping your breasts don’t fall out of the scraps of fabric meant to cover them. Feyd doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, his hand coming to rest over your ribcage.

You weren’t entirely sure how he’d present you, but weren’t expecting him to have you front and center, silently demanding that all who approach him show their respects to you as well. Maybe if things were different he'd have you kneeling on the floor beside the chair like an obedient dog. Maybe the thought occurred to him; probably, if it occurred to you. You shake the thought loose, wondering something else.

“What’s the informal term for ‘ father ’ in your language? I haven’t been able to find it.” Not that you can quite picture Feyd ever actually playing with any of his children, but the idea of it, the idea of all of you in a reasonably normal family, is a nice one you’d like to keep with you.

“There isn’t one,” Feyd says. “It’s just ‘vasta. ’”

You frown. “Nothing more casual than that? Something a child would use?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s either ‘vasta’ or ‘ father .’”

You consider this. “So there’s no equivalent to something like ‘ Papa? ’ That’s what I called my father almost exclusively until I was four or five.”

“So did I,” Feyd says. “But Lankiveil’s different from Geidi Prime. Or it was until Rabban took over and started using it as a Harkonnen outpost.”

You pull back to get a better look at his face. He’s never talked about his father, nor Lankiveil other than the once, and that had been at your prompting. “You did?”

He looks at you as if he isn’t sharing something more intimate about his childhood than anything he’s ever discussed with you. “That surprises you?”

“A little,” you admit. “It’s easy to forget you had such a different life from this once.”

“It is, after enough years of separation,” he says.

You’re not sure quite what to say to that. You think about how reviled the name of his father is on Geidi Prime, how begrudgingly respected he is on other planets. You think about what the Reverend Mother told you, the information she gave you that Feyd never has and wonder if he ever will, or if like in matters of the bedroom, he needs to get to know you better before he shows you that kind of vulnerability.

But then he nuzzles against your hair, the shell of your ear, and you notice that in certain corners, seemingly unnoticed, some couples are getting closer and there are fewer of what you must assume are Fortress pleasure slaves than there were before. Feyd has a tumbler glass of a harsh-smelling amber liquid that might be one of your parents’ birthday gifts in one hand, but the other holds you to him.

You think about that one morning in the Training Halls when he’d fucked you against the wall as everyone had been dismissed but aware of what the two of you were up to. You doubt he will, but it also wouldn’t surprise you if he’s thought about pulling his cock out and having you sit on him for the entire party to see.

Maybe after he’s crowned you’ll do it–not in front of an audience, but in private after the throne’s been thoroughly disinfected you’ll take him inside of you while he sits on it.

He sets his glass down on the side table and lays his hand on your stomach, low on your belly, just where the tight bodice ends. He brushes his thumb along the material.

“I’m glad to finally show you off,” he says, voice quiet enough that no one will hear except anyone foolish enough to try and eavesdrop on him. “The picture of a Harkonnen bride.”

“Even with the hair and eyebrows?” you ask.

“Anyone who has a problem with it has to answer to me,” Feyd says. “You are exactly as I want you; poised, capable, carrying my child.” He slides a hand under the slit in your dress. “Just curious, what sort of undergarment are you wearing under this?”

You feel yourself flush, a nervous laugh escaping you. “About that…” you start, leaving the implication clear. There’s another reason you’ve been sitting and standing so carefully all day.

Feyd’s eyes blaze. “Because you want me to be a gentleman, I’ll wait until we’re in private before I rip this off of you and leave you in nothing but your necklace.”

“Trying to be a gentleman? Is that the only reason why?” you ask, still flustered, trying to keep up. The other bodies inhabiting this vast space are far easier to ignore this way.

“No,” he says simply. “None of these people deserve to see you moaning as you take my cock like the beautiful, desperate cockslut that you are. It’s only a twenty-minute walk to get back to my bedroom. Fifteen if we walk briskly, and that’s about how long I’ll be able to last without being inside of you.” He shifts you in his arms like he means to carry you and another giggle escapes you.

“Leaving your own birthday party?” you ask.

“The party’s become a full Bacchanalia,” Feyd says, the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip turned up in a coy smile. “I hardly think anyone will notice if we slip away.”

You smile back, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, picturing all the positions you’ll only be able to fuck in for another few months, before you start to swell. You think about your breasts crushed against his solid chest, his abdomen against yours when he kneels and pulls you on top of him.

“Alright,” you tell him. “For the sake of propriety–”

“My apologies, my lord and lady na-Baron and na-Baroness, for the interruption,” a voice says, and you startle away, jerking your head towards an embarrassed-looking man in gray robes–a servant, to be sure, but a higher-ranking one. He keeps his head inclined, eyes on the floor, and you’re certain it’s out of awkwardness just as much as respect. “I have a message from the Baron.”

“What,” Feyd says, looking like he wants to rise from his seat and sucker-punch the messenger in the stomach.

“The Baron requires a private audience with the na-Baroness.”

Why? Your mouth opens in silent question and you furrow your brow. You look at Feyd, whose expression is thunderous. A muscle feathers in his jaw. You turn to look back at the servant, knowing that no matter how much you don’t want to, there’s only one acceptable response. “I accept. When?”

“Presently, Na-Baroness,” he says.

Feyd holds you tighter for a moment. “What was his reason?” he demands.

“To congratulate her on her success so far and inquire about her health,” the messenger says.

You sigh and disentangle yourself from Feyd. The mood had soured the moment the messenger showed up and mentioned your uncle-in-law; Feyd will be able to wait a little longer.

The Baron’s lounging in his private throne room, with what looks like a hookah in one hand and a large goblet of wine in the other. Two guards flank him, their heads downturned, but other than them you’re alone. You curtsy as discreetly as your dress will allow as you acknowledge him and keep your head down. Ostensibly it’s out of respect but you’re honestly grateful to not have to look at him any more than required.

“Congratulations on your new development, young Y/N,” he says after your show of deference. “The Bene Gesserit are most pleased with you.”

“Thank you, Baron,” you say, keeping your gaze on the floor.

“You’ve satisfied my nephew,” the Baron adds, setting both the wine and hookah down on either side of him.

“That pleases me to hear, Baron,” you say, trying to feel proud of how you’re not taking the bait even though you know he’s enjoying his ability to embarrass a woman from a Greater House. You wish you could control the heat burning in your cheeks and ears. I hate you, you think.

“As your condition progresses and after you bear the child, I’m sure he’ll do his best to temper his…biases…against mothers for your sake,” the Baron adds. “Although it runs deep within him.”

You can’t help but look up at him in confusion. What biases? Feyd’s never mentioned his mother once. Never mentioned any of what he’s been through.

The Baron sees your confusion and his smile when he realizes the added power he has over you is truly awful to look at.

“Did my nephew not tell you about his mother? I suppose I can’t be surprised. He must not have wanted to upset your delicate sensibilities.”

You had her killed so you could keep him isolated. So you could keep molesting him without interference. I know you, you sick bastard . And if you’re threatening me I swear on my family’s legacy I will find a way to make you suffer for it .

“He has not, Baron,” you tell him. “He doesn’t speak of her.”

The Baron tilts his head as much as his jowls will allow. “So you know nothing of her?” he asks.

“I know she was a member of the Bene Gesserit,” you tell him. “I know my husband and Rabban were the only children she produced with your brother. I know she took your brother’s surname and was known as Emmi Rabban. I know she’s been dead for nearly twelve years.”

The Baron straightens up a little, eyes glinting. “So you did some research, and yet you don’t understand my comment about Feyd’s issue with mothers.”

“I can imagine the separation from her at such a young age must have taken a toll on him,” you say. Maybe created some attachment issues, you don’t say. You don’t want to offer up any more vulnerability, especially not on Feyd’s part.

“So you know she died when Feyd was fourteen,” he says.

“Yes, Baron. Shortly after his attempt on your life.”

“And what,” he asks, “based on what you’ve read, do you think her cause of death was?”

Your mouth feels dry. He’s trying to provoke you. Try not to let it show that it’s working . “She was killed by Harkonnens,” you manage.

The Baron sits forward as much as his bulk will allow, looking happier than perhaps you’ve ever seen him before. “ A Harkonnen, some claim. One who was young and impulsive and carrying a grudge against his mother for sending him away. But we cannot prove that, since no culprit was ever convicted, so we’ll never truly know, will we?”

You hear your own gasp as if it’s happening from outside of your body. Pressure builds behind your eyes. The words, I don’t believe you , die before they can reach your lips.

The Baron looks downright gleeful now. “I can see why my dear nephew finds you so amusing. You really had no idea?”

You lower your head, mouth opening and closing.

Do not cry. Under no circumstances are you to ever cry in front of this man .

It’s awful. It’s so horrifying it never occurred to you and yet it also makes a sick kind of sense that makes you wish you could vomit out the information the Baron’s just given you, purge it from your mind and go back to several minutes ago, when even with such unexplored territory ahead of you at least you felt a level of safety, even optimism.

“The coroners say she was stabbed in the neck four times,” he adds and that’s the moment he wins and you feel yourself begin to double over, letting out a sob before covering your mouth and belatedly realizing that you’ve wrapped one arm around your belly. Stop. Please just stop, you want to say, and no words come out but tears do.

The door opens and the Baron’s eyes flicker to something behind you.

“Feyd!” he calls out. “What excellent timing. We were just talking about you.”

You slowly turn, not wanting to look at either of them and needing to know. Tell me it’s not true, Feyd. Please tell me that it’s a sick joke .

Feyd inhales sharply when he sees the look on your face and glares back at his uncle. His expression, looking stricken and then quietly furious, is his admission of guilt.

“I must say I’m a little surprised, nephew,” the Baron says and your ears ring as you see that beyond the now-opened door the servant who’d brought you here now lays motionless, bleeding out on the floor. “I’d assumed you’d want to be honest with your delicate wife about your history, even the less savory bits.”

“You try to poison my own wife against me,” Feyd snaps.

“I’m not doing anything that wouldn’t have happened anyway, nephew,” the Baron says, reaching for his hookah again. “She’s not stupid; she was bound to figure it out eventually, even if you were never going to tell her.”

He wasn’t , you think. Would he have lied if I’d bothered to ask? Or just hoped that I’d never be curious?

Feyd looks at you. Neither of you speak. What is there to say? You can’t think of anything. You turn and start walking, needing air, needing to get away. Feyd reaches for your arm as you pass him and you wish you were Bene Gesserit so you could properly use the Voice on him when you scream, “ No! ” All the same he drops his hand, flinching, silent, as you leave the room with tears streaming down your cheeks.

Behind you, distantly, you hear the Baron chuckle. “Make sure you’ve properly tamed your pet before you tame Arrakis, Feyd. Oh, and happy birthday again.”

That is all for now but I am very much back and at close to 100k words.

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