#honed calves

[shadow4-1]

"Can you just pretend to love me tonight? Please?"

Simon's never gotten a request like this before.

He's never had any qualms about selling his body. Whether it was for his cock, units of his blood plasma, or his war honed body. He's always done what he's had to - anything to stay off the streets and keep a full belly.

The girls who've paid him always wanted a brute, someone to mount them and take them for all they were worth. That was what he was used to, not some doe-eyed sweet thing begging him to be gentle.

"I want to feel loved." You admit, leaning back on the motel bed, thighs crossed in nervousness. "I um...I know I'm not very pretty-"

Simon leans forward on his knees and kisses you gently. Well, he tries to. The tip of your teeth graze painfully together as he mouths you. You squeak beneath him, hands going up to his shoulders to try and push him off on rabbit instinct. He pulls his mouth off of you just enough to mutter an apology.

"Sorry." He swallows.

You look up at him with impeccably beautiful eyes brimming with tears. You seem to finally understand there's nothing gentle about him even when he tries to be. Simon wants you to call him off, send him out of the cheap hotel. He knows he can't be as sweet at you want - as you deserve. He's just physically not built for that. At least, he's sure of it nowadays. He has a brief memory of holding his newborn nephew but it slips away just as quickly as it came.

"Can we just...go slow?" You ask again. Simon can hear the waver in your voice. You're unsure if you want to continue, but you seem to trust him for some reason. "Really, really slow?"

"Yeah."

He can do slow. He can do glacial. If there's one thing he can do, it's be measured, methodical. He wasn't a Lieutenant for nothing.

For the first time in years, he takes his time. He's used to the fast paced, hungry fucks that pay his rent in thirty minutes. This is...new, not wholly uninvited. He kisses down your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts. He nips at the lacy fabric (you dressed up for him when he was expecting just to rip it all off) as he makes his way down further. He laps at the skin beneath your belly button, making your belly flutter. Ticklish. He likes that.

Simon noses his way between your thighs, easily spreads your legs with his thick forearms. As he kisses down your cloth covered mound he admits he likes how you smell. Usually the taste of women turns him off. He prefers men, but desperate women pay more. You're desperate alright, although its a different type of desperation. Something about the nervous wetness staining your new panties has his cock jumping in his trousers. He presses his nose to the fabric, inhales deeply, and relishes in your shy squeak. Simon starts to understand your desire.

You want to be explored, mapped, and consumed slowly. You want to give up control but feel as if you can stop at any moment. You want to be seen, tasted, then completely devoured.

Instead of slipping your panties to the side, he licks his way down your thighs. You squeal and try to squirm away from the sudden sensation but he doesn't stop. He kisses down your calves and across the top of your feet. His hands are so large that they wrap around your soles completely. Simon pushes them up until they're up by your ears. He knows the position is uncomfortable for you, but he likes the view of your soft, cloth covered mound.

He nips at the back of your ankles and calves, licks down the expanse of your thighs, ans nuzzles into the gusset of your panties. Simon relishes in the squeaks and gasps ans twitches of your expectant body. It's been so long since he's teased someone, much less a sweet lil' thing like you.

Your scent is heady, comforting, nothing like he's experienced before. He finds he really likes just inhaling you in. You whimper, thighs shaking already. He hasn't even licked you yet. Simon finally admits to himself that you're stroking his ego.

He plants a firm, sweet kiss to your cloth covered cunt. The fabric is practically soaked through. He can smell your taste on the tips of his lips. His curiosity wins. He takes a firm, long lick from bottom to top. Simon tastes you, but also the flowery tang of your favorite fabric softener. You taste good. He wants more.

Simon finally releases his hold on your thighs. On instinct, or perhaps strain, they fall apart. You try to sit up but he tugs your body further towards the edge of the bed. He can feel the tension in his old knees from kneeling, but he ignores it. You've opened up your body to him. He wants to take full advantage of it.

Simon goes back to lapping at your clothed cunt. He doesn't stop until his tongue is raw from brushing repeatedly over the stitches. Drool drips down his chin.

"Off."

You huff in confusion, trying to sit up. Instead. With too easy of a tug, off come your panties. There you are. Simon knows he should slow his movements but he doesn't care. You haven't stopped him yet, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get those sweet lips in his mouth. He spreads you apart with his middle and forefinger. You're a sight to behold. Perhaps not pornstar perfect anatomy, but you're delicious looking nonetheless. He eyes your glistening, dripping slit. As bad as he wants to force his tomgue deep inside you, instead he presses a firm kiss to the hood of your clit. You jolt, trying to back away or pull him closer, he can't tell.

Simon follows your movement. He mouths hungrily at your clit, flattens his tongue and practically drools against it. He laps at you with a muted fervor. He doesn't want to hurt you. He can tell you're sensitive. It must've been awhile since the last time you'd had a man willingly do this for you. A damn shame.

Your shaky little moans are like music to Simon's ears. He follows them like a map. He circles your clit, traces the entrance of your hood, even dips lower to tease the sides of your inner lips. You seem to like that alot based on the sounds you make. He sucks on your inner wings and you squeal, thighs wrapping hard around the sides of his head. He does it again and and again until you're hiccuping in delight. Your slick drips down his chin and throat. You're such a good girl for him.

Simon knows he's going to make you cum, it's just a matter of time and technique. He has both on his side. He uses his other hand to pet at your entrance. He tries to commit your anatomy to memory, and so he takes his time dipping the pads of his fingers against your fluttering slit. Despite it obviously having been awhile, your cunt holds no resistance. In fact, it practically swallows up the tip of his middle finger. Fuck yeah, that's what he likes to see.

With measured ease, Simon slips his whole finger inwards and upwards inside of you. You keen and gasp and he can feel your insides twitching. You're tight. So tight he can feel his finger already starting to cramp up from the resistance.

If he's going to fuck you right he's still got some work to do.

[imorynn]

⟢˚ 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ── avis amberg ꨄ︎

˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚

⟢˚ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Avis Amberg ౨ৎ reader

⟢˚ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 : NSFW ノ sexual content ノ mentions of self pleasure ( fingering ) coming from Avis �� reader is completely wrapped around Avis’ fingers ノwe are pussy besotted ノ yearning ノ alludes to eating out ノalludes to face sitting — we are Avis’ throne, folks ノ descriptions of body worshipping ノmajor sexualized and non sexualized devotion

⟢˚ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.2k+

˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚

── “PLEASE …”

Your complexion, kissed by warmth, lathered with a sheen of perspiration, glistening as though painted with the adhesive sweetness of unrelenting ecstasy. Every inch of you shivered with the maddening weight of desire, raw and unrestrained.

The ambiance pulsated with something primal, something beyond mere want. It was the ache of devotion turned carnal, the raw, blistering need to devour and be devoured.

Avis’ gaze remained obdurate, steadfast in its dominion, holding you captive beneath her without even uttering a single word. You mollified within the hearth of her palms as they slid down the pillar of your throat, tracing a course of flames to the delicate line of your clavicle to the exposed curves of your breasts, each touch branding you as her belonging.

“Please, Avis.”

What a display. It was pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

The way you beseeched, the way your body writhed, the way she buried you alive beneath those rich earthen hues of hers. How the murkiness of your heartache slithered down your spine and to the hollow descend of your ribcage like ivy, entangling tighter with every passing second. Every breath felt stolen, every thought clouded, your vision fractured, splintering into a kaleidoscope of burnt sienna and ember-soaked eyes, a blazing labyrinth where clarity disintegrated with every jolt of longing.

It was not just a longing in your chest; it was a desire, clawing and despairing, winding its path within every nerve and muscle. It gnawed at the edges of your restraint, piercing its honed teeth into your sanity, requiring that you take her, claim her, feel her in ways so visceral they would leave you undone.

She was your air, your gravity, your torment, your ruin, the sole thing grounding you as you rested over plush pillows and mattress while she was perched above you, legs twined in delicate lace beneath the coral robes pooling along her silhouette, your cheek flush against the velvet flesh of her inner thigh that hoisted over your shoulder.

She had been pleasuring herself for — how long had it been? Minutes? Hours? — you did not know, time became meaningless, disoriented and fogged in the haze she conjured, manicured fingers moving with practiced ease, replacing what she exhilaratingly perceived you could have given her. You had been made to watch, to witness every moan, every gasp that escaped her lips, the very sounds you would sell your soul to hear. That was her power — her cruel, intoxicating power — to wait until you unraveled completely.

The torment was exquisite, the way she waited until you unraveled completely. And oh, how marvelous it was to witness it awakening to life.

Your hands slid up her calves, digits trembling as they climbed the contours of the taut muscle there, halting only when they reached and tugged the delicate straps of her garters, as if seeking permission to go further.

“Please, Avis. ‘m begging you, my love.”

Her tongue softly clicked against the roof of her mouth, a pitying sigh blowing past her lips as her hand reached for you, thumb lovingly brushing your sweat-drenched temple.

“I know, baby,” she crooned, velvet and smoke and breathless, two fingers canting your chin up to look at her once more. “I know.”

Her brow rose flawlessly, the fine lines around her mouth accentuating as she queried, “You need me?”

“More than I need fucking oxygen,” you murmured, fervently kissing the oozing hollow between her thighs. You audibly moaned at the feel of ripened flesh beneath your grazing mouth, soon entrapping your lower lip between your teeth.

“How are you even real, Avis?” you whispered in bursting wonder and molten warmth that deliquesced over her entire being, her heart, her soul. And her irises, the depths of those ember shades shadowed into shards of endless slow burning.

To you, the sound of her voice was a symphony of flames and usquebaugh, a searing sweetness that scorched through your veins and lingered like an intoxicating constraint. It was the kind of sensation you would etch into your very being — burn it into the marrow of your bones, carve it into the fragile walls of your frenzied mind, and brand it across the chambers of your aching heart — over and over again, a thousand times, if only she would grant you the mercy of having her. Even if it was just once. Just once. Please, please, fucking please, at least allow for it be once.

“One chance. That is all I ask,” you slightly turned your head to press sweet kisses into her linen palms. She skimmed the pad of her thumb down the apple of your flushed cheek.

The candlelight bathed her in liquid honey, outlining every curve, every contour, every delicate line time had inscribed upon her. She was not merely a woman— she was a testament, a hymn, and you damned yourself, and anyone, who ever doubted or ever believed she was not a fragment of what was considered everything.

“I see you everywhere, love. In every room, in the sky, the streets … in my dreams, in every corner and space, my heart, my head — fuck, you never fucking leave my being —” You were panting now, practically quivering from head to toe as the more perceptible confession tore itself free. “Loving you might kill me one day.”

A hum reverberated from her heaving chest. God, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into “Oh really, doll? You’d allow it?”

“I’d more than welcome it.”

Her laughter was low, chocolate rich and brittle, and entirely aware. “You’d die for me, my sweet girl?” Her voice dipped, the edges of her pigmented mouth curling a bit more upward with every syllable. “You’d die for momma?”

“God, I’m already living for you,” you exhaled, your pupils absorbing the fullness of your hues. “What difference does it make?”

She stilled at that moment, the merriment in her gaze transforming into something softer, darker. Your hands mapped up the dips of her hips, marking out every line, every crevice, every speck within the assemblage of freckles kissing like winking stars, committing her entirety to your memory until those stars flared brighter and seared your bare mind. When your fingers curled around her wrist, drawing her palm to your swollen mouth once more, you pushed a soft kiss there, your words a reverent murmur against her skin.

“You hold my entire existence in the palm of your hand, Avis. How could you for one second think I wouldn’t leave this world for you?”

A flicker of mirth danced in those eyes she was persistently treasured, worshiped and loved entirely with. “Though,” you softly added, a small smile of your own playing at your lips, “I’d rather not leave it without making love to you first … that is if momma allows it.”

"It's alright,"  She was immediate with her response, a quivering timbre you felt within your bones as she shifted herself lower to kiss the crown of your head. "I allow it."

And as the buckles of her garters slowly from their secured confines and she allowed those nimble fingers of yours to unveil her, eager mouth of yours to tease her, to sinfully exhilarate her, she was damn certain you saw constellations — spasms of brilliant cosmos — bursting and illuminating behind her eyelids.

── ⟢˚ᥫ᭡ 𓂃

[honeylullaby]

Earned It.

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Concerned with Declan’s affinity to work, you drop him a visit at the office…

18+ FANFIC / Implied smut! Reader character aged at 21. Short Work. Hope you enjoy guys! 🩷

Song Inspo: Earned It by The Weeknd.

The bronze ram statue of Corinium twinkled brazenly under the moonlight — the personification of Tony Baddingham scowling at anybody that dared enter the building. Sauntering to the front desk, you are greeted by a haughty, sharp-nosed lady, wrapped tightly in a cashmere cardigan and with a honed, greying bob. She glared at you, a bitter, disdainful look in her eyes. “I’m here to see Declan O’Hara.” You beamed, flashing her your most friendly, yet faux, smile. Her beady eyes surveyed you — tight waves of golden hair, overly glamorous makeup and wearing only a long, beige Burberry trench coat, calves bare, with black stilettos. “He’s busy.” She tutted reprovingly, but buzzed through to him. “Mr O’Hara, there’s a… not quite a lady here to see you.” Her smirk was maliciously complacent as she spoke. “What tha’ fuck? Don’t…” Declan’s tinny voice blared over the receiver, but was promptly cut off by the woman again. “Go through.”

Silently swearing under your breath, the paprika-orange corridors of Corinium were deathly quiet, with the exception of your stilettos clicking against the laminate flooring. Pushing over the door of his office, Declan was buried intensively into a mountain of paperwork, his brow furrowed harshly and his mouth fixed firmly around his pipe. “Good evening, Mr O’Hara.” You pronounced elegantly, locking the door behind you and striding over to his desk. It took a few moments for him to glance upwards — but boy, was he glad he did. The drifting aroma of Coco Chanel filled his nostrils, and sent his rhythmic heartbeat into overdrive.

Your supple red lips were painted crimson, and your twinkling eyes winked at him suggestively. “What a strange outfit. Where have ya’ been?” Declan questioned, utterly confused by your trench coat and silkily shaved legs. “Nowhere. Home, then here.” You replied, pulling his reading glasses from the bridge of his nose and setting them onto the table. “I’m sorry I’ve been here so much, I’ve just got…” He began, excuses falling from his mouth profusely. You raised your hand to silence him, shushing softly. Without speaking, you untied the coat, allowing it to fall to your ankles and revealing something Declan could only describe as heavenly. 

A set of intricately laced red lingerie — bra, pants, red stockings held up with a scarlet suspender belt — framing your voluptuous figure perfectly. Declan’s jaw couldn’t physically hang any lower to the floor. “What the…” He muttered breathlessly, any form of coherence escaping him. “What’s this about?” He asked, rising from his chair and setting his pipe down. There wasn’t a single atom of your body that he didn’t want to either eat or fuck, his words shortly after. “Well, I’ve barely been able to say hello to you in the mornings recently before you’ve rushed off here. So, I thought I’d bring home to you instead.” You smirk, incredibly smug & turned on as you noticed his ravenous glare.

Intent on teasing him as fervently as you could, you rifled through his stationary organiser, only ceasing when you withheld the biggest ruler you could find. “Now, I think I’ve been really, really bad by turning up here. So I think I need punishing.” You muttered, bending yourself across your desk and handing him the ruler. It was always difficult to tell which mindset Declan would be in, but you were confident that you weren’t leaving anytime soon when that devilish smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“On that lonely night, said it wouldn’t be love but we fell in rush. It made us believe it was only us.” - Earned It.

[wroteclassicaly]

18+

A/N: Just a little blurb to kickstart my writing for this character off ;)

Pairings: Eric x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, vaginal fingering, NSFW.

He’s always like this with you. Gentle, clarifying your wants and desires without words — your consent. That’s never changed, even when the silence has to begin again, when no one knows how safe this island can be. There’s a stillness to your candlelit nights - this one being no different. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve settled into your small tent, most residences being established for those that have come a new.

But having a skylight zip in the roof of your tent and a relatively soft mattress, knowing you’ll have fresh water and food, light conversation in the mornings, a sunrise above water, and a makeshift family — you consider yourself amongst heavenly luck.

With Frodo out frolicking tonight with your neighbor’s cat Prudence, it leaves you and Eric alone in the tent for an hour. He’s been reading his book by the candle light, alternating between drawing his fingers down the wooden sconce, to staring at you through hooded, enriching pools of chocolate. All of this is still new, your two year long online relationship, various letters and video chats, with the arrangement to meet in New York in person, only to receive a text that sounded like a goodbye, hours after landing, but then the invasion happened and you had zero time to look for him, assuming the worst, to ultimately meeting again on the boat. He still looks at you as if he’s known you his whole life, in person. With newly shared trauma, to old shared conditions - you’re honestly not sure you’d be sane right now.

Tap. Tap.

A warm hand pinches the skin of your calve. It causes you to look up from your mindless doodling. He’s got that little soft smile, the flame of the candle dancing in the blown expanse of his pupils. His brows pinch together, his curls drooping over his forehead as he nods for a confirmation in his request. He comes closer and your agreement, knees rustling the sheets and the comforter.

He props himself beside you, one hand cupping your jaw, bringing you in to nuzzle your nose. With the exception of fires crackling, crickets chirping, some residents still up, and the distant sound of the water lapping at the shoreline — all remains a comfortable kind of tranquil. You feel his mouth on your jawline first, fingers tilting you to maintain direction. You push your book aside, listening to the light smacks of his lips as he sucks in the flesh of your neck, lightly biting down, only to release and soothe. His spare hand, it finds its way up your nightdress, resting on your knees, kneading, rolling his palm, until it splays, his dipping fingers tapping your skin.

He pulls away from the divide between your neck and shoulder, mouth red and panting, licking his teeth as his hand leaves your land and his pointer and middle finger make a spreading motion. Your heart drops into your guts, entangled and stifling the air in your lungs. You can’t tug your panties down fast enough, sliding against his chest, taking his own stubble bitten chin into your grip for a kiss as he lets his hand cup your heat, a groan slipping into your mouth. It gets harder to cover when you feel him press at your entrance, teasing the muscle, getting you so worked up that you have to stare him down with your pleading eyes that he’s so fond of. You take two digits with ease, rocking your hips, taking what you need from him, letting him spoil you.

It’s a lewd sound, one that someone couldn’t miss if they were to pass your tent. Eric’s breaths are coming out choppy across your lips, his lap swollen with need. But sometimes, it’s about giving you pleasure that gets him off the most. And you, you’re sure every creature across the world can hear how fast your heart is beating. Your body zoned out, only honing in on Eric, facing him as you near your climax.

It’s going to be strong, you both know it. He sees through his haze enough to cup your mouth with his spare hand as you tighten around his fingers, crying into his rapid pulse, that is buried beneath his wrist. You’re trembling, whimpering, and it attacks that aching fire in his belly, licking, and causes him lower his face into your jugular, warmth spurting from between his thighs and into his boxers. You hold one another through it, smiling against a sweaty daze, and he kisses you again, one finger dropping to write I Love You inside of your wrist.

[rebelspykatie]

Part 1 of 2 🧦🧵

Part 2 | AO3

It’s the socks that break his resolve. Of course it’s the socks.

The first time he saw them, he wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Steve Harrington waltzing into gym class in those knee high white socks wasn’t what Eddie expected to solidify his sexuality during the crisis phase of sophomore year, but he knew what he felt in that moment would change him forever. The way he couldn’t take his eyes off them. How he finally understood the whispers he heard from girls in the hallways. That fluttering in his stomach when Steve ran past his spot on the bleachers. 

There was no going back after that. Sophomore year was just the awakening. Over the years it turned into an obsession, the way he made sure he was in the building whenever Steve might be wearing them at gym class or during a game. He was disappointed when he showed up and Steve was sporting ankle socks, grumbling about it the whole way home, but staying to watch either way. 

It didn’t escape his notice that Steve looked hot in anything. Those small green shorts left little to the imagination. But there was something about the socks that did it for him. The way they stood out, perfect white against his tan skin. How they hugged his calves and the material strained to fit over muscles. The colored rings around the top bleed dull from the stretch of the fabric. The direct connection they had to his burgeoning sexuality emerging during that fateful gym class. 

Maybe it was the peak of leg hair inching out over the tops. A rare sight in the fall when he’s shaved hairless for swim season. Eddie gets a different thrill during that time of the year, hiding under the bleachers to watch Steve in his tiny speedo. But no, basketball season was more his speed. Pretending he’s there to sell while camping out to catch a glimpse of Steve in small shorts and knee highs. 

By senior year, he knows Steve hangs out at the Forest Hills park with some of the other guys from the basketball team. And this time he wasn’t even seeking him out, he just happened to be passing by after school on his way home and honed in on Steve’s car in the parking lot. If he camps out in that park to sell that summer, hoping to catch a glimpse of Steve, it’s no one’s business but his own. 

When Starcourt happens, it makes Eddie’s life easier. He doesn’t have to sneak around in a mall, he can blend in and fade into the crowd without anyone knowing his true reason for showing up in that overcrowded nightmare fuel of a place. He can sip on his orange Julius and watch as Steve flirts with everyone that comes into Scoops. He waits patiently for Steve to take his turn cleaning, bent over the tables with his back to the entrance, calves pulled taunt as he bends to pick up garbage from around booths. The socks aren’t quite as high as the Hawkins gym issued ones, but they’re still putting on a good show. 

He’s pretty sure Steve never caught wind of his presence, how he’s creeped on him for years harboring an idiotic crush. Borderline stalking. There’s no recognition on his face when Eddie holds a bottle to his throat while he’s running for his life. After surviving, they become friends and somehow that’s worse than being a nobody to Steve. 

Suddenly, he’s up close and personal with everything he’s been watching from afar. He doesn’t get to see his beloved socks for a long time, but it doesn’t mean that Steve isn’t torturing him. There are pool parties where he suffers through another round of tight shorts, this time dripping wet and clinging to areas Eddie desperately wants to see. There are movie nights in the dead of summer, Steve shirtless and hairier than ever, lounging across the couch and inches away from Eddie’s twitchy hands. There are sleepovers where Eddie gets to witness a sleep ruffled Steve blearily searching for coffee with his hair standing at a truly incredible height off his head. 

All of it was just a dumb crush, something he tried to hide away. There’s no way Steve feels the same. He resigns himself to exposure therapy, hoping with enough time it’ll go away. As if he hasn’t spent five years watching from afar as Steve grows into a man and becomes the kind of person Eddie wants to bring home at night. 

So of course, because the universe is a cruel bitch that never lets Eddie off easy, it’s the socks that break his resolve. They’re going to the county fair, all the teens, and Steve shows up in tiny little blue shorts with dumb knee high socks. Eddie’s brain is completely fried by the time he’s even out of his van. They’re the same stark white he remembers, with three blue rings around the top, stretched to their limits, just like Eddie’s restraint. He’s even wearing a gray Hawkins high basketball shirt, like he’s aware that he’s stepping right into Eddie’s dirty little fantasy. 

It’s slow torture, following him around the fair, acting like he’s not effected every time he catches a glimpse of Steve. Redirecting his line of sight every time Steve turns around and avoiding Robin’s knowing gaze. The inside of his cheek is sore from biting it to stop himself from opening his big, dumb mouth. 

He’s so, so well behaved until they get home. Everyone else heading out and leaving him and Steve alone. All it takes is Steve reaching for a glass in the kitchen, on tiptoes, his own private show, socks moving with the flex of his calves, for his restraint to snap. He lets out a moan before he even knows it’s happening, freezing in the dead silence, his own stupidity echoing in his head. When Steve turns around and looks at him with that adorable surprised puppy look, he’s a goner, crossing the room and spinning Steve around to trap him against the counter, glass clutched in his hand. 

“You and these damn socks, Harrington.”

Steve sets the glass down, but doesn’t push Eddie away. In fact, he pulls Eddie closer, wrapping a hand around his neck, “I thought you’d never get the hint.” And kisses him.

Part 2 | AO3

[blessedtoaster666]

WITCH WEEKLY - Issue 94 - December 2006

Editor’s Note:

Gentlebeings of the Wizarding World,

Our cover feature this issue is the one, the only Draco Malfoy- a man who needs no introduction, but whose presence might require the briefest of explanations.

Lord Malfoy has had no shortage of press over the years… but since his release from Azkaban we have dutifully kept an eye on him, and for sore ones he is a sight. Every time we feature him, the owls pour in. Some carry missives with love potion-laced ink, in the hopes that we’ll pass them to the man in question (no judgement, we’ve tried to slip him a little something in the past) while others are Howlers bursting to scream about our hideous facilitation of lusting after a war criminal. How dare you drool over a terrorist! But drool we do, like a three-headed dog.

It’s one of our favorite things about Draco Malfoy: those who love him, would die for him… and those who hate him, would like to see him killed. We fall into the camp of the former- do you?

Read on for 10 of our other favorite things -

Venia Plumberton, Editor-in-Chief

BEST OF Draco Malfoy

We surveyed our editorial staff, as well as witches and wizards on the street (Horizont Alley, to be exact) to determine the 10 best features of the wizard we love to hate, but don’t hate to love. Caution… at least three witches went feral after editing this piece. You’ve been warned.

#1 - CHEST - We don’t know if it’s that he’s vaguely the color of honed marble, or that we had too many brushes with the fit statues at Hogwarts during our formative years… but oh, Mummy. We don’t get to see shirtless Draco often- perhaps he’s self-conscious of the scars? Are they from the whip of a lover… or perhaps the Dark Lord?

Our seven-page coverage of his trip to Bali last year, “Draco’s Treasure Chest” July 2005, contributed to our best selling issue. EVER. We are certain our journalistic prowess has not gotten that much better. When it comes to Draco, we’re delusional, not deluded.

#2 - EYES - Pureblood politics like to keep things in the family; but if inbreeding is wrong do we want to be right? Like pools of mercury, Draco’s eyes look terribly inviting but might just kill us if we take a dip. We have on record that his nickname in school was, “The Heir of Slytherin”. Basilisk, much? We’ve heard stranger. Speaking of basilisks… this magazine doesn’t stoop to such levels… but we know where your head’s at.*

*Right next to ours, in the gutter. But at least we’re looking at the stars… specifically, the Draco constellation.

#3 - HAIR - We here at WW celebrate a man who takes the time to learn grooming spells, and we dare say the Malfoy Scion created a few of his own to tame his mane just the way we like it. Tousled, pushed back, glittering platinum everywhere the light touches it. Oh, to run a hand through that hair. Maybe pull it, just a little. Ruin our life, Draco. We are at the ready.

#4 - SIZE - When the DM walks in the room, suddenly, we orbit around him. Is it because of his white golden hair (see above) or is it perhaps that he’s the size of a planet? The Muggles have really gotten into something called gravity, look into it friends - because Draco is our sun. 6’5”, the wing span of a bloody hippogriff and the legs (oh we’ll get started with those next) of a semi-giant.

#5 - THIGHS - We could be pressed to include the whole leg, look at those calves, but in the interest of being specific- Draco Malfoy’s thighs get us through our work day.

Thick as tree trunks, we’d surrender our wand to be a part of that forest.

We spoke to Madame Mirabelle, tailor to rich and infamous, and she assured us that while she hasn’t fit Draco in years, she knows for a fact he has a tailor on staff to “rightly pinch and pin” every set of trousers he wears. One must not assume that anything off-the-rack could surround such thighs, wrap that arse, cover that bulge and hug that waist without being magically pinched and pinned. We’re due for a sewing spell seminar, it would seem.

#6 - ABS - Speaking of waists… Well. We shan’t. We’ll just show a picture, it scores a V, for va va voom.

#7 - FOREARMS - Again, we feel remiss not mention the scrumptious biceps, the scandalously sexy shoulders… but let it be known, Draco’s forearm game is unmatched. Maybe it’s the veins; maybe it’s the sheer size of them. Maybe it’s the Dark Mark- you know we need to be reminded about the danger lurking underneath. Or maybe… we are ovulating? No matter. We’d let him cast any spell he wanted at us so long as he used those arms to hold his wand.

#8 - SNEER - A snide look, on the face of Draco Malfoy, is better than a smile on any other man… We’re sure should Draco ever smile our way, he’d be crowned ‘Most Charming Smile’ in an instant… but to that end, we’ve never seen it. We’re not sure he’s capable. So we covet the sneer.

Eyes narrowed, nose flared, lip curled? Check, checkity, check. Sign us up for the next war!

#9 - JAWLINE - We long to go to a taffy emporium with Draco and watch him sample the wares… such is our obsession with seeing him clench. For Merlin’s sake, someone get the man some gum! We deserve such visions, we’ve been so good.

#10 - HANDS - Hands tell the story of the man- and here’s what we know… Draco’s hands can palm a quaffle and are typically adorned with family heirloom rings. He likes a Muggle watch, and doesn’t always need a wand. An eyewitness told us she saw him stop a falling bottle at his bar, The Jobberknoll, with just a flick of his fingers, as he dined with friends. We love a wizard who takes matters into his own hands.

[iovetecchou]

⌜Closer ⧸ Blade⌟𓂃༞♡

༞ Contains..! smut, jealous!blade, soft dom!blade, fingering, oral (f), making out, slight!manhandling, praise kink, hair pulling, creampie, biting (slight blood mention from this), cockwarming

༞ AFAB Reader.

༞ 1,655 words.

You and your partner, Blade, kept your relationship a secret for several reasons. He wanted to ensure your safety at all costs, but your shared secrecy had pros and cons.

"Ah, Blade! Welcome home. How was your day?" You perked up; the second the door swung open, revealing your boyfriend of several years. But something was… off. He hadn't spoken a word upon his arrival. And his heavy footsteps steadily approaching alarmed you slightly.

"Blade, what's wrong—" Before you could turn to meet his gaze, Blade spun you around with the firm grip he now retained on your hips. A small gasp died in your throat the second his lips smashed eagerly into yours.

His large hands kneaded your hips as he pressed all his weight into you. You could feel the back of the kitchen counter digging into the small of your back as your boyfriend desperately swiped his tongue along your bottom lip.

Your hands came up to his waist for support as you parted your lips for him. Allowing Blade to explore your mouth further with his adept tongue. He groaned against your lips as his chest pressed further into your frame.

You could feel his clothed erection graze against your lower tummy, and your eyes darted open at this revelation. You squeezed his waist before you pulled away from his lips. "Blade… what's gotten into you, hm?"

One of his hands began exploring further. His deft digits trailed up your side. Dancing along the expanse of your neck and running his index finger along your jaw. His gaze honed in on your mouth as his thumb swiped across your bottom lip before he spoke up.

"Today was dreadful. I don't wish to relive the events. I simply… need this right now. More precisely, I need you."

Blade's gaze finally met yours as your hands came up to cup his cheeks. You tucked his dark locks behind his ears, to get a clear view of his expression. Blade's crimson orbs swirled with need; his eyebrows were knitted in frustration.

You knew today was rough on him based on his actions alone. It was rare for Blade to initiate things with you in this fashion. He was usually a very passionate lover, taking his time devouring you. He only got desperate with you like this when he was jealous.

"Okay, my love, take your frustrations out on me." You whispered. Caressing his cheeks lovingly, as you felt Blade's hand tighten further around your hip. Your boyfriend gave you a curt nod tracing your bottom lip one last time before his hand moved lower.

His palm ran flat down your chest toward your navel. Eliciting a gasp from you. Blade's hands entangled around your waist as he hoisted you on the kitchen counter. He unhurriedly lowered to his knees before you, crimson eyes never once leaving yours.

"You are breathtaking, my darling. And all mine." Blade stated quietly, nearly inaudible. But you heard him. Loud and clear. He took his time with you as he pulled your pants and panties down your legs.

Blade caressed your calves. Then your thighs as his large hands spread you open. His deft digits danced along your exposed skin, causing a pleasurable shiver to run down your spine. "B-Blade… are you… jealous?"

Your boyfriend paused in his actions, thumb ghosting over your clit as his other hand tightened around your thigh. You twitched in anticipation as Blade spoke up. "If the others knew you belong to me, they would think twice about the foul things they mutter out of turn."

Before you could press further… Blade granted you that friction that you were so desperately craving. His thumb swirled around your clit with precision; slow but stern circles had you whining pleas for more.

"Hah… blade, m-more… please?" You begged between moans. Carding your hands through his silken hair as your hips began moving on their own. Blade's free hand slipped higher up your thigh, finding purchase on your hip; once more tonight.

"Keep still," Blade expressed in a firm tone. His breath fanned over your slicked-up pussy, causing you to ache for more. Nonetheless, you did what you were told. Knuckles turning white within the grasp you had on your boyfriend's hair as you tried your best to be patient.

"Fuck, do that again." Blade groaned out in pleasure from the way you yanked at his hair. His thumb drew away from your clit, but before you could protest, his tongue began lapping at your wet heat with ease.

"B-Blade!" The sudden change of pace had you tugging at your boyfriend's hair harsher than before. His hold on your hip tightened as his tongue began swirling around your puffy bud. Blade never once took his eyes off your face, his chest filled with pride at the notion that he was the only one who deserved to witness you in this state.

Blade's lithe digits toyed with your entrance as his lips closed around your clit. He sucked on your bud lightly before sinking two fingers into your needy heat. His nimble digits slipped in with ease from how wet you were from his ministrations.

"So good, my love… p-please, don't stop—!" You cried out, tugging on his dark locks for dear life. Your release was approaching; and fast. Blade could tell with how you clenched around his slim digits from where they were buried deep inside you.

He curled his nimble fingers with precision. Picking up his pace ever so slightly as he suckled your clit with more passion. "B-Blade… I'm cumming—!" Your thighs twitched on either side of your boyfriend's head as your orgasm washed over you.

Blade continued to work you through your high as you surged around his fingers. He seethed with pleasure from how hard you were tugging on his now-tousled locks. Crimson orbs soaking up your fucked-out expression.

The second your grip on his hair loosened, Blade pulled away from your sopping heat. The bottom half of his face was covered in your slick as his breath fanned over your sensitive folds. You watched as your boyfriend slowly rose back to his feet, craning his neck down to capture your lips.

You whined into the kiss as your hands interlaced around Blade's midsection. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and the lewd act had you aching for more pleasure. Blade rested his forehead against yours as you both shared the same air for a few moments.

"I need to be inside you, darling. You can give me one more, yes?" Blade declared as his hands made skillful movements to free his throbbing cock from their confines. You couldn't take your eyes off him, mind still fuzzy from the aftershocks of your high as you nodded in agreement.

Blade seized his length, tracing the tip of his cock along the expanse of your pussy. "Fuck, you're so eager for me. Aren't you, darling?" He huffed against your lips, crimson orbs flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze once more.

"Y-Yes, my love… always!" You whined out, tugging on his waist in anticipation. Blade chuckled lowly against your lips at your actions, wasting no more time lining himself up to your entrance. Blade sank himself inside you with ease, groaning out in bliss as he bottomed out.

"You're sucking me in perfectly, darling. I knew you were made for me, but this is confirmation enough." Blade whispered before sealing his lips to yours. You could tell your boyfriend was losing his composure from how messy the kiss you shared became.

Blade's tongue explored your mouth as he pleased, trapping all his grunts and groans against your lips. He invaded all of your senses in the best way possible; yet you still craved more. You pulled Blade in even closer with your hold on his waist. Chests fused to one another's as Blade continued to fuck you passionately.

His thrusts were deep and powerful. Each snap of his hips left you breathless as the tip of his cock prodded your sweet spot perfectly. Blade was the first one to pull away from your lips. Swiftly bringing his hands up to cup your cheeks before whispering,

"Tell me you're mine. Tell me you belong to me… and me alone."

Blade's thumbs caressed your cheeks as his crimson eyes bored into your face. His brows were knitted in concentration as his teeth scored his bottom lip. Blood trickled down his chin from how hard he was biting into himself.

You could tell he was holding back; Blade needed to hear you utter those two simple words to him before he allowed himself that much-needed release.

"I'm yours, Blade! All yours, I only want— no, need, you... my love!"

Your candid confession was all your boyfriend needed to topple over the edge. Blade's cock pistoned into you harsher than before as the first ropes of his cum were drilled deep inside you.

"That's it, darling. Hah, fuck..." Blade let a desperate whine escape past his tattered, bloody lips. His eyes rolled back in bliss as his hips stilled balls deep within your throbbing heat.

"B-Blade—!" The feeling of your boyfriend releasing inside you triggered your own orgasm. You hugged his waist fiercely, pulling Blade impossibly closer as you gushed around his still-pulsing cock.

The both of you stayed motionless. Reveling in the aftershocks of your highs. Blade's eyelids opened slowly, unveiling his deep crimson orbs. He gazed at you with renowned tenderness and devotion as a tight-lipped smile painted over his features.

"Are you feeling better, my love?" He was quiet for a moment, contemplating his answer. Within the silence, Blade's hands traveled down your frame. Large hands entangled your waist before gently raising you off the kitchen counter. You instinctively enveloped your legs around his midsection, hands weaving around his neck for further support.

"Ask me again after a few more rounds, darling."

[otdiaftg]

The King's Men - Chapter Seventeen (19)

Day: Friday, April 26th / 27th* Time: 9:40 PM EST

Maybe he has a right to feel smug. It doesn't matter that Neil had started this game as a backliner. He'd been away from the court for half his life and had spent the last two years honing his skills as a striker. Riko had seen for himself over Christmas break how out of practice and miserable Neil was at defense. What Riko forgot is that Neil hadn't stepped onto the Raven court until after Tetsuji beat him unconscious. Neil's health had gotten steadily worse from there thanks to Riko's constant abuse. Tonight Neil is in perfect form, and he is mad as hell at the Ravens for hurting his Foxes. Andrew slams the ball up-court, and the fight to the last bell begins. Neil dogs Riko every step of the way, using his stick and body to ruin Riko's shots and force him away from Andrew. They fight each other back and forth across the court, ducking and darting, sidestepping and lunging, nearly tripping each other up at every turn. Riko uses every trick he has to get around Neil, but he can't outrun Neil for long. Minutes stretch by without a clear shot on goal. Riko snarls something hateful at Neil as Andrew bats away his latest shot. Neil laughs at him, knowing it'll only infuriate him further. Riko's impatience and rage are fuel, lending Neil speed and making him forget the growing burn in his thighs and calves.

Art used with permission by Kevinkevinson. Thank you @kevinkevinson!

*Due to the Leap Year, I have opted to highlight the day rather than the date to keep the events in occurrence to the 2007 year. I will continue to mark both days accordingly.

[l00k4tm4m45c415]

Denise Masino

[missmaywemeetagain]

Sergeant Presley (a one-shot)

A/N: Somehow, against all odds in this absolute chaos of a week, I managed to bang out the "Army Elvis" prompt for this week today, like a maniac. I am both shocked and amazed that I wrote a smutty one-shot without overthinking it but also be warned this is hardly edited or revised, nor even really thought out! 😂

Thanks always to my sister wives in chaos and crime: @be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis and @from-memphis-with-love

TW: Smut! Orgasms! Basically no plot!

Rating: Mature 18+ || Word Count: 2.7k

Sergeant Presley (a one-shot)

He wants to fuck you. Oh lord how he wants to fuck you, from the moment you walk in the room and sit across the aisle from him.

Maybe it’s the curve of your calves and the way they disappear under your pencil skirt. Maybe it’s how your jacket notches in at your waist, accentuating your ample hips. Or perhaps it’s the fact that even with the conservative uniform and minimal to-do with your hair and make-up (as per regulations, of course), you still are absolutely gorgeous.

Or I’m just horny, Elvis thinks sardonically, shifting in his seat.

The movement catches your eye, and he watches curiously as you do a bit of a double take, eyes widening slightly in recognition before your head whips straight ahead.

He smirks to himself at that. It never gets old, the light that goes on in women’s eyes when they take him in in person. And he certainly isn’t getting much of it lately, being effectively shackled here in Germany, clad in his drab green Army fatigues.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he thinks as he pictures the fans that gather at all hours outside the house he’s renting while he’s here, about the girls he invites in. But it’s not quite the same, not the same at all, because his fame is tenuous and teetering here. Part of him is certain that they’ve all forgotten about him at home, despite the Colonel’s reports to the contrary, despite the new movie contracts and albums he is set to record as soon as he returns. However, the sliver of fear about his fate has burrowed deep these past two years and poisons him slowly, each day he is gone.

But now he’s counting days and weeks instead of months and years, and he can nearly taste being home. His fear and the antsy feeling that permeates him is overcome by anxious excitement now, so he’s feeling better than he has in a long time.

And here he is, getting his Sergeant stripes, and that fills him with a different sort of pride altogether.

So, perhaps it is all these factors combined that have him wanting to jump across the aisle, pull you into his arms, and kiss you silly.

He’s never seen you before and doesn’t know your name until they call you up to present you with your earned rank. Feeling a bit lecherous, he admires the view of your ass as you walk to the front and the heaving of your breast as they pin your stripes. Your pretty eyes catch his unabashedly heated gaze and pink floods your cheeks as he locks you in.

Elvis knows what he’s doing. While much of it is a natural sort of gift, he’s also honed his seductive abilities quite a bit in the last four years and gets paid a lot of money because of it. He’s also well aware that he looks good, filled out in a manly way but slimmed down in all the right areas, and right now, he’s not above using his looks to get your attention. And he so does want your attention, as much as he knows by virtue of your uniform and rank, you are completely off limits. He’s not stupid—he’s too close to the end for a court martial. Though he may not be able to fuck you the way he wants, it doesn’t mean he can’t have a little bit of fun.

Crossing his arms, he brings one hand to his mouth, letting his thumb catch on his full bottom lip and his mouth fall open slightly. Then he gazes at you with a pointed but dreamy stare, his eyes blinking slowly.

He watches you gulp and fidget at front of the room, all of which could be explained away by nerves of being put on the spot, but he knows he’s hit jackpot because there’s a little fire stoked in those lovely eyes now.

Tilting his head and raising a brow, he makes a private show of looking you up and down as you walk tenuously back to your seat. Giving him a glare of admonishment, you very purposefully do not look at him once you are seated again, but your hands wring in your lap, your leg crossing over towards him.

He’s flustered you. Warmth rolls over him, pooling in his pelvis, and through the rest of the ceremony, he tries not to think of bending you over your chair, yanking up your skirt, and sinking deep into your silky heat.

His cock twitches at the thought.

Later, fate intervenes on his behalf when he realizes you’ve been seated with him at the dinner banquet following the ceremony. He shakes your hand, introducing himself, letting his fingers squeeze and his thumb graze your palm a little too intimately. The gamut of emotions that flashes over your face before you bring down a stoic smile makes him chuckle.

He guides you to sit next to him, and while you hesitate at first, he knows he’s already won because of the way your eyes widen at the suggestion.

Now that you are close, his body goes into overdrive, and he is drunk on the sweetness of your perfume and the smoothness of your skin. He realizes he’s likely being too obvious in his flirtations but can’t bring himself to reign it in. The other men and women at the table have either consciously or subconsciously deferred to him and his charms, leaving no one to compete for your attention. He lays it on thick, wanting to eat you right up.

Elvis is hyperaware of every time you glance his direction, which is happening more often as he pulls you deeper into conversation, your cool exterior thawing bit by bit. But the way your eyes dilate and how you lick your lips when he brings the bottle of cola in front of him to his mouth has a zing of arousal shooting down his spine and straight into his cock.

Oh.

Nothing if not responsive, Elvis tongues the lip of the bottle before taking a slow drag of the sweet, fizzy soda. Your eyes are fixated now on his mouth, on the bottle, and he watches you catch your lower lip in your teeth as you stare.

Heat courses through him as he pulls the bottle away, tongue rolling over his bottom lip to catch the lingering drops of sugar caught there. You swallow visibly, and he doesn’t stop his teasing, unable to keep his lip from quirking into a delighted smirk at your attentions. Your eyes fly back up to his, as if just realizing you’ve been caught, and you flush a charming shade of red before clearing your throat and looking away quickly.

But every time he raises the bottle to his lips, your eyes catch like a moth to a flame. This time they follow his hand down as he sets the bottle on the table. Condensation gathers droplets on the cool glass and he relishes the smooth, wet feeling as he strokes the bottle with his thumb.

You fidget in your seat. It takes him a second to understand why, but once he does, he feels his cock chub up, caught mercilessly in his briefs and dress pants. The little, mischievous devil in him takes great pleasure watching you watch him make a show of gripping the bottle in his whole hand, slowly thumbing over the opening at the top again and again.

You choke a little and reach for your water, taking a deep drag and blinking rapidly, as if trying to come out of the spell he seems to have you under. You attempt to throw yourself into the conversation at the table, ignoring him with all your might, your body tense in your seat.

A challenge, he thinks, smiling.

Slowly, Elvis presses his knee into the side of your thigh, loving the way you nearly jump out of your seat in surprise at the contact. It’s like a bolt of electricity between you, and he starts to strain against his underwear.

Now that he has your attention, he places his hand back around the cola bottle, lewdly gripping it and slowly twisting his hand down and back up the glass. It’s truly not that far off from his actual size, so the motion feels almost too familiar, too easy. Your mouth pops open at the suggestive gesture and it takes everything in him to not lap his tongue into that delicate little mouth of yours. He matches his rhythm, stroking his knee against your leg, which also happens to provide some delicious friction in his pants. He feels you tense, squeezing your thighs together, and he cannot help but think of your little pink snatch likely staining your panties with slick right at this very moment.

Elvis almost groans aloud at that, catching it in his throat at the last second, but you seem to hear it and your eyes fly to his. Your pupils are blown out and cheeks are hot, and he can almost smell the arousal on you. Goddamn it, he wants to make you come, right here at the table, just for him, in front of everyone, who, wrapped up in their own conversations seem none the wiser at the seduction that is happening before them.

He’s hardly touching you but feels a surge of power when you fidget again, caught like willing prey in his stare. He can’t touch you more than he already is because that would get him in trouble, but if he can’t lay you across this table and fuck you senseless, he’s going to do it the only way he can.

His ministrations on the bottle are serving to arouse him just as much as you, each stroke making his cock twitch and strain and stiffen. Your eyes dart from his to the bottle, back and forth, your breath shallow and rapid. His eyes are heavy on you, unyielding, and look upon you as though you were under him, as though he were trapped and undulating in the heat of what he just knows is your perfect, untouched cunt.

You look back at him as though you know exactly what he’s thinking, as though your tight little hole is snug around him, sweet as honey, treating him right. Your hands clutch at your silverware, your napkin, anything you can get your hands on that isn’t him, and he knows you are well on your way to where he wants you because he can feel how your legs move back and forth, creating the friction you so desperately need between them.

He wonders if he can get away with touching you under the tablecloth, with sticking his hand into those wet panties of yours to play with your swollen and sensitive nub, but your skirt is too long and tight, and your jacket hides the waistband. No, he’s gonna have to be satisfied with eye-fucking you and jerking off this cola bottle.

Your chest starts to vibrate with tension as you try desperately to hold back the short little gasps emanating from your lips and he knows then that you are set to explode. You brace your elbows on the table, hiding the lower part of your face with your napkin, as if wiping your mouth, and he feels your hips buck. You do a helluva job not moaning and rolling your eyes back as you come for him, but he sees you drift somewhere else for a moment in your ecstasy, your eyes going blank as you pant as measured as you can into your napkin-shield.

Watching you unravel so gracefully and so untouched has his own orgasm sneaking up on him. The fact that he made you come just by looking at you but also at the element of public indecency involved has him clutching the cola bottle so hard he might break it. He wants to palm his dick with his other hand, but he knows he can’t be subtle about it and kind of likes the fact you’re making him come untouched, too.

Elvis manages to hold on until you come down from your high enough to look at him with dreamy, satiated eyes and that finally sends him over the edge. His cock pulses heavy and hard, springing against the confines of his slacks, his eyes drifting closed and lips parting as he shivers through his orgasm as quietly as he can. Holy fucking hell.

Your shy, knowing smile is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, and he can’t help but smile right back at you in kind. Your rosy cheeks and gleaming eyes make him feel giddy. His face feels red hot and he can’t help but bring the cold cola bottle to his face to cool it off. You choke back a laugh.

“You alright there, Sergeant Presley?” another soldier questions him.

“Ohhhh, I’m fine,” he drawls, amused, “Just feels like it’s a thousand degrees in here is all, in this getup.”

For once, he’s glad of his regulation briefs, as they kept him from shooting his load straight down his pant leg, but he doesn’t have to look down to know by the sheer force and amount of his release that he’s soaking through the front of his pants. His only consolation is that he knows you must be soaked through your panties, too.

If he can get his jacket on, he’ll be okay because it’s long and will cover the mess, but how he’s going to do so without the entire hall seeing he just jizzed his pants, he’s not so sure. It might not be a problem for the average Joe, but people can’t help but watch his every move, whether he wants them to or not. He realizes in his haze of horniness that maybe he didn’t really think this through.

You seem to realize his predicament, however, pretty eyes widening after looking down in his lap. You snap your head up quickly and he can sense your wheels turning. He starts to panic a little when you don’t let him in on the plan, though, as you start telling some story that he can’t seem to pay attention to with the sticky, rapidly cooling mess in his underwear.

Before he knows what’s happening, you are sweeping your arm to the side in a dramatic retelling, knocking the half-full bottle of cola over, directly into his lap.

He yelps in surprise as the dark cola soaks into his slacks, right over the other stain that had begun to set.

“Oh! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Sergeant Presley!” you cry apologetically, quite convincingly, and in other circumstances, he might try to get you into the movies with your level of commitment as you place your napkin into his lap.

He chuckles, “Oh, it’s fine, darlin’, it’s just a little soda. After all, I was going on about how warm I was gettin’, so you cooled me right off.” He gives you a wink at his obvious double entendre, and you purse your lips to hold back a laugh.

“Well, I’m awfully embarrassed,” you say quietly, fully leaning into the role. “Please send me your dry cleaning bill. It’s the least I can do.” Pulling a little pad out of your clutch, you scribble something down on the paper, tear it off, fold it, and hand it to him.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. It’s no big thing,” he says, but takes the paper anyway, sensing that you have written something other than your dry cleaner’s information on it. He motions for your pen and paper. “Can I?”

You nod and hand them over. In his chicken scratch handwriting, he scrawls a note:

If you ever find yourself in Memphis someday, honey, come to Graceland for a visit. Ask for ‘Sarge.’ I’d love to have ya.

Love, Sergeant Elvis Presley

He finishes by adding one of the numbers at Graceland and hands the pad back to her. Wishful thinking, but maybe someday, when it’s not a court-martialed offense, he’ll be able to show you the good time you deserve.

He excuses himself, then, sloshing in his soggy, ruined pants, waiting until he gets to the car to read your note.

Sergeant Presley,

One must watch out for those pesky cola bottles…Try vinegar and cold water for that stain…wouldn’t want it to set!  

Corporal Y/N  Y/L/N

He laughs heartily as the car pulls away.

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[detectivestucks]

A Jealous Hokage X

18+ content, Minors do NOT interact

Pairing: Kakashi x F!Reader x Obito

Summary: Your project is over and now it's time to train. You are struggling to keep your training a secret from Kakashi and Obito re-enters the picture offering his help.

Warnings: NSFW, Fingering, Spanking, Biting, Nipple Play, Unprotected Penetration

Word Count: 5.7k

Part 9 New here? Check out Part 1

Your training with Ino was gratifying but grueling. For the first two weeks it was just the two of you honing your jutsu skills. She wanted to exercise your mind transfer and mind confusion jutsu before moving to combat training. 

It’s not that you weren’t proficient in both but it had been a very long time since you used them in the context of battle. Ino had you spar with her and practice a quick retreat while weaving hand signs so you could grab control of her as you landed. You were practicing with her everyday after work and weekends too. You saw changes in your body relatively early in your training. Your stomach was slimming down, your arms and forearms were gaining muscle and your personal favorite was that your lower body was filling out. 

In addition to your time with Ino, you did conditioning by yourself before work. In the mornings you were waking up two hours early to run to the training grounds. You subjected yourself to intense conditioning drills and always finished with a jog around the village. You’d return home a smelly sweaty mess and would shower before heading to work. 

You ran into Obito several mornings between his missions with a tense ‘hello’. It ate at you to know how hurt he was. You missed him. Romantic feelings aside, you had really grown to love his company. He made you happy, and now you couldn’t shake the guilt you felt around him. 

While you were caught up in your own head whenever you ran into him, Obito was staring at you, taking notes. He noticed how you seemed more tired than ever. He had heard rumors of you stepping back from high profile intel projects. He heard you requested to be a consultant rather than be involved in the projects themselves. It was unlike you. Furthermore you kept coming to work with wet hair. Another strange change in your behavior. Then on top of it all, he caught glimpses of bruises all over your body. New ones appearing every day. At first he thought they were the result of your activity with Kakashi but their placement didn’t make sense. Why would your neck be clean but your calves have purple welts on them? Why was your collarbone pristine but your forearms were battered? After two weeks of observation he figured it out.

One morning you were filling your cup when he looked over his newspaper and spoke.

“Does Kakashi know?”

You lifted your head surprised that he struck up conversation with you.

“Know what, exactly?”

“Know that you’re training.”

“No”

Ah, so it wasn’t all good in paradise.

“And why are you training?”

“Cause I intend on rejoining the field.”

“You want to go back out on missions?” He said it with a hint of sarcasm that you did not appreciate.

“Precisely”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“And why do you think that?” you say, instantly feeling pissed. You turn around glaring at him with your arms crossed. 

“First, cause you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Second, cause you’d be a liability.”

“I’m not weak!”

“You’re not strong either.”

You were seething. You didn’t work this hard just to be scoffed at. Your eyes narrowed as you spat with venom, “Watch me”

More determined than ever, you shoulder check Obito on your way out of the breakroom. You weren’t about to let him or anyone else get in your way.

********************************************

The more you trained the better you felt. The more muscle you built, the easier it was to handle their stares. The better your endurance, the less the words of all the jealous kunoichi’s bothered you. Knowing there was an expiration date to all of this helped you get through each day. 

The only truly hard part was hiding this all from Kakashi. You found yourself avoiding him quite a bit but he had been dropping by your office more than ever. Always bringing you flowers and wanting to get lunch. You kept a jacket nearby to conceal your bruises when he was around. The two of you only slept together once since your training began. He immediately grew concerned when he saw the bruise on your arm and you had to lie and say it came from falling off the bed in your sleep. He barely bought it and now that you’re covered in marks head to toe, there was no way he was seeing you naked. 

Occasionally you found yourself caught up in a heavy makeout session with him and you’ve had to pump on the breaks multiple times before he had the chance to peel off your layers. 

You knew it was selfish of you to keep stringing him along like you were. It was just so hard to push him away when he was seeking you out the way he did. He tugged at your feelings in an irresistible way and you’d be damned if you didn’t at least cash in on the reason everyone was treating you like shit. 

One afternoon after a heavy petting session, you step out of Kakashi’s office and run into Obito. He had just returned from a mission and was on his way to hand in his report. You stopped and looked up at him like you had just been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You were still annoyed with him for his remarks about your training but you couldn’t help but admire how handsome he looked in his jonin jacket.  You were about to keep walking when he grabbed your wrist. 

“Princess, wait.”

“What Obi?” You say irritated. You didn’t want to face the range of emotions he made you feel. The guilt, the anger, the longing. You just wanted to go do something to distract you from your own thoughts.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it and I want to help.”

“Help with what Obi?”

“Help you train.”

“I can’t ask that of you Obito. I’ve used you too much already.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“And last time you offered to help me I hurt your feelings. I don’t want to do that again.”

“Let me rephrase this then.” He says, his voice deeping, becoming thick with malice. He closes the gap between you and you can feel your breath falter as he towers over you. You look down, unable to hold his intense gaze. 

“I am not asking for your permission. I am telling you. I will train you till you break Princess. I’m not letting you go out into the world without making sure you are safe. If something happens to you, I couldn’t live with myself knowing I didn’t do everything in my power to keep you alive.”

You were barely able to breathe while he threatened you, placing a hand on his firm chest to stabilize yourself from the dizziness you felt. You weren’t sure if it was the way he was so mean when he cared for you or if it was the sexual frustration you were feeling with Kakashi, but the fire lit between your legs was impossible to hide.

“You will take everything I give you and I will be your sensei. Tell me you understand by saying ‘Yes Sensei’. “

You gulped before choking out, “Yes Sensei”

“That’s a good Princess.” he whispers in your ear. “I’ll see you at the training grounds.”

He returns your shoulder check from earlier as he lifts his head and walks away towards Kakashi’s office.  You stand there catching your breath, thankful no one else caught the confrontation. 

************************************************

“Looks like you have a visitor” Shiho says.

You look up to see Kakashi about to knock on the door to your office. 

“Yes Kakashi?”

He strides in and sits on your desk, hand lifting to cup your face. You place your own hand on top of his and lean into it. 

“Wanna grab dinner tonight?”

“I have plans with Ino.”

“You’ve seen Ino everyday for weeks. What’s going on with you two?”

“It’s nothing. She just has a big project going on and she wants my help with it.”

Kakashi didn’t quite buy it but his desperation to stay in your good graces made him resist the urge to pry further. 

A few weeks ago it felt like everything would go back to how it was. You had an amazing and passionate night together but recently you were pulling away again. He wanted to take you on a date. A real one. After nearly a year of sneaking around, everyone knew about you now. Yet the two of you were still sneaking around. He was tired of the passionate fucks in the closets and quickies in his office. He wanted to act like a real couple. One that went on dates and lived together. He wanted to share a bed with you but you were pushing him away. 

“What if I come see you after you’re done?”

“I guess I could do that. How about I come to you?”

“Sounds perfect.”

He gives you a peck on the nose before leaving, closing your office door on his way out. Once the door latches Shiho turns to you.

“It’s gonna destroy him when he finds out.”

You look down. “I know.”

“Why don’t you just talk to him about it?”

“Cause he’ll try to stop me and I’m tired of being nothing more than the Hokage’s girlfriend.”

“If only they knew you were barely even that.” 

Shiho didn’t approve of your plan but she understood. Watching how your life was completely upended by the untimely news that you had been Kakashi’s paramore for the better part of a year was painful. Every day there was a girl wanting to pick a fight with you. Most days there were men saying lewd things about you, and this Aoto guy was basically becoming your stalker. The past month had worn you down and she couldn’t blame you for feeling selfish. She knew you were training so intensely cause you wanted to speed up your timeline. She knew you were going to break the news to Kakashi in another 3 weeks and she wasn’t excited for you to leave her alone in your shared office.

“Please don’t lecture me Shiho. I already feel guilty enough as it is.”

“When do you start training with Obito?”

“Tomorrow”

“Why did he suddenly decide to help you?”

“He thinks I’m going to die.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Sorry, it’s just that you weren’t that impressive the first time around.”

“Cause the first time around my goal wasn’t to be out on missions fighting, it was to gather intel.”

You were feeling frustrated that out of the five people who knew about your plan, only Choji believed in you. Irritation getting the better of you, you stand up.

“I’m gonna go for a run.”

“Y/N, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“It’s fine, Shiho. I just need to blow off some steam.”

You walk out of your office and head for the stone faces. You decide to run up the stairs heading for the top of the cliff allowing the burn in your legs to calm you down. 

Shiho was right. It was going to crush Kakashi when you told him that you wanted to go on missions. It wasn’t like you were breaking off whatever it was that the two of you were doing. It’s just that you wanted some time away from the village. You didn’t want to be a sitting duck waiting for the next girl to pick a fight with you or the next boy make a pass at you. What bothered you more was that Kakashi seemed to be completely blind to it. He was too focused on trying to win you back to notice why you were pulling away to begin with. Sometimes you wondered if he was intentionally dumb to your troubles to avoid the guilt. 

You reach the summit and stare out over the village. It looked so beautiful from up here. Peaceful and harmonious. You wished it felt that way below. You take a seat at the cliff's edge and swing a leg over the side. You loved your village. You wanted to serve it but right now, you just needed a break from it. 

You hear someone step on a rock behind you and you leap up to your feet looking for the source of the sound.

“Your senses are much sharper than they used to be.”

“Obito!” 

“What are you doing up here?”

“Quelling a mix of guilt and angst.”

“Quelling, huh?” He walks towards you and sits down on the edge of the cliff beside you.

You let out a sigh and sit back down, legs dangling over the edge once more as you lean back on your hands, “Yeah”

“What’s going on?”

“No one believes in me. They all seem to think my only talent is my mind. Five of you know my intentions yet only one you thinks I can do it. But deep down I know even he’s just being nice.”

“Maybe it’s not cause we don’t believe in you but because we’re worried about you.”

“How can you be more worried about me on a mission surrounded by comrades than me in my office waiting for the next Kakashi fangirl to ambush me?”

“Cause a fangirl is a far less fierce opponent than an enemy shinobi.”

“And if that fangirl is a member of the Anbu?”

“Fair point.”

“The idea that it’s almost over is the only thing that’s helping me get through the day.”

“I didn’t realize it was still so bad.”

“It’s not as bad as it was at first. I don’t have people bring it up as much at work but all his little lovesick fans have been building their confidence and are slowly cropping up everywhere I go. They’re stalking me and will say anything they can to try and bring me down.”

“What does Kakashi have to say about all of this?”

“Nothing. He’s pretending like it’s not happening.” Obito clearly didn’t like this answer.

“Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“Cause there’s nothing he can do to fix it. Plus it’s motivating my training. Without it I might be content to stay at a dead-end job.”

“You’re not at a dead-end job.”

“There’s no way for me to move higher in the department.”

“Because you were already as high as you could get without being department head. You should be proud to accomplish that so young. It’s not Kakashi’s fault you decided to back down and just consult.”

“I needed to back down so I could have time to train.”

“Princess… if being with him has made you so unhappy, why do you stay with him?”

You swallow hard at the question. You know Obito needed to know the answer but you had a hard time saying it to his face. You had feelings for him and you didn’t want to talk about your feelings for Kakashi in front of him. You look away, gazing over the rooftops of the village before you speak.

“Cause I’m in love with him and he’s in love with me.”

Obito is silent at your answer.

“I’m sorry Obito.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” he rasps, “You can’t help your feelings.”

“Then why does it make me feel like shit to say it to you?”

“Cause the part of you that loves me is overshadowed by the part of you that loves him.”

You feel your eyes water at his response. Life would be so much simpler if you would just choose him. What was stopping you? You reach out your hand and grab his. You hold it as the two of you look out over the village.

“Thank you Obito. For always being there.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t started our training.”

You look over at him with a smile

He grins back at you before he stands up. “Well it’s good to know what kind of headspace you’re in. I’ll see you tomorrow morning Princess.” he bows at you formally.

You bow your head back, “See you tomorrow Sensei”

He decides to leave you in peace as you continue your musings. 

Well that seems to make two out of the five. That’s progress.

**********************************************

At the end of your workday you head out to see Ino, Choji, and Shikamaru. Shikamaru wasn’t thrilled about hiding all of this from Lord Sixth but you had sworn him to secrecy and he could see the desperation you felt through how intensely you were training. Choji came at you with human boulder and you were able to use mind transfer on him despite how quickly he moved. Ino was impressed with your accuracy. After two hours of going at it you told them you needed to go home cause Kakashi wanted to spend the night with you. 

“He’s not even a little suspicious?”

“He is, but I think he’s trying to pretend all is well.”

Ino gives a look of disapproval before the two of you start to walk home. While on your way you come across a random girl who scoffs at you.

“The Hokage is seriously interested in you?”

She was scanning your body up and down, commenting on your sweaty and bruised appearance. Ino shot her a look of disgust that even frightened you. “Hag” she spat at the girl.

“It’s fine Ino, I should be used to it by now.”

“It’s not fine.”

“I know but I can’t get worked up over every jealous girl or I’ll never find a moment of peace.”

Ino was extremely concerned. It was the only reason she was going along with any of this. She dropped you off at home and headed to the flower shop to say hi to her family while you got ready to see Kakashi. 

You headed straight to the bathroom to take a shower. Upon undressing you scanned your body. You had several bruises on your legs.  Mostly on your calves and shins. Long pants can cover those. Your arms were worse. You had several marks on your triceps and forearms. You checked your back and chest as well. Your back was clear and your front was too. You decided to dress in a fishnet layered under a long sleeve crop top so it didn’t seem like you were hiding your body from Kakashi. 

You shower and change before heading over to Kakashi’s to meet him for a late dinner. He opens the door and immediately pulls down his mask to sweep you into a kiss. It was deep and romantic while his strong arms held you in a tight embrace that crushed your sore aching muscles. 

“Hi” you breathed after he released your lips

“Hi” he smiled back.

“So, where are we going?”

“I thought we could stay in.”

“Oh” Normally you’d prefer to stay away from the prying eyes of the village but being alone meant he’d try to strip you naked and it had been weeks since he’d been inside of you. Your hormones were driving you wild and you were starting to lose your resolve. 

“Is that okay?”

You swallow even though your mouth has gone dry before you nod yes. 

“Good cause I cooked.”

“You cooked?”

“Yes, since you seemed so busy, I wanted to make sure you had something to eat. You’ve been losing weight recently.”

You looked at him nervously. You were hoping that if you kept seeing him regularly enough he wouldn’t notice your body change. However the look of guilt on his face made you realize that he thinks you’re not eating from stress. 

“Well I appreciate it. Thank you Kashi.”

The smile that lit up his face melted your heart. How were you going to leave him behind when you go away on missions? He twisted his fingers between yours as he guided you over to the kitchen to grab your food. Naturally it was delicious. He was quite talented in the kitchen. He could’ve been a professional chef but you were glad he became a shinobi since you quite enjoyed his ninja’s physique. He shed some of his layers so that he was down to his black tank top and you felt drool dripping out of the corner of your mouth as you gawked at his muscles. You quick grabbed your napkin and dabbed your face but not before he caught what you were wiping away. 

After your meal you did the dishes together and he held your hand as you walked over to the couch. When you went to sit down he pushed you down on your back and pinned the hand he was holding over your head. Your other hand went straight to his face but he grabbed that wrist and pinned it over your head too. 

Your eyes were wide with lust as he stared back into them. You felt your breathing hitch when he fully positioned himself on top of you. 

“If you keep pulling away from me Angel, I’ll just pull you back by force.” he whispers.

You reach your lips up to his. Why were you so weak for him? You felt the pent up frustration steer your hips as you begin to grind up into him. He gives an approving groan as he begins to grind back, pushing his hips deeper into yours. You pant under him. He removes one of his hands from your wrists and uses it to lift your crop top up over your breasts. 

“Wait” you say trying to stop him from taking off your shirt. He quickly gathers the hem and puts it in your mouth stopping any further protests from reaching his ears. 

He leans back down, pulled up the fishnet and suckles on your teet causing your eyes to flutter closed with pleasure. You inhale sharply through the fabric in your mouth as his tongue plays with your peaks. You squirm beneath him continuing to rut up against his pants. He releases his other hand from your wrists so that both could sink their fingers around your exquisite tits. You arch your back pushing into him. Your hands in his hair.

“I knew you wanted me, Angel.” 

He flips you over to your stomach and pulls down your pants to your knees.

“Kashi, wait, stop!”

He slaps both of your checks with his palms. You let out a little yelp followed lustful by a moan.

“Why do you keep running from me?”

“Kashi”

“Are you punishing me?”

“No!”

He slams his hands down on your backside again.

“Then why do you keep denying me what I want?” 

He pushes his hand between your thighs and starts playing with your bud. You moan and roll your eyes while he drinks in the sight of your sex looking adorable trapped between your closed legs pinned together by your pants. He didn’t give you time to answer before he sunk his fingers into you, feeling how you gushed around him as he buried himself up to the third knuckle. 

You find yourself rocking back and forth on his fingers, aching to be pleasured by him. He smirks and soon adds another digit. He strokes in and out of you quickly. You wanted him. You always wanted him. He knows how to touch you in heavenly ways. He curved his fingers against your sweet spot, stroking fast, milking you till you crumble. His fingers stimulate you perfectly eliciting loud cries from your lungs. You holler as you feel yourself cum in his hand. 

He undoes his pants and pulls out his length, covering it in your slick with a few strokes of his hand before pushing it into you. You let out a scream as you finally get what you’ve been aching for. You nearly came a second time just from the intrusion alone. 

“You can’t hold out on me, Angel. I know you crave me as much as I crave you.”

He was right. In spite of whatever was going on with work, Obito, or the other villagers, you couldn’t deny how you were drawn to him like a magnet. Always wet and waiting to feel the next time your unstoppable passion had you wrapped around his manhood. 

He pulls out of you, making you whine. He sits down on the couch with his legs spread and pulls you into his lap so that your legs are between his. He lines himself up with your slit and you sink down on him. Your body weight shoving him deep inside of your cavern. You bob up and down on his shaft feeling the fullness everytime you sit back. His hands on your hips guide you through each stroke and you feel yourself unravel around him. 

“That’s it Angel. That’s what I want. I know you want it too.”

You were afraid to respond. You wanted to scream ‘Yes!’ but the situation was getting out of control and you were only a pant tug away from getting discovered. Kakashi lifted his hand off your hips to strike you again. You let out a pleasured groan. His hands began moving you faster. You went up and down on him till you reached a gallop. Craving more, he became impatient and held you still while his hips thrusted up inside of you with intense speed.

Pleasured wails are pulled from your lungs during his crusade until he pulls out and shoves you down on the couch to take you from behind. Before he does, he pushes himself against your back and reaches around to play with your nipples as he bites down on your shoulder. He rolls them between his fingers and then pulls them upwards, letting the weight of your breasts tugs at the sensitive tissue. You hate how much you love when he does this to you. Always the pain with the pleasure. It gets you everytime, especially as he bites down on your soft neck. As if your body needed another bruise. 

When he’s satisfied with the mark he buries his thickness back into you, making sure you are good and stuffed as he pounds away inside your walls. Your tired arms can barely hold you up as he expels weeks of precum into you, pushing it up against your cervix. You can feel your release come quickly and you grab a throw pillow to scream into. 

You knew he wasn’t going to be gentle when you came. You knew he was going to pound away chasing his own orgasm, not granting you a moment of reprieve till he spilled his white hot ropes inside of you. 

When he was done releasing his pent up sexual frustration, you quickly lifted your pants so that he didn’t try to take them the rest of the way off and lay with you naked. He follows your lead and pulls up his own pants as you go to rest your tired head against his shoulder.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay the night with me. We can walk to work together in the morning.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring my stuff to spend the night.”

“We can stop by your place and come back.”

“No, that's okay Kashi. I’d rather spend the night at my place if you don’t mind.”

You hated the disappointment on his face but you had an early appointment with Obito tomorrow. You needed his help if you were going to be a serious threat in combat. He was the next best thing to being trained by Kakashi himself. If you weren’t so sure that he’d try to talk you out of it, you would’ve preferred to battle hot and heavy with Kashi every morning instead. It was his stubborn protectiveness over you that kept him in the dark.

You spent another hour with him before saying your goodbyes. He held you tight before letting you walk out the door. His affection was almost suffocating. You loathe yourself for deceiving him the way you were but if he had just kept his trap shut for a few more weeks you could’ve had your dream job instead of resorting to all this. At least that’s what you tell yourself to feel better.

*************************************************

“Good Morning Princess”

“Good Morning Sensei” you greet Obito as you meet him at the training grounds.

A greedy smile crosses Obito’s face as you refer to him by his new title. He was going to love having you call him that. 

“You ready to regret your decision to rejoin the field?”

You scoff. “Just shut up and let's do this.” 

Obito lunges at you and you jump, flying over him and landing softly on the ground where he once stood. 

“Very good.”

“Thanks”

He goes again but this time he’s quicker. You backflip away from him and he gives a grin.

“Why do you keep running? Afraid to fight me?”

“I’ve seen you fight, I know I can’t beat you.”

“Smart, but if you’re gonna survive out there you won’t always have the chance to run.”

You let out a sigh of defeat and take a fighting stance.

“That’s more like it.”

He comes at you with a barrage of fists. You block several of them but one catches you in the gut. He pulls back as your hand braces your side where he struck.

“Your stomach is more toned than it used to be. I didn’t realize how hard you were already training.”

“I don’t do my job half-assed.”

“It’s not your job.”

“Yet.”

Obito laughed before he came at you again. You ducked down and went for his chest. You smirked to yourself till you realized your hand was slipping right through him. 

What? How did I miss? 

You go again. You’re sure you were going to land a kick to his head when once again you fail to make contact and nearly fall down when you land. 

Obito looks at you with a huge grin on his face. Something was off but you hadn’t figured it out yet.  You go in again. This time blocking his punch with your forearms as you sweep your leg to trip him, only he was still standing. 

“How are you doing that?!”

“One of the many abilities that comes with these eyes, Princess.”

“It’s what I saw you do to Kakashi the night of the gala, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t his proudest moment, but it did satisfy him to know that you were impressed when you saw his ability used in the context of a real fight.

“Yes, it’s how I avoided his Lightning Blade.”

“Well that’s just the most annoying ability to ever exist.”

He gave out a mouthwateringly low chuckle that disarmed you. You looked up at him, exhausted by your futile attempts to strike him, with widened eyes. He looked down at you with a protective look that you hadn’t noticed before. You shake your head to clear your thoughts and get back to business.

“Again” you say.

He goes again but this time as he swings at you, you dodge him and drop low before hitting him with your mind transfer from beneath. He was tough to control. His mental fortitude was top tier. You felt him fighting with you as you steered his body away from yours. You took his hand and grabbed a kunai, flipping it to point at his abdomen. “Not so fast”, you hear him say in the space of his mind.

“Why? Afraid I’ll stab you?”

“Go ahead”

Feeling defyant you take the knife and plunge. It passed straight through his body. Frustrated, you release the jutsu and return to your own mind. He stands over you panting slightly.

“Not gonna lie, I didn’t expect that out of you.” He licked his lower lip before smiling down at you. You felt a small tingle along your spine as he brought your attention to his lips.

“Yeah but you still somehow made it pass through your body. Even with me in control.” 

You were annoyed by the outcome of the match but the way he was smiling down on you made it hard to stay mad. 

The two of you keep at it for a few more rounds before you had had enough.

You were winded and it caused him to feel powerful. The sound of your heavy breathing and the pride he felt at seeing how strong you had become in just a few weeks made him ache for you once more. 

“If this is what you’ve been able to accomplish in just 3 weeks, I might ask Kakashi to put you on my team.”

“Ah, so I’m not a liability after all.” 

He gave you a look of amusement. Not wanting to allow you to be overconfident, he antagonizes you.

“No, I just want you on my team so I can keep an eye on you.” You give him a glare. “Plus I’ll need someone to keep me warm in the winters”

You go to shove him and he allows you to fall through his body. 

“Would you stop doing that already?!”

“Why would I when it’s so fun?” You giggle as he helps pick you up off the ground. “Come on, let's finish with a run.”

“Gladly.” 

The two of you tread around the village border. It was nice having a companion to run with. It felt less lonely and it was reassuring that even though he could kick your ass in combat, at least you could keep up with him in a foot race. 

“Alright Princess, I’ll let you go for today but be prepared to step it up tomorrow.”

You bow, “Thank you Sensei.”

He smirks at the title. You glare at him and threaten, “Keep laughing at me and I’ll stop calling you Sensei.” 

“Stop calling me sensei and I’ll stop helping you Princess.”

You let out a huff of frustration and he laughs. “See you tomorrow Princess.”

You turn and walk away headed towards home “Stop calling me Princess.”

“Nope!”

You shake your head as you retreat, ready for a hot shower and some arnica cream for your bruised body before another day of work.

Part 11 Masterlist

[jiminiecrickets]

THE PARADISE PARADOX: PART II. PJM / M!READER

summary. jimin hates it when others lust after what’s his.

wc. 2.5k (nsfw under the cut)

tags. smut | dom bottom!jimin, sub top!reader, vampire!jimin, blood + blood drinking, riding, edging + begging, unprotected sex, creampie, jealousy + posessiveness (jimin)

[ part one ]  [ requested ]

fear belongs to him. love belongs to fear, a subset of heart-hammering and bone-shattering primal instinct. thus, love belongs to him.

you belong to him.

he's the one draped on your arm, but nobody in the classically-beautiful bar mistakes it for ownership. they're all beautiful, glossy hair and paper-white teeth that shine a little too sharp when they smile. they know jimin and they know his history, and they keep their seductive touches fleeting and light, even if their red eyes trace your veins with rich, dark intent.

soon enough, you will fall, and jimin will scratch off another mark for his body count.

jimin interrupts a vampire without care for propriety, swaying towards you. "baby," he sighs, a little too high-pitched to not bring his moans to mind. "i'm hungry."

he reads the surprise as easily as anything else. he snakes his arms around your middle and props his cheek on your chest, a familiar pout adorning his primrose lips.

"oh," you manage at last. "okay. well, do you want to go—"

"no," he hums, gaze flicking up to meet the other vampire's. his smile is gloating. "i'll have you right here. i'm sure there's a booth with enough room to hold the both of us."

you glance helplessly back at the vampire you had been speaking to as jimin wraps his fingers tightly around your wrist and pulls you along, as if on a leash. the vampire rolls his eyes, turning to mutter with a blonde, and you catch a few words before you're too far away.

 —newest pet won't survive...

jimin leads you up the stairs and bodies part for him like the red sea. you meet the eyes of a young man in the arms of a taller, foreign woman, and something like understanding passes between you.

you are not the only red-blooded individual here tonight, and you are trophies.

his eyes lower first. you take home the gold medal.

like a gentleman, jimin pulls back the heavy red velvet curtain with a playful bow, letting it flow shut behind him. it feels off, heavier than most. sound struggles to break through.

he only uses one hand to push you down onto the loveseat, but it's more than enough to overwhelm you. you gulp as his eyes blaze like flames as he smiles, pink tongue dragging slowly over his fangs.

"pretty baby doesn't know who he belongs to," he coos, tracing your jaw with his fingertips. you lean into his touch and he smiles. "seeing those carrion-eaters touch you like that... you didn't even reject their advances. i'm disappointed, baby."

"peaches, wait—"

"that'll be 'sir' to you tonight, my love." his fingers drop down to tug out your buttons, shearing through them easily. your heart quickens at the display of strength and you don't dare cover your exposed torso, wide eyes trained on his.

eventually, he leans back with a hum to survey his doings. he places his hands on his hips. "much better. see? you know how to be quiet when you want to be. if only you stopped flirting with them earlier – then i wouldn't have to show them whose lips are allowed to touch yours."

he prowls on the loveseat like a predator honed in on its prey, his floral and woodsy cologne masking the scent of blood that clings to him like death to a surgeon. his thighs encase yours and he cups your cheek in his snowy palm, small and deceitfully gentle.

he tilts your head, pressing apart your shoulder and your jaw. for now, he controls himself, but you haven't a doubt in your mind that he can tear you apart like tissue paper.

he hums and makes himself comfortable on your lap, his tight leather pants stretching around his thighs and clinging to his firm calves oh-so prettily. he leans in, his clothed cock pressing against yours, and the visible bulge sends a thrill of desire through you. you reach for it.

he slaps your hand away. his nail cuts a thin red line along the base of your thumb.

"no," he nearly growls, that soft voice of his hardening like ice as he shoves your head against the backrest, licking his lips at the sight of your adam's apple bobbing with each harsh breath and gulp. he presses his thumb against it, giving it an intoxicating kiss that has your body shuddering of its own accord.

"i don't want to hurt you," he whispers against your throat, "but i will, if i must. whatever helps you remember who this body belongs to."

"it's yours," you whisper hoarsely. your hands itch to grab his slim waist and pull him against you, but the reward is not worth the risk. jimin's hips press down in a smooth roll, harder than the rest, with a forgiving smile, and you gasp as he briefly shoves the heel of his palm against your cock. your hands ball into fists on your thighs. "i'm yours! oh, fuck, jimin—"

his fangs slash into your neck. you grunt and one hand shoots up to clutch his hip but he doesn't seem to mind the breach of protocol.

jimin's fingers twist in your hair and he yanks your head to the side, moaning as the thick coppery twang of blood floods his mouth. his cock throbs against yours and the chill of his body clashes with the burn of yours, leaving a throbbing residue of aching pleasure wherever he touches.

your head spins. he takes more than usual, faster than usual, and he isn't so fussed about the delicate nature of mortals and how they can die from the shock of blood loss alone.

he has faith in you. you won't die – you're stronger than that. that's why he hunted you down in the first place.

"sir," you breathe as his cold fingers flutter along your hipbone and into your pants. he grips your cock and it jerks in his palm, leaking and eager. "please, let me see you – sorry, 'm sorry, won't do it again—"

jimin likes this side of you: face warm, pupils blown with lust, your body on display for his eyes only.

under his heavy, roaming gaze, you flush, attempting to pull your shirt over the many marks he loves to leave behind. a rosary of bruises litters your neck just below where your shirt collar sits.

he pulls your hand away, sliding his palm against yours as he pumps your cock, pulling it out of your pants. he hums appreciatively at the sight, blood pulsing from the two little pinpricks on your neck when the seal of his lips breaks, and your breath hitches. it soaks into your shirt.

at last, he draws the flat of his tongue along the length of your jugular, and the bleeding slows to a stop. he kisses the warm marks, curling the slick sweetness into his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

trapped in his fist, your cock leaks over his pretty, pale knuckles. slim and small, his hands are clear of the injuries that make a person – no bruises, no scars. he's flawless as a diamond, and yet despite the allure of perfection, it's the same thing that brings him down.

his body carries no stories. no history. no scars on the knees from childhood tumbles, no pockmarks of teenage acne.

"i love you," he whispers in your ear, and the whole world falls away. everything burns except for him – his fiery touch, his gleaming eyes. the heat of a forest blaze has never been more enticing. you lean into him.

he smiles, your blood dripping down his lips and chin. he swipes his thumb over the corner of his mouth, placing it between his lips with a moan.

jimin pushes you onto your back, turning fluidly with you. he gestures, an elegant flick of his hand, and smiles as you quietly cross your wrists above your head, compliant and tracking his every move with lust-blown pupils.

he leans down with a palm on your chest, slick and serpentine. his lips near your ear.

"good... hands stay there," he whispers, and he lifts his crimson gaze to yours.

the strength of his will snaps against yours like a magnet. yours falls to its knees.

you find that you can't lift your wrists. he's caught you – the fly in his web. your pulse throbs, rare and rabbit-hearted, and he smiles in dark satisfaction as your expression tightens. he strokes you slowly, dragging his tongue against the oozing pinpricks in your neck. he grabs your face with sharp nails and forces your chin down, smiling as you do your best to look him in the eye, lashes fluttering irregularly as the pain and pleasure clash down your spine.

he kisses you softly. his plush lips sting with the coppery twist of blood. "you have such a pretty cock, you know that?" he says gently, pumping it faster and humming as your stomach tenses under his palm. "so pretty... makes me wanna eat it right up," he giggles, scrunching his nose playfully as he shifts on your lap, tossing his platinum hair out of his eyes.

he pouts. "mm... you're so quiet now. don't be shy. you were so happy earlier, yapping away with vultures who would snap your neck in a heartbeat – are you scared, baby? are you scared of me?"

 "no," you manage to choke out, the quick, slick sound of your cock in his fist prickling a hard flush up your neck. "n-no, sir – i-i just – ah!"

he loosens his grip. "look at me when you speak to me, baby," he whispers. "don't you know it's rude not to?"

your gaze struggles its way up his exposed chest and pale neck. your jaw aches to clamp down on that pretty stretch of flesh between his neck and shoulder, to fuck him down on your cock and call yourself his.

with a smug glint in his crimson eyes, jimin lowers himself onto your cock, sucking in a soft breath of pleasure. he cups your chin in his hand, forcing your eyes to stay on him, watching him, as he slowly, painfully slowly, buries your cock inside him.

"don't come," he murmurs, and begins to bounce.

his well-loved hole clamps around your cock, wet with lube. you hadn't realised he'd prepped himself. you also hadn't realised he'd stripped off his trousers and torn your shirt and jacket entirely, and that they now puddled carelessly in the corner of the booth. your mind had been too busy swirling with the hot, instinctive, consuming desire to do whatever jimin wished of you.

he moans softly as he speeds up, knees squeezing your hips to keep you from bucking up into him. your nerves feel licked by flames and vacantly, you hear yourself gasping and groaning pathetically, begging him with slurred words and half-syllables to fuck you harder, faster, deeper...

you cry out as he wrenches your head to the side and pierces your jugular, reopening the wounds. his ass slams against your hips with the obscene sound of flesh on flesh and you screw your eyes shut as his tight hole scrapes your cock, his soft walls suffocatingly hot. he gulps down mouthful after mouthful of blood, teeth bared and chin smeared with your thick, hot blood – his claws scrape your temple, stinging and drawing beads of red that drip down the side of your face.

"they can't take care of you as i do, my heart," he hisses, his cries of bliss loud and shameless. "you're mine – mine! you'll moan like this for no one else – do you understand?"

somewhere between the expanding, white-fire throbbing of your cock and the embarrassing sounds slipping from your lips, you agree, babbling obscenities and pleas and apologies for things you can barely remember. your blood feels sticky and warm against your chest, the white shirt glued to your skin. you swallow harshly as jimin smashes his blood-slick lips against yours, panting against each other's lips as his ass clenches irregularly, hot wet walls pumping your aching cock.

"i'm yours, 'm yours, all yours—" you bite down on his shoulder, hips involuntarily chasing his heat "—please let me come, please, sir, please, 'm sorry, 'm s-sorry—!"

"is that right, baby? you're sorry? you won't flirt with worse men right in front of me?" he pants, his reddened cock slapping your stomach and dripping a pool of precum that runs, warm and dizzying, down your sides. "how do i know you're telling the truth?"

"i'm sorry – mngh – won't do it again!" you can't tell where you end and he begins. "please, wanna come, you f-feel so fucking good, i c-can't—"

jimin smiles, fangs poking out over his lower lip, and giggles breathily at your pathetic pleas. you're so silly, he coos to himself – his sweet baby, who loves him more than anything else in the world, who'd allow someone like jimin to rip out your dignity and every shred of power you once had. panting, groaning, perfect body exposed for him to bleed dry – how can he say no to something so cute?

come for me.

the words echo between your ears and your vision whites out as he moans, high and satisfied, in your ear, clamping down around your base as heavy warmth fills him up. he comes hard onto your stomach, glazing it over so prettily – as god intended.

your ears ring as you slump back, nothing but comfortable wool behind those eyes. lazily, jimin strokes your chest and shoulders, rocking his hips slowly to drag out your highs. something clicks in your subconscious and your hands fall to your sides, limp and yours to command once more.

jimin rests against your chest, warm breath puffing shallowly against your neck as he strokes the nape of your neck with slow, mindless circles. he hums, dragging his fingertips against the still-hot blood. he lifts them to his lips and swirls his tongue around them, extracting them with a wet pop.

"you're so pretty when you beg," he whispers, closing his eyes and listening to the strong and steady pumping of your heart. the myocytes, the intercalated discs, the valves – all busy at work to calm you down. if he concentrates hard enough, he feels he can isolate the faint, electric hum of nerve cells, firing constantly across the tiny gaps and zinging down the factory line. “but i can’t have others play with my toys, you understand? what if they break them?”

you mumble something that sounds almost like an 'i’m sorry', and jimin smiles as you shakily wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in his neck.

"i believe you, baby," he whispers sweetly, kissing your jawline. "but if i see you enjoying someone else's touch once more, i won't go to the trouble of finding a curtain to hide behind again. am i clear, my heart?"

you nod rapidly, squeezing him close. he feels your pleasurable tremble and smiles to himself, stroking your hair gently.

this little game isn't so boring, after all.

[butterfly-stitches]

SESSIONS.

[18+ MDNI]

AO3

Masterlist

Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish / Simon "Ghost" Riley Kyle "Gaz" Garrick & John "Soap" MacTavish Ensemble: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price, Kate Laswell, Nikolai

Warnings: Heavy BDSM ⛓️ BDSM ⛓️ Dom/sub ⛓️ Size Difference ⛓️ Rough Sex ⛓️ Rough Oral Sex ⛓️ Oral Sex ⛓️ Anal Sex ⛓️ Anal Fingering ⛓️ Rimming ⛓️ Hand Jobs ⛓️ Size Kink ⛓️ Kink Negotiation ⛓️ Orgasm Delay/Denial ⛓️ Collars/Leashes ⛓️ Minimum Effort Aftercare ⛓️ Porn With Plot ⛓️ Bottom John "Soap" MacTavish ⛓️ Top Simon "Ghost" Riley ⛓️ Simon "Ghost" Riley is Bad At Feelings ⛓️ Bisexuality ⛓️ Touch-Starved ⛓️ Denial of Feelings > Other Additional Tags to Be Added <

Synopsis: While out bar hopping with his longtime friend Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish accompanies him to a nightclub called the 141. Renowned for its exclusivity, rumored to house hedonism in the form of domination and submission. An encounter with an enigmatic man in a skull mask leaves him curious, leaves him wanting. And despite himself, curiosity gets the best of him as Johnny follows the white rabbit down the rabbit hole and right to the masked man. A notorious Dom known only as Ghost. What was a simple arrangement to explore the dichotomy of pain and pleasure soon turns complicated as each session becomes less professional and more personal.

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Chapter 1: encounter.

Words: 6,111 Summary: In which he has a chance meeting…

For an alcohol-fueled, bar-hopping night to turn into wandering aimlessly when a friend claimed to know a place nearby — only to misremember the way there — wasn’t surprising in the slightest. The causation was a single whim impelled by rounds of drink. The consequence was what remained of a “fun” night out after a long and grueling work week being misspent. And the culprit?: an overconfident Scouser. One who was supposedly a boy scout as a youngin and therefore knew his bearings like the back of his hand. 

Yet here they were, lost somewhere downtown, their phones dead. Walking through alleyways that reeked of sewage and rubbish. All for some posh club. Soap heaved out a deep sigh, and began to slow down his stride. Annoyance was starting to set in just as his patience thinned. The burning in his calves and the aching in his feet from all the walking, didn’t help his mood. And worse, the buzz from the drinks prior were starting to wear off, and he was getting more sober by the minute. 

He let out another tired sigh before he stopped walking entirely, standing still to take a breather. He took in his surroundings with a breath. He was on some upslope backstreet surrounded by old brick buildings and townhouses. A hilled boscage of English countryside on the other side, fenced off by low cobblestone walls and iron gates. The dark was honed sharp by a moonless night that ate away at the glow of lampposts. The shadows deepened, a quietness persisted, and the world seemed to fade away at the seams. 

The itch to sketch the scene thrummed through the tips of his fingers. A rarity for him nowadays. But as a cool breeze wafted through, tousling the top of Soap’s mohawk and shivering the skin underneath the freshly sheared sides of his undercut. So went the creative urge along with it. Gone. He stared off for a long moment before refocusing towards a figure atop the street’s apex in the distance. Growing smaller as it faded into the dark, leaving him behind. Soap stuffed his hands in his jacket’s pockets and grit his teeth, soldiering up the slope despite the strain in his legs. Just in time to see the figure duck into a side alley in his peripheral. 

“Slow down, ye muppet.” He said short-winded and red-faced, jog-trotting forward to catch up with the person in front of him. 

“Keep up.” 

Soap slowed to wipe away the sweat on his brow. Only to bound forward in order to not lose Gaz as he rounded the corner and onto another silent street. 

“I am just not sure ’bout this, Gaz.” 

The Scouser only scoffed at his words. “Middle age really hit you that hard, mate? Where's your sense of adventure?”

“Just don’t want to get mugged. Bit dodgy nipping through ginnels at night. Especially out here.” 

Gaz shrugged, waving at him dismissively as if it wasn’t a valid concern but a mild hypothetical. “Heh, more reason for you to keep up then.”

Soap huffed. “D’ya even know where you’re going?” 

He was met with a flash of pearly teeth, a boyish grin thrown over the shoulder reminiscent of old times. A childhood full of skinned knees, blistered palms, a broken arm, and growing pains. 

“Of course.” 

“You sure? Think we’ve been down this street already — twice actually. We're going in bloody circles at this point.”

“Huh, no sense of adventure and no sense of direction. You’re one strike away from a retirement home, Soap.”

“Oh, sod off. Don’t want to waste the rest of my night trying to find some clubhou — Wait, look.” 

Gaz stopped in tracks and turned to see what the Scotsman was directing his attention towards: a lamppost that was a bit crooked with a dimming bulb. A maintenance concern, sure. A hazard even but not anything worth stopping for. He lifted a brow from underneath his ball cap, eyeing Soap who was pointing at it as if it was an omen.

“See, been here before. I remember that lamppost. And those’re yer shoe prints!” 

“The bevvies are messin’ with your bloody head, Soap.”

“Just admit that you don’t know where you’re going, Scouser.”

“Christ, stop whinging,” Gaz told him, stopping where the pavement met a T-junction. “Come on, the night’s still kickin’.” 

He watched Gaz duck into a side alley of a warehouse building, disappearing in the dark. He let out a deep sigh.

“Boy scout, my fuckin’ ass,” Soap mumbled under his breath and chased after him.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It felt like hours before they both came across surroundings that they both recognized. The alley had led them down another network of alleyways and dead ends, trapping them like lab mice in a maze. But they eventually stumbled onto a street leading back toward the downtown area. The way back was illuminated by neon signs from afar piercing through the cold night and the sounds of city life echoing in the distance. Before long, they were right on the edge of a city center. And immediately the pavement was overrun by other people, soused and boisterous despite the week night. Faces in the crowd blurred, the outlines of bodies silhouetted by the flashing lights of the sign boards overhead. Flocking to the nearby restaurants and pubs, making it difficult for him to follow along. Cutting through the opposite way of foot traffic was like swimming against a river current. Despite it, Soap heeded Gaz’s words to keep up and stuck close.

He assumed that the place they were heading to was located somewhere nearby in the heart of it all. But the relief he felt drained away as Soap was led further past it into the outskirts. Not as heavily populated as the prior, making it easier to move around, but still a bustling area nonetheless. Gaz and Soap stopped on the corner of a roundabout with a stone fountain at its center and hedges lining its circumference. A sight that made Gaz walk faster with a newly gained energy and across the way, towards an adjacent street’s laneway. Gaz nodded upwards, tilting his head towards a cluster of buildings and warehouse that were ahead of them. They halted in front of one of them, a multistory that loomed over them. Its stonework was weathered and begrimed, and, from what he could tell, it was seemingly empty. 

“This is wha’ you dragged me all the way here for?” Asked Soap as he stared up at it disapprovingly.

“Not this. It's by it though.” 

“Let me guess, we have to go down another alley?” He teased, a small smirk on his face. Only for Gaz to ignore him and walk away with the shake of his head.

Soap gave one last look at the building then followed Gaz to the side of it. They didn't walk far, only a few meters before they came to a stop. There, in front of them was a metal door tucked along the wall. Inconspicuous if not for the two men guarding it. 

“Huh. An underground club, eh? Didn’t know that was yer kind of scene, Gaz.”

“No, it’s not an – it’s more like a … lifestyle club.”

Realization hit Soap like a whiplash. 

“You took me to a sex club?”

The bouncers turned towards both of them at the rise of Soap’s voice and the shushing by Gaz. 

“Listen, just trust me, alright.” 

“Gaz, I dinna-”

“Look,” Gaz sighed out as he turned and grabbed onto Soap’s shoulders, “Just want to check it out that’s all. We’ll go inside. Grab some drinks and if it's not up to par, we’ll leave.” At the uncertainty on Soap’s face, he added: “I’ll even buy you a bloody pint. But please trust me on this, ok?”

Soap narrowed his eyes at Gaz, eyeballing him. Saw the eagerness on his face, the nervousness of his stature; his uncharacteristic bashfulness that was borderline desperation. And the Scotsman wondered if it was more than just innate curiosity that made the Scouser bring them over here specifically. He looked from the man in front of him to the bouncers in his peripheral then back to Gaz again. Who looked at him imploringly like a kid begging their parents for a new toy. Tensed brows furrowed over wide brown eyes, lips pursed in a plea, and a light sheen of sweat from their trek.

Soap let out a huff.

“Fine,” He brushed away Gaz’s hands on him and shouldered past, “But you owe me more than a bloody pint.” 

Gaz’s face fell into sudden ease, that wide boyish smile returning as he took a big step back. 

He nodded at Soap. “Right, just follow my lead.”

Soap was right behind him as Gaz took point. All the while the bouncers’ attention never left them. They glowered as Soap and Gaz approached, looking both of them up and down, sizing them up. 

“You lost, lads?” One of them asked.

“No, just trying to head inside.” 

His eyes squinted at Gaz, skeptical. “Hm. Name?” 

“Uh, Kyle Garrick.”

With a sneer, the other bouncer crossed his arms across his chest. “Don’t recognize it. Either of you got a membership card?”

“We don’t bu-”

“Then I suggest you turn around and get going. No membership, no entry.” 

“I’m a guest. I was invited here.”

The bouncer in front of him let out a hearty chuckle. “Sure you were, lad. Now, piss off.”

“I’m invited,” Gaz ticked his jaw, his cool demeanor disappearing by indignation. “I’m supposed to be let in.”

Soap stood up straighter as the bouncers walked forward, standing next to each other with crossed arms. And formed a bulwark against them to assert their edict.

“I said, ‘No membership, no entry’.” One growled out, glaring at Gaz who was standing chest-to-chest with him. Soap furled the hands at his side, his body intuitively going tense as the other bouncer did the same to him. They were deliberate, trying to coax a reaction out of them that much was obvious. But before Soap could step in and say something provoking, Gaz was the first to break the tension.

“Chimera.” 

The hardness of the bouncers’ sneers faltered as both their faces fell in recognition. They stood quiet for a moment, their lips pressed into a thin line. And reluctantly, the bouncers moved back.

With a tipping of the bouncer’s head towards the door, the second bouncer moved away from Soap to open it. 

The bouncer stepped towards the now opened metal door and stood in the doorframe. “This way, lads.” 

Soap and Gaz shared a look. They were led through the door by the bouncer and down a small set of stairs.

Soap leaned towards Gaz as they descended down. “Did ya say the magic word or something?”

The bouncer looked over his shoulder but said nothing. Gaz gave Soap a pointed look, but chuckled anyway at the notion. They were escorted into a narrow foyer of some bricks-and-mortar facility. It was pointedly bare but minimalistically so. Taking up most of the space was a large semicircular desk of a reception area by the front brick wall; velvet stanchion posts formed a waiting line – which was currently empty – and led to the fore. And to its right, hanging along the wall, were dark dupioni silk drapery, the indentation of a doorway barely noticeable against the fabric. 

As they neared, an older woman greeted them with a warm smile from behind the front desk. The bouncer leaned against the desk, leaning himself on it, in such a casual manner that it made the receptionist quirk her brow at him.

“Brought you some visitors.” He said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder towards the men standing awkwardly behind him. 

Her smile dropped as her brows furrowed in confusion. But it was quick to reappear, more professional than anything as the receptionist glanced behind the bouncer to Soap and Gaz. 

Her eyes flicked away to the man leaning on her desk. “I thought we weren’t allowing any more visits.” 

Soap felt the man next to him go tense as a board.

“Thought so too but they’re invitees.” The bouncer rubbed the back of his neck, “Chimera’s.”

Her face hardened.

The rest of their conversation was hushed between themselves. Soap caught a few snippets of it: Watcher. Unhappy. Policies. Crossed the line. But he found himself uninterested after a while, not caring to eavesdrop. Soap's eyes flicked around the foyer looking at nothing really until they landed on the drapery on the wall. He shifted, feeling a sudden shiver along his skin. Wondered what to expect in this place, what sort of debauchery it had. Surely more than just a bar with watered down drinks and an empty dance floor. Maybe some ropes and chains? Blindfolds and gags? Voyeurs? Plumbers? Tax evaders? The possibilities were endless if his dabbling of adult films was anything to go by. 

Before he could think further on it there was a dig in the ribs. He turned to Gaz who gestured his chin to the front desk. Their discussion had ended and the bouncer was moving away with a tired sigh. 

“Best of luck, lads.” He said as he walked past with a curt nod, out of the foyer and up the steps.

Then, “I can help you gentlemen here.”

With a nudge, Soap walked forward and greeted the receptionist with a rather clumsy ‘hello’. Though strained, the receptionist’s smile remained warm and welcoming. She fixed the reading glasses on her face, her hand typing away on her keyboard. Soap couldn’t help but be impressed by how fast she typed. She abruptly stood up from her chair and brushed out the wrinkles in her pencil skirt. She riffled through the file cabinet behind her, pulling out stapled packets that she fastened to two clipboards. 

“Here you are,” The receptionist handed both of them a clipboard. A pen dangled off of it by a bead chain, “Fill these out. If you’re confused or need any clarification on any of the questions please let me know.”

Soap glared at the first page like it was a school exam. Eyes squinted as he looked it over. It was a standard form for personal information: full name, date of birth, gender identity, sexual orientation, marital status, etcetera, etcetera. He flipped through the rest. Medical survey. Informational pages. Risk and safety. To-do and not-to-do sheets. He shifted as he skimmed through a short questionnaire about his interests. Then the last few pages were rules, policies, agreements, information pamphlet and an NDA; all needing his signature. Soap stole a sidelong glance at Gaz. The man was focused, wholly engrossed in the task. Concentrating like it was his life on the line. He was half way through the packet now. Grasping the pen in his hand, Soap quickly followed suit, finishing it just in time as Gaz did – his writing neater than his own. 

“Hope this isn’t too much trouble.” Gaz apologized, giving her a small smile as he handed her his clipboard. The Scotsman rolled his eyes at him working his charm on the older woman. “Don’t want to be a bother.”

The receptionist blinked. Smiled shyly. Seemingly flustered as she shuffled in her office chair. “You’re not a bother. Not at all. Just a little misunderstanding on our end. We’ve postponed any guest visitations for the foreseeable future. But it looks like the new policy failed to be... specific regarding certain conditions.”

She cleared her throat, realizing she was being too transparent, and continued, “Luckily, on that note, because you're both invitees your entrance fees are waived for your first visit.” The receptionist opened a side cabinet below the desk, ruffling through a drawer before grabbing two opaque plastic baggies. “Ok, now show me the wrist of your non-dominant hand. Now turn it, palm up.” 

She clasped a gray tyvek wristband onto Soap’s wrist. Then with a shaky hand, she did the same to Gaz.

“You guys are all set.” The older woman wiped her palms on her skirt. And motioned to her left from behind the desk, pointing to the drapery. 

“Welcome to the 141. Please, enjoy yourselves.” 

141.

He thought it an odd name for a clubhouse. Unconventional by his standards. Wondered what the numerical nomenclature alluded to or the significance of it. Or perhaps he was thinking too much on the underlying meaning of just some numbers. 

Soap stepped away from the front desk, his hands clammy by his growing nervousness. He messed with his wristband, twisting it around the joint. Prepared himself to internally clutch his pearls at what he was about to witness: all the perversion, all the lechery. If his mother only knew what her wee boy was getting himself into. And knowing her, the Protestant woman would drag him out by his ear and crucify him herself. Be it due to peer pressure, curiosity, temptation, support of a friend or idiocy, Soap was here. Willingly. 

And a little bit of sin didn’t hurt anybody. Right? 

The imprint of the doorway grew clearer against the material as they stood face-to-face with it. The faded blur of lighting and silhouettes apparent from the other side. An exhale from them both. Then they walked through.

“Steamin’ Jesus.”

Soap looked around wide-eyed, gawking around the place.

The nervousness dissipated as the sight settled in. It was a regular looking place, nothing out of the ordinary, and not what he expected a supposed ‘lifestyle’ club to look like. There was no man being dog-walked by a Dominatrix or a lit stage where people gathered to watch a sadist punish someone like it was an public execution. Nor were there any orgies happening in the middle of the room. Not even a couple displaying any PDA. It was more like a pub than anything. More posh and classy, sure. Yet it was rustic like old English pubs usually were, warm and smoky. Carpet and flagstone flooring. High top tables. Aged brickwork and joinery, solid wooden furniture with dark accents. And had low lighting that was similar to a club’s atmosphere. It emphasized the shadows, perpetrating a mysteriousness to it. An embodiment of the theory of omission, that there was more to this place if he scratched the surface long enough. Dissimilarly, it had a strange hushedness.

The place wasn’t packed per say but there were other occupants. Some outfitted rather formally in refined garbs like leather, lace, satin and silks as of it was a ballroom. Adorned themselves with jewelry, brooches, bows, and even feathers. But there were other occupants that were dressed informally like Soap and Gaz were. Even then, both men couldn't help but still feel out of place. All their staring didn't dissuade the feeling.

Still, Soap couldn't help but be underwhelmed. And from the glance at Gaz, he seemed to feel the same by the deflate of his shoulders, and the drop of his facial expression.

“Kyle? Is that you, приятель (priatel’ - friend)?” Someone called out from somewhere near them. 

Soap turned towards an extensive mahogany saloon like bar, an antiquity that reminded him of American western movies. There, a man beckoned them from behind it. Gaz instantly perked up, his face lighting up. He went towards the bar with Soap trailing behind. 

“Nik!” Gaz clasped hands with him in a firm shake. But laughed as the man surprised him with a tug of his arm and leaned over the bartop to give the Scouser a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you here.”

The man, Nik, chuckled. “Likewise, my friend!” 

For a man tending to the bar in such a place, he was dressed quite casually in jeans, a shirt, and a brown leather jacket. With a gold Cuban link chain around his neck and his raven hair slicked back. He had an Slavic accent that was sonically rhythmic. Harsh yet smooth. Russian, Soap soon recognized.

His eyes were quick to hone in on Soap staring from behind Gaz. With his hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets, unsure of himself. Gaz clapped Soap behind the shoulder with a grin.

“This is John. John, this is Nikolai. A friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Soap shook his hand. A bit more firmly than he meant to. By the look on Nikolai’s face, he was a little surprised by it. 

He hummed, seemingly impressed. “Strong grip.” 

Soap grinned from ear to ear at his words.

“Please take a seat, my friends.” Nikolai gestured to the wooden barstools tucked underneath the bartop. 

Soap shrugged his jacket off, hanging it off the back of the barstool as Gaz settled into the one next to him. He heaved out a sigh, knackered by all that walking. His feet still ached in his boots, calves a bit sore. But the coolness of the wood grain was nice against the skin. He felt a sudden shiver run down his spine. Goosebumps trailed along his arms, raising the hairs. Like he was being watched.

“Can I get you, anything?”

Soap rubbed at his arms, blaming his nerves. He couldn’t stop himself from smacking his lips together, mouth dry, feigning for a nice cold pint. “A Tennant’s Lager, if you would mate.”

Gaz looked at the drink menu. “Think I’ll take a Black Russian.” He winked, “Needing something a bit sweet to wake me up.”

With a smile, Nik nodded, “Right away.”

And went off to fetch the drinks.

“Your tab, aye?” Soap lifted a brow at him in reminder. “Owe me a round. Maybe two.”

Gaz tsked, taking off his ballcap. “That’s all I owe ya? Surprised you’re not gonna hold it over my head.”

“Heh, feeling a bit lenient s’all. Like yer wallet’s going to be, aye. Hope yer promotion to a bloody peeler is paying well. We Scots have a high tolerance. Takes alotta bevvies for us to get sloshed.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just mind ya self, Soap.” He nudged his arm, “ I don’t want to have to break up another fight and drag your sorry ass back home. Earned myself a shiner in Glasgow the last time.”

Soap huffed and rolled his eyes, “Says the man who pissed himself then cried in the bathroom. I know my limits, ye ken. Not like ye.”

But before Gaz could continue their banter with another comment, Nikolai returned with their drinks in hand.

“Cheers.” Soap was quick to grab his lager, immediately taking a gulp of it. The cold golden alcohol was like flowing ichor. A much needed treat despite it being a light brew. He let out a satisfied exhale.

His skin grew aflame, then another shiver down his spine, rattling his shoulders like the rush of an unexpecting cool breeze. He thought it was because of the alcohol but the feeling of being watched grew stronger. Despite himself, he turned around. There amongst the dark, was a figure looming in the far corner, blending in well with the shadows. A big, scary bloke from what he could tell even from where he was. He stared on as the figure slowly leaned forward, catching the low lighting from the bar. And saw upon the figure’s face was bleached bone – a skull. 

Soap swallowed.

A gentle grab onto his shoulder and he jolted up. Eyes wide as he turned around and met Gaz’s.

“Soap. Everything alright?” Gaz followed his gaze, trying to see what the man was staring at. Then, with a laugh. “You see another lamppost?”

He blinked at Gaz’s words and swallowed again, his mouth feeling dry. “Eh, n-no.” Soap took a swig of his lager, letting the liquid settle on his tongue. “No. Just see some fucker tall as one.” 

Gaz turned back to him. Soap's proneness for puffing out his chest and peacocking earned him a sharp glare.

But Soap brushed the glare aside and smiled up at Russian bartender. “Heh, didna know it was the spooky season already, Nik."

The man gave him a blank stare back. “I don’t know what you mean.” But by the quirk of the Russian man’s brow, Nikolai was amused. His small smirk only encouraged Soap. Much to Gaz’s disfavor.

Soap tilted his chin behind himself with pressed lips. Kept his voice steady. “Talking ’bout the Halloween decoration in the corner - the big boy with the skullface. He looks ready for some trick-or-treating. Probably gonna scare your customers away though.”

Nik’s smirk grew wider, his eyes twinkling as he shined a pint glass. It reminded Soap of a fox. 

“Soap.” 

“Aye, aye. Just being observant.” He relented and elbowed Gaz’s arm in jest, “Don’t worry yer head, I'll be good.”

“Tch, you better mate.” Gaz swirled the Black Russian in his hand. His fingers clutched tight around the glass. Despite himself, as Gaz and Nikolai were talking, Soap peeked over his shoulder again. But saw that the figure was gone.

Despite the alcohol boosting their mood, dismay still lingered. Gaz grew less talkative than usual, more interested in nursing his drink than their bantering. His face was impassive but Soap could tell he was in a sour mood. Affected by the belief that this place was not worth all their effort or the ‘invitation’. Confused on how a purported sex club was more saintly than a church service and twice as dull. 

If it was any other night, Soap would’ve relentlessly taken the piss out of him. Never letting him live it down. But now wasn’t just any other night. Nikolai seemed to sense it as well, hanging around them whenever he wasn’t serving orders or cleaning the bartop. By Soap’s second lager, Nikolai’s presence seemed to help Gaz’s mood. By Soap’s third, it didn't take long for them to get Gaz to brighten up. Dismay dismissed from the mind. 

And by his fourth, Gaz had disappeared. Gone off like some wean in the supermarket. Was it to go check out the price of the tab or was it to head to the bathroom? Soap couldn’t remember. Either way, it’s been almost half an hour since. And Soap was worried.

“Want another one?” Nikolai came by and cleared the empty mug, wiping away the small puddle that had gathered from all the condensation. 

“Aye, another.”

The next drink clunked against the wood as it was placed down in front of him.

“Ye seen Gaz, Nik? Don’t know where he's gone.”

Nik scratched at his beard, thinking, before saying, “He was talking to someone by the rooms. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Un-fuckin’-believable.” He grumbled into his drink, peeved. “Bloody Scouser.” Then Soap let out a deep sigh, “Aye, well. Thanks, Nik. Make sure this one’s on his tab too, eh?”

“Of course.”

When another ten minutes had passed with Gaz still gone, Soap was more than just a little bit peeved. He finished the last of his drink and stood up. Feeling the need for some fresh air and a smoke – something to get his mind off of being ditched. Soap reached over the bartop for his charging mobile and unplugged it. And sent Gaz a quick text. Who had charged his dead mobile a bit before Soap did his own. He knew Gaz took it with him wherever he had gone. 

Soap shrugged on his jacket, stuffing his hands into the pockets. Despite the later hour, people were still there mingling and drinking amongst themselves. He could feel them staring as he left the bar and towards a non-emergency side exit along one of the walls. The door clicked open as he pressed against its push bar and stepped out into the tenfoot.

The cold night was a welcome sight, its chilliness was another. His chest rose as Soap gulped in the night air. Lungs burned as he held it. A second then another, then it blew out harshly past his lips. He leaned against the side wall, the entire night settling in his bones, weighing heavily on him. Maybe Gaz was right, he was getting old. Soap ruffled through his pockets until he found his carton of cigarettes. The cardboard was partially squashed, the box flattened at the corners from travel and use. They were the cheapest kind, just a pack he picked up from his local Tesco a few days ago. But it was almost empty now, so another visit was needed for resupply. Soap shook the remaining few in the carton, hearing them shuffle inside. 

He grabbed one, putting it in his mouth and held it between his lips. He patted around his pants for his zippo but let out a harsh sigh when his search for it came out empty and he cursed under his breath.

“Need a light?”

A sudden voice in the night. Gruff, deep and husky. Soap jumped away from the wall, startled, teeth almost biting through the filter paper. Goosebumps riddled his skin, hair stood on at the ends. He whipped around, wide-eyed and his heartbeat pounding against his chest like a rabbit’s. A silhouette emerged from the night. Appeared suddenly as if he manifested from the surrounding darkness. The edges of him blended well in the night like a pencil sketch, barely there. He stepped out into the dimmed light of the flood lamps above the exit door. Face eclipsed in shadow, white skull gleaming.

Soap stood paralyzed as the skullfaced figure walked closer to him. Slowly, deliberately. He was a towering, hulking behemoth of man; built like a brick house. Dwarfing the Scotsman with his sheer size as he stepped beside him. Soap thought himself pretty muscular but even he was nothing comparison. He realized then and there that ‘big, scary bloke’ was a descriptive understatement. He hoped that the man didn’t hear what he had said at the bar. Soap was frozen in place with eyes blown out like saucers, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. The natural instinct to run coursed through his body. But his feet stayed rooted to the ground, like they were made of concrete. Fear shot through his body like a cold bullet. And he wondered if the man could smell it, like a predator could.

The man was dressed in dark clothing, a navy windbreaker taut against his broad chest, brawny arms at his sides. One arm rose and Soap flinched. In a large gloved hand, he held a metal zippo out to him. But Soap could do nothing but stare, breathless, speechless. He blinked, then blinked again. Dumbstruck. His brain muddled, overwhelmed by his flight-or-fight instinct. The Scotsman hesitated, eyes darting from the lighter in his palm then back up to him. After a moment, with a clammy hand, Soap reached out for it. Their fingertips brushed, skin slid against the rough material of the man’s gloved palm. Soap quickly pulled his hand away, zippo in hand, clutched it against his chest as if scalded. The man’s eyes narrowed at the gray wristband peeking out from Soap's sleeve, visible from the motion. The burning stare made Soap shiver and he fixed his sleeve, tugging it down to the wrist. Hiding the gray band like it was a scarlet letter.

Soap's mouth opened to say something, anything to thank him. But his throat was hoarse, mouth dry and the words never came out. Instead he thumbed the flint wheel until it struck and bore a tiny flicker of fire. The man watched with interest as Soap lifted it up to his mouth. The amber flame reflected in the deep set eyes behind the skull mask. Dark as black tourmaline. Shakily, Soap lit the filter tip of it. Killed the little flame as he flipped the top back on and took a drag of his cigarette. A burst of nicotine on his taste buds, shooting up to his brain as smoke filled his mouth. He exhaled it, letting it pour out from parted lips. 

With as much courage he could muster, Soap turned around and held out the zippo to return it. Dark eyes never left his face as the man grabbed it. Fingertips brushing again, gloves against clammy skin. Soap swallowed – hard. He swiftly turned around and leaned back against the wall. The man next to him followed suit. Soap kept his gaze to the ground, not wanting to catch the man’s eyes. Wishing he could melt into the wall and disappear. He could feel the man’s eyes on him every so often, stealing small glances at him from the corner of his eye as Soap smoked. The man was still and silent as they took in the night, loitering together in the tenfoot. The man reminded him of the sit-and-wait type of predators in nature documentaries. Hiding just out of plain sight. Waiting patiently. But for what? 

Soap took another drag of his cigarette, letting his head brew it over. Then a moment of boldness as he offered the lit cigarette to the man next to him. Tilting his head, the man plucked the cigarette from Soap and held it between his thick digits. With his other hand, the man rolled his mask up, the balaclava sitting just below his nose. Revealing pale skin and a sharp underjaw, cleanly shaven. A scar marred across thin pink lips. It was Soap’s turn to watch him now. Gawking as the man lifted the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, the tipped ember burning brighter with his intake. With a slow exhale, the smoke tumbled out from his lips like a dragon’s breath. Coiling up and around, catching the light before dissipating into the cool night.

Something stirred within him, something in him ached. Watching the man smoke, inhaling and exhaling - broad chest rising up and down. Jaw tensed, lips wrapped around the end with every drag. Soap met his gaze when he pulled down his balaclava and handed the cigarette back for him to finish. Dark eyes bore into blue as the cigarette rose to Soap’s lips. The man moved from the wall, standing up to his full height. He stared down at Soap just as he exhaled, the smoke blown out against his clothed jaw. Black tourmaline eyes went to Soap's mouth as his tongue darted out to lick chapped lips. In those eyes, Soap saw himself — round-eyed, cornered. Soap shifted, fingers twitching as he let out a strangled breath, blood thundering in his ears. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe properly. The man’s presence was all-consuming, all-encompassing. Suffocating him. Overwhelming his senses. The Scotsman was struggling to keep it together with him so close. He could feel the heat coming from the man’s body. Could hear his respires.

Those same eyes that pinned him in place, narrowed as they darted away from his face, moving back and forth. As if thinking to himself, processing it all. Weighing out his options. The man was quick to step back, moving away. And without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away. Down the tenfoot and disappeared into the night. Soap finally breathed and slumped against the wall, not trusting his legs. Hands shaky, mouth dry as he gasped for air. His clouded mind was unable to grasp what just happened and what led up to it. He rubbed a hand down his face and sighed, exhaustion and confusion settling in. Soap didn’t know how long he stayed there in the tenfoot by himself, staring up at the moonless night.

The exit door opened with a grinding squeak and he turned to see Gaz squinting at him from the doorway, ballcap in hand.

“Soap? That you mate?”

“Yeah.” Soap pushed himself off of the wall. Dropping the cigarette bud on the floor and crushed it with his heel even though the ember had long since died out. 

“You alright?” Gaz’s eyes looked over his face in concern as he stood in front of him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Soap could only stare at him wordlessly. 

“Come on. Let’s get a hackney home.” Gaz went to the door, rubbing the side of his neck. “It’s already way past our bedtime.” 

Soap nodded, his usual snark gone. He walked forward to follow but his foot stepped on something on the ground. He stopped and reached down, picking up something cool to the touch. A metallic zippo. The same one that belonged to the man in the skull mask. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket. He clutched it in his palm, skin warming the metal casing, and peered behind him to where the man had disappeared to. Soap licked his dry lips, the taste of smoke fading on his tongue.

Then with a deep sigh he went through the exit door and followed after Gaz.

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[downwiththeficness]

The Usurper-Chapter Thirty Two

Summary: Lilah McNamara stole things for a living. It was tedious work and often dangerous, which made it just exciting enough to keep her interested. After botching a routine job, Lilah finds herself standing amid monsters. Wholly unprepared for the horror of living under Amaru’s reign, Lilah decides to use her well honed skills to thwart the queen’s plans and prevent the end of the world.

Word Count: ~4,700

Disclaimer: I do not consent to this work being copied or posted to other sites of blogs.

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The heat in the room kept rising while the pool came to a roiling boil. Lilah froze in her position, kneeling close to the rim. Her hands came up in front of her body, a motion borne solely out of the instinct to defend herself against attack. Pools of blood didn’t just boil all by themselves.

Suddenly, the blood lurched to one side. It rushed in the opposition direction from where Lilah was kneeling in one massive, rolling bulb of crimson. The liquid mass condensed near the stairs, overflowing the rim, before sloshing in back towards her. Not wanting to get covered in it, Lilah fell back onto her ass. She got her hands and feet beneath her and crab-walked as fast as she could until she hit the wall behind her. Even with the extra space, the blood caught up, spilling over her toes and the soles of her feet. It hurt. Because of the boiling. It was also really, really gross.

The word ‘ew’ left her mouth in one long, disgusted syllable. She shifted her balance left and right, flicking her feet to clean them. The skin was inflamed, but not blistered, as she thought they might be. Lilah stared at them, watching in real time as the swelling went down, returning her feet to their normal shape. The pain of the burn faded in tandem with the swelling.

“That is...weird,” she drawled with a frown.

The pool lurched again. Harder, this time. Lilah walked her hands up the wall and stood, but still ended up with blood up to her calves. She hissed with fresh pain that faded just as fast as it came. Her toes wiggled in the messy aftermath. She had just enough brain power that wasn’t being used to scream ‘run’ at her to be annoyed. This was her only set of clothes and now they were all sticky.

When Lilah was young, her father hit a dog while taking her to school one morning. She remembered hearing him curse for the very first time and how quickly he stopped the car so that he could get out to see what they hit. Even as a child, Lilah was not a very patient person. She waited all of a minute or two before unbuckling her seat belt and joining her father on the side of the road. He was crouched near the animal and she could hear it whimpering in pain. As she approached, her father held up his hand to stop her. He told her that an injured animal is a dangerous animal and that the dog might bite her, even if she was trying to help.

It would take a significant amount of force to move that amount of blood so violently. Lilah didn’t know what, exactly, he was doing under there, but she definitely knew the extent of his injuries and it looked like he was coming up swinging. She didn’t want to end out as collateral damage for an enraged preternatural being.

While Lilah cringed, the pool began to settle. The forward and back undulation softened to nothing but a slow ripple, then to the stillness that bad been there before. Lilah watched for further movement before daring to step closer. One sticky foot in front of the other, she neared the rim and called out, “Brasa?”

Lilah received no answer. She tried again and got more of the same. Lilah moved even closer and said his name a third time, raising her voice so that it echoed off the far wall. She got an answer this time. Large air bubbles rose to the surface, each one moving just a little bit closer than the last. It was Brasa, it had to be. Lila dropped to her knees and leaned forward onto her hands so that she could peer into the opaque depths. The bubbles stopped about an arm’s length from her. She focused on the spot, waiting for something—anything—to to happen.

The pool was still again for long enough that Lilah’s hope for Brasa to emerge began to dwindle. She let out the breath she’d been holding, disappointed and faintly demoralized. Her shoulders dropped and she passed a hand over her face, as if the motion could wipe away the stress and the worry.

“Get it together, Lilah.”

The temperature was still high. Stifling. Lilah could feel sweat pooling at the back of her neck and under her arms. The blood on her feet and calves was drying into a fine, flaky crust. She rubbed at her them, eyeing the shower across the room. The thought of cool water clearing away all the sweat and blood had Lilah moving to stand. Even if she didn’t have a change of clothes, Lilah could at least get clean. Clearly, Brasa wasn’t going anywhere. As she pushed her hands into the floor, another bubble burst to the surface. It was the largest bubble by far, sending ripples outwards in quick succession. She bit her lip, squinting while her heart kicked up in her chest.

Blood swirled around the space where the bubble floated up. It formed a small funnel the reached slowly downward to towards the bottom. After a moment, it dissipated with a wet, sucking sound. Blood splashed in a wide spray, peppering the surface with droplets. Lilah leaned away, despite the fact that she was already half covered. She kept looking, kept waiting. Hope burned in her chest. The feeling wasn’t soft or sweet. It wasn’t that kind of hope. Lilah’s hope was a sharp, jagged thing. An instrument meant to carve, as opposed to nurture.

Jagged hope in hand, Lilah grit her teeth and kept watching. It started as a shadow. A darkness that moved slowly to the rim. As it moved, it grew in size. Vague and amorphous, it rested just below the surface, teasing Lilah with the possibility that Brasa might be alive enough to come out of the pool. Injured and healing, but alive. Pissed the fuck off, but alive.

He broke the surface slowly. Head and shoulders obscured momentarily by the oozing flow of blood running off his body. Lilah recognized the sharp slant of his eyebrows and the way his chin lifted proudly. He was still wearing the clothes she found him in when he lay nearly dead on the altar. The bloodstained shirt was hanging open to reveal equally bloodstained the bandages Javier wrapped tightly around his torso. She couldn’t tell if the wound was still open, but he was upright and that was a step in the right direction.

Eyes closed, Brasa took an audible breath. She could hear a slight rattle in his lungs as he did. Had he inhaled some of the blood while he was healing? Did he actually need to breathe? She couldn’t remember ever hearing him say anything about it. Lilah shook her head and focused on him.His chest rose with the inhale. Lilah watched the movement closely, noting that it looked relatively normal. Then, he opened his eyes and there was nothing normal about them.

Lilah made a soft, surprised sound that she cut off by snapping her mouth shut. She held his stare while her muscles bunched in preparation to flee. Brasa’s eyes—eyes that she knew could oscillate between a warm brown and fierce, deep, dark black—were a bright, burning gold. She might even go so far as to describe them as molten. Those molten eyes were looking at her in confusion, as if he were looking at her for the first time.

Her lungs burned, forcing her to draw a quick, gasping breath. Brasa’s uncanny eyes caught on to it and his gaze narrowed a fraction. He walked forward, wading through the blood easily, until he stood directly in front of her. For once, Lilah had the advantage of height. She looked down at him, caught up in the swirling glint of his golden eyes. Even covered in gore, even with his strange golden eyes, he was still handsome. Lilah had to hip-check the urge to lean down and press her lips to his. An injured animal is a dangerous animal.

Brasa’s hand lifted and he started to reach for her cheek. His arm stalled in mid air, drops of dark red plopping loudly in the silence. For the first time, he broke eye contact with her to look at his own hand. The fingers curled in on themselves, squeezing more blood out of his palm. Brasa’s lip curled and he took a deliberate step back. Lilah watched him turn and walk across the pool to the stairs. He climbed them slowly, moving without his usual grace and efficiency. Then, he headed for the shower.

Lilah frowned at his back, feeling oddly rejected. His expression had been inscrutable and he certainly wasn’t explaining what he was thinking. Determined that she wouldn’t be brushed aside so easily, she stood and circled the pool while Brasa shrugged out of his shirt. The ruined material felt to the floor, forgotten, while he began to unwind the bandage around his chest. By the time Lilah got to the edge of the green tile, the long length of bloodstained gauze had joined his shirt and he was pushing the waist of his pants down over his legs.

She hesitated, eyes following him as he walked to the tap and spun the knob. Water burst from the shower head, catching on his skin and forming pink rivers that flowed in winding downward paths. With his back turned to her, Lilah couldn’t see the full extent of his injuries. She couldn’t see if there was still a hole in his chest. Couldn’t see if he still needed help. What she could see was the smooth, unblemished skin of his back. Lilah could see the hills and valleys of muscle that her hands had mapped over and over. She could see how his hips dipped in ever so slightly above the curve of his ass. She could see how his thighs flexed as he shifted his weight. She could see his arms lifting so that he could scrub the blood from his face and hair. All of this, Lilah could see. And, it made her want to touch. To press her palms to his shoulders, to turn him so that she could look into his weird new eyes and rejoice that he was alive.

Lilah must have made a sound. A sigh, or a groan, or an eager exhalation of breath. Brasa swiped a hand over his face and turned to look back at her with eyes so golden that they nearly glowed. Lilah almost couldn’t look at them. Her attention quickly shifted down to his chest. The hole where Amaru dug out his heart was closed, although there was a raised and ragged scar. Her relief was so intense that tears sprang to her eyes, falling over her cheeks unchecked. Lilah’s lips parted to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. She just kept standing there like an idiot, looking at him with her mouth hanging open.

For several impossibly long seconds, there was no sound except for the water hitting the floor and a low, gentle sizzle. Steam wafted gently through the shower area. It was unnaturally thick, blurring all the edges until the whole room felt soft and dreamlike. Lilah was so focused on Brasa’s face that it took her a little while to see how the water was no longer hitting his body. The sizzle she’d been hearing was the sound of droplets bursting into steam just short of Brasa’s skin.

She said his name. The sound of it was a question, but Lilah had no idea what she was asking him to tell her. Brasa blinked slowly and pivoted to face her directly. He walked over to Lilah, placing one foot deliberately in front of the other. She recognized that approach from their early days, knew that he was choosing to go slowly so he wouldn’t frighten her.

Was she frightened? Lilah took a quick scan of her body and discovered, to her chagrin, that she was frightened. All the fear about losing him to Amaru’s machinations, and then to the depths of the pool, had shifted around to a fear that he was changed in way that was deeper than the color of his eyes. Had he survived only to be so changed that they no longer recognized one another?

Brasa’s fingers brushed her cheek and Lilah hissed. His touch scalded her, as if every finger was red hot. She pulled back and cupped her cheek, blinking at him in confusion. Brasa’s hand stilled and she could see her confusion reflected back to her in the crease between his brows. Brasa frowned and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were the same brown eyes Lilah knew so well.

“Lilah,” he murmured. “its okay. I’m okay.”

Blinking through the tears, Lilah inhaled a horribly loud, agonizing breath. Any control she had over her emotions and her body dissolved at the sound of his voice. She reached for him, stopping short when she remembered the searing heat. Brasa’s mouth tipped up in a small smile and he very, very slowly took her hand. He was warm, but didn’t burn this time—and that made her cry harder.

Hushing her softly, Brasa gathered Lilah in his arms and held her while she cried. She let out all the emotions, old and new, that had been building for months. What made it worse was her inability to say anything. Lilah couldn’t form the words to tell him how scared she had been, how it felt to see him torn open on the altar, or what it was like to sit in vigil by the pool with no guarantee that he would ever come back to the surface. The great exhalation of feeling left her sagging against Brasa’s chest. He rocked her gently, one hand rubbing up and down her back until she calmed.

“I’m here,” he assured her.

Even with Brasa real and solid in her arms, Lilah could hardly believe it. She tilted her chin up to look at him. Her eyes roved over his familiar features, memorizing what she already knew by heart. Brasa indulged her for a time, until she let out a long, exhausted breath. He smiled and Lilah couldn’t resist touching the dimples on either side with her thumbs. It was nothing to meet him halfway when he leaned down to kiss her. The shape of his mouth was the same, as was the warm greeting of his tongue. Once she started kissing him, Lilah couldn’t seem to stop because kissing him meant that everything was put to right again, that all the chaos was, for the moment, gone.

Brasa took her kisses and gave them back to her with a passion that was sweeter than anything she’d ever experienced. He held her close while he sidled back into the shower. His steps were slow. One at a time. Lilah went with him, uncaring that her clothes were soaked through. She wasn’t going to be wearing them much longer, anyways, not if she had anything to do with it. Lilah kept kissing him while water dripped from her shirt and jeans.

There was the squeak of a turning knob and the shower turned off. His arms pulled her closer, squeezing her tight to his naked body. Lilah sighed happily into his mouth and pushed into him so that they were pressed together from chest to knee. She felt more than heard his slight gasp and the way his back bowed to put space between them. With a mental curse, Lilah remembered that he had been mortally wounded not a few days before and that he might still be hurting. She cringed and tried to put more space between them, “Sorry, sorry.”

Brasa was already shaking his head, “No. I’m alright. Just...sore.”

He had to be a lot more than sore. He’d had a whole fucking organ removed. Sore probably didn’t even begin to cover it. Lilah felt a wave of guilt come over her, followed by faint embarrassment. He’d been awake for less than ten minutes and she’d thrown herself at him without thinking.

She assessed him anew, seeing for the first time how tired he looked. “You should,” Lilah cleared her throat, “maybe lay down for a bit.”

Brasa’s brow lifted with wry humor, “You think so?”

Warmth crept up her neck. Lilah resisted the urge to swat at him, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

He hummed, ignoring her. His fingers caught the hem of her shirt and pushed beneath it to splay over her belly. Lilah made a half-hearted sound of censure that Brasa also ignored while his other hand joined the first. He kneaded her skin with a clear, focused intent before he tugged her shirt up and over her head.

“Brasa,” she said breathlessly, “you are hurt.”

Again he ignored her. He brushed the backs of his fingers over the cup of her bra, following the line of the band to the back so that he could unfasten it. He threw her shirt and bra to the side and ducked down to lay his head in the curve of her shoulder. The unexpected move caught Lilah off guard so much that it took her a second or two to return the embrace. She hugged him tight, mindful of the scar she could feel against her chest. A single hard line scoring him in half.

Brasa held her like that as the room cooled. Then, he ran both hands down her sides to slip his fingers into the waist of her jeans. Lilah knew what he was doing and she couldn’t let him keep going. As much as she wanted to be closer to him, he had just woken up from near death and he needed rest. Her needs would have to wait until he was fully recovered.

“C’mon,” she ordered quietly.

He grumbled as she pulled away from him, but let her take his hand and lead him out of the shower area and around the side of the pool to the door. It was here that he stalled, tugging her to him a step or two so that her back molded to his chest. Brasa folded both arms around her and buried his face into her hair. Here, he took a long, deep breath. Then, she felt his mouth trace down her neck to her shoulder where he let his teeth rest against her skin. He didn’t bite down, but the threat of it sent a shiver all over.

Brasa’s hand skimmed over her belly and down to the button of her jeans. He flicked it open and pushed his fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear down, down, down, until he met the hot, wet, core of her. Lilah whimpered as he rubbed firmly in large circles. All the reasons why she shouldn’t let him keep touching her were suddenly very far away. If he felt well enough to initiate intimacy, then he couldn’t really feel that bad.

Lilah bit down on her better judgment and widened her stance to give him more room. He hummed happily, rewarding her with more focused circles over her clit. The surge of pleasure it sent through her body nearly buckled her knees. Brasa’s arms tightened, bringing her closer. The subtle shift in their bodies highlighted the irregular pattern of the scar, reminding Lilah once again that taking what he was offering her would be selfish.

“Wait,” she croaked. “Wait.”

Brasa’s fingers stopped and he arched his neck over her shoulder to get a look at her face, “What is it?”

Lilah turned to face him, “This is...really nice, but you need rest.”

He rolled his eyes, “I’m fine, really.”

“You died.” Her voice was an accusation. “That takes a lot out of you.”

“You’re forgetting what I am,” he replied. Slowly, as if talking to a child.

Irritated by the condescension, Lilah made herself take a moment to say, “I don’t care what you are. You died. That’s a lot for even a god. So, bed.”

Brasa rolled his eyes again, but followed her to the bedroom and let her guide him to sit on the mattress. The sun was up, filling the skylight with beams that angled towards the East. Lilah estimated that is was early afternoon. In an hour or so, the room would dim some and that might make it easier for him to sleep.

Instead of scooting back to get under the covers, he grasped her hips and pulled her to stand between his knees. Lilah’s hands went naturally to his shoulders. Again, she was struck by how real he was. She knew she was awake and she knew she wasn’t hallucinating. Brasa was actually sitting in front of her, looking at her as he always did—with eyes that told her everything he was feeling.

She pushed his damp hair back from his face. It was drying in curls that he would brush away in the morning. But, for now, she could wind them around her fingers all she wanted. He leaned forward and let his forehead rest against the valley between her breasts. Lilah cradled his head and ran her hand up and down his back. The motion was as soothing to her as it was for him.

Brasa’s head turned and he pressed his lips to the soft mound of her breast, His hands tightened very slightly on her waist, as if he expected her to pull away. She didn’t. Lilah stood where she was and let him place little kisses over and between her breasts, gasping quietly when his mouth closed over a nipple. She knew she should stop him. That she should order him into the bed to sleep and recover. And, she would. In a minute or two.

It wasn’t until he started pulling down her jeans and underwear that her conscience caught up with her. Lilah steeled her resolve and pushed his hands away, “Alright, alright. Its bed time for you.”

Brasa whined, “I’m not tired.”

“Don’t you lie to me just because you want to get laid.” Lilah tried to sound serious, but she was smiling the whole time. “Now, up.”

She was able to get him into the center of the bed and under the covers, but when she went to pull away, he caught her hand. Wide brown eyes looked up at her with such innocence that it stopped her from censuring him, “Lay with me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

A slight tug on her hand, “Please?”

The single word was a question and it rang with uncertainty. Lilah felt all the steel inside her melt away. She put a knee on the mattress before realizing that her jeans were covered in blood that was drying for a second time. Not wanting to destroy the sheets and mattress, she shucked them and her underwear to the floor and crawled naked under the covers.

“We’re resting,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “Resting.”

He nodded in a way that told her he was barely listening. She let him gather her up into his chest so that they lay on their sides facing one another. For a little while, there was nothing but soft touches and the gentle rhythm of their breathing. Lilah watched Brasa’s eyes grow more tired, more glassy as time went on. She would wait until he fell asleep, then go out and find her phone to tell Javier the good news.

“I dreamed of you,” Brasa murmured quietly.

Lilah made a sound a sound of question.

“I dreamed of you,” he repeated. “While I was under, I dreamed of you. The pain was...painful, but I could stand it when I dreamed of you.”

Her heart felt like it was breaking all over again. Lilah had hoped that he was unconscious throughout, that all he experienced was nothingness. To hear that he felt every bit of his body knitting back together made her both sad and angry. It made her want to walk into that cell Richie built and put a bullet in Amaru’s head—didn’t matter that it was also Kate’s head. Lilah wanted justice. She wanted vengeance. But, now wasn’t the time for either. Now, Lilah simply nodded and stroked a path down his side to where his skin met the blanket.

“I was afraid of what she would do to you—of what she had done to you. I remember when she was cutting me open that I hoped you ran away, that you would never find us.”

Lilah swallowed down her anger and replied, “I wouldn’t do that. I wasn’t going to leave you to be killed by her.”

He nodded, as if he expected her to say that all along, “I know. When I regained consciousness, I was afraid to reach for you. I was afraid that our bond wouldn’t be there anymore and that I would walk the world alone. That thought hurt more than having my chest ripped open. So, I lay there and let myself dream of you. I told myself it would just be for a little while, until I was ready…”

Lilah waited for him to continue. Brasa looked for half a second like he would, but the words didn’t come. He simply pulled her closer and kissed the crown of her head. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears. Lilah wanted to be strong for him, for them both. When she thought she could speak without crying, she said, “I’m here. You’re here. We’re here.”

Brasa’s reply was a soft, sleepy hum. Slowly, by degrees, his body relaxed into the mattress and his breaths became even. Lilah kept laying there for a while, listening to the thump-thump of his heart. It was strong and steady, keeping her love alive with every beat. Her gratitude to the fist sized clump of muscle would last forever.

When she was sure that Brasa wouldn’t wake, Lilah slipped from the bed and hustled to the living area where her cell phone was still charging. She quickly dialed Javier and, before he could finish saying ‘hello’, began giving him the rundown of everything that had happened.

“This is wonderful news,” he said. Lilah could hear movement on the other side of the line, “I’ll bring a cooler to you. He will be starved, I’m sure.”

He went on for a minute or two, verbally working through what needed to be done. Javier would bring them clothes and she would need an extra meal or two. If Brasa was up to it, Javier would take them back to the caves where he was still working to clean up Amaru’s mess. The shipments were on time, so he shouldn’t worry about feeding the culebras who were still loyal. All of this and more came rolling out of Javier’s mouth in a stream of consciousness that was, frankly, overwhelming. Lilah couldn’t have anticipated or coordinated half as much as he had in three times the amount of time. She was so, so grateful to him for picking up the pieces.

“Thank you, Javier.”

There must have been something in her tone that cued him to how close she was to having a breakdown because Javier paused, “Of course.”

A few minutes of logistics later, Lilah ended the phone call and padded back to the bedroom where Brasa was still sleeping. He’d rolled to his back with one arm over his head and the other stretched out beside him, as if he were reaching for her even in sleep. She put the phone under her pillow and crawled in next to him, barely resisting the urge to cuddle as close as possible. He needed sleep and she was afraid to wake him with any touching.

She watched him sleep in between short bouts of dozing, until the sun moved across the skylight and down towards the horizon. The room dropped into a hazy orange that deepened into purple, then darkness. Lilah kept watching Brasa until she couldn’t even see the proud slope of his profile in the dark. She drifted into a true sleep listening to the sound of his breaths.

[sopheronipepperoni]

Chalant As Hell

[Summary: Davrin and Rook take the measure of each other during their first meeting in the Anderfels.

Assan's not the only one with ruffled feathers, here.]

Davrin’s blood is singing through his veins, his hunter’s focus locked into place.  There’s a certain trick to keeping far enough away from bands of darkspawn to train Assan on their scent, without risking battle and injury every time.  They’ve tracked this particular group over the better part of the day, winding farther up into the high canyons.  The band has kept well enough away from the trainers’ camp for the most part, but Davin’s started seeing more signs of darkspawn closer to where they started this morning.  One hand is close to the hilt of his sword as he scans the scene again, nostrils flaring as he inhales more of the metallic and sour scent of the taint.  Assan shuffles close to him, a soft curious sound in his throat as he looks around, too. Davrin absently places his hand on Assan’s downy head, gauntleted fingers lightly scratching through the griffon’s feathers.

Davrin kneels to study a print in the dirt, mind divided between tracking and trying to gauge how best to hone Assan’s instincts, when he hears footsteps and a scattering of stone chips sound along the small canyon that leads back to their camp.  Assan’s head shoots up, ears twitching and alert, and a small spear of pride shoots through Davrin even as he jumps to his feet, muscles tensed.  The constant hum of the Blight in his veins is too distant to be darkspawn, but he doesn’t recognize the two sets of treads coming closer.  Whoever they are, they aren’t Lancit and Remi.  Assan leaps to a rocky outcrop and begins prowling in the direction of the noise, a low sound in his throat.  With a curse, Davrin hurries to keep up with his charge, losing sight of Assan within a few moments thanks to the fact that Assan can fly, and Davrin has a distinct lack of wings. 

“Assan!”

He hears Assan let out his hunting shriek, and Davrin lopes up the last steep rise before laying eyes on the scene before him.

Assan’s crouched before a lithe elven woman, his head lowered and wings flared as he squawks again.  A small dwarven woman stands by the still-burning campfire. Neither stranger has weapons drawn; the elven woman’s hands are held placatingly in front of her.  He takes a few heartbeats to assess the situation, his keen hunter’s instincts buzzing. 

He certainly didn’t expect to return to a wrecked campsite after a morning of training with Assan.  There aren’t any signs of Lancit and Remi, best as he can tell, not even a blood splash.  It’s small comfort to Davrin, even as he smells the stench of the Blight.  Wherever his fellow Wardens and their charges are, it isn’t here.  He beckons Assan to his side with a murmured, “Easy, boy,” still ready for a fight if it comes to that.  His hard gaze falls on the elven woman in front of him. 

Davrin’s almost embarrassed at how seeing her nearly drowns out the Blight and worry running through him and instead sets another song singing in his blood.  For a second he feels as an untried young man again as he takes in the riotous mass of copper curls spilling across her shoulders, her valleslin and angular face, her tan and freckled skin—entirely too much of it, especially this close to darkspawn.  Her golden armor appears too ornamental to be practical, from the small golden breastplate fastened over bright blue cloth that drips nearly to the ground, to the golden armbands circling up to her biceps, to the woven leather sandals adorning her calves and feet.  However, a mage staff peeks over her shoulder, and a wicked-looking coral knife is buckled at her hip.  Ah. Teeth to her bright plumage.

He hasn’t had much opportunity to cross paths with a Lord of Fortune, but he’s heard tales of their deeds and rumored preening ostentatiousness.  What is one doing here, practically in the ass-end of the Anderfels? 

Where the elf shines like a fire in the afternoon light, the dwarf behind her paints a more tempered picture.  She is much more practically outfitted with what appears to be a serviceable scouting kit, not an ounce of skin exposed to potential threats.  A potions belt is slung across her hips, a bandolier securing a bow and quiver latched across her torso.  The dwarven woman’s auburn hair and bow are lined in gold from the dying sun. 

A wonder-filled smile breaks across the elven woman’s face.  “I’ll be damned…a griffon!”  Her voice is husky enough to weasel past Davrin’s defenses, and he scowls. Assan squawks at her, his wings flared and feathers ruffled. 

“Trouble is, he’s not sure what you are. Neither am I.”  His voice is hard, but the woman doesn’t seem phased. 

“Rook.  This is Harding.  Evka and Antoine sent us.  We’re looking for Davrin.” S he cocks an eyebrow at him, an openness to her face.  He knows what she’s doing, trying to defuse the tension radiating from him and Assan.  Put him at ease.  Mentioning his fellow trusted Wardens helps to quell his misgivings at them finding their hidden camp some, but not completely.

“You found him."  His reply is curt.  "Mind telling me why you smell like darkspawn? Griffons hunt darkspawn.”

There’s a wry tilt to Rook’s lips, and she jerks a thumb towards the tent erected against the cliff.  “We don’t smell that bad.  It’s the tent.  You’ve had company.”

Davrin scowls and inhales, holding out his arms.  “Blight?  Where are Lancit and Remi?”

“The camp was empty when we got here.”  Her voice is pitched to be calming, and Davrin takes a moment to admit to himself that he expected more brashness and arrogance from a Lord of Fortune.  Makes sense some of them would know how to speak honeyed words as well.  As far as he’s heard, anyone with a thirst for "gold and glory"—be it privateer, treasure hunter, explorer, the occasional scholar—is welcome in their ranks.  He’s not sure which category this Rook falls into, and decides then and there to keep his guard up with her until he does.

A sudden scream rips through the air, the cry of darkspawn grating on his nerves and setting a steady aching pulse behind his eyes.  He turns to Assan, signaling with his hand.  “Assan—to the trees!”

Rook is gazing at him, and he knows she’s taking his measure, too.  “We can help.”

He fights to keep down a scoff, even as he’s intrigued to see what Rook and Harding are capable of.  Besides, facing darkspawn alone has never been his favorite pastime, even without the threat of his fellow Wardens being in danger.  Still scowling, Davrin tilts up his chin in challenge, hands on his hips.  “Try to keep up.”

A sharp smile slashes across Rook’s face, and she gestures for him to lead the way.

Davrin is quickly forced to amend his very early—and very biased— first impressions of Rook after they encounter the first band of darkspawn.  She moves like a dervish across the battlefield, mage knife flashing out to rip through sinew and bone alike, lightning crackling around them in a protective field as more darkspawn leap down from the canyon walls, keeping them from getting overwhelmed. In the next heartbeat Rook slams her staff down and out, fire erupting in a wave before her.  Davrin slides his blade between the ribs of a darkspawn, before leaping to knock another aside with his shield, putting more distance between it and her.  He wants to say she’s reckless, the way she fights both at range and up close, what with her lack of protection.  But at the same time he is begrudgingly impressed. 

He pulls his blade from the last darkspawn, noting the proportion of scorched bodies around them compared to those with sword marks and protruding arrows.  He amends his thoughts further.  “Not bad, Rook…for a Lord of Fortune.”

There’s that look again, that almost smug tilt to her lips and eyes, that tells Davrin he’s not fooling anyone.  The word gorgeous flits through his mind, closely followed by dangerous.  He files them away for later, and brings more of his fierce Warden resolve to bear.  He can’t afford to get distracted now.  Not until he finds Remi and Lancit, and knows the other griffons are safe.

—Even if Rook appears to have stepped right out of his dreams, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s never seen anything quite like her.

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

“All right.  Come on, Assan.  Let’s get to know our new friends.” 

Davrin’s rich voice twists through her thoughts even after she’s helped Lucanis clean up after their evening meal.  Davrin and Assan had joined them briefly, long enough for Assan to receive many head scratches from Bellara and Harding, much to Davrin’s chagrin.  She could see that the Warden was still not quite sure what to make of their rag-tag bunch.  He had been friendly throughout dinner, going so far as to swap some quick hunting stories with Taash, but Rook read underlying tension in the way he held himself, an aloofness that she herself had tried to maintain at the start of this job.  Her heart gave a small twinge on his behalf when he excused himself and beckoned to Assan, saying he wanted to settle in to their assumed quarters more.  How hard it must be for him, losing two friends and comrades-in-arms, as well as the last bevy of living griffons in the whole of Thedas—all in one day.

She’s had jobs like that, she muses to herself now, as she paces through her room.  That sense of the ground dropping out from under her, that listless pit in her stomach; that’s how it had felt after her last Rivaini job went sideways and she had needed to go to ground for her own safety and keep her distance from the other Lords.  That’s how it felt when she and the others disrupted Solas’s ritual, and got them all in this crazy mess.  Life altered in an instant.  She’ll check in on Davrin tomorrow, but for tonight she’ll let him be.

That won’t stop her from replaying their first meeting in her head, though.  She brings her small strung elven bass to the plush chaise in her room, fingers running absently over the strings.  In her line of work, she’d had to learn how to hold a poker face when meeting new clients or prospective business partners.  Rook thought herself a fairly composed woman who was able to keep her expressions—not to mention hormones—in check.  Davrin had certainly given her a run for her money.

Isabela and her penchant for tall, dark, and handsome had nothing on the monster hunter.  Meeting his dark gaze as he stood on the rise above her, fading sunlight shining around him like he was some sort of avenging spirit, had nearly stolen her breath. His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw, full lips and toned chest and deep voice— he’s utterly bewitching.  Rook feels her cheeks heat even now, like she’s a blushing maiden again.  She plucks out a simple melody by heart, turning over her other impressions like river stones. The way he fought, fierce and determined, cutting a swath through the darkspawn.  And protective—she hadn’t missed the way he had angled himself towards the worst attacks and drew attention away from her and Harding, all on top of keeping an eye out for Assan. 


Rook knows she is competent at ferreting out artifacts and traversing ruins.  She is comfortable in her considerable strength as a mage. And still her heart thrills to think of the heroic knights protecting others, like she reads in the romance serials she secretly loves.  She is no damsel, but can’t help but swoon at Davrin’s actions all the same.  Rook herself is also no maiden; she’s flirted and bedded her way through enough people in her time as a Lord to know what she likes in a lover, and how to be a good lay in turn.  But something about Davrin makes her breath catch, her blood sing in her veins like lyrium.

She bets he’s considerate and chivalrous in bed as well as battle, fierce and confident.  The thought comes to her unbidden, and she nearly slaps herself.  You have just met him.  Have you no shame, Veryl Laidir?  Her fingers still on the strings of the bass.  Having these thoughts as the boss of this expedition won’t do her any good, not with what’s at stake.  But it also wouldn’t be the first time she’s mixed business with pleasure… 

Hmm.

She sets the instrument down across her lap, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.  Maybe she will ask Varric if he’s ever experienced anything like this raw attraction on any of his previous jobs—she certainly hasn’t, at least not at this magnitude.  Then again, she would sooner burst into flame than discuss crushes with her assumed mentor.  And she’s only just met Davrin.  This doesn’t bode well for her.  At all.  Having a cute and equally fierce companion like Assan certainly doesn’t hurt his odds in her eyes, either.

Rook just hopes her facade of warm nonchalance won’t fail her now.  There’s a lot riding on her as leader of this growing outfit; she can’t afford to be distracted. Somehow, though, Rook hopes she won’t be able to help herself. 

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

[Notes:

I just actually can't with Davrin right now. I say I like him a Normal Amount (TM) and then go and churn this out. Is it just me or is he one of the best-looking companions in any of Bioware's games???

Also shout out to my friend's shirt that says "I'm chalant as hell: I care." This one's for you, sweaty.]

[aheckinmess]

Movie Magic [Aizawa] (Fluff)

(One-Shot 8/? in a collection of My Hero Academia one-shots posted regularly on Saturdays and sometimes Sundays.)

Read on AO3.

Tags: Aizawa x OC, Pro Hero Eraserhead x OC, Shouta Aizawa, Original Female Character, Ichijiku Aoki, Aizawa Fluff, Protective Shouta Aizawa, Tired Shouta Aizawa, Aizawa is Good at Feelings, Aizawa is a Good Significant Other, Movie Nights are the Best Nights, OC is an Empath, Aizawa is a Logic Boy, Let's See What Happens

Word Count: 1,052 words

Summary: Ichijiku has a domestic night in with Shouta watching a movie. It results in tears and comfort, as well as a few surprises.

Ichijiku (Tigress)

Soft, serious music echoes through the house as Shouta and I curl up on the couch. I absently throw a handful of popcorn in my mouth every few minutes, invested in the fate of my fictional friends. I don’t even realize I’ve involuntarily tucked my cold feet between Shouta’s bare calves.

“Gah! What are you doing?”

“...my feet are cold.”

“Those are your feet?” He chuckles and lifts the covers, tossing some more over us to make sure I’m thoroughly covered. “I thought those were ice cubes. Why didn’t you say something? I can turn the heat up.”

“No! I want you to stay here.” I pout, before giggling when he snuggles closer. “Thank you, love.”

He swipes a piece of popcorn from my bowl and I stick out my tongue at him, before tilting it back to him.

“You want some more?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I just took a piece as payment for my service acting as a space heater.” He teases, kissing my cheek and rubbing his thumb over my side.

We’re both distracted as the music on screen turns intense and dramatic. My chewing stops as I hone in on the dramatic fight between my favorite character and the antagonist. I exhale deeply when the worst seems over and my character makes it out mostly unscathed.

I set my popcorn bowl aside when another wave of fighting ensues, and I grip Shouta’s hand, my heart thumping fearfully in my chest as I fear for the worst. The movie’s almost over. No. It’s closing in on the end and he’s outnumbered. He can’t die!

When I see his best friend pop up on the screen I know it’s over. My tears start their descent. No, he’s going to sacrifice himself! Stop! He shoves his sword into the spaceship to send him and the remaining aliens up into the atmosphere, leaving his friend safe and unmarred.

His eyes close and the camera pans out in slow motion as bright light turns the screen white. When it fades to black, the next scene shows us a group in black gathered around a grave.

“NO!” I cry. “That’s not fair!”

Shouta pulls me close to him while I watch the funeral through blurry tears. I hug his side tightly and I whimper softly until the credits roll. Only then do I tuck my face in his chest and wail out my sorrow. Shouta’s chest shudders through his own emotions, but even when it eventually ceases I’m still crying.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay, Kitten.” He coos, coaxing my head up to run his fingers through the sides of my hair.

I sniffle through my clogged nose and try to get quieter. It results in a trembling of my chest.

“I’m sorry…” I cough. “I’m sorry for being too emotional.”

“That’s not anything to be sorry for. You impress and inspire me every day with just how compassionate your heart is.” He caresses my cheek, his brown eyes rimmed red. “He was your comfort character. I’m not surprised his death hit so hard.”

“I was hoping that of all the characters he would be the one to survive!” I whine. “There were thirty other main characters to choose from!”

“I know, Kitten.” He frowns. “I understand more than you know.”

“I know, Shouta-kun.” I kiss his cheek, knowing exactly who he’s referring to. “Will you hold me for a bit?”

“I’ve been holding you,” He jokes to lighten the mood. It sounds more amusing because of his dry tone.

After a cool down and some much needed cuddles, I sigh into his neck and start moving off of him. I grab my popcorn bowl to take to the kitchen and tug Shouta’s hand to signal him to follow.

“Do you want me to make some kake udon for dinner?” I call, dumping the popcorn kernels and setting the bowl in the sink.

“You don’t have to. We had popcorn and snacks for the movie. I know making the dashi takes a bit.” He hugs me from behind and kisses my cheek. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”

“I’ll make some. I’m feeling a bit peckish and it’ll mean you have something for lunch tomorrow.” I decide, warming under his attention. When he heads to the back, I start preparing the dashi.

It’s only been cooking for a few minutes when I hear his footsteps down the hall. I turn to the sink to wash out my bowl while I wait for the kombu to boil. When his footsteps reach me, I turn around.

“Do you want–oh my gosh, what are you doing?” I gasp, taking a step back when I see him on his knee.

The world seems frozen in time as he smiles and pulls out a small box. He pulls open the top to reveal a simple but stunning diamond ring, just my style. I cover my mouth as my eyes widen.

“Ichijiku, you know…I wasn’t planning on asking you, but I’ve come to realize life is short. I wanted to make this moment more surreal to match your ethereal beauty in all ways, but I can’t wait anymore. We’re both heroes, we never know when we’ll breathe our last. So, Ichijiku Aoki…” He takes a deep breath with glistening vulnerable eyes. “Will you marry me?”

I forget to breathe. Carefully, I kneel down and pull him in my arms, squeezing him as tightly as I dare.

“Yes.” I breathe. “Yes, Shouta, of course I’ll marry you.”

His heavy breath rattles through both of us as he sighs in relief, arms tightening around me.

“I’m so glad.”

When we pull back, he slides the ring on my finger and I stare at it in awe. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him. We gaze at each other, smiles painting a glow around us as the world falls away. Shouta and I are all that exists.

At least until a hissing sound reminds me that my kombu is boiling over.

“Ah! The dashi!” I screech, pulling back and heading over to turn down the heat and add katsuobushi.

Shouta laughs and gets back on his feet to return to my side. He rests his head on my shoulder.

“Ichijiku Aizawa has a nice ring to it.” He hums.

“It does.”

Want More Aizawa? Try: Stormy Salsa - The Tiger Tango