#i fight every day with the near irrepressible urge to go off on every one

[void-thegod]

There is enough horrible bullshit to contend with in this Hellscape of a reality without intentionally making it worse. Whether it's because you're lazy, being funny, and/or otherwise traumatized to the point you think it's justified.

I know it's fucking hard to keep being kind. But sometimes, all you have is the choice to be kind over being a dick.

We've all gotten just a bit too comfortable being jerks to strangers on the internet I think

[whosjunglejim4322]

Dom!mark lee w breeding kink for @nakamotocore I am v excited this is nasty aha devil emoji, est. relationship, uhm spitting, hand/finger kink, overindulgence of the word baby, fingering, creampie, bathroom sex, fucking in front of a mirror, mark has a nasty mouth, he's a sweetie who is acc very in love w u, toothrotting fluff at the end

It really wasn't your fault. You are pro comfort above all else, in fact, it's even advised by certified healthcare professionals, to not wear underwear occasionally - who are you to risk not giving yourself the care you need and or deserve?

Sure, maybe you should've worn something a bit less conspicuous than a dress, but it's not like you aren't careful. Of course you are! Especially since you and Mark are visiting Jaehyun and Johnny at their new home payed by Jae's onlyfans money - but silly you, had still accidentally managed to expose yourself - luckily, with only your boyfriend there to see.

You'd been rummaging in J number one and two's fridge, eager to find something behind the rows of beer that stacked the shelves, organized neatly as if they'd actually taken their time on making at least twenty five cans of bud light look presentable.

Mark had followed, having promised to bring a couple of the beverages back to the living room, just as you spotted the non alcoholic juice cocktail nestled all the way in the back of the bottom row - your fingers suddenly prickling with newfound determination.

"You're really.....fuck," Mark groaned from somewhere behind you and all at once the breeze against your bare center had you shivering. You've been caught. "come here."

It was a silent, steady command that rang with regained composure and as you stood up straight, Marks hands gripped your hips with ferocity, spinning you around to face him.

If the flaring of his nostrils and the glossy, lost glare in his doe eyes were anything to go by, you'd ticked something inside of him that began raging like a bull behind his ribcage; dick swelling in his sweats at a rapid rate, while he pulled you closer to his body by the swell of your ass.

Your gasp was a puff against his cheek, pupils blown wide when you felt the warmth of his palm against your sex from behind, the prod of his middle finger. You could still hear Jaehyun and Johnny in the living room just around the corner, furthering the mixture of thrill and embarrassment.

"You did this on purpose, huh?" He growled it against your ear, the vibration trilling down your spine and flooding your pelvis with heat. Within the second you were being tugged along, out of the kitchen and through the hall that led to an intersection of doors; the one straight ahead being the bathroom, the others bedrooms.

You had to grip onto the back of his shirt to keep up with him, despite the fact that your wrist was firmly entrapped by his slim fingers. You entered the middle door and that's what led to your current situation; your ass perched on his friends' bathroom counter with your dress being hiked up around your thighs.

"M-Markie, right now? W-what if they come looking for - ohhhh, for us?" You sputter as the pad of his middle and forefinger rub your clit in circles, his bottom lip caught between his two front teeth. He chuckles darkly, in a way that makes you leak, and suddenly you're far too worked up to think straight anymore.

"Don't Markie me, you really came here in this pretty little dress," he tugs the ensemble up higher, until it's resting around your hips and your naked center is in full view. "with your pussy right underneath, completely bare."

He kisses you sloppily, as if he's as drunk on the adrenaline as you are, but with clear purpose. You grind against his fingers and then he's pulling away, grin lopsided and fever inducing, the way it always is when he's in these moods.

"That's not-" he cuts you off, slowing his circles and your clit throbs in protest.

"What? Not fair?" He scoffs, pulling you closer by the back of your knees, nestling his narrow hips in between your parted thighs while his mouth presses soft kisses to your cheek, down your jaw.

"You know what's really not fair, baby?" Your wetness is loud even as he glides his digits through the silk of your folds, using the lightest of touches to trace the ring of your slit.

"You knew I'd notice, eventually," his tongue flicks across your throat, over to your carotid artery until he's kissing the patch of skin just under your ear. "and you wanted my dick to get hard in front of my friends - fuck - wanted me to have to drag you to the bathroom and rub your little pussy just like this - you were staring at my hands all day, hmm?"

You're already trembling in his hold, and you have to fight back the near irrepressible urge to whimper when he slides those fingers into your sopping heat - your walls sucking him in greedily, contracting around the digits.

"Fuuuck baby, so fucking wet." he groans, curling his fingers when he feels you squeezing around them. You blame it on him- it's hard not to notice the bulge that has formed underneath his shorts, and your neediness grows with each sound that passes his pretty lips.

Of course, this is Mark, though. He feeds off of the fact that you're so fucked out so fast, knows that you'll act completely innocent until he fucks the truth about your mischievous plans out of you - even so, you whine just a bit too loudly when your hole feels sudden emptiness.

"Please, Mark," you're begging already, pouting until he brings the soaked digits to your mouth. Without missing a beat you're parting your lips and suckling your juices off of him, his dick twitching the minute he feels the slick of your tongue.

"Is that what you're gonna call me, while you're trying to get your way?" He cups your cheek, pulling his spit soaked fingers from your mouth before wiping them on the inside of your thigh.

"No, no sir I'm sorry," he smiles proudly, cock leaking and desire saturating his senses as you stare up at him through the thick of your lashes, clinging onto the front of his shirt in an effort to pull him closer than what he already is.

This proves to showcase your real desperation and then he's kissing you again, roughly at first but then he's rhythmic while he takes his time suckling your bottom lip, then your top, and alternating between the two.

You're so distracted by the feel of his tongue against the roof of your mouth, that you don't even realize he's shoved his shorts down, until the bulbous tip of his cock rubs against your swollen clit.

"Fuck me, please Mar-sir? Want you s-so bad." You mewl, gasping when you're suddenly pulled off of the counter by your waist, turned around and met with your disheveled reflection in the bathroom mirror. You bend yourself over with no hesitation, eyes drawn forward and belly tightening with arousal from the sight before you; from the way Mark's entire expression has darkened, gaze low and focused on the glistening between your legs.

"Yeah? Wanna be fucked full of my cum, hmm baby?" He's fucked out, hazy from the ache in the pit of his belly, in his chest. He's gripping the thick shaft of his length, rubbing the plum hued head up an down your slit as if it's his tongue lapping at your pussy instead.

"Mm, yes, yes please stuff me full, sir."

You push back against him and he chuckles at the way you're trembling, though he honestly doesn't think he can last much longer to tease you about it, balls tightening with the urge to release. Plus, how could he say no to you?

It always takes him by surprise, every single time he pushes himself into you. It's a further reminder that you're his, made for him in every way and it makes his desire even headier.

He bottoms out and you're gripping onto the edge of the sink for dear life, eyes holding themselves open just so you can watch Marks soft features contort into that of someone else completely. His dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, petal lips parted.

He drags his length out of you and you're the only thing he sees as he thrusts himself back into the warmth of your sex, his hands snug around your hips as a form of leverage for the pace he sets; hard and precise.

Johnny and Jaehyun are long but forgotten now, in fact when you're with Mark, it seems as though everything else disappears completely. That's not an understatement, especially not when he's able to fuck you like this, pretty groans leaving his throat, his manhood buried deep inside of you.

You're a whimpering mess and he doesn't have the heart to tell you to quiet down, you're too beautiful like this and you're - "So fuckin' wet for me baby, shit."

You're completely coating his cock in your milky essence, it's smearing the front of his thighs and dripping down his balls. You feel the warmth of mouth against the side of your cheek and realize he's lent over, arms wrapped fiercely around your middle as he rolls his agile hips into you from behind.

"M-Maaark, mmmph." You feel so full, too full and you're not sure what to do with yourself - bouncing back on his length, the back of your thighs meeting the front of his.

"You like being fucked like this baby?" He uses one arm to reach down in between your thighs where the two of you are connected, rubbing circles over your bud as he did earlier. "You want me to have you leaking between your legs with my cum?"

He's filthy, and each word that is spoken through a growl has your belly filling with an unbearable pressure, body lurching with each sharp, sloppy thrust of his hips.

"Y-Yes Markie, make a mess o-oohhhh, out of me."

You've forgotten about the formalities but he's okay with it, in fact the nickname sounds so pretty coming from you, that it makes the drive to fill you with his seed that much more powerful.

"Gonna - fuck, gonna put a baby in you, mmm," he curls his hips and hits a spot inside of you that has your body involuntarily jerking, legs wobbly. "gonna make sure everyone knows who got you all big and swollen."

Even the thought has you barely holding it together, his possessiveness stirring a whirlwind of emotions within you that seem to be building by the second. He stands uo to his full stature and returns to his previous position in an effort to hold you up, sensing that his mouth has you worked up beyond belief.

"You like that baby? Can feel you squeezing around me."

It's sadistic, really. Your eyes aren't even all the way open, the balloon of pressure in your belly swelling and swelling, spreading licks of fire through your nerve endings, causing you to drip onto the bathroom floor with each drag of his cock from your heat.

"Ple-ease don't s-stop, oh fuck, Mark please." You're not making any sense but he understands perfectly, as he always has and always will. Hes not fairing much better, if he's honest, and so he's truly grateful that you're so close to falling apart as he knows he won't be long either.

"Awe, look at you," his voice isn't steady but it's still strong, teasing in its lilt. "you're gonna cum all over my dick aren't you? That's what you wanted all along, couldn't even wait."

You mewl as a reply and he twitches, the end dangerously close with each stroke. He's never felt someone so soft, so warm and wet for him and only him and now you're panting his name, over and iver again as if it's the only word you've ever known.

"Markmarkmark, oh fuck, I'm c-cumming."

A hand clamps over your mouth while you drown in the liquid heat that pulsates through you in rigorous, violent waves; tears brimming in your eyes and knees practically giving out.

Mark manages to keep you steady, to fuck you through your orgasm while your muffled cries seep into his skin like they're made of medicine; and in reality it's probably only seconds after, with you throbbing around his cock, that he feels his orgasm rip through him as viciously as yours rips through you.

You know the signs enough by now to sense it in his body, and despite the fact that you're still loopy, you manage to pull your eyes open just enough to watch him lose it - his body bowing and chest pressing against your front as he pumps himself into you with sloppy thrusts.

His bottom lip almost bleeds with how hard his teeth dig into it, tremors wracking through him while the warmth of his cum fills you from the inside out, and it has an aftershock of orgasmic pleasure moving through the marrow of your bones.

It's not even a moment later when you feel the softness of his kisses against any expanse of skin he can reach, soft smooch sounds accompanied by the flurry of gentle pecks. You feel like you're floating, despite still not being able to move properly.

"My baby, my darling," he sings against your skin and you giggle at the giddiness that radiates from the doe eyed boy, your Mark. He pulls himself out of you and you try not to whine, but ultimately fail, too used to the feeling of him inside of you. "don't pout, gotta clean you up."

Your eyes are closed and the sound of running water pulls you from your momentary reverie, even more so as you feel the warmth of a cloth against your sensitive center; a flush of heat leaving you dangling in the realization of what you two have just done in Johnny and Jaehyun's bathroom.

"Oh fuck." You attempt to bury your face in your arms but Mark stops you, chuckling as if he hasn't got a care in the world while he adjusts your dress to drape over your hips again, pulling you into his chest.

"Shh, it's okay it's okay. We made the place more...more homey - you know?" He teases with a warm chuckle that threatens to tear any worries from your mind, and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, smiling.

"I swear to fuck if they used even one of my brand new wash cloths I'm never inviting them over again." Jaehyun seethes.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (7) || atz

“So, you're saying you heard the voice of the sea monster.”

“Yes…” You say hesitantly, Seonghwa nodding encouragingly at you as you spill the beans to San. The healer's face is unreadable, inscrutable as he eyes you silently, fingers drumming over the side of his mug of tea.

“I can vouch for him.” Seonghwa speaks up but San shakes his head, setting down his drink with a thunk.

“It's not that I don't believe you, apprentice.” San's eyes are unnaturally sharp for such a soft person. He straightens his back, before giving you a pensive glance. “But for you to be able to hear the voice of a sea monster… what could it possibly mean?”

“Perhaps he is blessed similarly to Hongjoong?” Seonghwa suggests. The healer nods thoughtfully.

“That could be the case. We don't know who you were before you lost your memories, so that could well be the answer.” San explains, and you frown. You, blessed by a sea god?

“But I can't do that thing captain can… like making the ship move faster.” You try to get your point across. Apart from having heard the monstrous beast once, you're not much special anyway else. You have no voodoo magic thing about you, or any control over the wind. Hell, you can barely use a kitchen knife the right side up.

The cook ponders this thoughtfully. “Different people may be blessed different ways. It’s always a possibility you can consider-”

“Stowaway?” You jerk to your feet as a new voice comes from the door. There are two men standing in the doorway, much to your surprise. One you recognize, the lookout, Yunho, and the other seems vaguely familiar.

He’s at least half a head taller than you, with a rounded face and serious, deep brown eyes. He can��t be very old, but the way he carries himself is endearing, like a young boy trying to match up to his older peers.

“Are we interrupting anything, hyungs?” He asks, so seriously that you’re almost impressed for a moment. His face is stoic, waiting for a reply so earnestly you immediately feel an almost irrepressible urge to wrap him up in a massive hug and squish his cheeks. He’s dressed simply in a sky blue shirt with white strips over a white tee, tucked into black trousers. This seems to be standard clothing for most of the crew.

Ah, you remember where you’ve seen him before.

When you had been tied up on deck, you’d seen seen him working out on deck, doing an insane number of push ups, lifts, running back and forth the bow and stern until you had gotten tired just from watching him. He didn’t seem to exist within normal human limitations, doing sit ups with entire tree trunks or squats with other members of the crew twice his size on his back.

But it was his voice that left an impact on you the most. You had been battling a raging fever, agonizing pain and a terrible loneliness. One night, you had been in despair once again, wondering if you were going to be thrown to the sharks the next day or whether the captain would simply shoot you dead, when you had heard a voice singing.

“Born on the wrong side of the ocean With all the tides against you You never thought you'd be much good for anyone But that's so far from the truth I know there's pain in your heart And you're covered in scars Wish you could see what I do…”

Until now, you still don’t know what song it was, but it had lulled you out of your self pity and that night you had slept with a calm mind. Of course, the apple breaking had also helped to amuse you greatly, but the way he had sung, so soulful and with so much emotion, was something you couldn’t forget.

You wanted to thank him, but how?

“No, we were just chatting about how our stowaway’s cooking is getting better.” San smiles, and you whip around to stare at your master in shock so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

“You said my cooking tastes like raw fish innards!” You cry in protest, but the healer simply shrugs. Seonghwa tries to encourage you.

“You have gotten better at using a knife…” He says, smiling so genuinely it almost lifts your spirits for a moment. Then you remember Seonghwa is inherently good and literally not one bad thing can come out of his mouth.

“Your cooking used to taste like rotten fish innards, apprentice.” San says with a completely straight face, dodging the roll of bandage that comes sailing at his head with ease. But Yunho chuckles, and you see the teasing smile pulling at the side of your master’s mouth.

He’s playing with you again. You puff out your cheeks in annoyance, but San merely laughs at you.

“What do you need him for, Yunho?” Seonghwa asks, getting to his feet. The lookout gestures in your direction.

“Hongjoongie-hyung wanted us to teach the stowaway a little combat skill. Hate to break it to you, but no one can live a pirate without at least knowing how to defend yourself.” Yunho tosses you a short knife. You barely catch it, fumbling with the leather before gripping it tightly in your hands. You’re lucky the blade is wrapped in a sheath, or you’d have chopped off your own fingers.

You turn to San and the healer simply makes a shooing motion with his hands. You give him a dry look.

No touching words of wisdom or encouragement?

He shakes his head.

Nope.

You sulk and turn back to your new teachers. “I’ll be in your hands then.”

“Do your best!” Seonghwa calls from behind you as the pair lead you to the main deck. Some of the crew give you strange looks, undoubtedly wondering why their stowaway turned healer is with the lookout and their resident opera singer(?), but you ignore them.

“So, stowaway.” Yunho begins in some sort of introduction. “I’m Yunho, the lookout and a battlemaster. This kid here,” he jerks a thumb at the young man next to him, who immediately eyes his older crewmate with a scowl, “is Jongho, our resident maknae and the other battlemaster of the ship.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jongho says rather indifferently, looking at everywhere but you. You frown a little at his cold reception.

“Don’t worry about Jongho, he’s just a little shy around new people.” Yunho explains while dodging his junior’s fist, as if this is a common occurrence. “He’s also the youngest, so he’s never really been around anyone younger than him.”

You don’t really know what your age is, with your lost memories and all, but you are shorter than him, so you suppose that’s a fair assumption to make.

“Any questions before we begin?” The lookout asks, pulling a short knife from his belt and twirling it so effortlessly you’re already impressed. But you do have a question. Two, actually.

“What’s a battlemaster? And why are there two of you?”

“A battlemaster is a person who leads a fighting party during raids. We also train the crew in combat.” Yunho tells you. “Jongho is in charge of more… blunt weaponry, while I handle swords and pistols.”

“We’ll be starting off with determining which combat style you’re more suited to.” Jongho adds on quietly, reaching for the hem of his shirt, Yunho following suit. You’re confused for a moment, until you see the two of them starting to strip their clothes off.

Wait.

Wait.

“Wait!” You screech, shielding your eyes from the sight with your hands. “What are the two of you doing?”

“We’re going to be sparring with you, so we don’t want our clothes to get dirty from sweat.” Yunho sounds a little bewildered, and you hear him moving forward to remove your hand from your eyes. Before he can, you scoot backwards away from his voice…

...only to end up pressing against someone’s bare chest.

Help me.

“If it bothers you so much, we’ll put our shirts back on.” Jongho says gruffly from behind you, and gods help you because his voice is right at your ear and you can feel his chest thrumming against your back with every word he says. He steadies you with his hands before mercifully moving back from you, giving you some much need space and time to remove the flush from your cheeks. You hear the rustle of fabric and sighs from the two men, before Jongho finally gives you the cue to remove your hands.

“We’re decent.”

Hesitantly, you peek out from between the cracks of your fingers. Both men are dressed in their tees and trousers, overshirts slung over their shoulders.

“Honestly, stowaway, you scream like a woman.” Yunho chuckles. All you manage is a weak, little laugh, but you can’t help but think how true that statement is.

“Try to lift this.” Jongho passes you a wooden club with one hand, and fooled by the ease with which he carries the weapon, you accept it gratefully.

It's heavy.

It also almost smashes your recently healed foot into smithereens.

“Watch out for the club!” The younger battlemaster yelps, snatching the blunt weapon back from you in alarm. You’re wheezing, half in fear from your near foot crushing experience and the other half because your arms are screaming in pain.

How on earth did Jongho carry that? It's so heavy that your arms simply could not keep it off the ground. You’re still staring at Jongho in wide eyed open awe when he notices you.

“What?” He scowls fiercely, turning away. But you catch the red tinge on his cheeks.

“I would say you are not at all suited to Jongho’s usual style of fighting.” Yunho smiles amicably, throwing Jongho a sword. To your awe once more, Jongho easily catches it by the handle, flipping it over in his hand as if it is second nature to him. “Jongho will demonstrate a few moves with the cutlass.”

Jongho pauses to give his senior a dark look.

“I will?”

“Yes, you will.” Yunho eyes his junior with an excited smile and some kind of unspoken argument seems to happen between the two of them. In the end, Jongho sighs in exasperation, a long, heavy exhale and raises the sword.

“I hate the apple trick, so I’m only doing this once, alright?”

You barely have time to ask what the apple trick is before he launches into movement.

The tip of the blade pierces air, a whistling sound as the weapon scythes across mere inches from your nose. He’s barely completed a swing before he effortlessly reverses the action, twirling the blade and stabbing forward. Stepping forward, he spins the weapon in hand, executing a perfect downstroke, wielding the cutlass as if it is a natural extension of his own arm. You continue to watch, completely awestruck, as he finishes his demonstration with a final move, leaping high and twirling in midair, before bringing the blade right down on Yunho’s head.

You almost scream in shock, but then you see the razor sharp edge slice through an apple that Yunho must have placed on his head during the demonstration. The red fruit splits all the way in half, but the blade stops merely a hair’s breadth from Yunho’s head.

There’s silence for a moment, then a smattering round of applause from the crew that have been watching in respect of Jongho’s unparalleled skill.

“So that’s all you have to do.” Yunho is completely unruffled, tossing you a half of the apple while taking a munch of the other. You stare at him like he’s just slapped you in the face.

“That’s all?” You repeat incredulously. “That’s all?” Your voice starts rising in pitch uncontrollably. “I can’t do that! That’s crazy! Jongho is too talented!”

The maknae coughs lightly behind his hand, but he sounds pleased.

“I believe in you!” Yunho chirrups, taking another bite of his apple. “I don’t think anyone could quite reach Jongho’s level, but you should at least try to reach some level of proficiency to defend yourself and your crew mates during battles.”

“I know…” You gulp, and Jongho passes you a wooden sword. It’s longer than you expected, and slightly heavy. Its handle is modeled after the distinctive hand piece of the cutlass that seem to be standard issue on the pirate ship. You try lifting it. “So… Like this?”

“No, you’re holding it the wrong way round, dumbass.” Jongho groans, moving to correct your grip while Yunho looks up at the sky for some kind of divine help.

“This might take a while.” He mutters to himself with a serene smile.

The rest of your day is spent mastering your grip on the sword, learning a few basic swings and as Yunho loves to say, “Practice, practice, practice.” You drill the same movements over and over into your muscles with that single wooden stick so diligently that when night falls and Yunho spares you any more torture, you stumble to the galley with some strange urge in your arms to continue.

“Are you alright?” Seonghwa peers at you as you slump over at the table that he uses to prepare the rations, completely exhausted.

“No.” Your words are muffled against the counter top.

The cook gives you a sympathetic smile as he reaches for a bowl, scooping noodles into it. “Yunho and Jongho are hard taskmasters, but they do want the best for you. I’m sure you’ll improve by leaps and bounds with their guidance.”

“Like I am with cooking?” You offer weakly as Seonghwa sets the noodles and a cup of steaming green tea next to you. The cook pauses to consider that.

“Perhaps not as much.” He smiles at you gently and you snort, grabbing the fork.

“Do you fight, Seonghwa-hyung?”

The older man thinks about this for a moment. “Enough to defend myself.” He replies thoughtfully, tapping his spoon against his mouth. “I usually use a cutlass if I’m in close combat, but I prefer these.”

He points to the cooking knives hanging from his belt and your mouth falls open.

“Hello, hello.” Yeosang slides into the kitchen with a spring in his step, a book tucked under his arm and a smile on his face. He must be in a good mood. “Hyung, captain’s dinner, please.”

“Coming right up.”

“Wait… hyung, you mean you use the kitchen knives to prepare food with… to kill people? Isn’t that kind of unhygienic?” You babble on, a little grossed out by the fact you may have been eating dried human blood. Seonghwa laughs at your shock as he ladles more noodles into a bowl.

“Don’t be silly.” He shakes his head, reaching for the seasoning. “I clean my knives very well after every battle.”

You turn to the navigator, who’s sitting at the table opposite you, reading a thick book with several dog eared pages intently. You peer curiously at the cover.

“A Complete Sum of Names Commonly used in the East and Their Meaning.” You read aloud curiously. Yeosang turns to stare at you in surprise.

“You read?”

You don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered, so you decided to go with flattered and twist a little smile on your face. “Yes?”

Yeosang must have seen the sour look, because he rushes to explain his words in a more polite manner. “I didn’t mean it that way, so I apologise if you feel insulted. It’s simply uncommon for most folk to know their letters, so I rather impressed that you could read.”

Oh, now you feel a little flattered.

“Well, thanks.” You’re sure your cheeks are a faint shade of red, but you clap your hands to them to hide it. Yeosang catches sight of it and merely laughs gently.

Seonghwa comes over to the two of you, holding the bowl of noodles in one hand and two slender pieces of wood in the other, passing them to Yeosang. The navigator beams at the two of you and turns to leave, but just as he does, there’s a sound of a massive thunderclap and the ship momentarily heels to the right.

Agile and surefooted, Yeosang manages to keep his balance and Seonghwa even saves your bowl of noodles from toppling to the ground.

The three of you stare at each other in wide eyed shock. There’s a moment of silence… and then the frantic ringing of a bell breaks the calm of the night.

Seonghwa and Yeosang react immediately, the navigator slamming the bowl of noodles down on the table as the two rise to their feet with an urgency so different from their usual calm selves. They remind you of hawks in the moment, eyes narrowed and every muscle tensed for action. The tension is palpable.

You don’t know what the alarm is about, but it can’t be good if they reacted this way. You glance at the two men worriedly.

“What’s happening?”

Yeosang flinches and opens his mouth to speak, but your question is answered by Mingi’s bellow from the main deck, echoing all the way into the kitchen.

“Royal Navy! Royal Navy to the south!”

[poppy-pelican]

Strictly Taboo (fic)

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist

AU: Lust has a gift that is a little more like her namesake... 

And don’t take it too seriously. :P

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416481

Havoc’s new girlfriend was sex on legs—to the point Falman almost fell out of his desk chair getting a good look at her. Roy was less interested, allowing a cursory glance and nothing more. He watched as Hawkeye rolled her eyes at the men, but her lips twitched in amusement when Havoc stumbled over his introductions and accidentally called Breda, “Second Lieutenant Breast.”

Roy returned to the paperwork in front of him, pretending to work as he listened to Solaris flirt shamelessly with Havoc. Roy smiled to himself, grateful Havoc had found a new girlfriend already. He’d been unbearably sulky about having to leave his old one behind during the move to Central.

During a drawn-out reenactment of the Lieutenant Breast flub, Hawkeye stepped out of the office. For some reason, her absence felt more palpable than usual. Roy’s eyes kept flickering to the door, waiting for her to enter. When she returned, a tremor went through him as she focused warm brown eyes on him. He found himself fighting not to stare at the natural sway of her hips, his mouth watering.

He swallowed thickly when she approached his desk, an irrepressible hunger growing as his eyes dragged up her body back to her face. Her brow crinkled in concern at his expression. He hoped she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She held out a stack of papers.

“These are the visitor records from Hughes’s office. Do you want me to go through it first, or do you want that honor, sir?” she asked.

Right. The investigation. Nothing like grief to destroy the pleasant thoughts about the way his lieutenant filled out her uniform. Disgusted with himself, he took the papers.

“I’ll go over it first,” he said. He was sure it was a dead end, but he owed it to Hughes to look at every possibility. He would put everything—even his ambitions—on hold until Hughes had justice.

 *

 Lust had never had such a hard time bending men to her will before. Jean Havoc had been so easily snared by her figure she thought the secrets of his team would come pouring out of him. But after a week, Jean had fucked her sideways—never saying a word about his job. It was infuriating.

Having already infiltrated the group as Jean’s girlfriend, it would be tricky to seduce one of the other men of Mustang’s team without raising their suspicions. If she failed again, she would lose her chance. So she’d approached it from a different angle. Mustang was focused purely on the investigation into Hughes’s murder, and like Hughes, was close to the Elric brothers. Lust knew seducing him would be challenging, if not impossible. The man had barely looked at her the first time she met him—unheard of in Lust’s experience unless the man was truly devoted to something else—a wife, a religion. In Mustang’s case, it was his obsession with finding his best friend’s killer.

Lust prepared for failure but remained optimistic Mustang’s more base instincts would overpower that drive for vengeance. If he threw himself at her, it would divide Mustang from Havoc, or if he set his eyes on any other women, he’d at least be occupied with something other than his nosy investigation. It wasn’t ideal, but it would prevent Father from losing a potential sacrifice if she succeeded.

She’d flirted with Havoc while watching, waiting for Mustang to crack under her influence. For a moment, she thought she had him when his stoic lieutenant walked toward his desk and it looked like he forgot how to speak. It was exactly the look Lust wanted from him.

Then he’d smoothly recovered, averting his eyes dutifully from his subordinate. Well, perhaps a few more days would wear him down…

 *

Riza knew Havoc’s girlfriend had entered the office without looking up from her work. Havoc leapt out of his seat faster than he would if the fuhrer himself had appeared. Sure enough, Solaris strolled in with a liquid gait, dripping with confidence. Riza remembered what she’d overheard Havoc telling Breda and a blushing Fuery about her. Something about coming so hard he’d blacked out. Morbid curiosity had Riza wondering how she’d done it.

Riza’s gaze slid to the colonel who was on the phone, too enthralled in his conversation to acknowledge the office’s visitor. With the others all holding court with Solaris, and the colonel facing away toward the window, Riza grabbed the opportunity to study him. The colonel had been incredibly tense the past couple of days. Every time she went near him, he was either tapping his pen or grinding his teeth. Today her fingers itched to massage the tension from his broad shoulders, but that wasn’t professional. Even considering their long friendship it would be too intimate to touch him that way.

All of their touches had been accidental, or necessary for work. Even at Hughes’s funeral when she had longed to hug him, comfort him in any way she could, there had been nothing to do but stand by his side. How inappropriate it would have been to offer comfort when he hadn’t asked for it. How inappropriate it would have been for him to ask. She bit down on her lip, giving his back another once over.

It was then she realized someone was watching her. Solaris. Her piercing eyes made Riza feel exposed and reckless—like Solaris knew exactly what Riza was contemplating. Holding back a blush, she opened a new file with more gusto than necessary.

As she read through the file, the words began to blur, her eyes heavy. Solaris left, blowing a kiss to Havoc which Breda jokingly pretended to intercept and put on Fuery’s cheek. Everyone else laughed, but Riza was too groggy. A wave of heat rolled through her muscles, and when she checked her reflection in the restroom, her cheeks were rosy. She returned to her desk feeling restless, suspicious she had caught a bad cold. Terrible timing because they were busier than ever. Hopefully she wouldn’t need any sick leave.

She powered through, slogging through everything much slower than usual. Her body also seemed more attuned to the colonel’s than usual. She could admit she was always aware of him, partly because of her duty to protect him, partly because of the attraction she’d felt toward him since she was a girl. Still, this was more intense, like his body was a powerful magnet and she was helplessly resisting the pull.

A ball of pure want twisted in her belly, and she gave up and laid her head on the desk. She must have a fever. That was the only explanation.

“Hawkeye? Are you awake?” Havoc whispered.

“Yes,” she said dully. She sucked in a breath, hoping her head would clear.

“Maybe you should go home early. You look like you’re burning up,” he said, no longer whispering.

The colonel heard that. “Lieutenant.” Her eyes flickered to him through heavy eyelids. A jolt of desire ran through her as he looked her over in concern. She was immediately very wet between her legs, like she was by herself in bed, fantasizing about—

“Sir, permission to leave early? I’m not feeling well,” she blurted, staggering to her feet.

The colonel studied her quickly, and she clamped down hard on her lip, trapping a moan before it could escape as she imagined his hands where his eyes were looking. Or better yet, his tongue.

“Permission granted. Get some rest.”

Something was very wrong, but she’d rather die than explain it to him. Or anyone.  Her hands trembled as she gathered her things.

“Forgive my bluntness, but you look terrible. Can I walk you home?” Havoc asked.

Riza hesitated. She hated to look weak, although it was too late for that. The sweat was gathering at her temples.

“You might need someone to walk your dog for you,” he said, providing an excuse for her to accept his assistance.

Black Hayate would need a walk. Shouldering her bag, she shuffled out of the office, disturbed by the increasing ache as she walked away from the colonel. She’d endured worse, as a memory of flames on her back scuttled briefly to the front of her thoughts. This would be a walk in the park.

 *

 Hawkeye was sicker than Jean had guessed. She’d willingly let him help her home, which had been alarming enough, but then she periodically stopped to lean against buildings for support, gasping like she was short of breath. He thought he heard her whimper.

This was bad.

“Maybe we should head to a doctor instead,” he suggested.

The look on her face was deadly. “No.”

“I could have Solaris come over and—”

“Definitely no. I’ll be fine.” Then she slumped to the ground, panting. “I’m not sure—I don’t think I’m actually sick,” she said, voice hushed.

Jean squatted beside her. “If you’re not sick, then what the hell is happening?”

“I’m not sure,” she repeated. “I just know—alchemy can do strange things, and something happened to Hughes. And now…” she trailed off. “This is different. I feel…compelled.”

Unnerved, he reached to light a cigarette. “Compelled, huh? To do what?”

Hawkeye looked away from him. “I…don’t want to say.”

He suddenly remembered a week ago when he’d felt off himself. Not to the degree Hawkeye was suffering, but he had been uncommonly insatiable. He looked at her again with a more critical eye. What he’d mistaken for a fever certainly matched his experiences in bed with a woman. He recoiled as bile rose in his throat. How was it possible to influence people this way? Even the resilient lieutenant in front of him.

“I’ve had that feeling myself, just last week,” he said lowly.

Hawkeye narrowed her eyes. “I don’t remember you having to leave the office.”

“Well, that could be because I had a willing girlfriend to take my, uh, urges out on.”

“I see,” Hawkeye muttered.

“You’re not dating anyone, are you?” he asked hopefully. “Or have any…potential partners who could…be of service?”

Her face wrinkled in disgust. “No.” She looked ready to reach for her gun. “And don’t you dare offer yourself.”

He laughed, despite everything. “Well, I could ask around the team—"

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

“I suppose you have to, if you aren’t going to ask for—"

He didn’t see her foot until it had knocked him on his ass.

 *

 Jean left Hawkeye at her apartment, bullying Black Hayate to come with him. The dog whined, trying to head home until Jean stopped and shared a chicken sandwich with him. When he made it back to the office, Mustang was the only one left at his desk, the others all absent for lunch.

“Black Hayate?” Mustang asked, more to Jean than the dog.

“I’m now his babysitter until further notice,” Jean said, feeling betrayed when the dog ran to sit by Mustang’s side.

Mustang reached down to scratch the dog’s head distractedly. “The lieutenant is that sick?” It was obvious he wanted to sound light, but the undercurrent of worry snuck through.

Jean debated how to approach this with Mustang. Hawkeye had very reluctantly given permission for him to explain it to the others—only because it could relate to their investigation. She’d also promised violence upon anyone who brought it up in front of her.

“About that…Hawkeye isn’t sure she’s sick in the traditional sense.”

Mustang was unamused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve taken to calling it the Plague of Frustration, sir,” he said, unable to help himself. “Sexual frustration, that is.”

Now his superior’s expression had gone flat. “What the hell does this have to do with Hawkeye taking a sick day? Are you saying she left because—she was—” He looked like he was short circuiting.

“Maybe let’s talk about it over coffee, yeah?” Jean suggested, wanting to be away from prying ears. “That café with the terrace seating—so young Mr. Hawkeye can come,” he added, gesturing to Black Hayate.

Mustang agreed, although Jean could tell the colonel was skeptical and on a short fuse.

Jean didn’t know much about Mustang and Hawkeye’s past before the military. It was understood amongst the team that it wasn’t talked about. He knew Hawkeye’s father had taught Mustang alchemy, and through him had met Hawkeye at a young age. Jean didn’t get the impression they were especially friendly back then, but he knew they were close now—protective of one another. As superior and subordinate, they were professional in every way, particularly Hawkeye. Outside the office, he knew they occasionally met up as friends, mostly with other members of the team.

Yet even with their strange, ineffable friendship, they never spoke of anything that would reveal deeper intimacy. Which was why Jean wished he had suggested a bar instead of a café while bringing up the lieutenant’s shocking display of “frustration,” as he was going to refer to it. There was no way he could say, “Hawkeye was too horny to work, sir.”

Well, he could say it. He just didn’t want to add another bruise to the one Hawkeye gave him. He couldn’t imagine Mustang taking this well.

 *

 Roy held his mug halfway to his mouth, where it hovered, unmoving. He processed what Havoc told him. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure if he should take it seriously or not. He’d never heard of such a thing, and yet three of them had already been hit with the illness, or whatever the hell he should call it. Maybe it was contagious? Could be nothing more than a bizarre prank. But what benefit would anyone get from Havoc fucking his girlfriend’s lights out? Roy’s bout with it, if that’s even what it was, had been nothing like that. Maybe he’d needed more personal time with his hand than normal—or a lot more than normal—but he’d still been able to go to work and function.

He’d seen the lieutenant that morning. Her cheeks were rosy, lips pouty and swollen. She sounded breathless as she spoke. What had seemed like an illness, now with his perspective changed…He discreetly adjusted himself. He didn’t need to see his lieutenant like that. He shouldn’t think about what she was doing back at her apartment, all alone…

Havoc coughed loudly. “Colonel?”

“What was that again?’ Roy asked, finally taking a drink of his now lukewarm coffee.

“I asked if you had any of your girlfriends help you out, if you know what I mean.”

“I got through it on my own, thank you very much. I’m not a slave to my baser needs.”

Havoc scoffed. “Oh! But me and Hawkeye are?”

Roy couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Riza Hawkeye was dealing with—frustration—with less fortitude than Jean Havoc. “Right. Well. Hawkeye will get through it. Maybe it’s just…harder on women?” He felt absurd even saying it aloud.

“I have a theory,” Havoc said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “See, you and me—we go out and enjoy ourselves. Even when Hawkeye joins us at the bar, she never gets drunk, never gets too flirty with the bartender. When was the last time Hawkeye even had a boyfriend around?”

“Not since what’s-his-face who turned out to be afraid of guns,” Roy said thoughtfully. Maybe there was something to the theory. Of course, Roy had some inkling as to why the lieutenant was so hesitant to let loose. While he’d done his best to cover her secrets to flame alchemy with scars, he knew she was afraid it wasn’t enough. She chose her partners carefully.

“She just doesn’t give into her wilder side. And whatever this is, she seemed to be in agony. I wonder who did this?”

Roy also wanted to know, but he was caught up by the first part of Havoc’s words. Was Hawkeye really at home in agony? He looked down at her dog, curled up at his feet. To send away Black Hayate, she had to be in a bad place. Against his will, his mind began to supply ideas of what her agony might look like. He erupted with jealousy that Havoc of all people took her home, watched her so overtaken by want that he said she’d practically collapsed on the way home.

“I suppose the first thing is to ask the others if they’ve had any symptoms.” He scratched his head, at a loss. He really hoped it was nothing more than a prank. If it wasn’t…he’d have to kill whoever had brought down his closest subordinate.

 *

 For so long, Hawkeye was off limits. First as his master’s young daughter, then her father had just died. Roy wasn’t going to consider her when she was so vulnerable.  Then they were both in the military and before he knew it, she was completely unattainable as his subordinate. It seemed simple to keep her in that category of unavailable women—like women in relationships. He never let himself go there. He kept Riza Hawkeye in a neat little box on the shelf: friend, confidante, his compass. Not lover.

Now that box had broken, opening up a slew of fantasies he’d been suppressing. If their enemy had wanted to distract him, they were thoroughly succeeding. This was almost worse than what he’d been feeling the past few days on his own. That had been mindless want—this had a target. A very forbidden target.

After work, he drove straight home and stormed into his shower. He set the temperature to cold. Once he felt thoroughly doused, he dried and dressed before giving into a lesser temptation than the one he had in mind. He picked up the phone and called Hawkeye. He told himself it was just to make sure she was okay—not to give her the opportunity to ask him for help. Help he shouldn’t give her.

It took several rings for her to answer. When she did, he was rewarded with a breathy, “Hello?”

“Lieutenant. Just—calling for a wellness check.” He was an idiot. An idiot who was already so aroused he was going to need to take an ice bath to get through this.

“Colonel?” Did she just whimper? His thighs flexed, fighting to relieve the tension building in his groin. “I’m surviving. Thank you for your concern, sir,” she said, as polite and distant as she could sound while panting into the phone.

“So far, it seems just you, Havoc and me have been hit with—the Plague of Frustration, as he calls it,” he said, hoping he sounded calm and teasing, and not desperately turned on.

“It happened to you?” she asked, disbelieving. Then he heard her, muffled like she had covered the mouthpiece, but it was there: a primal moan.

Keep it together, he warned himself. “Uh, yes. Though to a lesser degree than you and Havoc. We are trying to figure out why that might be.”

“Mhm, I might know why.”

He waited for her to answer, hanging onto the phone like it possessed the key to becoming fuhrer. The lieutenant said nothing for a moment, simply breathing unevenly.

“It’s just been far too long since I’ve…been with anyone.” She laughed humorlessly. “Havoc put the idea in my head, but seeing how you and him have been able to work and function…”

Roy’s free hand had finally stopped listening to his brain and stroked himself through his pants. He was a little disgusted with himself, but a bigger part of him was hoping that on the other end of the phone, his lieutenant had her hand between her legs mimicking his strokes.

“I could—” He coughed as his throat went dry. He shouldn’t ask. She would shoot him. “I mean, if you wanted—just as one friend helping out another friend. I could. Help.”

She was quiet. Either planning how to kill him, or…considering his offer.

“I hate to think of you suffering when I could do something about it,” he continued. Not to mention how much he wanted to help rather than her ask someone else.

“What about the fraternizing laws, sir?”

“Forget about them. These are extraordinary circumstances.”

“I don’t want—” His heart stopped. “It could ruin your career. And mine.”

His grin stretched painfully across his cheeks. “That’s not a no, lieutenant.”

“It’s not a yes either. We both know it would be a bad idea.”

“Or it could simply help you through this difficult time.”

“And what do you get out of it?” she countered. “I don’t want…a pity fuck.” The last part was a whisper.

“Oh, lieutenant,” he was near ready to come in his pants. “I’m not offering myself as some kind of sacrifice to you. I plan to thoroughly enjoy it.”

“I need to think about it,” she said, unceremoniously hanging up on him. Crippling disappointment flowed over him. He hoped he hadn’t screwed everything up between them. Maybe he’d pushed her too far.

Roy had barely returned the phone to the receiver when it rang.

“Hello?”

“Come over. Now,” Hawkeye said, and it ended with a wanton moan.

Roy didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right there.”

 *

 Riza spent half the day waiting for a reprieve from the damning ache. Her own hands and fingers could satisfy her only for a moment, then the inferno was back with a vengeance. Her appetite was nonexistent, reading a book was futile. She wanted only one thing, from one man.

Now, knowing the colonel was on the way to her apartment to have sex with her…she was ravenous. She stepped into the cold shower for the third time that day, attempting to gain control of herself. As it stood, she feared she would leap on him the moment he arrived at her door.

Realizing how pointless dressing was, she slipped on a silky, floral robe—a feminine indulgence she self-consciously hoped the colonel would like. She was fretting over putting on underwear or not when she heard a firm knock on the door.

All of her nerves left her as the otherworldly desire took hold again. How many years had she wanted this man? Her legs trembled beneath her as she rushed to let him in.

Riza didn’t know what she expected—maybe the colonel posing with carefully crafted cockiness against the door frame, ready to tease her for wanting him so badly. Instead, she had hardly gotten the door ajar before he pushed it aside and gathered her in his arms, slamming the door shut with his foot.

She sighed in relief as his lips found hers, his tongue eager and seeking. He tasted like tea and what could only be him. Her knees buckled as he pressed her back against the closed door. Oh god. He was already hot and hard, and her core squeezed tight, impatient to have it inside her.

“Lieutenant, what are you wearing? I—fuck—” His hands were frantic, fluttering down to her hips, over the curves of her ass. He bunched the silk in his hands, gasping.

“There’s nothing underneath,” she hissed as his mouth trailed down to her neck.

“Fuck. Let me—I didn’t come here just to maul you,” he muttered, almost to himself. He dropped to his knees, then his dark eyes looked at her meaningfully. She knew what he was asking.

“Unnggh, please.”

She was already swollen and ready for him, and the touch of his mouth to her clit made her scream in pleasure. Her thighs clenched around him as he supported her legs with his shoulders, unable to stand up herself any longer. His tongue glided back and forth, his pace matching the sharp gasps escaping her. She should’ve known he would read her in bed as well as he did in the office. Not fair.

Her orgasm hit hard and fast, aided by whatever spell she was under, her eyes teared up from the pleasure rushing through her. She slumped back against the wall, chest heaving.

“Better?” He asked, smirking up at her. He looked so insanely sexy with her legs wrapped around him. Like he belonged there.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, allowing him to put her down on her feet. “I may need one more thing from you though.”

Maybe it was the confidence of seeing how openly he was lusting after her, from his eyes raking over her to his unmistakable erection, but she felt like a powerful temptress.

She nudged him toward the wall, keeping him at arm’s length as she untied the robe and let it puddle to the ground. She delighted in his hungry stare, winking as she twirled around and sauntered to the bedroom. She didn’t worry about him seeing her back like other lovers. Her heart swelled at the thought of finally having Roy as a lover.

He was right behind her by the time she entered the bedroom. “You are going to kill me, lieutenant. And here I always thought it’d be with a gun,” he said as she turned to grab him by the tie.

Her fingers began to make quick work of him. “It’s not fair I’m standing here naked in front of my superior while he’s fully dressed.” She let her hands trace down his chest, dipping into his waistband and tugging his shirt free with more groping than was required, but she needed to feel his skin, was addicted to the ragged breaths he took with every touch of her body to his.

“We need an equivalent exchange, you say?” He fastened their mouths together for a moment. She could taste herself there. “I recall being on my knees earlier,” his voice was husky.

Wordlessly, she slithered to the floor at his feet, before letting her mouth caress his cock through the fabric of his pants. She purposefully moaned against him, letting the vibrations tease him.

His hands went into her hair, which was loose and damp against her back, gently wrapping the strands between his fingers as she nimbly undid his belt and shimmied his pants out of the way until his member was free. She watched him watching her as she ran her hand up his thigh and around to the base of his cock, holding it steady as she guided him past her lips. He throbbed against her tongue as she worked him deeper into her mouth. She couldn’t get all of him in, so she used her hands for the rest. His pupils were dilated wide, his eyes rarely blinking while she worked his erection, memorizing the grunts he tried to hold back. It was a marvel to see the colonel falling apart under her command. Her body spiraled with heat again until she had to reach her hand between her legs.

“Ah—ah—lieutenant. Maybe. Hold off. Unless you—”

She retreated slowly, making sure to drag her tongue across the head before she leaned back.

“No, I want…” she didn’t finish, challenging him with only her eyes. If she was only going to have Roy for one night, she wanted him inside her.

“You do want this, right?” he asked, adorably uncertain. She stood, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I wouldn’t have called you back if I didn’t,” she said.

“Then why did you hang up in the first place?”

“Just because I think we shouldn’t, doesn’t mean I don’t want to. And the regret I felt not taking you up on the offer—I instantly knew I had to call you back.”

“I’m so happy you did,” he murmured, leaning to kiss her. He pulled back again. “But—I know what Havoc said about himself, but if you wouldn’t usually go down on your superior officer…”

Now she understood. Her cheeks flushed. “I’ll admit, my inhibitions are a lot lower. My tastes haven’t changed though.” She ran her hands along his broad shoulders, skimming down to his biceps. “You really haven’t caught me looking at you before?”

He groaned. “No. How long have you been looking?”

She smiled, aiming for coy and flirty to cover her nerves. “I don’t know. Always? Even when you were my father’s student, I remember being secretly pleased his apprentice was so good looking.”

Roy chuckled softly. “So you’re saying…I’m your type.”

“I’m saying, I’ve wanted to have you in my bed since I was a teenager.” She rubbed her naked body against his, relishing the feel of him. “And if I don’t have you inside me soon, I’m going to shoot you.”

It was easy from there to fall onto her neatly made bed, legs entwined. She inhaled the smell of his hair, clean and with a little hint of his natural scent. So good. She hugged him closer, letting his mouth worship her breasts while she rubbed her folds against his erection, slippery and hot. The ache was building again, much like it had been all day, an emptiness that needed filled.

“Colonel, hurry up,” she begged, struggling to bring their hips together with the way he had her pinned.

He glanced up at her, and what he saw reflected in her eyes made his burn even brighter. Rearing back, he hitched her legs around his hips and guided himself inside her, the wide head sending waves of rapture through her as he pushed past her opening and into the fluttering, swollen softness. Once connected at their most intimate parts, she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of completeness. Did she ever think she could have the colonel like this? Even once?

Now she finally knew what it was like to have his body, to have him trembling with want as he began to thrust steady and passionately above her, what he could do with his tongue twisting with hers while she met his thrusts back with fervor. Her core clenched down, a torrent of pleasure building with each slam of his hips. She was close to the edge, watching him fight with himself to hold out—denying himself for her—

She pressed their mouths together, one hand lost in his thick, dark hair, the other encouraging him as deep inside her as he could go. Then she tipped over into blessed oblivion, moaning into his mouth.

It was easy to ignore her drowsiness when she was still so eager to take in everything she could of him. He leaned back, arms shaking. She caught his desperate, searching look—needing guidance.

Her lips curled. Oh, it would be best if he didn’t finish inside her. It was stupid.

It didn’t matter. She wanted him with every fiber in her being. She wrapped her legs around him, giving him permission.

The tortured whimper he gave her was worth all the risk as he lost himself in her at last, restraint dissolving as he pounded into her with abandon. He grabbed her hips and angled them so that when he came, she felt every inch of him pulsing inside her.

He rolled off her, leaving a warm, delicious ache behind. He stayed close, but not as close as another lover might—as if he were uncertain of where they stood. The feeling was mutual. How do you go from colleagues—friends—to one night stand?

“How do you feel?” he asked, after several minutes of comfortable silence. “Less…frustrated?”

“Yes. But I’m starving,” she said, her stomach growling quietly. “I couldn’t eat—before.” She wondered if the break would last, now that she finally felt sated.

“I see. I’m glad you took me up on my offer then.”

She turned to catch him grinning boyishly. Ridiculously charming. It almost had her telling him the truth—that she had been ready to call him. But however amazing being with him was, they could never be together officially, so what was the point in bringing it up?

“Me too,” she said, pulling the blanket up to ward away the chill.

She must have dozed off because the colonel nudged her awake, and she half-wondered if he wanted another round but instead, he was holding a plate with a sandwich and fruit.

“You should eat before you go to bed,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting up and taking the plate. It was then she noticed he was completely dressed. “Are you leaving?” She prayed she didn’t sound like a clingy girlfriend.

His cheeks reddened. “You want me to go?”

“You’re the one who looks ready to leave. And it’s getting late.”

“I just stepped out to the market on the corner because you were out of bread,” he said defensively.

Oh. Oh. She couldn’t stop the smile that crossed her face. “Well, once again I’m completely naked and you aren’t, sir.”

“I took the liberty of making myself a sandwich, too,” he said, pointing to her nightstand where another plate sat. Her heart felt light. He had planned to stay. And eat it in bed with her. “Have to keep everything equal, you agree?” he asked, loosening his tie.

“Hmm, I think that’s a good idea.”

 *

 Roy hadn’t known eating sandwiches naked in bed with Hawkeye would be more intimate than coming inside her. The mix of scars and tattoos on her back were carelessly exposed through a curtain of hair, and she had crumbs on her chin that he refused to mention. His chest felt tight, as it often did when he was alone with her. While she had always been off limits as a romantic partner, any lustful thoughts quickly shoved away, he had never censored himself to feelings of friendship…which had long, long ago turned to love. Having her as a lover, though…it might make him too greedy. He’d want to have it all.

 *

 “Mustang left that woman’s house this morning while it was still dark,” Envy reported. “He had that look humans get when they did something bad but they liked it.”

Lust felt triumphant. If this didn’t keep the colonel distracted from his investigation, she didn’t know what would. Though a small part of her felt proud of the lieutenant, woman to woman. It must have been something to bed a man like Mustang.

“Thank you, Envy. I’ll keep getting what intel I can from Havoc. He could still report any rifts between his superior and his favorite subordinate.”

“Heh, I hope it’s this simple to keep from killing a sacrifice candidate,” Envy’s words were both skeptical and hopeful. “You’d think it’d be easier to find five.”

[calenheniel]

Avowal | sequel to Denial

Frozen | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Angst | Oneshot | K+

Two years later, and shame still plagues his every step.

He can walk unfettered around the palace of the Isles, the gardens, and even out so far as the surrounding town—but the rumors and gossip and laughter of the courtiers and common people follow him everywhere he goes.

There is no escape from it, even in dreams.

Sequel to Denial

Author's Note: Years later, I decided that the story of Denial remained incomplete. This is dedicated to everyone who has feelings left unexpressed, and with things left unsaid.

FF.Net | AO3 | Wattpad

Avowal

I.

Two years later, and shame still plagues his every step.

He can walk unfettered around the palace of the Isles, the gardens, and even out so far as the surrounding town—but the rumors and gossip and laughter of the courtiers and common people follow him everywhere he goes.

There is no escape from it, even in dreams.

Mocking remarks and laughter are nothing new to him - he's suffered the same all throughout his childhood, and most of his adult life - but the nature of them since his return from Arendelle seem even more poisonous than before.

How many times would the Queen have her way with you? And her sister, the Princess? I imagine they both must've had a go.

How did it feel to finally plunge your sword into those icy depths?

I suppose she must have discarded of you when she got bored. If only you'd been a better lover, she might've kept you around a bit longer!

At first, hearing such comments nearly makes him laugh; if any of them knew how far from the truth their suppositions were, what a shock they might suffer! After months pass in this manner, however, he realizes that telling said truth would only make things worse for him.

After all, was it more humiliating to have been the sexual plaything to a renowned frigid beauty, or to have been a willing prisoner who rejected her advances, and could make no great claims to have bedded the wondrous and terrible Snow Queen? At least by not denying the former version of events, he could hold onto some part of his old reputation as a terrible seducer. With the latter, he would likely be regarded as some kind of idiotic monk, or worse—impotent.

And so he languishes in idle pleasures to pass the time, barred from further naval service or any active role at court, traipsing from one gambling parlor to another. Sometimes, he even dares to venture out amongst the commoners, standing in the back of a theater for a drunken puppet show or sliding into the dark corners of taverns with a pint of cheap ale. These escapades, however, are usually brief, cut short by his fellow patrons’ recognition of his face and misdeeds (followed by their coarse and unbridled laughter).

When all else fails to entertain him (or when he runs out of money), he reads - endlessly, relentlessly - but no book holds his attention for long, and he is inevitably drawn back into morose brooding over his many failures.

It is on one such day spent alternating between reading and reflecting in his quiet, dusty spot in the old stacks of the palace library, that he learns (by way of eavesdropping on a tryst between two courtiers) of the Snow Queen’s upcoming visit to the Isles.

It is to be the first since his attempted coup, and the significance of the event is not lost on him; he wonders at how his older brother, the king, might try to keep him out of sight and sound of the visiting monarch, or at the new rumors and cackles that are sure to haunt him in the days and weeks ahead.

She’s come back for a taste of the young prince, has she? For old time’s sake.

He is filled with bitter hatred for her at the thought, and cannot stomach seeing that weak, pathetic creature again, even if only in passing glances from the shadows.

He recalls her fixation on him, her futile attempts at intimacy, her hesitation—and with each memory, his resentment grows.

Two years later, and she still won’t let him be.

II.

It’s the day before her arrival in the Isles, and it’s even worse than he imagined.

There is no corner of the palace to which he can retreat, no tavern, theater, or parlor accessible to him, where he does not feel the eyes of every courtier and commoner upon him. His own quarters are his only solace, and there he rests on his bed with a great frown stitched onto his lips.

There is endless chatter about what might happen should the two run into one another during her visit—a possibility which, to him, seems unlikely after receiving a predictably stern warning from the king to stay away.

He has no intention, of course, to disobey his brother. In spite of his old penchant for drama, he has no desire to see the Snow Queen again, nor to let her have the upper hand in any way over him in person.

But she’s already won, he thinks, and scowls. To deny that would be a fool’s errand; whatever pleasure he might have extracted from dealing out small cruelties to her in the past, he knows they are worth nothing in the bigger scheme of things. In his pitiful current existence, he recognizes that he does not have the freedom - nor the impulse - to taunt and bait her as freely as he once did.

And yet—

He shakes his head at the stray thought. He cannot imagine that she has changed all that much in the two years since he left her kingdom—not someone like her, who has lived such an austere and controlled life for so long, and who had only just begun to explore the extent of her powers in the brief time he spent in her custody.

Not someone, he thinks, who couldn’t even bring herself to touch me.

Besides, he does not think that he has changed much since then, either. Outside of an ever-growing number of gambling debts he will never repay, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of the Northern Isles from his countless hours in the library, he feels the same as ever. (Although perhaps a bit more glum and resigned than before.)

Nonetheless, there is an irrepressible curiosity about her that has always been there, and which remains unstifled by his denials and pretend nonchalance. It has grown with each passing moment since the day he learned of her visit, and now it threatens to upset the fragile peace he has made with his quiet, unhappy life.

He wonders if seeing her again will finally break it.

III.

What are you doing?

He hears her asking him that question again, if only in his mind; he is even sat in the same position, draped across a chaise in his room with a book, as he was when she first asked it.

He shuts the tome abruptly at the memory, though he was not much engrossed in it to begin with. There is no quiet to be found even in his own room, as she is everywhere—and nowhere.

Where has your ambition gone?

He rises from the chaise in a tumult, nearly knocking it over as he snaps open his closet doors, red-faced. The Snow Queen has been in the Isles for a week already, attending meetings, fetes and dinners thrown in her honor, touring the ports, and entertaining the commoners with displays of her ice magic. He’s watched it all from various vantage points around the palace, ignoring the warning looks of his insufferable brothers and their equally dreadful wives when they catch sight of him skulking.

Despite his previous disinclination, he cannot help himself; he wants to, no, has to see her.

You didn’t know me then, and you certainly don’t know me now.

He wonders at that seething little remark as he rifles through his clothes, running his hands over old suits without purpose or feeling for their former significance. He remembers her so differently from the way she looks to him now: determined, confident, even bold in her gait and approach, inspiring awe and obsequious speeches from his relations.

It is strange, he thinks, to see her as a stranger; it feels wrong, somehow, that she should transform into this new person beyond his understanding, and beyond his reach.

Perhaps I didn’t know her after all, he muses, though it is hard to tell from so far away who she is or isn’t anymore—what is real, and what is performance.

There is only one way to find out, but he has avoided doing it. He prefers the cold embrace of the shadows, their anonymity, their familiarity; he has only ever known disappointment when he has tried to step out of them. To let her see him, and to see her again, in the light…

His hand pauses atop a pair of gloves - similar to, although not the same as, the ones he used to wear - and an old, familiar sensation of comfort courses through him at their texture. As he runs his fingers over them, he recalls the redness in her cheeks and the dusky glow in her blue eyes when he drew near.

A grim smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Or perhaps I do.

IV.

It’s an unusually chilly October afternoon when they are reunited - or, more accurately, when she requests to see him again - and he isn’t informed of the exact hour, minute, or second that he should expect her to call on him.

That doesn’t stop him from restless speculation, though.

It isn’t lost on him that in the exact moment he’d finally made up his mind to face her, she had called for him herself. It leaves him wondering at her motives, and at what he might expect: harsh remonstrances? Retribution for his callous indifference towards her? Perhaps, he thinks, she has negotiated with his brother for him to finally be duly punished for his crimes against her and her country, and instead of her, he would be met with the palace guard carting him off to the dungeons.

This possibility, among many others, crosses his mind in the silence of the king’s study, where she has asked to meet with him, alone. He paces the floors as if in a trance, his hands knotted together behind his back and his shoulders taut, missing their old epaulettes.

“Hans.”

Her voice cuts through the stale air, and he stops. His shoulders lower as he turns towards her, and he fights the urge to bow.

“Elsa.”

She is close, now—closer than he can ever remember her being, even though she is still on the other side of the room, the doors to the study closing behind her.

He swallows a grimace, plastering on a smug look. “You’ve come to see me.”

She takes a few steps towards him, and it takes every bit of his strength to stand in place. “Yes,” she says, “I’ve come to see you.”

Her stride is as purposeful and powerful as he observed from afar in the previous days, but up close, there is something in her expression that unsettles him… something that he can’t define or grasp.

(Something that inspires his old feelings of spite.)

“And I suppose you’ve come to gawk, then?” he asks. “To see what remains of your former prisoner? Or is ‘ward’ the more appropriate term?” His face twists as his fingers curl into fists behind him, and he approaches her with deliberate, menacing languor. When he comes to a halt, he is close enough to see the twinge of pink coloring her cheekbones, rising above the freckles dotting her skin, and he drops his voice to a low baritone.

“Or perhaps there’s something else you want?”

Her eyes lift to greet his gaze, and his breath hitches in his throat.

“Hans,” she says again, “please.”

Her voice is gentler this time, with a plaintive note he doesn’t recognize. It takes him aback, and in the silence that follows, their eyes remain locked.

He notices that something in them again that he doesn’t understand, and as he scans her expression over and over again, his heart races at the unexpectedness and suddenness of their proximity.

(Of their intimacy.)

His skin crawls at the thought. “So what is it, Elsa? What could you possibly want from me now?” He sneers at her. “And don’t bother asking for an apology. You clearly don’t need one from me,” he remarks, looking her up and down for effect. “Not anymore.”

“I don’t want an apology.”

His back stiffens at her immediate, effortless reply, and his hands lock at his sides.

“I—”

She pauses, looking away, and the pink in her cheeks turns to red as her breath catches and releases. He watches her in silence, surprising himself; he is rarely a man without words.

“I don’t want an apology,” she repeats, her eyes softening as she regards him. “Rather, I… I came here - asked you to come here today - to say the opposite.”

His chest tightens. “The opposite?” he manages after a moment, feeling absurd.

She gives a slight nod. “Yes. To say that I—I’m sorry, Hans.” Her breath comes out as a shudder. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t honest with you. About why I kept you in Arendelle, why I sought your company, why…”

She trails off, unable to look at him, and his face grows hot. “You’re sorry,” he repeats, not understanding—never understanding, it seems.

She reaches down into a pocket in her dress, and pulls out a pair of gloves - the very same gloves, he realizes, that he left behind for her in Arendelle - and the sight of them causes a chill to run down his spine.

With some hesitation, she places them on a small table nearby, and then removes her own, one by one, and lays them atop his. Her gaze lingers there for a moment, and then she’s looking at him again.

“I loved you,” she says, blinking back tears. “I didn’t understand it then, but now…”

She reaches out for his hands, frozen at his sides, and brings them to her lips, bowing her head to place a kiss atop each of them. When she exhales, she releases a relieved sigh that rolls across his skin in waves, and then she lifts her head, releasing his hands from hers.

A small smile flits across her face even as her lip quivers, and in that moment, he is moved by her beauty in a way that he hasn’t been since he saw her on the North Mountain.

“Goodbye, Hans.”

He starts at the parting words, unready for them, still lost in the morass of her confession—and then she is gone, like ice retreating from spring, the outline of her back glimmering with a strange light as the doors close behind her.

When he is alone again, he wonders if she had ever really been there at all.

I’m sorry.

The back of his hands are tingling, his skin still warm from her lips, and he knows.

I loved you.

He takes a step back, then two, then three, until he bumps into a table - the same one upon which she placed his gloves, as well as her own - and stops.

His fingers tremble as they touch the gloves, one by one. He cannot help but notice how ragged and discolored his are in comparison to hers, which remain as vibrant and bold a blue as when he first beheld her.

I didn’t understand it then, but now…

He remembers the breathless, reverent way she held his gloves in her hands - as if every stain and tear along their seams were precious jewels - and he chokes as his fists curl around them, his knuckles turning white.

Six years later, and he’s finally let her touch him.

[sanjisock]

against all odds

Three: the first time soulmates meet, they exchange eye color with one another. ao3

Zoro knows nothing about soulmates and divine interventions. It doesn’t matter, anyway — all he cares about is the way the stranger’s hand is placed all too casually on Sanji’s shoulder, and Zoro suddenly feels the irrepressible urge to cut something.

Nami narrows her eyes at a couple of figures in a distance. “Is that Sanji-kun?”

Zoro huffs and shrugs, as if he couldn’t recognize Sanji’s figure from a mile away with his eyes closed, but Nami taps his shoulder insistently as she goes on, “it’s really him, Zoro, look at him!”

Zoro glowers at her, but his, what the hell , witch , dies in his lips as he has a good look on Sanji. Sanji and some other people, actually — a good number of them, a total of six men to be precise, standing way too near around the cook. Zoro can see the discomfort visible in Sanji’s expression, and the only reason Sanji hasn’t kicked them all away is probably the rows of marine ships docked at the island’s harbor and Nami’s stern warning of, do not attract any attention before they got off the ship .

It’s totally okay, though. Sanji is as good with words as he is with his legs, and he could talk his way out of anything. It’s fine.

Except when it’s not, and Zoro can’t stop himself from approaching the Cook. He thinks he can hear Nami calling out for him, but there’s blood roaring in his ears and a hot surge of anger he can’t exactly explain, and before he knows it he’s putting a possessive hand on Sanji’s shoulder from behind.

Sanji turns, eyes blinking wide in surprise. “Marimo?”

Zoro presses slightly, hard enough that Sanji instinctively leans towards him. The movement doesn’t get unnoticed by the men, and one of them raises a nasty eyebrow at him. “You got problem with us?”

Zoro clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to take out his swords. “Depends,” he growls, taking a firm step that puts himself between Sanji and the men. “Whether any of you are planning to do something stupid.”

The tallest one, who seems to be the leader of the pack, steps in front. He seems scared — all of them clearly are, having to face a man with one eye and three swords — but still stares Zoro down, probably out of ego. “What, it’s a crime to talk to people now?”

“Zoro,” Sanji says, probably trying to defuse the tension, but the leader interrupts with a, “You two together?”

They’re not, Zoro knows. They have fooled around for the past two years, but at the end of the day they sleep in their own hammock and Sanji still flirts with the girls. Sanji is most definitely the type who’s just looking for something casual, and it’s not like Zoro ever asked for something more. He doesn’t care, and they’re not together —

“Yeah, we are,” Zoro blurts, free hand moving towards his swords. “So if you’re smart, you’re going to back off.” He pushes Shushui out of its hilt, and the blade glints under the sunlight. “ Now .”

The men visibly gulp at the sight before scrambling away from them. Zoro watches them trip over nothing in fear before disappearing into a corner, hopefully never to be seen again.

Zoro feels a flare of satisfaction, but it was short-lived, soon replaced by the rush of shame, settling uncomfortably at his gut. He doesn’t know what came onto him; he rarely lost control to his own emotions like that, but Sanji has always been the exception, and he’s struggling to understand what that means .

One thing is clear, though. He turns towards Sanji. “I’m sorry.”

Sanji frowns, confused. “For what?”

“You know,” Zoro makes a vague gesture at his surrounding. “Just now. You can fight your own battles, and I shouldn’t have interfered, and even…” he trails off. Pretended to be your lover , he can’t bring himself to say.

He braces himself for the kick to the gut that he knows he deserves, but it never comes. Zoro is surprised to find Sanji scratching the bridge of his nose instead, a blush creeping up his face.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” he says, gesturing Zoro to walk with him, partly — Zoro suspects — to hide the reddening flush on his face. He clears his throat awkwardly, before admitting in a low voice, “I… like it. I mean, I don’t mind if you’re being a little possessive, once in a while.”

Sanji’s stride is fast, as if he’s trying to run away from Zoro in the middle of the conversation, and Zoro is barely able to keep in pace as he’s assaulted by so many different questions. “But,” he says, and pauses; unsure what to say. “It was a lie. We’re not even together.”

Sanji suddenly stops walking, and Zoro almost runs into him.

“What the hell, Cook?”

“What did you say?” Sanji asks, ignoring Zoro’s exclamation.

Zoro gulps. Well, here comes the kick. Late, but inevitable. “When I told them we were together,” he explains, “that was out of the line for me. We’re not together.”

But instead of lifting his leg, Sanji looks at him like Zoro just swallowed all three of his swords in front of him. “Yes, Zoro,” Sanji says, slowly, like talking to a kid. “We are.”

And now it’s Zoro ’s turn to get baffled. “What?”

Sanji’s face actually twists, like he’s being hurt. “Do you not want us to be?”

“Of course I do!” Zoro blurts out before he even realizes what he’s saying; he just doesn’t like that look on Sanji’s face, like this sad, lonely cat at the side of the road, and Zoro wants that look gone, sue him. He coughs. “But that’s not the point! We don’t even sleep in the same bed at night!”

“What are you even on about, we don’t have beds, we have hammocks and they can’t fit more than one person —” Sanji stops short. “You want us to sleep together every night?”

“Yes! No — I mean, yes, but,” Zoro stumbles, and this is all so confusing to him, damn it. It feels like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over his head in the middle of a summer’s day. He gestures helplessly at the two of them. “How was I supposed to know that you wanted this beyond a casual thing?”

Sanji looks at Zoro like he’s stupid half the time, but his current expression takes the cake. “Well, for a start,” Sanji says, “we’re soulmates.”

Zoro blinks. He waits for the words to sink in and make sense, but it never does. “...what’s a soulmate?”

Sanji drops the bag of groceries he’s been carrying.

Some of the contents spill out of the bag as it hits the ground, and Zoro absentmindedly watches an apple roll off the ground from the corner of his eye. Sanji, for once, ignores it, in favor of blurting a questioning, “how could you not know what a soulmate is?”

“Nobody ever told me?” Zoro tries, utterly befuddled now. “I grew up in a dojo, we just… trained a lot, and — what does that even have to do with us?”

Sanji balks at that. “If you didn’t know that we were soulmates and you didn’t think we were together, why did you…?”

Zoro feels like throwing his hands up in frustration. “Becasuse I — damn it , Shit Cook —” Zoro’s always been terrible with words anyway, so he shuts up, pulls Sanji by the wrist and presses a kiss to the Cook’s lips. “I love you, dumbass. I thought I could keep it all to myself, but when I saw those guys coming on to you, I couldn’t — I didn’t like it.”

He pauses to take in breath when he catches Sanji’s shoulders shaking. Anger , Zoro guesses, and wrongly, because Sanji then throws his head back and laughs.

“You’re telling me you never realized? How the others kept giving us space?” He wipes tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes which is, frankly, kind of insulting. “Brook always plays someshitty love songs whenever we hang out. Nami sent us on dates .”

“She calls them shopping trips!”

“Franky built a makeshift bed in the crow’s nest for us to fuck.”

“I always thought that was kind of weird, shut up —” The hand on Sanji’s wrist slides down to fall into Sanji’s grasp, and Sanji does shut up as he flushes and stares at their joined hands.

How has Zoro never realized? Sanji wants this relationship as much as he does. Has been treating it as one, in fact.

“So,” he clears his throat. Rubs his shoulder. “Together, huh.”

“ Soulmates ,” Sanji corrects, and his face flushes a shade darker. “You’re okay with that?”

“You’re gonna need to explain to me about this whole soulmate thing, but I’m pretty sure i’m ready for whatever it is” he says, and squeezes Sanji’s hand. “It’s with you, after all.”

"Dumbass," Sanji says, but laughs, and Zoro’s heart does a flip. They walk hand in hand then; Sanji’s hand is warm, slotting perfectly between Zoro’s fingers, and Zoro thinks he’ll never let go.