#i just really adore the Wine and Feathers AU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeoldontknow · 4 years ago

Text

smoked peaches ↣ jhs (M)

↝ A/N: a sequel to Molotov Cocktail | because i truly could not leave these two alone ugh i love them. happy valentines day! i hope you enjoy! ↬ DISCLAIMER: absolutely, under no circumstances should alcohol or cocktails be used in a manner such as this. food play is fun only when its safe, and cocktails dont really have any place in the bedroom. furthermore, essential oils should be used safely! ↝ Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (oc; female) ↝ Genre: established relationship au; pwp; smut; romance; fluff ↝ Summary: Three years into your relationship with Hoseok, you have learned what it means to be truly happy. With him, you are seen, understood, and adored - and not once, even despite all your flaws, has Hoseok ever asked you to change. So when Hoseok starts to become withdrawn and quiet during the brief hours you have with him at night, you assume it’s down to stress at work. You never imagined it would be this, something so much bigger than any obstacle you’ve confronted before or will again. Something that will last forever. ↝ Rating: NC-17 ↝ Warnings: explicit language; explicit sex; dom!jhs; dirty talk; food play (cocktails); unprotected sex; heavy petting; dry humping; blindfolds; biting; marking; oral (f); breast play; use of sex toys; clit biting; clit spanking; creampie; overstimulation; multiple orgasms ↝ Word Count: 14.5K ↬ written for the bon appetit collab with @jamaisjoons @yoonia and @chillingkoo \\ thanks to @jenmyeons for reading parts of this and offering endless encouragement <3

‘God, I’ve missed this.’

Pulling back from your lips, Hoseok whispers his affection with unprecedented conviction, the longing in his voice so tangible your chest tightens in the wake of it.

Unwilling to open your eyes, you remain still, luxuriating in the feeling of his breath as it wanders over your cheeks. The cascade of warmth is a tickle that tugs at the corners of your lips, a smile of pleasure emerging at the feel of his closeness. Languidly, he presses his fingers into the nodes of your spine, seeking out the pressure points that always ignite colours behind your eyes, his touch alone giving birth to little fires beneath your skin. Eager and lonely, you lean up, searching for his lips, his mouth, his tongue; searching for more - so much more.

Hungrily, he returns to you, proving that he had not drifted far - not really. Bumping his nose against yours, he is playful, sinful, a paradoxical combination of both that has your grip on his neck tightening as he nips gently at your bottom lip. He’s smiling, too, a beam of delight against your lips that grows wider with the strength evident in your touch. Feather light, he drops brief, teasing kisses to your lips, not nearly enough for you to feel satisfied, and so you huff in frustration, wiggling to get closer.

Amused by your needy enthusiasm, he chuckles to himself quietly, a rumble in his chest that reminds you of thunder. This laugh is one of your favorites, the sound of a man contented by your presence - by the way your legs are draped over his thighs; by the way you have pressed yourself against his chest; by the way you are utterly, impossibly insatiable, matching his thirst equally, earnest in your desire to be encompassed by his embrace.

Slowly, you open your eyes, wanting to see him, to chastise him for separating from you so soon, but are instead left bereft. Hoseok consumes your vision, his adoring eyes, his wet lipped, unwavering smile the only thing you see - all yours, all for you, as he rubs the tip of his nose against your cheek. City lights pour through the floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the pronounced length of his cheekbone. Even this late at night, the light still seeks him, his skin, nestling beneath his pores and offering him an otherworldly glow. The unnatural shades of the billboard signs, yellow fluorescent lights of the high rise apartment buildings, and the bright neon of the game arcades blend together, ensuring that he radiates with every colour and shape of the life you have built together among the clouds.

Tonight, the billboard along the highway is a rich crimson, the persistent reminder that it is Valentine’s day flooding into the room. When you came home, Hoseok suggested leaving the blinds open, eyes full of mirth as he stated he to let the whole world in, tonight; with his arms around your waist, he said he wanted to show the world how love and romance really looks. Now, enveloped around you, you know he means it.

Tonight, he wants everyone to witness this - the possessive way his tongue explores your mouth, the unwavering grip he maintains around your waist as his hand drifts from your spine to the gaps between your ribs, and back again. Hoseok wants the world to see how years with the same person, the same body, the same routine diminishes nothing, perhaps, only causes the love within your souls to become insistent and ardent. It’s grown deeper these past few months, your yearning for him evolving into the very genetics of your DNA, a piece of your chemistry, eternally.

Hoseok left the blinds open, and still he glows not unlike the rays of sun. Beneath your hands, he is resplendent, undiminished by the artificial radiance of neon. The moon hangs in the center of the sky, not yet at the height of her arch, but she has become washed out by the luminescence of the city. Hoseok is unmarred - late at night and still he outshines the universe, the brightest thing you have ever seen.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb running over the bone to catch the light that clings to him. It hugs him in ways it does not hug you, a part of him that remains incandescent and unexplained. You’ve never been able to understand it, spent your days kissing and kissing at it in the hopes of sharing the luminescence he radiates. It never works, though he says you glow too, a radiance brought to life because he chose to love you in spite of all your incorrigible flaws.

Walking your hand along his cheek, you tilt your head and wind your fingers into the hair just behind his ears, heart stuttering in its rhythm as he sighs in pleasure. The dimples of his cheeks almost emerge, almost bloom to life, but he keeps them as a secret, choosing instead to rest his forehead against yours in devotion.

‘I’ve missed you,’ you murmur, not wanting to interrupt the peace that has come to occupy the four walls of your living room; the bone deep comfort that has blossomed between your chests.

Separating just slightly, he leans into your touch, craving more and more of your affectionate caress. ‘You’ve been busy with the auction.’

‘Not so busy.’

Shaking your head, your pout feels petulant, youthful in its disagreement. Letting your hand slip from his hair, you wiggle deeper into the hard muscles of his chest, blinking distractedly at him as his own fingers worm their way under your shirt. Gripping the collar of his black shirt, you sigh, a flush heating your cheeks as the simplest of his touches sends electricity down your synapses. To be touched by him, to be in love with him, is to feel and love absolutely everything, your awareness heightened to its peak.

Always, you prefer him this way - hair unkempt and eyes glossy with devotion; prefer the nights when has abandoned the suit and tie of his usual work clothes in favor of his old university shirts and grey sweatpants, discarding the persona of Jung Hoseok to unravel into your Hobi. It happens less and less these days, ever caged by the success and importance of Hopeworld, his chain, his business, as much a fixture at the Fairmont Hotel as the valet parking.

When you met him, he was in a suit. When you fell in love with him, he was in a simple shirt and jeans, a smile tucked into the corner of his cheek that demanded you crave him, and now your yearning for him is relentless.

Sustaining your childish pout, you drag your hand down his chest, tracing the shape of his pecs and ribs as you let the pads of your fingers find his arm, gliding against the vines of his tattoo.

‘Sometimes,’ you mumble absentmindedly, watching the petals in his forearm disappear beneath your touch, ‘I come home and you’re not here. I’ve been busy with the auction, but it feels like I’m always missing you.’

Head tilting back against the couch, Hoseok sighs, lips downturned with regret. Still, his hold on you is unwavering, immovable, only tightening in the aftermath of your lament.

‘I’m not mad,’ you say hurriedly, earnestly, voice thick with sincerity. ‘I just miss you.’

In truth, you are not angry, not even really upset at his long absences. If you’re honest with yourself, you couldn’t be more proud of the business he’s built with his own hands, relying on nothing other than the strength of his determination to succeed. Little distracts him from his purpose, unencumbered by the opinions of anyone other than himself.

The lights of Le Bernardin seemed to dim as your father sat back in his seat, tapping the corner of his mouth with the expensive egyptian cotton napkin. Bitterness rose on your tongue, the flavor of your wine souring as you watched him posture the pretense of politeness for so long you wondered if he had even heard Hoseok’s announcement.

‘I won’t help you,’ he announced, tone empty and expressionless save for the severity of the derision that swam in his eyes.

From where you sat, you could feel the apathy, the admonishment and expectation that Hoseok would fail at opening, managing, and cultivating his own bar before he had even started. Thousands of arguments hung dangerously in the air, hovering above the table with threatening closeness. It was heavy, oppressive with reasoning and judgemental logic that he did not have a degree in business; that a mixologist was not a manager; that corporate holdings and the economic legalities that came with running a business were beyond him. It was not, you knew, that your father didn’t think he was smart enough - it was, you were certain, that he simply deemed Hoseok wasn’t worthy enough.

Your father’s stare remained icy and unforgiving as you gripped Hoseok’s thigh, nails digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his trousers as your tongue prepared to sever your father’s iron will. After years of this sort of combat, you were used to becoming venomous, used to shaping yourself into a creature of malcontent, the spitefulness of your contempt the armor you regularly wore. For so long, you had worn it like a second skin, felt most like yourself under its scathing anguish. For Hoseok, you would become monstrous, ugly; would grow fangs and claws and teeth in the glory of your wrath, but he gripped your thigh in kind reassurance and smiled as though hardly anything had happened at all.

Settling back against your seat, you scowled unforgivingly at your father’s passive expression. He cocked a tempestuous brow at you, a challenge though not necessarily a warning, which you mirrored, always so good at looking exactly like him.

‘It’s ignorant to presume someone would ask help from a person who is not willing to even offer it,’ Hoseok said patiently, amiably, so much better at different tactics of aggression.

You never had it in you to adorn the sickly sweetness of polite averice. You’d never wanted to be misunderstood.

‘Besides,’ he continued, removing his hand from your thigh to cut into his filet mignon. ‘That bar will be mine, not yours. You have a habit of claiming possession over the things you let into your life, and I’d rather burn in hell than watch you claim my name as another wasteland for your empire.’

Head whipping to look at him, your eyes went wide, suddenly so aware of all the ways in which light gives way to shadows, of the way light reveals absolutely everything. You’d grown used to the way rage gave birth to ugliness within you, but he wore his anger like a tantalizing weapon. You were moved by him, arrested into an uncharacteristic silence around your father, but Hoseok continued, magnificent in his slow reveal of his true humanity.

‘The bar will be mine,’ he pressed, glancing up from his plate and undeterred by your father’s scathing glare. ‘The money will be mine. I’m just telling you to be polite, because that’s what good sons do even if their fathers are worthless to them.’

Two years later, and the money is indeed his - the money, and the glory, and all the fame that comes with a chain centered in the lobby of the most expensive hotel conglomerate. Two years later, and he has a chain in his name, a business of his own, a life of his own making, even if it meant that there are countless, painful hours in which he is not, and cannot be, with you.

‘I know.’ His sigh is deep, a long huff of breath through his nose in shame. Staring up at the ceiling, he considers his words carefully. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been...’ For a moment, he drifts, lost in thought as he lowers his gaze to search your face, though for what you cannot be sure. His scrutiny is heated, intense, eyes roaming over your features over and over until you’re certain he could paint your likeness if asked. ‘It’s just been frightening,’ he announces, finally. ‘I’m not worried, really, it’s just the Hotel’s name is wrapped up into it, too.’

Peering at you carefully through his eyelashes, his grip on your waist tightens, and you feel him everywhere he is not. Hoseok roots inside you for answers to questions left unvoiced, reacquainting himself with all your intimate details. You are not certain what he seeks, why his apology is quite so sincere, and so you let your hand return to his cheek, smoothing all the edges out of his features.

Eyes fluttering closed, he holds your palm there, and you find yourself distracted both by the softness of his skin and the way the light illuminates the tattoo adorning his arm. Idly, you wish you could stay like this eternally - together, unencumbered, enraptured. Valentine’s Day has never been worth celebrating, not to you at least, but he is worth celebrating, and so you lean forward, kissing at his jaw to remind him of this sentiment.

‘It’s your first time with an inspection of this size.’ Your suggestion is soft, a soothing cadence you hope is evident in the lilt of your voice. Walking your hand up to his temple once more, your card your fingers through his hair, relishing the thickness of the strands, offering tenderness where your words might not. ‘Your license is on the line. Trust me, no one understands better than I do. You don’t have to apologize.’

Months of this, months of coming home to an empty bed only for Hoseok to climb in later, when the hours night drip into the morning. Government inspections are not new, but now with three bars under his belt, and all the inspections happening at the same time, he’s been distant. Not on purpose - never on purpose, but you feel his absence like a blade whenever the house, the bed, your life is empty of him.

‘Yes I do.’ Falling forward, he buries his face into your neck and breathes in deep, taking the scent of you into his lungs. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you smile at the feeling, blood warmed with rapture. ‘I hate not being home with you, but I promise it will be worth it.’

Hoseok accentuates his words by grazing his teeth against the tendon in your neck, his favorite spot to bruise. Usually, your skin is purpled by him, consistently red and aching with the marks of his teeth and tongue, but lately the visible proof of his attachment to you has faded. You’ve missed the burn of it, the stinging delight that would last for days. Latching his teeth to your skin, you shiver into his hold, pressing your fingers into the muscles of his back. The wet texture of his tongue against your skin has you shivering, a quake that starts in your bones first until even your heart is trembling with it.

‘I know it will,’ you hum, stroking his hair, unashamed of the way arousal pools at your groin.

Since dinner finished, you’ve been here, with him, kissing and kissing to reacquaint yourself with his lips. Your underwear has been damp since the first stroke of his tongue against yours, and you’re certain he’s felt you clenching around nothing, craving and anticipating the feel of him between your thighs.

‘But I hate how this one is making you so anxious and quiet.’ Slowly, you take your time guiding one of your hands to the back of his neck, nails scratching into the soft, thin hair at the base of his hairline. Holding him in place, you revel in the feel of his mouth moving against your skin, in the way his shoulders expand and retract as he breathes as if making way for wings. ‘I miss my sunshine boy.’

Hoseok chuckles against your neck, replacing his tongue with a cascade of warmth exhaled from his nose. ‘I’ll repeat that you’ve been busy, too.’

An impish smirk unfurls in your expression, and gathering the strands of hair at the crown of his head, you tug gently until he is pulled from your neck, blinking at you with an innocence you know can dissolve in an instant. His lips are swollen and wet from kissing your neck, the base of your jaw; all red and pink, smooth skin so enticing and the sight only serves to invigorate the thought that burns behind your teeth.

‘My love,’ you begin, sweely, ‘I’m sure I could regale you with the legalities of museum auctions, but I think we both can agree there is something far, far more worthy of our attention.’

The pads of your fingers trace idle patterns over the tendons in his neck, down to the base of his shoulders, around and into his ribs. Reaching between your bodies, your curious fingers seek the hardness of his erection, the evidence of his intense arousal pressing vigilantly against your thigh. Cupping the semi-hard girth of his cock, you offer a gentle stroke as you twist your hand. Darkness lives inside his groan, equal to the darkness that clouds his eyes, half lidded as he looks at you in warning.

The thin material of his fleece sweatpants does little to conceal the way the movements of your hand send blood and heat directly into his cock. Beneath your palm, it gradually hardens, straining against the cloth to be reunited with the feeling of your bare palm. You’re confident he can feel the heat that emanates from your core, your folds starting to leak with wetness each time he breathes through his parted lips. Each stroke has his exhale filling the silence, raising the hairs along your arms, his hips starting to thrust upwards into your hand.

It’s a dangerous game to play with him, a test of his control and dominance that always ends with you at the mercy of his lust. Just as quickly as it started, he presses one hand to your hip and taps your thigh with the other, an unspoken signal that he wants your thighs straddled on either side of him, your core presses against the tip of his clothed erection, your body against his, an unstoppable force of desire that succumbs to his will, only.

Quickly you adjust, releasing his cock only to replace the pressure of your hand with the pressure of your core, the heat from your folds and the dampness of your legging having you both exhale in unison.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he moans, easing your hips down roughly against the tip of his cock. ‘Come here.’

Once more, he works his hand beneath your shirt, warm palm journeying the length of your spine until it is gathered around his arm and your neck is gripped by the strength of his fingers. Cupping his face, you press your mouths together, grinding your hips downward as you run your tongue over the seam of his lips. Instantly, he opens for you, tugging at your hair in a gentle reminder he wants you to move slowly, to let yourself enjoy the feeling of being consumed by him. Hoseok is unhurried in the way he explores the cavern of your mouth, the tip of his tongue curious as he thrusts the wet muscle in time with the slow grind of his hips.

Your responding whimper echoes deep into his open mouth, and your hands move slowly down to his shoulders where you brace yourself, clinging to the parts of him that exude strength. His physical presence alone is a keen reminder you are whole and not undone at your very seams.

All sense of time disappears as you suck at his tongue, and only when he pulls away to catch his breath do you latch your teeth to his bottom lip, pulling back to you with greed. His lips still taste of the whiskey he had with dinner, whiskey and the flavor that is only him, so unique and rich, your favorite sort of honey.

The tip of his cock moves in a rhythmic motion, over and over, a slow drag against your covered slit. Every third movement, he rocks upward, pressing against your folds hard enough you gasp into his open mouth, only for him to retreat a moment later. A high pitched keening whine spills from your chest, and he laughs into you, pulling his tongue back to relish the way he has complete control of your responses. Digging your nails into his muscles, your brow furrows, doing your best to gather your words, your thoughts, amongst the insistent teasing pleasure.

Falling forward, your forehead rests against his, and with your eyes closed your senses become heightened. You can see it, imagining this very scene as though you are both completely present in your body and apart from it, watching him grind into you as your blood races to your chest, your cheeks, your cunt. The whiskey on his tongue has your mind fogged, and the graze of his cockhead against your slit has your limbs feeling weightless. He’s always been skilled at this, at rendering you needy, silent in the magnitude of your wanting. You thought pleasure was never meant to overwhelm a person like this, an addiction to sound and touch and taste that exceeds all realm of perception.

‘I’m glad we did this,’ he mumbles against your lips, using his thumbs to work bruises into the flesh of your hips.

All you can manage is a mindless nod, the motion sending your nose bumping into his as you press yourself harder against him. Smirking, he angles his face downward, kissing at the spot just below your ear. Electricity saunters down your synapses, and you thug your bottom lip between your teeth, uncertain how much longer you will be able to maintain this teasing game. You, above all else, are an impatient woman, deciding that which you crave most and claiming it for yourself.

Now, you want him. You want him to lay you on this couch and peel your clothes off with his teeth. You want him, his cock, so deep inside your cunt you can taste him on your tongue. You want him, his skin against yours, with no space for air to slip in between.

You have always been impatient, but Hoseok is a master of his self control, always more composed if not patient; always in command of his expression of thirst, and he pulls back slightly as he feels your slow wiggle of restlessness against his thighs.

‘Never thought we’d be a couple that has to make time for something like this,’ he comments, as though you have not soaked the very tip of his cock through his sweatpants, as though he cannot feel it at all.

With each rock of your hips, your underwear slides over your folds. Now coated with the slick substance of your juices, the thick juices spill out from the sides and onto your thighs. Your leggings, too, are drenched, a sensation that would otherwise be uncomfortable were it not for the way Hoseok rolls up into you in time with the movement of his tongue over your neck. Your sense of awareness has scattered, absconded to the parts of your body where only his touch exists. He is all you can focus on, all you want to focus on, the feel of him on and against you deemed the most important of all.

It takes work finding words to muster a reply, and you hate that he is so skilled at maintaining stability in his voice. You are best at sparring matches, at defending your worth and value, a tension you have become expertly accustomed to. From the moment you first kissed him, felt his tongue at the tip of yours, felt his muscles beneath your fingers, you have learned tension of this kind is your great unmaking.

Frustrated you huff through your nose, a noise of annoyance diminished immediately by a moan of ecstasy as the tip of his cockhead presses roughly against your covered clit. Scratching your nails into his skin and hoping the marks will last, you struggle to gather your composure, wanting to play his game as well as he. Yet, when you open your eyes, you are confronted with the impenetrable black of his dilated pupils - his tell - that he is just as ravenous as you. Always, he wears the light as though it was born from him, made by his joy alone, but when he wears the sheer darkness of his appetite he becomes utterly exquisite, a sinister promise of his wish to unravel you.

Swallowing thickly, you tilt your head to the side in mock consideration.

‘I think every couple is at some point,’ you muse, feigning a pensive tone as you grind roughly into his cock. Hoseok bucks upward, whispering quiet expletives as his eyes widen. Your smirk of victory is a tempest, an ignition of gasoline to the fire he keeps beneath his skin, and he holds you in place against him, preventing you from moving. ‘They just don’t talk about it.’

Hoseok hums in consideration as he moves his lips to the center of your throat, right over the place where your voice echoes. As he drags his teeth over the tendons, your head falls back, clenching your thighs around his.

‘I’ve missed you.’

He presses the words into your skin, embedding the rich tenor of his cadence directly into your blood. Your pulse quickens, directly responding to the feel of him replacing the oxygen in your vessels. Your grip on his hair tightens, tugging him upward and hoping to ease him back to your hungry mouth, wanting to kiss him again. But he pulls back, regards you through the length of his eyelashes and shifts his hips, moving the tip of his cock down towards the center of your folds. He lingers there for a moment, and you curse the clothing that separates you with a whimper of annoyance.

His hands move from your hips to the ample flesh of your ass, where he grips your cheeks with vigor and rolls your body forward. ‘I have half a mind to fuck you right on this couch.’

Eyes fluttering closed, you lick at your lips, all swollen and red, sighing in pleasure. ‘Then why don’t you.’

‘Because I have another surprise for you.’

Abruptly you open your eyes, feeling the mood shift as your arousal is put on pause. Lowering your gaze, you eye him conspicuously, pulling back enough you are not longer in the throes of his orbit. With each passing moment, the adrenaline in your veins shifts from the eroticism of your carnal longing to dazed confusion, blinking at him as you catch your breath.

Years with him and not once have either of you felt it necessary to buy gifts on Valentine’s Day. You are not a gifting couple, choosing instead to share all the little things that make up the life you have built: your time, a meal, hours in bed together, or hours alone - somewhere special or nowhere at all; a restaurant or your couch, each a persistent reminder that you have chosen one another. The small simplicities of your life and daily routine are more about your love than a gift of chocolate, a card full of words you would rather hear him say. Your commitment to him extends beyond a social media post, beyond a tagged location and the withering petals of discarded roses.

For him to suggest this, after he has already prepared a meal beside you, after you have stained the wine glasses with your lips, after you have told him, repeatedly and ardently, that you love him is a shock to your system.

‘I…’ Your voice fades, the guilt gripping your throat. A lump forms, not of woeful regret but of fear, the utter horror of ever seeing him disappointed. ‘I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry...we said we wouldn’t. We aren’t the type?’

‘No, no,’ he shakes his head quickly, removing his hands from your ass to rub at your arms. ‘I don’t want anything. I’ve had the world since you ordered a negroni in the middle of summer.’

Cocking your head back, you laugh loudly, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. ‘I swear, one day you will move past that.’

‘Never.’ The brilliance of his smile would almost overshadow the intensity of his disagreement, but you find it a compliment, a reassurance that your idiosyncrasies are the things that endear him to you the most. ‘Most beautiful person alive to ever order a negroni.’

‘You’re just saying that cause you weren’t alive in the forties,’ you scoff, though you match his smile, always moved to delight by the sight of him.

Hoseok shakes his head. ‘Even then.’

For a long while, you simply stare at one another, luxuriating in this closeness as you remember: the night you met, the orange peel on the rim, Namjoon - who has become one of your closest, dearest friends - ordering the drink with surprise on his cheeks; Hoseok, leaning over the bar, close enough he could smell you, and both of you, drawn to one another’s orbit, lonely moons fated to collide.

‘But no,’ he sighs eventually, the weight of it changing the mood of intimacy you had cultivated. Not eradicating it, not entirely, but something about the way he looks at you has your nerves resting on edge. ‘It's not a gift. Not really. It’s a drink.’

Leaning back, you settle away from his cock and onto his lap, curious and cautious. ‘For the new menu?’

‘No.’ Once more, he shakes his head, slowly, seductively. The movement of his head, the way the hair falls into his eyes as he smiles and smiles dances over your heart, a thunder against your sternum. ‘No this one is just for you.’

‘All these years,’ you smirk, ‘and still you think you can pull me away from my negroni?’

Now, it is his turn to laugh, a hearty sound that has you moving back over his cock, victorious.

‘Baby, trust me, I’ve long since given up that fight.’ Again, he regards you, though this time you catch traces of all the thoughts that race through his head, a glint of affection matched with a glimmer of something hopeful, though you cannot imagine why he finds a drink so serious. ‘This is different. This drink comes with a set of requirements.’

Cocking an eyebrow at him, you tilt your head to the side in question, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your lips as he taps his hands on your thighs, a signal he wants you to get up. Swinging your leg over his thigh, you settle on the couch, folding your hands in your halp expectantly, but he does not linger beside you. Rising to a stand, Hoseok grabs both your hands and pulls you up to meet him.

‘What’s going on?’ you ask, glancing around the room, bewildered.

‘So many questions,’ he sing-songs, pressing his hands to your shoulders as he turns your body you are facing forward, away from him, and begins walking you through the living room.

Turning to look over your shoulder, you do your best to regard his expression but he lifts one hand and taps your cheek gently, wordlessly advising you to face forward. His thumbs rubs slow circles into your shoulders as he walks you to your bedroom, where he lowers his hands to your hips and pulls you against him.

Immediately, you recline into the toned muscles of his chest, resting your hands over his as you sigh in delight. Relishing the closeness, you breathe together for a moment, enjoying the silence and the air of romance he so easily rekindles. It’s always been like that with him, so simple, all your passion and all your ardor brough to the surface the moment he lays his hands on you.

It’s different in this room, where the blinds are closed, where the world is cast out. In the living room, your longing had space, room to breathe and crevices to fill. Now, it clings to your skin, cloying in the way it moves through your pores and into your lungs. Every breath you take is filled with his cologne, every exhale is an utterance of your need, a whine at the back of your throat that threatens to disrupt the quiet way you take your time savoring his attention. Still, he does not give you the opportunity to consider the room beyond these feelings, nor does he allow you to turn and face him, to regard the face you long to kiss and kiss and kiss until he is a permanent fixture in your spirit.

Easing your hair over your shoulder, making space and granting himself access to the supple skin that so often goes untouched, he kisses deftly at the back of your neck as he moves a silk blindfold over your eyes, blocking your vision. The silk cools your heated cheeks, and in this darkness the smooth texture feels almost forbidden, clandestine in the way he removes your senses and demands that you trust him, implicitly. Raising your hands to touch it, you slide your fingers over and over along the threads as he ties it securely at the back of your head.

Furrowing your brow, you cannot help the chuckle that blossoms at your sudden realization. ‘Is this one of your ties?’

Burying his nose in the crown of your head, he nods, nestling it into your hair as he breathes in deep. ‘Looks better on you, in my opinion.’

Instantly your mental image of the bedroom dissolves, fading into nothingness until your senses are overwhelmed with all things Hoseok: the rich clove and bergamot of his cologne, the rhythm of his heart as it beats against your back, his lips as he wanders down and down to the shell of your ear. Even still, you see him with your whole spirit, his smile against your skin entering your heart, taking root and filling the nodes of your lungs with visions of his euphoria.

‘I want you to strip,’ he commands, voice low and full of gravel. A growl lingers at the back of his syllables, and your mouth runs dry. ‘Get undressed and stay silent. I want you naked and waiting on the bed for me.’

Against the blindfold your eyes open, and your eyelashes struggle against their confinement, another wave of arousal dripping through your folds at the sound of his voice. You are aware of absolutely everything, all the way down to the fibers of your clothes, senses brought to attention by the implication of his words. Hoseok has adopted the tone he only uses when he means to make you kneel in worship, exerting his dominance as a show of the magnitude of his affection. So rarely does he speak to you with such power and control, your muscles tense in willing obedience.

His voice saunters through your very existence, your nipples erect and sensitive as they press against the cotton of your tee shirt bra. You hadn’t planned on wearing lingerie, haven’t needed to since your first Valentine’s together when he said it didn’t matter what you wore or how you dressed, all he wanted was you naked beneath him and anything else deterring this was viewed, in his eyes, as an obstacle. Had you known he was planning something, you’d have planned, too.

‘Be good for me,’ he whispers, nipping at your earlobe before he departs from the room entirely, your body shivering in his absence.

The seconds that pass feel like an eternity, your heart racing as you gather the strength of your senses, reigniting the muscle memory of your bedroom. All over your body, you sense the energy of things, objects, certain you are near the bed without even feeling it. Diligently, you begin to undress, hands shaking as you reach for the hem of your shirt. Careful not to shift or undo the blindfold, your slow removal of your clothing feels ceremonious, a ritual of preparation for something holy. In the darkness behind your eyes, this room becomes your sanctuary, each removal a prayer of obedience and commitment.

As you ease your leggings down your legs, the strong scent of your arousal reaches your nose, and you part your lips from the intensity. You’ve been on edge from the very moment you felt the first stirrings of Hoseok’s cock within his sweatpants, from the very moment your tongue met his. When he returns to the room, he will smell how terribly wet you have become, how much of a mess you have made of yourself just for him, because of him.

Stepping out of your leggings, you reach behind your back and undo the clasp of your bra, each touch of your own fingers sparking a new world of lust as colours bloom behind your eyes. Your hands tremble, but your heels press into the hardwood of the floor, rooting yourself within the gravity to ensure you do not drift from the force of your desire.

Discarding your bra, the air hits your breasts and you move to cover yourself, only to ball your hands into fists and return your arms to your sides. Hoseok does not like it when you hide, a habit you have learned to unmake beneath the heated intensity of his unwavering, loving gaze. With him there, you have learned not to cover yourself, but when there is only nothing, you wonder now why your first instinct is to hide, why the vulnerability of such exposure has you feeling young, unfamiliar with the significance of such eroticism.

Relying on muscle memory, you move towards the bed and perch carefully on the edge of the mattress. The air in the quiet room is wrought with unprecedented tension, your senses scattered to every surface as your hair stands on end.

Even though it’s unnecessary, even though the silk blindfold is heavy against the bridge of your nose, thick enough to block out all the light, you still keep your eyes closed. The silence of your bedroom is deafening, oppressive in its effort to intensify the eroticism of this darkness. Gnawing your bottom lip, you strain to hear just what he could be doing in the kitchen - what else there is to be done - but you hear nothing. All the quiet seems to accomplish is heightening the ever growing reverberation of his command in your mind, an echo control that haunts even the marrow of your bones.

Like always, Hoseok inspired the full totality of your obedience with just one sentence, stripping his voice of all sunshine, all warmth, rendering you naked down to your nerves; the only one to ever live inside you, so deep. Your neck still burns, right above your pulse, right where he’d kissed his words, the fire of his open mouth removing all your clothes before your shaking hands could undo the rest. The fervent laughter that always nestles in the end of his syllables, in the corner of all his smiles, was absent, and now you are left anticipating him, craving him, hoping that you will be good for him - that you will be the wick he decides to ignite.

Rolling your shoulders back, you raise your breasts and keep your posture straight, poised, hoping that he will be pleased when he sees you. You cannot remember the last time you felt so exposed, so utterly raw in your nakedness. When you came home, the apartment felt too warm, the heat raised to a limit that always makes you feel uncomfortable. Now, you are trembling within it, skin and nerves tender, forced to acknowledge the full length of your body; the supple texture of your sinew, the voluptuous curve to your breasts, the slope of your hips, the dripping folds of your sex.

In this silent loneliness, you are left to contend with the reality of yourself - to recognize all the pieces of you he adores.

Still, the anticipation of his touch, his breath, has your hands fisting in the sheets, and you laugh. He’s changed them, the fabric of the duvet softer, smoother than the thick cotton you often prefer. The texture against your skin raises gooseflesh along your arms, a shiver taking its time to walk up the length of your spine. All of this softness, all these delicate fabrics against your skin, and all they create is a cage of your longing. Too long have you been left wanting him, missing him, and now he means to entrench you in it.

Now, he demands that you experience just how badly, how desperately, he has been wanting you, too.

The bedroom door pushes open, a sound usually so innocuous, so meaningless, causing your walls to clench around nothing. Grimacing, you take in a sharp breath to apologize or comment on the messiness of this reality, but you remember that he told you to remain silent, and so you force your lips to close. The sheets will be stained by the end of the night - of this you are certain. Nothing, you’re sure, will wash away the remnants of your desire.

The further he walks into the room, you are overcome with the intense aroma of peach and cinnamon. Such delicate scents overtake the space, maximized in their power, wafting over and into you, until you’re certain you could taste it on your tongue. Hungrily you salivate, and so too does the wetness between your folds seep leisurely through your slit, as if motivated by the ghost of flavor within your mouth.

Accompanying this scent is the light clinking of glass, and your ears perk up at the first trace of noise. Hoseok remains silent, but you can distinctly make out the silver swizzle stick he uses to mix drinks gliding along the rim of a glass. Recently you’ve heard it in the late hours of morning, before dawn has the opportunity to kiss the sky. He stirs and stirs, your bed empty and your hand resting on the space where his body had been, mattress still warm. Usually, this very sound eases you back to sleep, a comforting night song that kisses your sense when he cannot.

Now, the high pitched rattle is a sting against your nerves, a call to attention and reverence.

But this too does not maintain your attention for long. There are other noises, other clattering sounds of metal, plastic, and something else you cannot quite make out that alert you to an assortment of items - a tray, a selection, and, suddenly, mist. As Hoseok approaches where you sit, a gentle, cool fog passes over your skin, and you reach your hand forward to let it slip between your fingers. It sticks to the all the minute, normally unnoticeable crevices of your skin before dissolving, a whisper of sugar and honey that settles against you as if by magic. Before you, hidden behind a blindfold, a rich meal, a just dessert, has been laid out, while Hoseok views you in kind.

Tendrils of mist add to the moisture and heat in the room, the sweetness raising the temperature against your skin as your arousal swirls expectantly in your belly. The darkness that surrounds you has your skin feeling tender, ripe muscle taught with wanting, and you lean forward, seeking the relief of Hoseok’s lips against your soft, malleable pieces.

Reaching forward through the mist, you seek the tactile solidness of his touch. ‘Hoseok?’

You cannot help the exclamation of his name, an oath of allegiance and questioning of what mystery he has brought into the room, hoping he will say your name to fill the room with his voice.

‘Ah, ah,’ he cautions, and though the commanding nature of his voice still lingers, the sound of something other than your beating heart in your ears is an extraordinary relief. ‘I said to remain silent. Only speak unless I tell you to.’

Pouting, the retraction of your hand is swift, and your fingers furl into the bed sheets as you acquiesce to his wishes.

Hoseok moves the swizzle stick through the glass, once, twice, before he hums pensively. ‘Do you know why I became a bartender?’

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you shake your head, certain that any answer you would give is not the one he is seeking. When you were new together and newly in love, you asked this question as you laid with him in bed, running your finger over his heartbeat. So much of your first start was centered around you, the war you waged with your father, your question of worth for things that chose you instead of you taking it as an act of defiance. You wanted to spend the rest of your days learning about him, learning his thoughts, his war, and his answer was a journey of money and consequence.

Over time, you’ve learned the journey was one creation, of inspiration as much as necessity.

‘Do you have a guess?’

Parting your lips, you focus on finding your voice, the stimulation surrounding the darkness so potent all your words come slowly. ‘You like making things. You like pleasure.’

‘Good,’ he praises, and you preen delightedly, offering him a wide smile full of love and pride. ‘Do you know why I became a mixologist?’

Hoseok places the tray on what you presume is the top of your dresser across from where you sit, but you both feel and hear him move to the side where places something in the nightstand at his side of the bed. You focus your attention on these movements, letting your mind come to several of its own conclusions, all wholly unrelated to his question.

Had he also stripped while he was away from you? Is the amber golden texture of his skin on display, concealed from you by a simple strip of fabric? How does his tattoo shift in this light, the blossom of the bird of paradise just as rich as the fruit that fills the room?

You imagine all of it - every color and texture and shape of his body, certain you have learned every nuance of his being down to the very bone. These thoughts entice you, but so too does the thought of another of his praises, an encouragement that has you hurriedly responding to not keep him waiting any longer.

‘Passion.’

‘Close. Similar.’ Hoseok moves to the tray on the dresser, and you strain to discern the things he touches, unable to come up with anything beyond the obvious drink he had created. ‘It’s like perfumerie,’ he explains, shifting items along the tray and stirring the drink once more. ‘I think everyone, at some point, wants to bottle the thing they find most beautiful. They want to wear it, permanently. They want the smell to wet the tongue, to inspire the possibility of skin on skin, to provoke the curiosity of more. Mixology is like that, but you don’t wear the drink, you taste it. You have to hold it in your mouth, until it becomes a part of you.’

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you wait patiently for the closeness of his body in the ensuing silence and consider his explanation. He’s always been like this, passionate to a point of burning, his drive running deeper than you can ever comprehend. Every time you come close, it has changed, his every moment of creativity sparking a more enduring affection for his craft.

Hoseok walks closer to you, but still chooses to remain just out of reach, far enough you can feel the magnetic chemistry of his closeness and your skin begins to ache. Childishly you raise one hand, reaching for him and hoping to pull him against your skin, but he does not move, only chuckles at your display of indignant neediness. Instead, he releases a slow hum of breath through his nose and taps the swizzle stick against the rim of the glass, delaying your reunion even further.

‘You’re like that,’ he continues, the rich intonation of his voice a thick syrup that molds over your skin. Placing the swizzle stick back on the tray, Hoseok inches ever closer, the pads of his feet against the floors a rhythm that incites a riot of excitement in your heart. With him, he brings more mist, more spice, more peach, all of it waftering onto your chest and mingling with the perspiration that has started to coat your sinew. A moan of thirst worms its way through your chest, a keening, tiny sound of impatient defeat.

Finally, when he is close enough the steady exhale of his breath joins the fog in tracing patterns over your sternum, your jaw, your lips; his presence, an instigation of juices that drip once more through your folds and onto the sheets. You want to say his name, want to talk, want to reach your hands out and cup his cheeks to bring his lips to yours, but with each continued speech, Hoseok sounds more and more serious, and you obediently remain quiet.

‘That is what you are,’ he repeats softly. ‘A whisper that is always on my tongue. A taste I can’t seem to quit.’

He bumps against your legs, and immediately you spread them wide, luring him into your orbit. The act separates your folds, allowing more of your thick juices to drip into the bed and changing the scent that fills the room. The mist is persistent, a tingle of pleasure that walks down your nerves, and now with Hoseok between your thighs, the warmth that radiates from his aura overtakes your senses. He’s everywhere, nowhere, a ghost that haunts your bones and spirit, and you tilt your head back, looking upwards into the nothingness, waiting for his lips.

‘I made this for you, because it is you,’ he murmurs, though the proximity of his voice is a wildfire. ‘I call this drink the Whisper Blend. It’s how you taste to me, how you make me feel. I wanted to bottle you for myself, to keep you with me, always.’

HIs hand comes to cup your chin, guiding you in a direction you imagine is perfectly poised to accept his tongue, his mouth, his soul.

‘I want you to taste yourself.’ All the gravel of his voice, arousal and seductive intent, reaches into the caverns of your heart, gripping you completely. ‘I want you to taste how you make me feel.’

Gripping the edge of the mattress tightly, you lean forward, pressing your chin into his fingers. Your nerves run haywire, electric and scattered, and you are certain that were it not for your bones your spirit would erupt absolutely everywhere to press itself against him. Hoseok takes a slow inhale, long and deep, and lowers his mouth to your lips. On instinct, you part for him, expectant and eager to experience the way he feels when that is all there is - no sight, no sound, just his touch, holding you because he can, and because he wants to.

Still, he does not kiss you - not really. Gently, he exhales, and an abundance of peach fills the cavern of your waiting mouth, the rich flavor invading the crevices until it dissolves leaving only his breath. The cocktail smoke dissipates on your tongue, a sweet residue left behind that has you humming in pleasure. Pulling back, he breathes in again, the smoke shifting around your body as it is pulled into his mouth. When he returns to you, he presses his lips to yours, this time pausing in the contact of this kiss, before he exhales once again.

Unable to help yourself, your hands come to cup his face, holding him there as you inhale, moving your lips in a slow, reverent motion. Again, the smoke dissolves into the ether, leaving just the distinct, sweet flavor of his mouth against yours. His fingers massage slow circles into the bones of your jaw and chin, his own sigh a waterfall down your open throat. When he pulls away, you suddenly feel disdainful of the tie that covers your eyes, wanting to take your time admiring him, the flush at his cheeks that you feel beneath your fingertips, the glimmer of hunger in his eyes.

The third time he returns to your lips after a full inhale of the mist, he comes to you and lets his tongue press languidly against yours amongst the smoke. You hadn’t expected the intrusion, moaning in utter satisfaction at the fulfillment of your desires. Idly, he strokes his tongue over yours as he kisses you, exploring the parts he had coated with sugar and peach. With each motion, your inner walls clench around nothing, folds slick with and sticky against the bed as your parted legs do their best to hold him in place. You’ve become utterly overcome with the intimacy of sharing breath, and sharing yourself, your heart racing to shatter the hard bone of your sternum.

Desperately, your cunt aches for this kind of attention, for the invasion of something solid and thick, stroking at the places that live deep inside of you. Focusing on the emptiness of your core, you moan dejectedly, walking your hands into his hair where you fist handfuls of the strands to deepen the kiss. This, he only allows for a moment, relinquishing his tongue only to bite at your lip before sucking eagerly at it. And all too quickly, he pulls away and guides your chin upward to carefully tilt your head.

‘Drink,’ he commands, pressing the cool glass to your swollen bottom lip.

With your eyes closed, it’s difficult to drink and anticipate the flood of liquid, but Hoseok maintains complete control, sustaining a slow flow of the cocktail into your waiting mouth. On impact with your tongue, colours blossom behind your eyes - rich crimson of cinnamon, pale yellow, purple for the floral of lavender, and clear white for the sharp bite of vodka that lingers after the sweetness fades.

Hoseok has bottled a dessert, a warm summer that bleeds into the first chill of autumn. In a single glass, he has contained an aroma of life itself, a richness full of crisp dreams that refuse to fade over time, zeal and ardor, passion in a glass that overwhelms the difference between life and living. He said this was you, your taste, and you choke slightly on the drink as emotion wells in your chest, the action causing some of the cocktail to spill out from the corners of your lips, down your jaw as it drips onto your chest and breasts.

Immediately, he pulls the glass away, and you catch your breath only for it to be swiftly taken away. Placing open mouthed kisses across your chest, he laps up the stray remnants of the cocktail, using the tip of his tongue to lave your skin clean. Your hands tremble where they hold his head, breath coming short and heavy in your lungs as he moves down, and down to the top of your breasts. He wastes no time in biting delicately at the supple flesh, leaving a mark against your body for only you both to see.

Releasing his hand from your chin, his touch vanishes for just a moment before he swipes two fingers over your nipple, digits drenched with the cocktail. Swirling them over the sensitive, hardened bud, your body reacts instantly, invigorated by the sudden overwhelm of contact. Bucking your hips against the bed, you urge him for more, wanting his mouth where his fingers rest. Sensing your impatience, he drags his tongue down to the swollen bud and flicks it with the tip before rolling it between his teeth.

‘Lay back for me,’ he commands, pulling away from your breast, and this time you smirk. His voice is a rasp of taught strain, the edges of his control beginning to fray. ‘Lay back and spread yourself.’

Without any hesitation, you obey, releasing your grip on his hair to press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself back and back until the thick cushion of the pillows presses into the base of your spine. Spreading your legs wide, wider than you could before and wide enough you are confident he can see the way your slit glistens with slick, you rest your head against the headboard and lower two fingers to your core. Knitting your brow, the contact with your neglected folds as you gasping in relief, the pads of your fingers gathering all the juices that have gathered, smeared over your thighs, and still leaking from your center. Quickly, they become coated, this likely the wettest you've ever been simply from his endless teasing. Taking two fingers, you rub them over your slit before parting your folds, forming your fingers into a wide ‘V.’ Clenching your inner walls, more juices drip from your core, down your ass and into the sheets, forming a new stain for you both to admire.

As you expected, the sight of your spread cunt has Hoseok growling, and you feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he joins you on the bed. Somehow, you sense that he crawls to you, a hunter on the prowl, and you imagine how he looks now based on the all the times you have seen him like this before.

With your insides still warmed from the cocktail, your skin begins to flare with heat, demanding the feel of his hands against your for fear of your bones coming undone. You can feel him between your thighs, the ripples of magnetic waves of his closeness sauntering through your muscles. So too does his breath tickle the supple sinew at the inside of your thighs, a cascade that seems to travel along your nerves and directly into your opened core. The texture of your fingers at the swollen flesh of your cunt is a tantalizing sensation, though it does not provide the relief you seek.

This stretch is a display of your wanting, but it is not nearly enough to satisfy the ache that lurks in your belly, your core, all the way to the barrier of your cervix. Any other night, and you would demand he fill you completely, but even now you are uncertain you could gather enough strength to be so demanding.

Impishly, Hoseok takes hold of your knee and bites at the inside of your thigh, so close to where you want him most, yet far enough you cry out in shock and frustration. Hands fisting in the sheets at the sensation of his teeth grazing over your skin, a feeling that travels all over your body, as though his teeth are everywhere all at once, your back arches off the bed, presenting your breasts to the open air. His name builds at the back of your throat, the only word you think you could manage, a short set of syllables full to the brim with your primal yearning.

As if sensing your will to speak, always so aware and in tune with your needs and the responses he pulls from your body, Hoseok smiles against your skin, kissing and kissing.

‘It’s okay.’ Your muscles clench, feeling his voice trickle into the marrow of your bones. He kisses his words into the apex of your thigh before running his nose up to your center, where he rests the tip at your parted folds. ‘Say my name.’

‘Hoseok,’ you exclaim, pressing your spine into the bed to shift your parted lips closer to his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ he curses, releasing your thigh and pulling away. He shifts on the bed, reaching for something he unscrews not far from the bed. ‘My name sounds best coming from you.’

Rubbing his hands together, he returns to his position between your thighs, the blindfold preventing you from watching him. This is your favorite sight: him, between your legs, a hungry beast who regards you with his heart first. He looks good between your legs, even better with his lips covered in your juices, and so you wiggle your hips impatiently, running your fingers over your slit before pressing them inside, taunting him.

‘I told you to be a good girl,’ he threatens darkly, pushing your hand away with his wrist. Settling between your legs, Hoseok finally holds your hips, fingers coated with an oil that sends a shiver down your spine. Through the aroma of peach and cinnamon, mint begins to blossom, clearing the air and sending tingles of excitement over your nerves, a winter on the brink of your bedroom’s autumn.

‘Peppermint oil,’ he explains, rubbing his fingers into your muscles in a slow massage. Yet, there is no relaxation to be found. Lowering himself to your folds, he places a wet, open mouthed kiss at your slit, letting the tip of his tongue press at the seam of your drenched core before retreating. Crying out, you roll your hips forward, bucking up to seek his tongue once more. ‘I want you to tremble in it, the warmth and the chill. Do you know how often you unmake me? I want you to feel it.’

Again, he lowers his lips to your folds, stroking his tongue through your slit and against the sensitive walls of your core. A strangled cry rumbles through your throat, a moan of ecstasy at something thick and solid penetrating your core. Unfurling your hand from the sheets, you reach down and rest your hand at his head, intending to hold him there so you can rock your hips against his mouth, but he retreats immediately, clicking his tongue in derision.

‘Are you trying to take control, baby?’ he sneers, his hold on your hips tightening as he rubs the oil deeply into your skin. ‘I know how much you hate to give it up, but tonight your job is to receive.’ You feel his eyes wander over your wanton form, studying the voluptuous curve of your breast, the part of your lips, the perspiration that has gathered at your neck and beneath your breasts. ‘You can touch me,’ he amends softly, ‘but no pressure. Just touch. I’m the one who dictates how hard and how fast tonight.’

With that, he returns his tongue to your slit, curling it inward to collect the juices that have gathered at your core. Returning your hand to his head, you card your fingers through his hair as your cry of ecstasy fills the room. Unable to keep yourself still, you roll your hips forward, into the stroke of his tongue to urge him deeper, and he growls, the vibration of his voice careening through your joints.

‘Oh, fuck, Hoseok,’ you whimper.

He sets a steady rhythm with his tongue, plunging your folds with a vigor that feels almost brutal. Having no real contact to your cunt for so long, wanting him for so long, and no longer being able to see him, you cannot remember the last time the feel of his tongue inside you was such an intense sensation. Warm and wet, the muscle explores your core, your walls clenching around it as a new wave of juices leaks from your cunt into his waiting mouth. It soaks the flesh of your ass, his lips, the bed. Over and over, he pushes his tongue into your cunt with unfettered ardor, thrusting ever deeper with piercing intensity, doing his best to collect every drop while simultaneously stroking every nerve that comprises your walls.

Tension builds in your muscles, thighs taught with the magnitude of your arousal as you drag one foot over his ribs, over the smooth muscles of his back. In silent praise, Hoseok removes a hand from your hip and walks it up your side to cup your breast. The oil at his fingers chills the swollen nub of your nipple, and you clench once more against his tongue, quivering with fervor. Between the knuckles of two fingers, he clinches your nipple, the slight pain of oversensitivity combatting the unbridled pleasure at your core so harshly you moan out his name, feeling tears beginning to prick at the corner of your eyes.

Pulling his tongue from your folds, he moves it to your clit and begins the same attention, flicking it with his tongue. Shuddering, you fist one hand in your hair as your other clings to his for some semblance of sanity. But your Hoseok is always relentless in the way he delivers pleasure, in the way he chooses to pleasure you, and the remaining hand at your thigh drifts away for just one moment. The pressure does not leave the bed, and so you know he has not gone far, but against the blindfold your eyes widen into darkness at the sudden click of a vibrator.

Brows raising to your hairline, your breath catches. ‘Ho-Hoseok?’

Wordlessly, he simply rolls his tongue over your clit in time with the way his knuckles massage at your nipple. You hear the sound of the vibrator inching closer until, all at once, it is pressed to the barrier of your slit as he sucks harshly on your clit, nipping at it gently. The tremors from the toy ripple up into your thighs, juices spilling out from your slit as your arousal courses through the totality of your existence. You suppose you have always been in this state, have always been trapped in such a volatile state of craving, your spine pressing into the mattress to ground yourself to reality.

Without any warning at all, Hoseok sucks deftly at your clit once again as he presses the head of the vibrator through your slit. Your walls part around the toy, its vibrations cascading even into your bones, and you clench around it, hoping to lure it deep inside of you. Biting your tongue, you keep yourself silent, wanting to say more than his name, more than just a few curses. Pleas for him to fuck you ruthlessly live and smolder to ash against your teeth, an impenetrable barrier of obedience you are unwilling to break.

Palming your breast with the whole of his hand, he massages the oil into your skin, another shiver of frost against the bruising summer of your flesh that has you groaning. As you grind down against the toy, he proceeds to trace figure eights with the tip of his tongue against the hardened bud of your clit, thrusting the toy all the way into your cunt. The thick girth of the toy and the vibrations now filling the whole of your core have you releasing a scream of surprise, back arching off the bed once more as though preparing to sprout wings.

Hoseok fucks the vibrator into your relentlessly, almost ruthless in the pace he maintains in time with the motions of his tongue and the hand at your breast. Your orgasm builds just as mercilessly, a tightening coil at the base of your spine that turns your muscles to steel. Juices spill over from your foils, the damp patch of sheets beneath your waist soaked, and you’re certain he must be soaked as well, the mental image of it inspiring a choked gasp within your lungs.

He knows you like it this way, intense, unforgiving, each thrust bordering on painful to ensure that you will feel the ache deep within for days. Long after he is gone, you want to resonate with him, haunted by the ghost of his seductive prowess, unable to liberate yourself from his clutches. With each inward thrust of the vibrator, your walls clench, hoping to hold it in place as the whisper of your orgasm builds within your muscles. The heat is almost oppressive, your breath a heavy fire in your lungs, tongue slick with the embers of each howl of pleasure you have worked to contain.

The vibrator is not set to a very high level, this toy one of your shared favorites. You have grown familiar with the sound and the shape and the feeling, but somehow no longer seeing the toy or seeing Hoseok as he uses it has every aspect of it feeling new, foreign, the level of this toy infinitely stronger than any other you might own. And, paired with Hoseok’s skilled mouth, you doubt anything could ever compare again.

The curl of your fingers into his hair is a give away, the muscles of your arm sore with the effort of not pressing him harder, deeper against you, and your hand quakes with the effort of remaining the pretense of passivity. Instead, you direct this motion into the roll of your hips, meeting the toy thrust for thrust as you rock against his open mouth, fucking both the toy and his tongue as he suck s your clit. Sensing your impending orgasm, Hoseok growls, the rumble joining the vibrator within your walls.

‘Oh,’ you cry, soft enough you think it might be missed over the sound of his wet sucking and the thrum of the toy. But still this exclamation is a betrayal, and you are swiftly proven incorrect.

Releasing his lips from your clit, he rests his head against your bent thigh and breathes heavily. ‘Are you looking to cum?’

Unable to speak, you nod furiously against the pillow, the swell of your impending climax lurking just at the edge of your perception. Yet, he is dissatisfied with your silence, and abruptly turns the vibrator up to another level. The sudden increase in intensity sends a quake through your thighs, your hand releasing his hair as you slap the bed, groaning in response.

‘Talk to me,’ he urges, gentle yet still maintaining his tone of authority. ‘Use that pretty mouth of yours.’

‘Please, let me cum,’ you cry, caught in a battle of holding yourself back, panting into the open air and unashamed of how depraved you might look. ‘I need to cum.’

‘You know this is all for you, baby.’ Moving off your thigh, you feel his breath return to the wetness of your core, each exhale from his nose cooling the drenched spit and slick at your clit and slit. ‘Make sure to leave some for me though.’

Offering a rough flick of his tongue to your clit, he sucks at the bud and thrusts the vibrator into your cunt, turning up the notch one more time. The blunt head of the toy brushes against your spot, pulling a choked moan from your chest in surprise. Eyes wide, yet empty, you peer at the expanse of black in a daze, mouth opened in a silent scream. Your orgasm comes swiftly, violently, shattering all resolve you had managed to maintain. Rivulets of your juices spill from your cunt, and Hoseok’s lips suck diligently at your clit, occasionally letting his tongue drift downward to join the toy at collecting the traces of your cum.

In the aftermath, you convulse into the bed, and Hoseok pulls the toy from your core. Crawling up the bed, lays his body over you and finally you can feel that he, too, has been naked this whole time. Skin against skin, he holds you against him, rubbing his hands over your ribs as you quake with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Limbs feeling boneless, heavy, you wrap your arms around his back and cling to him, tears drying against your cheeks.

The head of his cock lingers at your entrance, threatening to breath through your sensitive folds. Burying his face in your neck, he breathes against you, tossing the toy to the other side of the bed.

‘I need you inside me,’ you announce, driven to a brink of insanity in the throes of your climax. Forgetting the rule to remain silent, you toss it aside, damning it, needing the girth of his cock bearing down at your cervix.

‘Did I ask you to speak?’ he rasps into the tendons of your neck, where he bites.

‘No,’ you manage, ‘but I’m going to.’

Removing a hand from your side, he burrows his hand between your bodies and slaps at your clit. The sudden pain against your swollen, sensitive nub has you calling out his name. The sensation of your tenderness wanders all the way up into your throat, your lungs reverberating with the harshness of his slap.

‘You want me to fuck you?’ His words come with an impish smile, followed swiftly by a bite to your pulse that has your hips bucking up against his cock.

The head of his cock protrudes deeper through your folds, but he pulls back and once more slaps your clit, a tap to the nub that has you groaning.

‘Please,’ you whimper. ‘I can tell you want it, too.’

Gliding your hands down the expanse of his back, you palm the cheeks of his ass with your full fist, guiding him closer in the hopes of pressing him inside. Hoseok releases an expletive against the beat of your pulse, the flow of your blood rushing to his lips, hoping to be kissed. The feel of his teeth grazing over the thunder of your pulse has your legs widening to ease him deeper, muscles straining at their limit. Kissing down your neck to your breast, he sucks the erect nipple of your opposite breast into his mouth as the engorged head of his cock sinks deeper into your core.

‘Just fuck me already.’

Pushing down on his ass, you force him all the way into your cunt, pressing his head right against your cervix. His concentration snaps, his eyelashes grazing your skin as he squeezes them shut, shuddering against your hips and thighs. Feeling victorious, you smirk into the darkness, clenching your walls around his cock. Moaning your name, he rolls his hips forward in warning. Hoseok’s moan is an avalanche against your skin, an earthquake of violence that rumbles into your lungs.

‘Don’t do that,’ he threatens. ‘I won’t last.’

Taking back control, you clench your walls again and meet the roll of his hips with yours, taking him deeper. ‘That’s the point.’

Bunching the sheets in his fist, Hoseok sets a punishing rhythm, thrusting abruptly against your cervix and ensuring your walls feel the veiny texture of him drag against the sensitive nerves. Unable to speak, you simply breathe together, sharing breath and sharing life, hoping that the smell of him remains on your skin for all eternity. Every thrust has your thighs shaking, the heavy sack of his balls slapping against your ass. The sound of it joins the moans you release with every press of his cock into your spot, your voice loud and unashamed. You don’t care who hears you, don’t care who you wake, you ensure the celebration of your voice rolls off his skin and into his heart with each gasp of his name.

Hoseok moans in harmony with you, garbled and broken, as the vice grip of your walls clench his heavy cock. Pleasure ripples within and through you, spreading all the way from your core to the crown of your head, all your senses heightened. No trace of light penetrates the blindfold, and so your mind wanders to every fibre and sense of your body, aware of every texture of his cock, every press of his fingers into your skin, every burn of oxygen in the vessels of your blood.

The wet sounds of your fucking only serve to reinvigorate the traces of your orgasm. It becomes impossible to focus on anything other than this - the rough pound of his hips against yours and the stretch of your walls around his heavy girth. The brutal pace of his hips sends the bed frame into the wall with each inward thrust, and you relish the pain that comes with his unrelenting force.

‘Fuck, Hoseok,’ you cry out, digging your nails into strong flesh of his ass. You press crescent moons into the supple skin, leaving your mark against the sun.

The perspiration that gathered at your hairline grows into beads of sweat, the exertion of meeting his pace causing your body to melt beneath his warmth. Hoseok pants his gasps into your skin, an added wetness as his saliva trickles from his open mouth and down your neck and chest. The liminal space of this fucking nearly unravels you, so used to the feel of his cock buried inside you while certain you have never experienced the totality of it quite this way. In the darkness, there is only this lust, only this passion, and the very weight of it consumes you from the inside, building your orgasm to new heights.

Hoseok fucks you open, ensuring that no one will ever have you again - as if you would ever let them. Each brush of his cockhead against your cervix is a declaration of possession, a promise of an eternity with his marks against your skin and bones, and behind the blindfold you see your whole life stretch out before him from this moment up until the very last, when your atoms are scattered in their search for his. Reality beyond the border of your body dissolves, your universe beginning and ending where his hips meet yours, and the immensity of the love and lust you harbor for him nestles your impending climax directly at the center of your core.

Thighs shaking, you clench around him again in warning. But as deeply as you know Hoseok, know the nuance and details of his very existence, he knows you too. Releasing his hand from the sheets, he scratches at your ribs before moving it between your joined bodies, using the blunt edge of his knuckle to massage your clit once more. Still raw and tender from your first orgasm, the contact sends a jolt of pain through your nerves, a yelp of shock bleeding into a cry. Your grip tightens on his ass, and your thighs close tightly around his sides, latching him in place.

‘Let go of control,’ he says, pulling away from your neck to kiss at your lips with every word he speaks. ‘You’re close, I can feel it in the way you’re shaking.’

Certain that your reality is crumbling, your hands move from his ass to the middle of his back, clutching him as your whines increase in pitch and frequency. You feel yourself become dizzy, the scent of him, the scent of peach, the scent of mint, the scent of vodka all over your skin and all over him has your mind fogged with little other than the intense stimulation he provides.

‘I’m gonna cum,’ you whisper, surprised by the sound of your own voice.

Your orgasm threatens to unmake your very existence, a silent revolution inside the marrow of your bones, and you fight it back just long enough to obey any of his possible commands. But still, it keeps you burning at the edge, a flame only the stroke of his cock against your cervix could coax into an inferno.

Pressing his knuckle deep into your clit, Hoseok urges you to cum without words, without encouragement or instigation from his authoritative tone, easing his tongue into your mouth. Stroking at the muscle, he swallows the scream of your orgasm as your release undoes your sense of reality. The world behind the blindfold erupts, a kaleidoscope of colour brought to life by the swirl of his hand against your clit and the piercing thrust he delivers to the barrier of your cervix, demanding entry to your womb. You want him there, want him inside you always, and you clench around him tightly as your orgasm overtakes your muscles. Your body is an earthquake caged in his arms.

You, a perfume and a drink, a war and a victory, an earthquake and a hurricane, every season belonging to him alone.

As you come down from your high, Hoseok only increases the pace of his thrusts, somehow gaining strength at the feel of your juices dripping around his cock. The stimulation stings, and he pulls his tongue from your mouth to let you both catch your breath, your whimpers of pain an echo of the intensity of his cock stretching your walls. The bulbous head of his cock is unforgiving, picking up speed as he breathes against your cheeks. Still, you can feel his own limbs begin to shake, and you attempt to soothe his tremors with tender massages of your fingers into the wings of his shoulders.

Grunting with exertion, Hoseok becomes speechless as he chases his high, and the tingling pain that once lived at your core soon gives way to another orgasm within your belly. How starved have you been for him? How long have you wanted him? It does not matter, you think, the removal of distractions and the urge to focus only on him has your body pouring its lust into the feel of his cock at the entrance of your womb. Whining, you cling to him once more, joints taught in preparation for another, sudden orgasm.

The feel of your walls gripping him so tightly causes his hips to stutter, and the incoordination of his impending climax overtakes the power of his movements. With your own orgasm readying in the base of your spine once more, you hold onto him tightly and roll up into his hips yet again, matching him thrust for thrust.

Only three strokes more and you both come undone, the searing heat of Hoseoks’s cum filling your core as his body shudders in your arms.

‘Fuck, shit,’ he moans, burying his face into your neck as he thrusts each spurt of cum into your cunt.

Wetness greets your cheeks, the tears from your eyes flowing freely, a surprise and a shock without any vision for them to blur. Together, you breathe in unison, riding the aftershocks of your orgasms until the walls of your cunt burn with the force of your clenching. He collapses against you, breathing heavily as your hand comes to stroke absentmindedly at his core. Every now and then, your walls clench, his cock presses deeper, his cum dripping from your walls to greet the mess you've made of the sheets.

Time presses on, the world continues to turn, but behind your blindfold the universe is on pause, suspended in only this moment in which you are holding him, he is inside you - softening, but still yours - and there are no gaps between your bones for air to move between. Idly, you suppose this is the paradise many so often speak - an empty mind, a comfort in your limbs that comes only with immense peace, a contentment to your heart that says you are both seen and safe, with no difference to be found between the two.

Eventually, Hoseok removes his hand from your core, easing it up to the blindfold. You smell the traces of your juices on his fingers, and you part your lips, readying to taste yourself as he so often commands you to do. But he bypasses your mouth for the bone of your cheek, where he toys with the edge of the fold. Easing it away from your eyes, he pushes it back to the crown of your head, and you blink rapidly, readjusting to the world. Immediately, you lower your gaze to his face where he rests at your side.

In unison, you smile at one another, everything looking precisely the same, yet wholly, irrevocably, different.

‘Hello,’ he whispers, the intimacy of his quiet greeting causing your chest to swell.

Bringing your hand to his cheek, you trace his brow with your thumb, smiling deliriously. ‘I missed you.’

This time, there is a difference to this missing, and he chuckles quietly at your joke. You luxuriate in the act of admiring him, taking in the depth of his features. Redness lives beneath his cheeks, a glistening sheen to his skin of perspiration; his hair has been mussed several times over by the fore of your hand and never, not once in the time you have known him, has he ever been so beautiful. Glancing down further, you regard his arm where it drapes over your waist, the tattoo that bleeds up his muscles and over into his back.

All night you have pressed your fingers into the bird of paradise painted on his skin, but it was not what you saw or envisioned at all. It crosses your mind that perhaps what you envisioned was his spirit, the very essence of his soul - scatterings colours and energy that are both formless and yours.

Almost too soon, he looks away from you, turning to face to the right at the end table. With your vision obscured by the crown of his head, you cannot see what exactly he reaches for, and so you continue to admire the mess of his hair with a small chuckle. He takes his time gathering the item, grasping it tightly in his hand before turning to face you. Slowly, he eases his softening cock from your core, repositioning himself on the bed to linger at your side, legs sprawled carelessly over yours.

‘I don’t have a speech planned,’ he begins, suddenly sounding terribly disappointed.

Furrowing your brow in worry, you regard him with confusion, cocking your head to the side patiently.

Hoseok raises his eyes to yours, his irises glassy with emotion. ‘We’re not the type, are we?’

Still uncertain what he means, you shrug in reassurance. ‘We’re not the type for a lot of things,’ you suggest, and he nods, seeming distant.

Moving his hand into your view, he reveals a small black box. Breath halting in your lungs, you regard it for a long moment, suddenly aware all over again of the weight that encapsulates the room. Using his thumb, he flicks it open, revealing a rich sapphire ring, dotted on either side with sparkling diamonds.

‘Will you marry me?’ he asks, looking at you with an intensity you’re certain could rival the sun.

He must expect you to be shocked, must expect you to have to gather your words, because your immediate, resounding yes, has him blinking wildly, in the same rapid fashion as when you were finally allowed to see again.

‘Yes,’ you repeat, sliding back against the bed to sit up. ‘Yes, yes.’

You don’t really think there’s anything else to say, not really. If the universe of your love could be contained in three simple letters, you would give them to him over and over again, until only they comprised your language, your alphabet.

Wasting no time, he pulls the ring from the box and slides it over your finger, taking his time to let his fingers stroke over your skin.

‘Mine,’ he mumbles to himself.

The word takes you all the back to the first time you slept with him, to a day when you had been burning with torment, wet from the rain and wet with a passion for a world you wanted to claim. That day, he asked you to be his, and you said yes, an echo of this moment in which you somehow knew it was the only choice to make. Your past self and yourself in this moment are one and the same, time becoming a construct that is meaningless when it comes to him.

‘I told you the first time I was,’ you tease.

‘I know,’ he says, leaning up to kiss deftly your jaw. ‘I just wanted to join you in the war.’

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mrsbenedictbridgerton · 4 years ago

Text

The truth about loving you

Polin Modern au

Part one

4.5k

*Here it is - finally -part one! I hope you enjoy! *

Loving Colin Bridgerton had been the joy and the heartache of her life. It was time for Penelope to move on. He was never going to notice her. He was never going to love her the way she loved him. Always travelling, always seeking something... Colin was back in the small town of Grosvenor. But something was different and he had a feeling, it was him.

Also on AO3

Prologue

Penelope Featherington was well aware that, generally, the idea of love at first sight was laughed at. In addition, the thought that a young woman who had just reached the age of sixteen should find the love of her life in such circumstances was preposterous to most people. Well, almost everyone, really.

But she had. Fallen in love that is. Deep, head over heels, irrevocably in love. With Colin Bridgerton, brother of her dearest friend Eloise. Tall, handsome, charming… kind. Yes, she knew within a few minutes of meeting him and of becoming mesmerised by his smiling eyes that he was kind. She knew that he loved his family to distraction, that he was decent, that he was caring and that he did not have one bad bone in his body. That whoever should be lucky enough to win his heart would be treasured and loved…

So, really, one could not blame her for the instant, fatal bolt of something that had left her painfully in love with a man who saw her, she shuddered to think, as almost another sister. And he already have plenty of those. Penelope, being somewhat shy (and certainly lacking in the kind of confidence that would have let her believe she had any chance of being seen in anything more than sororal terms) had hidden her infatuation behind smiles and blushing cheeks. She had told no one - not a single soul - and miraculously none had guessed. She daren’t divulge the deepest secret of her heart to anyone. It was her private treasure; every moment in his presence was a potent mixture of exquisite joy and painful torment. He was the sunshine of her life.

And he was completely, utterly oblivious. He had been both the greatest pleasure and tragedy of her life. For twelve. Whole. Years.

Until one day, as she approached the age of 29 and began to have those philosophical internal conversations that one often has when reaching a significant age, she had a revelation. No more, she told herself, no more…

Something had to change.

Part One

Twelve years, three months and two days of being in love with Colin Bridgerton

With a final few clicks, followed by a deep sigh, Penelope flicked the lid of her laptop closed and glanced at her watch. Six pm. That gave her exactly sixty minutes to prepare herself for the town Spring Gala - otherwise known as Lady Agatha Danbury’s annual party; held every April by the social leader of the small Oxfordshire town of Grosvenor, in which not a soul dared to miss either through fear of Lady Danbury’s interrogation at a later date or simply because it was the first post-Christmas social event, where the chill was finally fading from the air and the dark nights of December had been replaced by the tempting promise of the bright summer evenings to follow.

Penelope didn’t know if she had the energy to face the entire town, but go she would. Really, she should try and make the most of the evening. She would actually miss the predictability of life here. In Grosvenor, nothing of real substance ever changed. It was comforting, but it was a crutch. It was a life she had clung to to avoid making the hard decisions.

As she stood to leave her desk, her eyes fell upon a polaroid. It was a picture of Pen, her best friend Eloise and Eloise’s brother, Colin, taken at Christmas a few years ago, they all were wearing ridiculous jumpers and Colin was trying to stuff a whole mince pie in his mouth. A frown crossed her face. She grabbed the picture and tossed it into the first drawer of her desk, slamming it with a satisfying thud.

It’s time to grow up, Penelope, she told herself.

It was time for a change.

After locking her door, Pen stashed her keys in her pocket and… nearly jumped out of her skin. Perched on the small brick wall surrounding her cottage was Eloise Bridgerton, her oldest friend, lit cigarette dangling from one hand and black leather jacket slung over her shoulder.

“Jesus, El, you scare me!” Her friend smirked and took a long drag of her cigarette. “And you know if your mother catches you smoking she will kill you.”

Eloise scoffed. “I’m 28 years old Pen. I think I’m pretty far past the age when my mother rules my life.” Pen gave her a pointed look as she put out the cigarette on the stone wall before slipping it back in the packet. “Okay, so she could make my life a misery. As you well know I smoke precisely three times a year: the Danbury party, the Smythe-Smith musical evening and Simon and Daphne’s Christmas Fete.”

Pen knew her thoughts on forced social occasions, they were very similar to her own. Forced socialisation was akin to mental torture to the middle Bridgerton sibling because, like Pen, she had little time for the more vapid members of town society, and sadly, they made up a high percentage of those one would meet on such occasions. Which was why, as ever, she was once again thankful for friendship with Eloise. They were as much alike as they were different but there was something intangible between them that transcended the ordinary. On a higher level, they just fit. Many a time they’d postulate over large glasses of wine about becoming eccentric spinsters one day, with a dozen cats each and a cozy little house that overlooked the sea. It was a comforting thought for someone like Pen, who usually avoided thoughts of the future.

Slipping her arm through her friend’s, Penelope pulled Eloise to stand and began to walk in the direction of the Danbury’s large, sprawling house.“And then why do you attend tonight?” Penelope teased, knowing fair well what the answer was.

“Danbury would have my head on a platter - and then my mother would serve it for dinner. You know how those two are!”

Indeed, Penelope was well aware of the friendship between two of the town’s grande dames, both forceful in their own way and both determined matchmakers. “I wonder who they are trying to set up this year?”

“Don’t look at me,” El spat with an incredulous look, “Mother let that go a long time ago.” “Hyacinth maybe?”

“She’s far too busy with her graduate degree. She’s determined to get firsts across the board. She’s now onto her fourth language you know?” Pen did know El’s youngest sister had an uncanny knack with languages, it was unnerving really when noone else in her family spoke more than a smattering of bad French. She’d already also mastered Spanish and Mandarin - helped of course through the year she had spent travelling in China. Oh how Pen wanted to go to China… okay, perhaps not China, maybe she wasn’t that adventurous. But just anywhere other than here. “Pen?”

“Hmm?”

Eloise jabbed Pen softly with her elbow. “You like you are on another planet.”

“Just thinking,” she replied, not really being dishonest.

“Well I’m glad to see I am such scintillating company. I was actually trying to tell you I have news.”

Oh. News. Eloise had news? This was the moment Pen had been waiting for. She wanted El to know first, she hadn’t even told her mother yet...

Pausing, Penelope turned to face her friend and forced a smile. “Actually, I, too, have some news-”

Just then, a large pair of arms wrapped around Pen from behind, hugging tightly around her waist before lifting her and spinning her around.

Oh God. She’d know those arms anywhere. She’d know that cologne. She’d just know it was…

“Colin! Put me down!,” she screamed, wriggling from his grip, “I’m far too heavy!”

Feet landing back on the pavement, Penelope stumbled a second before spinning on her heel to face him.

“Nonsense, you are light as a feather Pen,” Colin replied, grinning as reached forward and pressed a loud kiss on her cheek - leaving the patch of skin his lips had touched tingling and a deep blush threatened to engulf her face. Thank god it was getting dark already.

“That was my news,” Eloise announced smugly, crossing her arms. “Brother three is back on British soil.”

Stunned was not quite the word to describe Penelope’s state of mind as she stared at Colin Bridgerton. Colin with his warm, wide smile and deep, dark eyes… eyes she had drowned in more times that she cared to count. His thick, brown hair had grown and now licked at the collar of his shirt. But otherwise, Colin had changed very little in the six months since she had last seen him - and indeed in the twelve years since they had met.

“Colin,” she began, still a little tongue tied from the brief kiss and, moreso, his entirely unexpected return, “But you were in Australia?”

“I decided to come home.”

“Clearly,” she mumbled, her head whirl. He always had that effect on her. His mere presence sent her stomach into knots and her head into a whirl and thinking clearly was almost impossible. “How wonderful,” she added.

She was dizzy. She felt a headache coming on. Actually, she felt just a little sick. Why was he back? Why? He was supposed to be gone for another five months. She should really have guessed that this might happen, Colin’s plans were always flexible and his adventures were subject to whatever whim or passion he was currently in the midst of. Still, it was unlike him to return from a trip early. It would have made more sense for him to spend those extra months exploring some other little corner of the world( and giving her the time she needed). Time for Penelope to make all the changes to her life that her carefully made plans had necessitated. Time for her to finally get over him. Severing her childish adoration for this man was the only way of moving forward with her life and just as she was about to make the great leap into the unknown… there he was. Same old Colin.

Damn, she was tired of loving him. Because the truth about loving Colin Bridgerton was that it was equal parts heaven and hell.

“Pen!” El shouted, breaking her reverie. “You phased out on me again.” Penelope gave a wan smile. “So what were you going to tell me before my idiot brother here interrupted us?”

“Oh,” she shrugged, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Lady Danbury, of course, had planned her event to perfection. A string quartet greeted visitors in the large, marble lined vestibule of Danbury Hall and uniformed wait staff meandered around the milling guests carrying shining silver platters of champagne and fancy-looking canapes. As the trio arrived, friends of Colin’s surrounded the siblings and welcomed their friend home. Colin had always been extremely popular. Between his good nature, sense of humour and ability to make whomsoever he conversed with feel important and noticed, he has managed to forge friendships with almost every inhabitant of Grosvenor.

Seeing an exit, Penelope grabbed a flute of champagne from the first passing server and managed to sink down half of it in one swift gulp as she headed towards the large ornamental garden that was accessed from the house’s terrace. She needed a moment. She needed air. She needed to think.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be thousands of miles away.

She really had convinced herself that she was growing out of her feelings from him. It was quite ridiculous. It had been over TWELVE years. She’d mooned over him all through her teens and twenties, both cursing and thanking her friendship with Eloise for placing them in such close conspiracy. Being close to him and watching him over the years had only deepened her feelings whilst simultaneously feeding a torturous sense of insecurity. It was a curse. Any man she met was instantly compared with Colin. Was he as kind as Colin? Was he as generous as Colin? Did he make her laugh like Colin did? Did she dream of sinking her hands into his hair the way she did with Colin? Would he kiss like Colin... The list was endless.

Admittedly, the few fleeting relationships she had found herself in over the years had little longevity in them on their own merit. If a man showed an interest in her she was flattered - and flattery led her to trying to like them too. But no matter how much she tried, it was impossible to force attraction, or even friendship, and spending an evening with any of them was a close second to a glass of wine and a good book. So almost permanently single, she’d hidden her feelings under the guise of a bright demeanor and focused herself on building a career and becoming more than a woman driven by her emotions. Well, she had tried.

Tried and failed miserably as proven by her visceral reaction to his presence that evening. Who was she kidding? The only way to finally free herself from this madness was to take herself out of the equation. Physically.

With a sigh, she downed the rest of her glass and left it on a little decorative iron table that edged the patio. There was little use in ruining the evening by letting herself sink into a mood. Tonight he was here and there was little she could do about it.

Colin was home. Jetlagged, overtired and not-quite sure exactly what the time was, but he was back in Grosvenor with his luggage already deposited in his childhood room at Aubrey Hall. As expected, nothing of any note had changed in Grosvenor in the half a year he had spent travelling across Australia. It never did actually. Not during his tour of Europe, his kayak trip down the Amazon nor those six months spent trekking in India. There was something comforting about that. Home was always home. With very little change to have to acquaint oneself with when returning after a prolonged absence.

Except… Well… She looked different. Penelope did. No, that wasn’t right. Penelope was the same as always. Pen was always there when he came back: she was dependable, as much a part of home as his mother’s Sunday lunches or the broken clock at the town hall - and inevitably joined at the hip with his sister Eloise. But something was different this time.

When he’d seen her across the street, he’d stalked up to her as he often liked to, picking her up and spinning her around - it was an old trick that had started so long ago he’d forgotten exactly how or why. Yet this time he didn’t just feel the sense of enjoyment in making his friend laugh, as he picked her up he had immediately noticed the curve of her hips and the brush of her breasts against his arm. Startled, he had let go, only for her to turn to him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes and- well -it was different. He’d always known Penelope was a woman, but tonight for some reason, he knew.

While he had been awake for over 30 hours (thanks to a delightful assortment of caffeinated beverages), he could not blame the tightening in his gut and the moment of breathlessness he felt in that brief moment on sheer exhaustion. In fact, he’d felt a rush of adrenaline and a kick of excitement, as if he had just discovered something new. Something that no one else knew. It was… unsettling. But not exactly in a negative way.

Puzzled and curious, Colin made light work of greeting those old friends who didn’t yet know he had returned and then left Eloise to be grilled by their sister Daphne and her husband Simon about just when she planned on moving out of Aubrey Hall. He slipped away quietly. The simple solution to his confusion was to go and talk with Penelope as he normally would. Surely that would settle whatever had affected him so much. He needed to have a nice, normal conversation with her. It was understandable, he supposed, for friendships to be a little strange after such a time. It hadn’t happened before between them, but still...

It was in the garden that he found her. The evening was still light, the sun turning a hazy orange behind the springtime clouds. He’d left Australia as the summer was turning to autumn and here he was about to experience summer yet again. The idea made him smile. Summer was always his favourite time of year. It seemed filled with so much promise - the days were long, the weather fine and even the gloomiest of souls could not retain their negativity when faced with an English summer’s day.

“Pen,” he said as he approached where she stood at the edge of the ornamental gardens. In one hand, she had a full flute of champagne and in the other an impossibly sized canape. She seemed to be studying the canape and deciding how best to approach it’s consumption - not easy when it took the form of an oversized base of puffed pastry topped with a heavy dollop of cream cheese and an artful sprinkling of caviar (Colin had always appreciated good food). Her eyes met his and she smiled, perhaps a little self consciously.

“Colin, I thought you were enjoying a hero’s welcome.”

He smirked a little, “I should hardly think my travels are an accomplishment. Indeed, mother sees them as somewhat the opposite.” His mother was actually very supportive of her son’s desire to see more of the world, but she had mentioned many times how perhaps spending every penny he earned on the endeavour was not the best forward planning. A large part of him knew she was right. The transient lifestyle he had lived for so long was starting to wear on him if truth were told. Not that the urge to discover new places would ever leave him, but perhaps the way it manifested in his life needed to change. More to think on later, he supposed. “Anyway, I’m reliably informed that my mother is planning a welcome home and belated birthday party very soon. My loyal fans can fawn over me then,” he teased

“Oh,” Penelope gasped, “Your birthday was last month - I didn’t exactly forget I just - well, with all the travelling I didn’t even know where to send you a card. Here,” she said pushing the canape in his direction, “A present. I’m sure you are starving.”

“Oh no no no,” he chuckled, pushing her hand back. “I could not possibly deny you the pleasure of… that.”

Penelope frowned as she glanced at the oversized canape. Really, Colin was being a little cruel. Even he, who had never been accused of being small of mouth, would struggle to eat that with some semblance of dignity. But Penelope’s pouting pink lips were perfectly proportioned for her petite heart shaped face, forming a flawless pout as she considered the clearly impossible challenge. Colin, for his part, was seriously contemplating the lush fullness of her bottom lip until Penelope let out a deep sigh, opening her mouth wide and pushing the entirety of it inside. Colin sucked in a quick breath. As she chewed a drizzle of cream spread across her lip and he watched, hypnotised, as her tongue slipped out and cleared it away. There was something startlingly erotic in the moment and he found himself transfixed. Their eyes met as her jaw worked, the silence between them somehow startlingly loud, even as the sound of the party increased behind them in the house. Not breaking the eye contact, Penelope took a long sip of her champagne. “Done,’ she murmured softly.

The edges of his lips curled as he reached forward and brushed a crumb of pastry from her petal soft cheek. “Was it enjoyable?” he asked quietly.

Wordlessly, she nodded.

And, hell, he had enjoyed it too.

‘Well then, I’d say I’m rather jealous.” He was overcome with a sudden urge to kiss her. He wanted to step closer to her, wrap his hands around the devastating curve of her hips, press his body to hers so those lush breastswere flush against his chest and then he would taste those maddeningly erotic lips. The idea pulsed through him. She was staring. Her blue eyes widening. He reached for the glass in her hands, intending to set it down-

Buzzz. Buzzz. Buzzz.

The moment was broken by the vibrations of a mobile phone. It took Pen a few seconds to acknowledge it was hers, a confused look crossing her face until she fished the device from her jeans pocket.

“Pen? PEN? Where are you?” Eloise’s voice bellowed down the line.

“Eloise,” she mouthed to him, though he had no trouble hearing his sister, who was never known for her subtilty. “You need to get here. Daphne is PREGNANT!”

“Oh,” Pen smiled, looking back at him. “I think we should head back to the others.”

Wordlessly he nodded. His sister - for whom motherhood had always been so important - announcing her first pregnancy, was certainly something he wanted to be there for. “C’mon,” he whispered, holding out his arm, “Time to play proud big brother.”

Further exploration of his newfound fascination with Penelope Featherington’s lips would have to wait.

Hours later...

The world was silent when they reached her cottage. An intrepid white cat darted across the street as a gust of wind rustled the branches of the small oak tree that dominated the garden of Penelope’s cottage. Despite the light chill to the air, she was wearing a warm coat of alcohol, her cheeks glowing as they always did when she had drunk champagne. Pleasantly tipsy, she leaned into Colin, his warmth comforting against her side as she fumbled in her pocket for her key.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she opened the half gate that breached the stone wall around her home “But you really didn’t have to walk me all the way home. I’m a big girl, you know.” There was a double meaning to her words; yes she wasn’t exactly young, but she also wasn’t exactly small in size - the phrase ‘curves in abundance’ could have been written just for her, she had thought on more than one occasion.

“It was my pleasure,” Colin replied, “It was a fine excuse to leave before the revels became too tiring- you know these things can go on until morning and I already feel like I could sleep for a year.” With that, he yawned and ran a hand through his hair. Pen watched those lightly tanned fingers come through the dark chestnut locks and swallowed down a sigh.

“Well,” she nodded, “I’d say that it’s time to say goodnight.” For a second, she fidgeted, her keys jangling on her finger. Impulsively, she reached out her hand and immediately felt ridiculously awkward. She and Colin did not shake hands. She didn’t shake hands with anyone. Ever. She cleared her throat and felt her cheeks deepen in colour. Oh god. After their strange moment in the garden, things had felt almost normal between them as they congratulated Daphne and Simon and then passed the rest of the evening hearing stories from Colin’s travels and bringing him up to date with the (somewhat limited) local gossip he had missed. And so when he had insisted on walking her home, she hadn’t been overly wary. Yet now… now they were alone on her quiet street and he was staring at her so oddly that she was actually finding it difficult to breathe-

“Good night,” he said softly, reaching down to bring her into a hug. It was a beautiful, warm embrace, her face almost nestling against his neck so that she could enjoy his musky, soft cologne. This was nice. This was safe. Friends hugged.

She made to pull away, but he only loosened his grip a small amount. Looking up he was so very close. His dark, velvet eyes fixed upon hers. “Pen…” he whispered, a look of concentration upon his face. She tried to wriggle gently free of his arms, his close inspection feeling uncomfortable and somehow searing.

And then he kissed her. Just like that.

His lips were against hers, his hands slipped up her back, his mouth suddenly urgent and wonderful and if Penelope could have imagined his kiss a thousand times she could not have imagined this. He pressed her back against the door, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a satisfied groan. Her hands, which had been limp around his neck, surged into his thick locks, the satin strands feeling obscenely good between her fingers. He pushed his hips forward, anchoring her in place, his mouth tracing her jaw and then her neck, one hand racing down to cup her buttocks and squeeze just hard enough to make her gasp in surprise.

Colin Bridgerton was kissing her.

Colin was kissing her.

Colin.

Suddenly, she froze, pushing against his shoulders. “Are you drunk?” she panted.

“No,” he frowned, “Are you?”

“No,” she admitted, shaking her head. And, oh she was thankful that she would remember every moment of this...

Without her noticing, Colin had taken the key and opened the door behind her. Quickly, they fell inside. Their arms instantly back around each other and the kiss resumed and it was intoxicating. It was magnetic. It was drugging… Penelope had never been kissed like this before.

Colin was nibbling at her neck and pulling her shirt out from her jeans. She dug her fingers into the firm muscles of his shoulders and felt herself being swept away.

“Wait-”

He paused and looked up.

Penelope took a step backwards. This had to stop. It was madness. “I-I can’t do this right now. I-”

His face creased in confusion. “Pen?”

She began pushing her shirt back into her jeans. “I need to think. I need to sleep. I-” She sighed and pursed her lips. She couldn’t believe what was happening. She couldn’t believe what she was doing.

He responded with a small nod and a whispered, “Okay.” He reached back and placed his hand on the doorknob, before adding, “Later?’

And Penelope tried to smile.

Colin left, the door closing softly, followed by the clip of footsteps and the creak of her gate. Quickly, she locked the door and then stared at it.

And then Penelope Featherington started to cry.

Oh god, what the hell just happened?

To Be Continued...

#bridgerton #bridgerton ff #bridgerton fanfiction #Colin Bridgerton #Penelope Featherington #penelope x colin

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nalgenewhore · 4 years ago

Text

without a doubt

rowan x lorcan, modern au, yulemas au, word count: 2098

“Darling, please,” his boyfriend laughs, “stop pouting.”

Rowan frowns and tucks his chin into the collar of his hoodie. Lorcan’s hoodie, actually. “I am not pouting. I’m upset.”

Through the screen of the laptop, Lorcan’s image is grainy. His smile dims slightly, “I know. I’m sorry, Ro. I was really sure that we would be done by now.” He flicks his eyes to the side and the muscles in his sharp jaw feather. His dark brows lower and he mutters, “I never would’ve taken it if I knew I’d be gone this long.”

“I know, my love,” Rowan whispers, subtly wiping away the silver that lines his eyes. “But this is your dream. It’s always been your dream, L. I can’t be the reason you give that all up, you know?”

Lorcan nods, that frown still on his fiercely beautiful face. He looks down and picks at his bedspread, “Yeah, I know.” Quickly, he snaps his head up, his eyes ablaze, “I would though. I’d give it all up for you, if you asked.”

The words rest on the tip of his tongue. Rowan almost blurts them out, but he doesn’t. Instead he smiles softly to hide the aching, yearning feeling that never quite dulls. “But I’m not asking you. So you’re stuck there.”

Lorcan laughs humorlessly and his eyes sparkle, “Yeah, I know.” It falls kind of flat. If they were together, Rowan would kiss him and they would forget all about it all. “Oh, I got you your Yulemas gift today. Putting it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Oh, really? Will I like it?” Rowan shifts to lie on his stomach and props his chin up on a ring-laden fist.

“Rowan Whitethorn!” Lorcan gives him an offended look, “When have I ever gotten you something you haven’t liked?”

Rowan laughs and concedes, “You’re right, you’re right. You truly are the gift master.”

“I know,” Lorcan replies smugly. He stretches his bare arms above his head and tucks his hands behind him, his head cradled by his inked biceps. “You’re a very… appreciative receiver.” With his cocky grin, there’s no way to ignore the implication.

An outraged gasp escapes Rowan, “Are you calling me a whore?”

Lorcan laughs, “No, I am not calling you a whore. You can have the qualities of a label and not be the label.”

“You are calling me a whore! Oh my gods, I hate you,” Rowan complains, his green eyes narrowed in warning. “Maybe it’s a good thing you aren’t here ‘cause I could kill you right now.”

“Oh, I love it when you sweet talk me, baby. Reminds me of how you stole my heart.”

Rowan snorts and grabs a pillow to cushion his chin, “I love you. And I wish I could say it in person.”

His boyfriend’s face softens. Lorcan says back, “I love you too and I wish you could hear it for real.”

They smile at each other, eyes filled with longing and reverent adoration. Until hours later, when they both fall asleep without bothering to hang up, they talk about everything and nothing at all. It mends their incomplete souls, even if just for a moment.

☽ ☼ ☾

“Happy Yulemas Eve!”

Rowan smiles and accepts the hug Aelin pulls him into, “Happy Yulemas Eve, Fireheart. Is everyone here already?” He looks over his friend’s head down the front hall of her apartment.

They step back and Aelin nods, “Yeah, they’re all here. Well, almost.”

He nods and steps in, “Yeah… he- he tried, you know, but there wasn’t any way.” Rowan shrugs his coat off and hangs it up. “It’s fine. He promised to call and say ‘hey’ later, during presents.”

The golden-haired woman grins and takes his bag of gifts, “That’ll be nice - we all miss him. Now,” she tucks her hand into his elbow and tugs him in, “come along, there’s lots to do!”

In the open-concept living room, their friends are already there, at varying levels of sobriety. They call out their cheerful greetings as Aelin puts Rowan’s presents beneath the tree. Fenrys surges to his feet, “Rowan!”

Rowan laughs at the sight of his drunken friend, “Hey, bud. How are you doing?”

“I’m very, very, very good,” Fenrys slurs. “Ress is here, did you see?” He casts an adoring look at his boyfriend, who blushes like always. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“I know, Fen,” Rowan says, his bright grin not quite reaching his eyes.

“Oh! Oh no, I’ve upset you,” Fenrys exclaims, his face twisted in wasted anguish. He throws his arms around Rowan and pats the top of his head, “Oh, it’s ok, it’s ok. Lor’s a miserable misan—”

“Ok, Fenrys, why don’t we go somewhere else, hmm?” Lysandra interjects, pulling Fenrys away. She kisses Rowan’s cheek, pushing him to the kitchen like a perfect hostess should. “There’s food and drinks in the kitchen and dinner will be ready in half an hour - help yourself, ‘kay?”

Rowan nods and walks to the kitchen, quietly filling a plate. A petite woman slips up to him, a drink in hand for him, “Hello, Rowan. How are you?”

He smiles as he pops an olive into his mouth, “Hey, El.” Rowan shrugs, “I’m… fine. I’m fine. Really, it’s…”

“Fine?” Elide suggests, a cheeky grin on her heart-shaped face.

“Yeah,” Rowan sighs.

She leans against him, rubbing his back soothingly, “Ok, well, c’mon to the living room and sit with me. Borte and Aelin are going at it again.” Elide pulls him to the couch without waiting for his response.

For a while, Rowan forgets about being alone. Around him, his family talks animatedly, egging the two most chaotic members on as they battle over the finale to some show they’re both obsessed with. The others watch with rapt attention, laughing outrageously at the things Borte and Aelin say.

In a lull of silence, Rowan stands up, “I’m going to step out for a bit. Too warm.” He walks to the balcony as the conversation resumes, albeit much quieter. Everyone turns to their respective partners, whispering soft nothings and laughing at stupid jokes. His breath hitches and Rowan looks to the kitchen just in time to see Lysandra hold a sprig of mistletoe over Aelin’s head and the couple kisses, smiling as they press their lips together.

His chest squeezes painfully tight. Tears burn his eyes and Rowan rushes outside. It’s bitterly cold and the sharp winter wind nips at his face. He sniffles, blowing out a long breath to keep his tears at bay. It’s stupid.

In the pocket of his oversized corduroys, Rowan feels his phone buzz. He hastily pulls it out with clumsy, half-frozen fingers. He expects to see Lorcan’s contact flashing over the screen with a waiting call, but all he sees is a text message.

lover boy <3: srry ro smthng came up

lover boy <3: can’t call tn

lover boy <3: luv u

All his air escapes him in a pathetic, teary exhale. Rowan shakes his head in disbelief and types back quickly.

pretty boy: are you sure? i really miss you

lover boy <3: i’ll call tmrw

lover boy <3: promise

Rowan sighs and replies resignedly.

pretty boy: ok love

pretty boy: i love you too

Rowan shuts his phone off and wipes his eyes, cursing himself for his tears.

Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Asks a hissing voice. His ears burn in shame. He’s finally doing what he’s always wanted to - why aren’t you happy for him? He would be happy for you.

Rowan shakes his head to dispel the thoughts and puts his phone in his pocket. He pushes his silver-blond curls off and braces his hands against the railing. After a few minutes, the glass door slides open and someone steps out, “Ro? Is everything alright? We’re going to open gifts now.”

“Y-yeah, everything’s fine. Something came up and Lor can’t call tonight.” He turns, shrugging his shoulder up. “It’s fine.” Rowan drags his red and silver lined eyes up to Aelin’s. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” She steps out and takes his hand, “Come on, we’ve got presents.”

He smiles and lets her pull him inside. He’s ushered to a seat and handed a mug of mulled wine.

Aelin peruses the available gifts and picks a slim box up, “And this one is for Rowan, from his very own lover boy.” She passes it to Rowan who takes it. He traces the tip of his finger over the label, smiling at his boyfriend’s looping handwriting.

Rowan doesn’t bother to be patient and tears into it, not noticing the tittering giggles and scurrying feet behind him. He tosses the wrapping paper to the side and eases the top of the box off.

Whatever’s inside is covered in tissue paper. Rowan carefully opens it, puzzled as he sees a folded slip of paper. He takes it out and glances into the box, but there’s nothing more. “Oh.” He unfolds it and reads it quickly.

turn around - L

Rowan frowns and puts the box down. “What is this?” He looks up and their faces are pink with barely controlled glee. “Guys, what did you do?”

From behind him, he hears a dry, dark chuckle. “Won’t you turn around, my darling?”

A half sob escapes Rowan and he stands up, the note fluttering to the floor as he turns. In the hall, Lorcan stands. He smiles a tired, weary smile, but it’s lazy and easy and golden and Lorcan. “Lor?” Rowan runs towards him, crashing into his boyfriend. He clutches at the back of Lorcan’s jacket, his smile blinding.

Lorcan laughs quietly and pulls Rowan close, his big arms around the green-eyed man’s waist, “Hey, Ro.”

“Hi,” Rowan whispers, tears caught in his lashes. “Are you really here?” He lifts his head, eyes searching Lorcan’s face.

Instead of answering, Lorcan closes the distance between them and kisses Rowan deeply. Rowan melts into the embrace and softly sighs his boyfriend’s name, slim fingers sliding into dark hair.

“Good gods, get a room already,” Aelin heckles cheerily.

Lorcan bites Rowan’s lower lip and flips Aelin off as he slides his tongue over Rowan’s. Rowan hums sweetly and pulls away, his lip tucked between his teeth, “What are you doing here? What about work?”

“I quit,” Lorcan says proudly, his eyes bright.

Rowan gapes at him and pushes his boyfriend backwards, “You what? Lorcan!” He smacks his boyfriend’s shoulder, “You love that job. Oh my gods, you did this for me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

Lorcan grins widely, tugging Rowan back into his arms, “I’m sorry, pretty boy, but I did. No matter how much I liked it, I couldn’t be without you for that long.”

“But,” Rowan makes a helpless gesture, not entirely sure why he’s fighting this, “you love that job.”

“Yeah,” Lorcan bumps the tip of his cold nose into Rowan’s and pecks his lips, “but I love you more. I couldn’t enjoy it ‘cause I was missing you all the time.”

Rowan can’t articulate everything he wants to say, so he hopes his kiss does it for him, “I love you so much. So much, love.” He lazily cradles the back of Lorcan’s head.

“Hellas below, you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear that for real,” Lorcan murmurs. “I love love love you.”

Behind them, their friends start to catcall and whistle in appreciation. They break apart, cheeks burning and lips love-bitten. Reluctantly, the couple walks into the living room. Rowan sits down in the oversized armchair and picks up his drink. As Lorcan goes around, saying hello to everyone, Aelin perches herself on the arm of Rowan’s seat and toys with his light curls, “So, how do you like your gift?”

“You- this was you? You did this for me?”

“Oh,” she laughs merrily, “I wish I could take credit for it, but I only helped with the getting him here. This idea was all your mans.” Aelin tilts her head to the side, “Best Yulemas ever?”

Rowan looks up to find Lorcan already looking his way. The dark-haired man walks over to him and bumps Aelin out of the way with an expert hip check, “What are you two talking about?” Lorcan sits down beside Rowan and slides his hand into the hair at the back of Rowan’s head.

Rowan rests his chin on Lorcan’s shoulder and kisses the skin beneath his jaw, “This being the best Yulemas ever.”

“Really? That good, hmm?”

“Mmm,” Rowan smiles and kisses him softly, “without a doubt.” He nuzzles his nose against Lorcan’s, “Best Yulemas ever.”

☽ ☼ ☾

an: this is the first of a few fun lil holiday ficlets i’ve got planned & i hope u enjoy 😊

@mythicaitt @ladyverena @empress-ofbloodshed @ladywitchling @darklesmylove @shyvioletcat @the-regal-warrior @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @thewayshedreamed @sassyhobbits @tswaney17

#aren't they cute !!#rowcan #rowan x lorcan #rowan whitethorn #lorcan salvaterre #isa writes gay shit #nalgenewhore

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techgoddessdeluxe18 · 4 years ago

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SidGeno Parent Trap AU!

Will someone please write this i stayed up till 1 aimlessly typing this, ive already fleshed it out for you pleaseee

So Sid and Geno played together as Rookies for the Penguins in the 2005-2009 seasons, lighting up the NHL world as they had done always, slowly finding love and happiness together (after the Me 3 years Super league convo, you saw how blushy Sid was), quietly getting married in an discreet court house somewhere in Pittsburgh, having blissfully unprotected sex before and after the 2009 Stanley Cup win, just happy and in love and their life and success was just beginning to blossom.

But Sid finds out that he’s been pregnant with twins for some time now, having been nearly 12 weeks pregnant already by the time the final round was played. Geno finds out that there are some legal issues from escaping the KHL in order to play for the Penguins, and so to settle some ruffled governmental feathers, it would be best if Geno went back to Russia to fulfill those duties. Sid is extremely worried about the awful timing of the pregnancy and the sheer amount of alcohol consumed during the Cup celebrations, and Geno is worried about Russia ever letting him out of the country, or worse; finding about his relationship with Sid.

They hole up in a remote corner of Canada for the off season, just trying to soak in the time they have together before Geno goes back to Russia. Days are spent going to doctors visits, holding hands as they walk around the lake, cuddling on the couch at night, Geno’s big hands rubbing Sid’s belly, little feet kicking as hard as they can, while Sid giggles and twists round to kiss Geno.

Sid safely delivers the babies, two identical adorable boys, who have thankfully have not had birth defects as Sid was fearing, and so the rest of the off season is spent trying to decide what to do, how they could go back to their respective corners of the world and try to raise their kids. They agree to split the kids, and keep silent on where they came from.

Geno returns to Russia with a little baby boy, who will mostly be taken care of by his mother and father. Sid does the same, heading back to Cole Harbor more often than he would during the season, always glued to his phone and even taking phone calls from his mother on game days.

So then the actual story goes, 16 year old Daniel Patrick Crosby and Dimitri Evgenevich Malkin meet at Worlds to play for their respective countries, and like a random dinner clash between Russia and Canada find Daniel and Dimitri really confused because they look exactly the same; dark curly hair, strong solid bodies, angular doe eyes. Their teammates chirp them, saying they wouldn’t know who was who if they switched sweaters before the tournament.

They meet up again after Russia wins, meeting in Daniel’s hotel room while his roommate is away. They’re like

“oh when were you born? September 1st, 2009”.

“Oh shit me too”.

“ oh who’s your parents?”

“Evgeni Malkin, big KHL superstar”

“Sidney Crosby” because duh who doesn’t know the greatest player ever.

Maybe they have a ripped picture like in the movie, like with Sid and Geno holding the Stanley Cup like they did in 2017. Daniel has Sid, and Dimitri has Geno, and they’re like “ yeah Dad never talked about who Papa was, but that he loved him, but they couldn’t be together”. So they whip out the picture halves, stashed in their wallets, and tada they fit. They’re twins!

Since the tournament for them is over, Russia with the gold and Canada with silver, they have a few days to themselves to watch the rest. On a midnight run to Tim Hortons, sharing a box of Timbits, they agree to swap places to meet each other’s dad, and then switch back during the Olympics, let say it’s somewhere in America, in a few months time. Daniel and Dimitri spend the next precious days coaching each other on how to be each other. Daniel is conveniently mostly conversational in Russian and can understand better than he speaks, but Dimitri is a quiet kid so it works out. Dimitri works hard to soften his Russian accent and worm eh into his normal syntax more. They get haircuts together, the barber laughing at these rambunctious twins and their beautiful curly hair, and they laugh at the ridiculous stripes they agree to shave onto the sides of their heads.

Before they separate at the airport, they exchange necklaces, a #45 from Daniel and a cross from Dimitri.

Dimitri flies back to Cole Harbor, and finds his dad waiting for him. He looks older than the picture he has, more lines on his face, Definetly shorter and grey-er hair, and sad eyes. If Sid notices his son hugging him tightly and for longer than he normally does, he doesn’t say anything. They chat through the drive home, to the lake house that Daniel told him about. Dimitri can only stare and try and absorb who this man was, the man who birthed him. Sid asks him if he’s ok as they eat dinner on the dock, bare feet dipping into the cold water. Dimitri can only mumble “you’re the best”, as he snuggles his head into his fathers chest. Sid can’t help but think that his son’s voice sounds different; the way he pronounced best sounded just like Geno.

Daniel manages to not say too much on the flight back to Russia, desperately trying to memorize more vocab and grammar before landing and being picked up by his grandparents. The cooing and lecturing is the same in either English or Russian, so he smiles and just lets it wash over him. He tentatively asks where his Papa is, and Grandmama Malkin says he’s probably wining and dining his latest girl. They go home and Daniel is stuffed full of food, everything Grandmama could have possibly made for his arrival. Geno comes home later that night, tired but eager to congratulate his son for winning Gold for Russia. He notices that his son perhaps looks a little different, ruffling the funny haircut that he had gotten, but more at the expression of awe on his face; a similar expression Sid had on his face when he told him he usually went out last before a game, many many years ago.

So yadada ya, they’re enjoying the time that they have with their respective dads, occasionally wringing out a small story or a sad look of their faces whenever they mention anything about each other. So the Olympics are rolling around, and they’re all going to be in one place (lets just say that Sid and Geno had never attempted to make contact whenever they played against each other, afraid that they might get caught) But Daniel has frantically been calling Dimitri over Geno’s new girl and how he might propose and would ruin their plan to get their parents back together.

Shenanigans during the Olympics, one groups disappearing before the other can see them, until Geno is in the elevator shmoozing his girl until he sees THE ASS tm across the room by the front desk. Sid turns around and just smiles sadly as the elevator door closes.

Then the scene where Sid is walking down the hall and Dimitri and Daniel open the doors at the same time and suddenly Sid is confronted with what he thinks is the son he hasn’t seen in 16 years. They pull him into a room, and explain the whole swicheroo, and Sid is mad because there’s nothing they can really do, he’s prepared to let Geno move on and do what’s he needs to, but resigns himself to being alone.

Then the pool scene, where Geno and his girl are lounging with his parents, and Sid walks his fine ass down the stairs and Geno falls in, scrapes up his nose a bit, Sid bandages him up a bit. Daniel and Dimitri reveal themselves to Geno.

Some time in between tournaments, with Russia and Canada on the rise to be competing for the Gold Final, Daniel and Dimitri bully their fathers into a family dinner at a nice restaurant. They cut a handsome swath at dinner, good looking men in good looking suits. Geno instinctually files in last, whether it being his remembered deal with Sid, or merely to ogle a bit as he pushes in Sid’s seat for dinner. For fun, after dinner, they find a nearly empty outdoor rink, equipped with rental skates. Daniel and Dimitri take off, chirping each other and racing and checking each other into the low boards enough for Dimitri to flip over and out of the rink, Daniel wheezing with laughter as Dimitri hefts himself back over. Sid and Geno skate around at a sedate pace, both having played a round that day and simply watching their sons fool around. They don’t say much. They can’t really. They can only quietly enjoy each others presence, wondering where had all the time gone, all the plans they had had.

The final round for Mens Ice Hockey has arrived, Russia vs Canada for Gold, and Daniel and Dimitri can only watch and wonder to see who will come out on top, and what will happen with their parents, watching as Geno checks Sid into the boards. Sid refuses to give up, and so Canada ends up winning the Gold. Like the 2014 picture where Geno and Sid hug after the game, what the camera doesn’t see but their sons see from behind the glass is the shaking hands of Geno and the single tear from Sid.

Like in the movie, before everyone hops onto their respective planes to their respective corners of the world, Sid and Geno make sure their sons aren’t faking this time, and that they go back to who they belong to. It’s how it has to be.

Cue the rain sequence, the sad music, the umbrellas.

Sid and Daniel return to Cole Harbor, still down pouring and quiet. They don’t say anything in the car ride back to the lake house. They finally arrive at home, and take some time to unpack and get comfortable. They silently look at each other, each longing for their other halves. Daniel had become so close to Dimitri, finding out who he was and planning the whole quest to meet their fathers. Sid just missed his husband, and playing against him after fighting so hard to play with him just made him wish for retirement sooner. They hug, and with Daniel under Sids arm, quietly wander down the bank of the hill towards the dock.

Although there seem to be two people already sitting there, with their feet in the water. Geno and Dimitri turn around, identical smug looks on their faces. Dimitri says, his accent hovering somewhere between the hard Russian accent and the rounded Canadian pronunciation, “hey Dad, did you know the Penguins still have those private jets?”

“Ye-yeah, they do bud”, Sid murmurs, still looking at the tall Russian slowly making his way towards him. Daniel duck out from under his arm to sit with his twin and watch the two goofballs that are their parents figure it out.

“I made mistake of not coming for you once, Sid. I’m not do that again, no matter how brave you are.” Geno says

“And I suppose you expect me to go weak at the knees and fall into your arms, and cry hysterically and say we’ll just figure this whole thing out, a bi-continental relationship with our sons being raised here and there, and you and I just picking up where we left off, and growing old together and… And, c’mon G, what do you expect? To live happily ever after?” Sid warbles, his tired eyes welling up with long withheld tears.

“Yes—to all, except you don’t have cry hysterically.” Geno murmurs, cupping Sid’s face and wiping a lone tear as it falls.

“Oh, yes I do—” Sid is cut off as he is kissed (AKA THE BEST KISS SCENE EVER, CUE THE MUSIC)

Daniel and Dimitri can only grin and fist bump as their parents finally kiss after 16 years apart. They put and end to it when Geno starts to dip Sid into a deeper, more lurid kiss and some major groping, and they push both of them into the water.

During the epilogue with This Will Be (An Everlasting Love) by Natalie Cole, scenes flash by of Geno and Sid holding hands in front of a press conference, their sons standing by their sides, as they announce their retirements from both the NHL and KHL after 20 years, and their relationship and their sons to the hockey community.

Another scene where Daniel and Dimitri attention Shattuck St. Mary’s to finish up high school before inevitable being drafted when they turn 18. It would be the first and only time they play together on the same team, Crosby-Malkin proudly spelled onto the back of their sweaters.

Another scene where they’re all playing shinny on a frozen pond somewhere, Geno getting distracted and just sweeping Sid into his arms after he scores a goal, kissing and swinging around until they both fall into a snowbank, their sons launching themselves at them at top speed.

Another scene where Daniel Crosby-Malkin from the Chicago Blackhawks and Dimitri Crosby-Malkin from the Dallas Stars face off for a Stanley Cup final

And finally, a small wedding held in Sid’s backyard in Nova Scotia, where Daniel and Dimitri stand with Flower and Tanger and Kuni and Duper and Talbo and most of Geno’s Russian buddies as their parents finally get married again, kissing happily under the sunset and the lake shining behind them.

Bonus scene: A few months after the wedding and a few days before the season starts up again, with everyone home, Sid comes down the stairs for breakfast with a strange look on his face and something in his hands. He’s a graceful 43 now, grey hairs really pushing now, so when he says “you boys up to being big brothers?” Geno spits out the tea he had been drinking and jumps up and envelops his husband.

#sidgeno #hockey rpf #sidney crosby #evgeni malkin #pittsburgh penguins #the fetal alcohol syndrome possibility was glossed over #as was the playing at 12 weeks pregnant #and frankly with his personality he would be working till he popped #let me know what you think!#mpreg

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pinkydee10 · 4 years ago

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More Dadvali stuff because I love my own AU too much lol

Ok, so I like many creators have a really bad habit of making characters and AUs sad and depressing in some way. And though the Dadvali AU is already pretty sad with Teba and Kass being forced to grow up without their father, I’ve had this idea of Revali having a trashy ex-boyfriend before he had Teba and Kass floating around my head for awhile. So here we go;

Revali smiled down at the wine colored hatchling sleeping in his arms. His gaze only flicking away from her for a moment as an inky black Rito approched him.

“Gomi, look at her. Isn’t she adorable?”

Gomi chuckled in response. “Yes, our Wareta is just perfect. She’ll make a fine warrior.”

Revali shook his head. “She can be whatever she wants to be, and excel at it.”

Gomi raised an eyebrow at that. “Revali, wouldn’t you prefer her to be a warrior or an archer at least? With both of our skills combined she will surely-”

“Gomi please” Revali interrupted. “As much as I would love to have her follow in our footsteps or even my father’s, I would much rather prefer her to be happy. Wouldn’t you?”

“Revali, you know as well as I that the Rito are always looking for more troops.” Gomi argued. “Warriors such as ourselves often sacrifice everything including our happiness in order to ensure our eventually victory!”

“I am very much aware of that, thank you very much.” Revali retorted, trying to remain calm. “But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that my little Wareta is unhappy because of my decisions.”

Gomi growls. “Revali! If the offspring of two warriors doesn’t become a warrior itself, it would be very disrespectful to the entire blood-!”

The arguing Rito’s stopped at the sound of the hatchling wailing.

“Oh, now look what you’ve done!” Revali scolded his partner before turning back to the crying hatchling. ‘Shhh It’s alright Wareta. Papa’s here. Papa’s here. Shhh”

Revali then glared at Gomi. “We’ll discuss this later, Gomi. Let’s at least try to enjoy our daughter’s hatching.”

Gomi scowled as Revali turned all his attention back onto Wareta. He decided to pay them no mind as he walked out of the hut, knowing what exactly he had and wanted to do.

“Yes. Be happy while you can. Revali”

Only a week later, Gomi disappered from Rito Village. Along with little Wareta. Upon hearing that his granddaughter was kidnapped by her own father, the elder immediately sent his best warriors to seek out and bring them back. Months past and there was no sign of either of them. Revali fell into depression, never seen leaving his hut.

In this AU, Link and Revali met long before Zelda recruited him and the other champions so you bet the knight would go check on him as soon as he caught wind of the situation.

Link lightly knocked at the entrance of Revali’s hut. “Revali? It’s me, Link.”

No response. Not that that wasn’t expected. Link took a breath and entered anyway. His frown deepened when he saw Revali, laying face down in his hammock with audible sniffs heard. “Revali?”

“Go away Link” Revali hiccupped. “I’m really not in the mood”

Link sighed and approached him anyway. “Revali, look. I know you’re upset but-”

“Upset? Upset?! Oh, I’m more then upset!”

Revali rolled onto his side and sat up. His eyes were red and puffy and the feathers on his face were wet and sticky from his still flowing tears.

“That spineless CUCCO took MY daughter away from me! All because I wouldn’t agree to fit her into the mold he created for her!” Revali yelled, his voice uncharacteristically cracking. “That BRUTE is going to turn her into a just as cold as a warrior as he is! Do you have ANY idea what that feels like?! DO YOU?!”

“I...I don’t...” Link admitted.

Revali huffed and shoved his face back into his pillow. Pride nowhere to be seen as another round of painful sobs started up. All Link could do was rub his back in hopes of calming him down.

From that day on, whenever Link had any down time he would go to Rito Village and check on Revali. He knew that Revali would never forget Wareta or what Gomi did, but he could help him cope. It took awhile, but Revali eventually warmed up to Link helping him, and to Link himself.

About two years before Zelda recruited the champions, Revali agreed to try and be a parent again. This time with Link, the one who actually cares about him.

“Hiya, little Teba, Kass.” Link greeted. “I’m uh...Revali, are you ok with them calling me dad?”

Revali chuckled. “Of course, Link.”

Link grinned before handing the sky blue hatchling back to Revali, just as he finished preening the pale white hatchling.

“Link, look at them. Aren’t they adorable?”

Link nodded. “Of course they are! Can’t wait to see what they grow up to be!”

Revali frowned at that. He then looked up at Link worriedly. “Link...would...would you be ok if they...you know...don’t become warriors or knights?”

Link blinked in surprise. “What? Of course I would! They can become whatever they want! Why would you-Oh, this is about you know who, right?”

Revali looked down at Teba and Kass nestled in his arms and nodded sadly. Link ran a hand across his cheek and gave him a reassuring smile.

“Revali, I could care less about what the boys grow up to be. As long as they’re safe and happy, I’ll be happy. I won’t be anything like Gomi, I promise.”

Revali let out a contented sigh and leaned into the touch. Reassured by Link’s words.

Neither Gomi or Wareta were seen or heard from again, Revali never forgot his Wareta or what Gomi did. But his relationship with Link and the birth of their Teba and Kass helped him cope. Revali still holds onto the hope that Wareta will one day come home and meet her little brothers, but he fears that he will not like the Rito Gomi most likely forced her to be.

Bonus: Wareta is based on the Japanese word for “lost” while Gomi is based on the Japanese word for “trash”

#dadvali #botw #revalink #botw link #revali #teba #kass #AU #fanfic #im obsessed with my own AU help!

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missterious-figure · 6 months ago

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I just remembered, I have a bird OC and I think she would be perfect for the Wine and Feathers AU! Originally she a Sonic OC but I use her a lot so might as well. Her name is Empatía, usually called Tia, is a crow harpy, has purple eyes and she is a child. I know, not really the necessary age to be part of a casino but I feel like she would at least be shown off to guests who love baby birds and just wanna pet them. She is around 5-9 years old, most likely the baby of some of the harpies and all, and can speak pretty well but is a selective mute and mostly communicates through chirping.

Baby crow Tia would be so damn fluffy, I’m sorry, seeing your drawings of baby bird Sun, Moon and Eclipse gave me baby fever and I wanna show off my baby Tia cause she is adorable! I plan on drawing her after drawing Daniel in uniform.

I feel like she would admire the Peacocks’ feathers cause they so colorful and shiny and she likes shiny and would probably follow them around whenever the casino be closed. She knows when she can and can’t follow them around. I find the image of her small form staring up at Eclipse’s big ass persona so damn funny.

Awww!! I really want to see!! Baby birbs are so adorable!!

(Also, the boys would be happy to have a baby with them after hours. They'd try to convince y/n that it is their baby.)

#dca au #wine and feathers au #answered

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timebird84 · 4 years ago

Text

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @agapecentauri

Twelve Nights of Chocolate

On the first day of Christmas, my true friend gave to me, a beautiful chocolate peppermint tree...

“Oh my goodness, this is so gorgeous and so creative!” Christine gasped as she turned the small candy tree on the table top. The peppermint candies swirled in a mesmerizing pattern, the aromatic fragrance of milk chocolate filled her senses. “I don't know how you do it! You spent too much time on this.”

“My darling friend, to see this smile is more than worth the effort. Besides, I wanted to show just how much I cherish our friendship. And this is just the beginning!” Nadir chuckled.

* * *

It was astounding how fast this year had gone and how quickly these two became friends. It was just a few days into the New Year when Christine stumbled upon this hidden treasure of a delicatessen in an unfamiliar part of Paris called Le Persan Parisien (The Parisian Persian). The previous year had been difficult for them both. Christine had not only buried her dear father but had also ended an extended engagement. So when the bell to the main entrance ting-tinged on that blustery January day, Christine had come to terms that she was bound to wander life alone. It wasn’t until she was greeted by this strange foreigner with perfectly salt and peppered hair upon her arrival that her heart just might have lurched ever so slightly and a shy grin graced her face.

Nadir had come to Paris on a dying request from his friend, Erik. “Come to Paris, dear old friend. Do this for me. My life has been cut unfairly short. You know this was my dream,” Nadir recalled the conversation years ago, as he placed a large pan of hazelnuts into a brick oven to roast. Nadir was a perpetual bachelor, and at 53 years old he figured his days of chasing the young ladies were long gone. He, much like Christine, had settled on his fate of living out the rest of his days a single man. He arrived in Paris almost 10 years ago from Persia on the promise to Erik to open a true Parisian delicatessen. Nadir had then discovered his passion for the art of a chocolatier. The sound of the ting ting from the delicatessen’s bell broke him from his thoughts. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his hands and began to greet this customer when he stopped suddenly at the young woman before him.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true friend gave to me, four pralines, three bottles of homemade sirops, two creme brulees…

“Nadir, I will be 200 pounds before Christmas Eve in eight days! I can’t believe you’ve made everything from scratch. You have a true gift.”

“Again, my darling Christine, it’s the best way I know how to show you how much I adore you… your friendship.” He caught himself thankfully before she could notice the slip of his tongue.

* * *

It was late spring and these two were inseparable. Christine found herself coming to visit Nadir every evening on her way home from work. She purposefully adjusted her work schedule so she could have extra time with him. “Tell me, Nadir, about where you grew up.” Nadir grew nostalgic as they walked arm in arm around the blossoming trees along the old cobblestone streets. He spoke fondly of his parents, his siblings. “Do you miss your homeland?”

“At times I do but present company has been refreshing and a much welcome distraction.” He felt her arm squeeze into his more closely. He felt warm.

“What do you miss the most?” she inquired. Her favorite part of their conversations was how he described what things smelled like, the foods, the air, the warm hearths of the homes. His words were descriptive and his accent practically made the aromas waft from his body. She breathed him in.

“Saffron,” he stated almost immediately.

“I would like to try that someday,” she confessed. The very next morning, Nadir placed a special order for saffron to be delivered from Persia. It would take a few months, but hopefully it would arrive in enough time for Christmas.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true friend gave to me nine miniature Baba au rhums, eight chocolate hazelnut eclairs, seven red velvet chocolate macarons, six chocolate madeleines, five chocolate croissants…

“You seem a little melancholy tonight, my dear. Is everything alright?”

“I just feel a little contemplative, I guess.”

“What’s on your mind this evening?” Nadir inquired as he brought a hot carafe of water, tea leaves, and two tea cups. He sat down and watched Christine spoon the tea leaves into the steeper. She seemed sad tonight.

She sighed rather forlornly, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Maybe, but clearly I’m not an expert since I’m now an old man and still not married nor a lover,” Nadir responded with a chuckle trying to lighten the mood. “Tell me, darling, what does your heart need?”

* * *

When Christine couldn’t come in the mornings, she would send a courier to the shop with a note to see if Nadir would accompany her for a walk in the evening. He always obliged. One evening, Christine blurted out as they walked hand in hand, “There is no possible way you are 53 years old! You don’t look a day over 40!”

Nadir laughed. “Surely, dear lady, I may have to kiss you should you choose to flatter me further!” He noticed how deeply her face flushed crimson. After bidding each other a pleasant evening, Christine thought to herself, “Surely this feeling is… it’s nothing. He didn’t really mean he’d kiss me.”

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true friend gave to me, an eleven-cheese charcuterie and pinot noir, ten chocolate meringues…

“I hope you enjoy the pinot noir, it’s one of my favorites,” Nadir explained as the cold liquid splashed into their wine glasses.

“Mmm, this is delicious!” she said after the crisp, cold wine wet her palette. “I think I owe you an apology for the other night.”

“An apology, Christine? Whatever for?”

“It’s not my place to speak of love and relationships. I feel I overstepped,” Christine said shyly. What she wanted to confess was that her feelings for him had gone beyond those of an endearing friendship.

* * *

Christine invited Nadir to her flat for Thanksgiving. Since neither of them had family, Christine wanted to prepare a special meal for him. They had a splendid evening together, and after dinner, the pair sat in front of a small fire burning in the fireplace, enjoying a lovely port Nadir had brought. Snow had begun to fall lightly when Nadir offered a walk along the Seine.

As they walked, the cold seeped through and Christine shivered. She felt Nadir’s arm snake around her back and pulled her close to keep her warm. They walked in silence, until Nadir heard a beautiful sound coming from Christine. “Darling! I didn’t know you sang!” he said rather startled.

“I only sing when happy and content,” she said, their steps began to slow and the snow fell harder.

Nadir turned Christine in his arms and smiled. “Oh Christine, you’re a stunning woman. You offer this old man such happiness. If you’d permit me, I would like to do something special for you for Christmas.”

“You’re not that old,” she responded giggling. Nadir pressed a light kiss upon her rosy cheeks.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve small pieces of saffron-infused salted dark chocolate…. And a declaration…

It was finally Christmas Eve, the final night of Nadir’s 12 nights of chocolate gift giving to Christine. With each treat, Christine certainly noticed the extra effort he put forth, knowing that each treat was increasingly more complex and difficult to craft. Tonight, Nadir prepared for them a private dinner at Le Persan Parisien, a special meal before presenting Christine with her final gift.

They sampled and sipped multiple wines of all colors: robust and earthy reds, crisp and dry whites, and finally towards the end of the meal sweet and cold roses. “I have something for you,” Christine said, riffling through her bag. “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas, but for all the trouble you’ve gone through, I simply could not get you something in return.”

“My dear, you are more than enough of a gift to me,” he said, gently kissing her hand. Christine smiled as she placed the wrapped parcel on the table. Nadir unwrapped it and smiled. She had commissioned a street artist to hand draw a portrait of them after giving him a picture to draw to their likenesses. “Oh darling, it’s beautiful!”

“That’s not all,” Christine said quietly and began to sing to him. Nadir leaned thoughtfully back in the cushioned bistro chair, the white Christmas lights warmly embracing them as he listened ever so intently to her voice. “You have the voice of an angel. Thank you, Christine, for the gift of your voice.” He leaned closely and kissed her cheek, but unlike before, this one was so much closer to her lips than her actual cheek. Biting at her bottom lip, her face flushed at the words she wanted to say. “And now, for your final gift,” Nadir said as he got up from the table and went to the back.

Christine watched bashfully as her eyes swept over Nadir’s figure. His perfectly tailored suit hugged his body in all the right places. His wavy salt- and pepper-colored hair was combed back, his spectacles resting astutely upon his olive-tinted face. He was charming, polite, soft spoken, witty, and a well-aged gentleman. He was like a fine, rare wine, and when opened up, smooth and rich, leaving one feeling warm and satisfied. The plate clanked onto the table, a small paper doily covering the treasure underneath.

“Remember earlier this spring you ask what I missed the most about Persia?” Nadir asked as he moved the tea cups and saucers off to the side.

“Saffron,” she replied, their eyes meeting as she watched Nadir’s face light up.

“Tonight, Christine, on this Christmas Eve, my gift to you… 12 pieces of saffron salted dark chocolate.” He undercovered the plate and picked up a small square of the chocolate. “Close your eyes,” he quietly spoke. Nadir watched as her eyes slid closed, her long lashes fanned out like soft feather. “And open…” his heart raced as Christine opened her mouth to welcome the morsel onto her tongue. Nadir swallowed down the hard knot clogging his throat. Her lips gently closed around the tip of his finger. A thrill shot through him.

The saffron infused dark chocolate melted slowly and the small granules of salt mingled with the heat from the foreign spice and bittersweet dark chocolate. Christine lazily opened her eyes to find Nadir studying her reaction with a smile. “May I have another taste?” she whispered, her palette sleek and wet with craving.

“Hmm,” he acknowledged, “Of course.” Carefully he picked up another piece of the chocolate, waiting for her eyes to slid close again. But she surprised him.

“Nadir,” she whispered, “another taste if you please.” He again fed her the saffron dark chocolate and this time her lips and tongue linger longer upon his fingertips. “Mmmm,” she murmured, “for the love of sweets I do believe this is the most decadent chocolate I have ever tasted.” She blushed as Nadir eyeing her thoughtfully clinging to her words. “I do believe...”

“Yes darling?”

“I do believe I crave even more.” Leaning over the small cafe table, Christine brought her hands to caress Nadir’s face, searching for something, either doubt or apprehension or perhaps permission. Her lips gracefully fall onto his. He can taste the saffron on her tongue.

#PotO Advent Calendar #PotO #Phantom of the Opera #Door 19

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fullsunalicia · 5 years ago

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hiii! i just found your account and i’m so in love with everything you’ve written!!! can i request a johnny demigod au?

piece by piece — SYH

johnny would rather die than admit he’s not able to fix something. no matter what it is, he’s absolutely certain he can find a way to make it right. correct the clock’s tick. make the light bulb shine again. puzzle the pieces of your heart together. who else would, if not him?

son of hephaestus!johnny x daughter of dionysus!reader

of course you can! thank you for request love, i hope you enjoy! <3

Some people are born with a silver-spoon in their mouth. Johnny entered the world with mechanical tools and screwdrivers in his little hands. At least that’s what he keeps on telling others when they watch him build something.

He’s always had a knack for stuff like that. During experiments, it was always Johnny who got the thing up and working. He loves to create. There’s no better feeling than getting something to work again, like a broken clock, or a flickering light.

There’s only one exception. Johnny’s never tried to fix a heart before, but he’s willing to try.

A loud yelp escapes you as Johnny takes away the wine bottle you were clinging to. Is this your second or third one? Honestly, he doesn’t remember. He hasn’t been paying attention. The only thing that matters right now is getting you away from all the alcohol, and into a bed to sleep your rush off. Your eyes are stained red, rivalling those of a stoner. Your fix is free; it’s called ‘tears’. Truth be told, you’re an emotional mess, and everything spills over the second alcohol enters your bloodstream and chases away the deep-rooted pain inside your chest.

“You give that back right now, Seo.”

“Not a chance in hell,” he deadpans. The frat house is way too loud, overcrowded with people he’s never seen before, but you’re gonna have to deal with that if you’re going to sleep over tonight. Strong arms slide beneath your back and into the hollows of your knees, lifting you up as if you‘re the pound of feathers and not the pound of iron you feel like. It’s a familiar feeling, because Johnny always carries you to bed. It’s a tradition that’s slipped into your drunk habits aswell, since you tend to pass out in your intoxicated bliss instead of helping yourself to an appropiate sleeping place.

Johnny sets you down on a soft mattress, one you recognize too easily. His blankets are freshly washed, and you ignore the laughter falling from Johnny’s lips as you snuggle into them. You look like a toddler. “Aren’t you going to change, (y/n)?” he mumbles, fingertips brushing over your cheekbones. You’re like a sculpture - flawless marble, the perfect depiction of a Greek beauty. Venus de Milo is literally sprawled over his bed. Not many guys can say that. “That croptop must be kinda tight. Here, let me help you.”

“You think you’re funny?” you drawl out. Alcohol makes your tongue heavy, speaking is an effort. He’d never admit it out loud, but you’re rather adorable whenever you’ve had a sip too much. Johnny tucks you in, the soft, plushy blankets covering your entire body. Your eyes are already screwed shut. You’ve got a sharp tongue, but everybody knows how much you trust Johnny. More than anyone else in your life. He’s the one who looks past the drunk facade and sees the sorrow beneath it, the very same your father must have felt when Ariadne left him for eternity. Like an illness, your heart is rotting from an invisible wound, inflicted by someone who didn’t know how to treat you right.

Johnny would. He knows you deserve to be treated like a princess, not some prize. That’s why he broke that guy’s jaw with pure pleasure. The busted knuckles after that were beyond worth it, and the kiss you had left on them was just the cherry on top.

There’s nothing Johnny wouldn’t do for you. His head is filled with thoughts about you and you only, his entire existence revolves around protecting his tiny best friend. You’re his world, and Johnny’s the moon circling it. You just don’t know it yet. Maybe you don’t want him, reject him like Aphrodite did to his father. It doesn’t sound so bad when it means he can still baby you like this, fingers carding through your hair, listening to the appreciative hums you let out at that. When he lowers his head to sneak a kiss on your cheek, cheeky and daring, you don’t fulfill your threats to snap his neck. Drowsily, since you’re already slipping into slumber, you catch Johnny around the neck and pull him down to leave your own peck on his temple.

Whoever in Olymp is responsible for your behavior, whatever Fate had meddled with your creation - he’d sincerely like to thank them from the bottom of his heart for making you a clingy drunk.

Since the first day of college, Johnny has been taking care of you. He had helped you renovate your dorms since you are literally helpless when it comes to building cupboards and setting up some baseboards. Whenever you miss a lecture, you copy off his carefully written notes. And you can bet your sweet ass you’re the first one to take a sip of Johnny’s freshly brewed coffee. It’s not like he has it in himself to stop you - he’s the one who offers you the mug and scolds you for not taking care of yourself. He’s the one who wants to ease off some stress from your shoulders by helping you with your living quarters. He wants to make sure you get the correct notes so you don’t fail during an exam.

It’s only right he’s the one to solve the jigsaw puzzle that represents your heart.

❀ ❀ ❀

“Raise your hand if you think (y/n)’s an alcoholic.”

“Nakamoto, if you don’t shut up, I’ll seriously consider stuffing your mouth with a croissant.” Over the breakfast table, you throw an not-so-evil glare Yuta’s way, but the man only laughs and starts eating his cereal. You don’t really look threatening in your blanket cocoon; you had refused to part from them when Johnny had woken you up and dragged you out of his room. “Seo, put that hand down right now.”

“Lying is a sin, (y/n).” He catches the hand that tried to hit his chest, and you yelp loudly when he tugs you out of your safe space inside the blankets so you can sit on his lap. His frat brothers are staring, all of them aware about the feelings blossoming in Johnny’s chest for the alcoholic he managed to befriend. He doesn’t care, though. He’s too busy adoring the embarrassed blush on your cheeks, so distracted by the sight that he forgets you’re in attack mode. The flick to his forehead actually hurts. “Don’t make me throw you across the table, (y/n). You know I can do it.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you shoot back. Stubborn as always.

Johnny’s arm around your waist doesn’t seem to bother you. You actually continue your breakfast while he rests his head on your shoulder, lost in your natural fragrance. Of course you smell like grapes. The stench of alcohol. But he also picks up roses, the underlying notes of the perfume you had put on last night. According to you, he smells like burnt wood and oil. That doesn’t sound as pleasant as you do, but he’ll take what he can.

The gears are already set in motion. Without you knowing, Johnny plans to cure your broken heart. So when you set down the knife you used to cut open your croissant, Johnny asks you: “(y/n), wanna go on a date?”

You freeze on his lap. Your heartbeat thunders below his touch, like a clock ticking away. Hearts are nothing but clockwork, racing towards your death. The last hour of your life. Until your battery finally runs out. Johnny has a lot of mechanic jokes. “Excuse me? Are you still drunk?”

“You of all people are not allowed to ask me if I’m drunk.”

“Fair,” you mumble, almost offended. But the shock still lingers in your veins, painted on his friend’s face aswell. You turn in his hold to look Johnny in the eyes, the disbelief in yours driving a knife through his heart. “Is this a joke, Seo Youngho? I don’t particularly like to joke about this and you know that better than anyone else.”

“That’s exactly why I’m asking.” Johnny’s fingers tug at your shirt, desperate to feel what’s below. Is your skin as soft as it looks like? If he touches you here and there, what can he coax out of you? His thoughts run wild about you always; sometimes innocently, sometimes anything but. “I’m sick of watching you drink your problems away, (y/n). We all know you’ve gotten over him, you’re just afraid of facing the consequences of what he’s done to you. Let me help you. I can fix this.”

Your eyes are hypnotizing. Maybe this is what it looks like when maenads possess their victims, luring them in with the promise of a good time and better alcohol. You don’t offer him intoxication - you offer Johnny the entire galaxy, every solar system locked into your gaze, a kaleidoscope of human memories, desire, love. One look would make any man lightheaded.

Children of Hephaestus are fireproof. They’re supposed to be blacksmiths, working at any temperature. Only you manage to leave scorch markings where your fingertips meet his face, uncomfortably hot, and still irresistible. Second degree burns don’t sound so bad when you’re the one inflicting them.

“You can’t fix everything, Johnny,” you tell him. The sadness clinging to your voice is centuries old, older than time itself, the common tale of a heart broken that’s never going to be whole again. “No matter how hard you try.”

Johnny clings to you like a drowning man would to his life ring. “You wouldn’t know. You never let me try.”

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny doesn’t know where you start and he ends. Your relationship is blurred lines, interwoven red strings. There are pieces you’ve been given by him to make you complete, and parts you’ve given away to fulfill him. You give and give and give, never once thinking if it’s going to break you.

That’s why it’s so easy to love Johnny. A very long time ago, you’d already promised him your heart, long before it had been darkened by strangers who never learnt how to treat it. It’s his, in every sense of the word. Over the years, it has been fed with happy things. Johnny’s smile. The pride you feel whenever he wins an award for his experiments and ideas. The giddy feeling he sets off inside you when he lifts you off the ground to twirl you around like a princess. The many nights you used to stay up to listen to him and count the stars, naming them after you while you fell asleep to the sound of Johnny’s pulse. How could your heart belong to someone else, when it’s never known anyone besides him?

As long as there’s a beat inside your heart, there will be love, too. In the many thousand shards that pierce through your lungs and are barely hidden beneath your skin, affection will always pool beneath the blood they draw. You were so suspicious of Johnny’s attempts, yet it comes so easy.

He takes you out to see the city, even though you know every corner of it. Johnny forces you to see it with new eyes, to chase away the bad experiences you connect them with. The park where you had been broken up with turns into the place where Johnny teaches you to skate, arms tight around your waist, the promise of no harm ever coming to you if he can prevent it luring you to try. The many restaurants you had started to avoid because of the couples dining there had turned into date nights where Johnny orders for you and you in turn for him, laughing at the grimace the other pulls when it doesn’t taste as expected. He takes your memories and flips them, good side up.

Your lungs had been poisoned with toxins for a very long time. Johnny was the clean air that helped you breathe. What had once been pain turned into newfound happiness, the flutter of butterflies inside your stomach. The exploding fireworks Johnny sets off when his lips meet your skin.

Where alcohol had once mended was now pure fire. Johnny’s fire, burning you from the inside out, setting you free like a phoenix out of his ashes.

You should’ve known better than to trust this good feeling. A year’s worth of pain is not erased so easily. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Doubt eats away at your heart, casting long shadows of the healing pieces.

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny hates the theoretical part of his studies. His hands itch to work, to forge, to create. They can’t sit still, and that’s why it takes him hours to finish his assignments. If there’s not the impending doom of an exam lingering inside his mind, there’s no reason for him to sit unmoving on a chair for several hours to concentrate on the task at hand.

But time is running out, and he has to finish this now. He had already slept for the entire day, having eaten breakfast at 3pm since another frat party had kept him awake yesterday. Yeah, he should’ve laid off the alcohol, but you go ahead and try to tell Sicheng no when he begs you to come play beer pong.

That’s physically impossible. There’s not a single soul on this planet that’s able to resist Sicheng’s puppy dog eyes, and he knows. Monster.

That’s why Johnny sits here now. He has to force his short attention span to cling to the paper he’s supposed to be writing on, since he knows damn well he’d grasp at any chance to procrastinate. His thoughts wander to you, like always. His sweet (y/n). The raging alcoholic.

Or, how he likes to call you, his princess.

The petname colors your cheeks red and makes you lower your pretty eyes. His imagination is too vivid - Johnny groans loudly as you conquer his mind again, determined to stay there forever. Daydreams are always conjured by the wish of seeing you. Johnny is so unbelievably whipped.

He’s already decided. The next time he sees you, he’s going to ask you to be his girlfriend. To be his for as long as he exists, and in turn being yours forever. In a room full of people, Johnny’s eyes would still search for you. Who else would he love for the rest of his life if not you?

Maybe he’ll never get to.

The door to his room is thrown open rather loudly. Yuta tumbles in, yawn leaving his lips, before the man freezes in his movements and stares at Johnny. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“This is my room, you know.”

“I know this is your room, you giant idiot,” Yuta hisses. Johnny furrows his eyebrows; had he done something wrong...? What’s gotten the man so worked up? “I’m asking you why you’re here instead of the date you promised your almost-girlfriend who you’ve been in love with your entire life!”

Johnny’s heart drops. It falls and falls into that pit of dread inside his stomach, just like pencil and ruler as he throws it onto the table and grabs his jacket. He almost tumbles down the stairs and breaks his neck, but that’d be worth it if it meant reaching you faster. Taeil yells at him to be more careful, though his words only meet deaf ears. Johnny’s already long gone, bursting through the door as he starts running and prays it’s enough to reach you in time.

You’re not there.

He wonders how he can call himself a son of Hephaestus when he cannot even stop his own heart from shattering at the realization that he may have lost you forever. It would’ve been your anniversary with your ex boyfriend today, and Johnny realizes only now.

If only his father could see him like this. He’d cast him off Olympus, a perfect mimic of what Hera had done thousands of years ago. It’s what Johnny would have deserved.

❀ ❀ ❀

The many messages he leaves on your voicemail remain unanswered. He knocks at your dorm often, but you never open, not a rustle is heard inside. Like a graveyard, there’s only the sound of the wind breezing through your apartment, no sign of life. Your phone doesn’t ring when he calls you from outside the dorm, as if you’re not there. Not home.

Nowhere near him.

Back to square one, Johnny loves you from a distance. His tears soak the blankets you used to lull yourself in, and he spends hours locked inside his room listening to the playlist you created.

In a morbid sense of longing, he even bought that type of vodka you like so much. The one that tastes like peppermint and makes him want to retch, even though you’re able to swallow it up like water. He’s always known you were an alcoholic. For once, Johnny wishes you were here, getting drunk alongside him.

No matter how much the liquor numbs his senses, it doesn’t stop him from thinking about you. Like a broken record, Johnny always ends up wondering how you are. If you feel a little better, even though Johnny stood you up.

Every night, he asks the stars for you. They never respond.

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny doesn’t know what he’s doing here. There’s no sense to knocking at your door - you’d die before opening it willingly. After all, you had opened your heart to him, and look where that had gotten you.

He almost passes out in relief when your face appears in the doorway, tear tracks staining your face. “Have you come to torture me more?” you whisper, too afraid of your voice breaking. If you can’t even stop your heart from doing it, you’d like to atleast beware your voice. “Go ahead. Let’s see what kills me first, my broken heart or alcohol.”

“(y/n),” he breathes out, and the pain in his voice makes you flinch. It matches the one sitting in your chest, an exact replica. Distance wounded you both. “(y/n), I am the stupidest man alive and I am so sorry I left you standing in the rain back then. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” you mumble. Your voice is bitter, but your hands reach to hold his. Is he imagining things, or are you actually tugging him inside right now? Is it wishful thinking? Is that it?

Your apartment looks like a mess, as always. A perfect mirror to your mind. Johnny used to tease you about it. Now, it just makes him feel worse, because he did that to you. “I need to say it,” he suddenly says. “I need you to know.”

“To know what?”

“I love you.”

The three magic words. Instant remedy to any kind of wound, no matter how old, no matter how deadly. You confuse Johnny by laughing, fresh tears running over the old traces on your cheeks.

“I know.” You tug at his shirt and force him down; your scent floods Johnny’s senses when you press your face against the column of his neck. Now you’re home. Right where you’re supposed to be. “Who the else would be patient enough to fix me? I’m a big, fat mess. I should’ve waited for you that day...”

“You should have beat my fucking ass,” Johnny curses, and then he finally kisses you. Like fire, his kiss devours, rampant heat frying your senses and jumpstarting your tired heart. The kiss is way too messy, teeth knocking against each other in a frenzy. This is what you needed - the undying, pure love Johnny provides you with. It’s what you’ve been longing for since the first time you set eyes on him, the very first time his puzzle pieces clicked into place inside you.

Johnny’s never tried to fix a heart before, but he’s also the one who knows yours inside out. It’s only right that he’s the one who puts it together piece by piece.

#idk if i like this #but here it is’#seo youngho #seo johnny #johnny suh #nct 127 #seo youngho x reader #seo johnny x reader #johnny suh x reader #nct 127 x reader #seo youngho fluff #seo johnny fluff #johnny suh fluff #nct 127 fluff #seo youngho scenarios #seo johnny scenarios #johnny suh scenarios

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kookscrescent · 5 years ago

Text

When Lightning Strikes (m) │ jjk

➤ pairing│Jungkook x female reader ➤ summary│You are home alone as a storm is going on outside, and a wet Jungkook comes home. ➤ rating│NC-17, mature, 18+ ➤ genre│smut, boyfriend au ➤ warnings│unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), strong language, couch sex, cremepie ➤ word count│2.1k│semi edited ➤ release date│July 30th 2019 ➤ disclaimer│This is all fiction! Nothing mentioned/written are facts and/or real! So please just keep that in mind when reading and enjoy! Thank you ♡

⇥ Masterlist

A bright white light fills up the dark living room as the lightning strikes through the night sky, closely followed by a rippling boom, that feels like it’s shaking the walls.

Outside the city is completely dark, the power of most of it having gone out a few minutes ago, and the only source of light you have is the handful of candles you managed to find, and the occasional lightning that lighting up the room for a short period of time.

You curl yourself further into the thick blanket as yet another lighting strikes and thunder booms. This is crazy! You are normally not the type of person to get startled by little thunder and lighting, but this storm is crazy! It’s been going on for the past few hours, the heavy rain is hitting against the tall windows, splashing against the streets below and the few cars, that despite the horrible weather, still have ventured out in the city.

If wouldn’t be as bad if you hadn’t been home alone and had power, but you are, and you have no idea when Jungkook is coming back from practice, and the fact that your phone died an hour ago isn’t really helping either. The last text you received from him was just moments before it died, saying that practice was being cancelled, but he didn’t know when he would be home due to the weather.

And you understood that! You would rather have him stay at the practice studio, than have him driving home in this horrendous weather and risking him getting hurt somehow. And it’s not like you can just charge you phone with the power being out. So, you tried calming yourself down and making the best of the situation, by sitting down with a blanket and a glass of wine, in the way to expensive - but also very comfortable - couch Jungkook bought a few months back, and watch the storm outside.

Sipping the glass of wine, you glanced down at the watch on your wrist, the small pointers telling you that another hour had passed by and it was almost midnight. Oh, how badly you wished your phone worked right now so you could contact Jungkook!

The storm outside had quiet down a little bit by now, the lightning coming and going with far bigger gaps than before, but the rain was still pouring down, the sound of it echoing throughout the quiet apartment.

You were in your own little world, when the front door opened and wet footsteps could be heard in the hallway. You nearly leaped out of your seat as you saw Jungkook rounding the corner of the living room, completely drenched from the rain. His hair clinging to his face, small droplets trickling down his cheeks, his clothes and jacket sticking to his body as he shivered slightly.

“Hey!” He said, his voice shaking as he kicked off his wet boots and went to you, clearly not caring that he was getting the entire floor wet.

You didn’t waste a second before your arms went around his neck, hugging him to your body. You didn’t care that he was wet, and you would be too, you hadn’t realized just how worried and lonely you had felt until you saw him just now.

“Hey,” you mumbled in the crook of his neck, feeling him shiver as your warm breath hit his cold skin. “I missed you!”

He lets out a short laugh as he pulls away a little to look at your face. “I missed you too babe.” He says kissing the tip of your nose. “Were you scared?” he teases.

“A little,” you admit. “But I was also worried about you!” You smack his arm when he keeps laughing at you. “It’s not funny Jungkook! My phone died and I couldn’t charge it to get in contact with you, and only god knew when you would be able to get home in this weather!”

He brings your body back against his, “God I love you!” he says. “Thank you for worrying about me.”

“I love you too,” you mumble, your hands fisting the back of his wet jacket.

You suddenly realize something, your brows furrow as a confused look crosses your face. Jungkook cant see you but he feels you tense up under his hold.

“What is it?” he asks.

“How did you get up here?” you ask him. “The power is out so the elevators don’t work.”

“I took the stairs. Lit the way with the flashlight on my phone.”

“But we’re on the top floor.”

“So?” he shrugs.

“That’s a hell of a lot of stairs!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he tells you. “Besides I was way too cold to think about anything else, let alone how many stairs I had to climb.”

As a comfortable silence falls around you, another loud boom strikes through the sky, making you jump in his arms. He laughs a little at your uneasiness, knowing your typically not afraid of this type of weather, but he still hugs you tighter trying to give you some sort of comfort.

“You should really get out of these wet clothes before you get sick!” You tell him. He’s got some important months coming up and he can’t afford being sick. And he’s also dripping on the carpet, creating small pools of water, which is driving you nuts, but you keep your mouth shut about that part.

“You’re right.” He replies letting you go and surprisingly you yourself didn't get that wet from hugging him. Your shirt clings a little to your body, but nothing worth changing for.

On his way to the bathroom, Jungkook peels off his jacket and shirt and you get a mouthwatering view of his back muscles. Small drops of water running down his back from his still wet hair. You follow close behind him, not wanting to miss a single piece of clothing leaving his body.

Once he reaches the dark bathroom, only his black boxers remain on his toned body. You stop in the doorway, leaning against the frame as you look at him. It’s almost pitch-black, but the what little light that comes from the moonlight and through the window, hits his body perfectly.

Jungkook can feel your eyes on him, a smirk adoring his lips. He loves the way he can drive you crazy like this, he loves that it isn’t only him that feels like this because you drive him crazy every single time he looks at you.

“Wanna take a shower?” he asks you with a wiggle of his eyebrows but also completely serious, and for a moment you consider it, but you decide against it.

You shake your head, “We can hardly see anything babe, and knowing what we usually end up doing when we shower together, one of us will just end up getting injured.” You laugh as you picture it.

“You’re no fun.” He pouts.

“That’s not what you usually tell me.” You tease as you leave the room with a little more swing to your hips.

You can hear him groan behind you, and you can’t help but feel conflicted. You’ve missed him all day, and you’ve been by yourself throughout most of it and god do you want him as bad as he wants you, but shower sex is just not an option right now in these conditions.

Any other time? Hell yes!!

Jungkook joins you back in the living room. He’s put on a pair of loose joggers but haven’t bothered putting on a shirt. He sits down beside you on the couch, completely still for a moment, before he grabs both of your ankles and pulls you down in a laying position. You shriek at the sudden change, and he hover above you placing kisses across your collarbones and up to your ear, where he lightly nipples your lobe.

A sigh of satisfaction leaves your mouth and your hands lace themselves behind his neck, softly playing with the hairs there.

“What are you doing?” You ask him breathless.

“You said no to shower sex.” Jungkook hums against you, tingles shooting down your back and you chuckle at his respond. He feathers kisses over your jaw until he reaches your lips, hungrily taking possession of them, your tongues brushing against each other.

Jungkook spreads your bare legs further apart to make room for himself between them. You can already feel how hard he is against you and you moan at the thought of him inside you.

You sit yourself up enough to be able to take off your shirt and still keep your lips together, only breaking apart to get it over your head. You lay back down as Jungkook skillfully unhooks your bra, toying with the straps before sliding them down your arms and throwing it on the floor.

He moves his mouth down your chest till he reaches your nipple, sucking and kissing till you’re a moaning mess above him, your hands ranking up and down his back. You’re almost positive he’s going to have a few red marks in the morning.

He runs his index finger under the waistband of your shorts, before he grabs both sides and slides them down your legs along with your underwear. He sits back, a groan coming from deep in his throat sounds, as he admires your naked form before him.

Jungkook makes a move to go down on you, but you stop him before he can get started. “I want your cock. I can’t wait.” You sound desperate, and you are. Just the feel of how hard he already is, is enough to set your insides on fire with lust and desperation for him.

You reach for his joggers, pulling them down as far as you can in your position on the couch. You whine loudly when you realize that he’s discarded his boxers in the bathroom, and the sight of his already erect member meets your lustful eyes. Jungkook wastes no time in removing the joggers the rest of the way and throws them to the floor, as he once again settles between your open legs.

Licking your lips, you get ready for what is about to come, as he grabs a hold of himself and runs the tip of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already!” Jungkook groans, the head of his cock continuously nudging your clit as he guides it back and forth.

“Stop teas-“ the words get stuck in your throat, turning into a pleasurable moan as Jungkook slowly sinks into you and starts thrusting in a steady pace, that has you grabbing the pillows.

Every delicious inch of him moving in and out of you brought you closer and closer to your impending orgasm. You feel tightening around him, making him falter a little in his pace as he has to focus on not cumming to early.

A low laugh escapes him as he tried to focus, slowing down a tad. “You have to not do that baby! You know I love your tight pussy, but I will cum I seconds if you keep doing that.” He warns you.

“Sorry,” you smile, and he begins sliding in and out of you again, this time with more force. His strong hands have a tight hold around your thighs, his fingers digging in to your skin, but you couldn’t care less about the bruises he’s sure to leave behind, you are way to focused on the feeling of him inside you.

Outside the sky is still being lit up with the occasional lightning, and every time it strikes it casts a beautiful white glow through the window, illuminating yours and Jungkook’s bodies in the dark living room.

Jungkook is spurred on by the string of moans leaving your lips, the way your grabbing the pillows for dear life and the way you throw your head back as he hits you just right – brushing your g spot over and over again.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” You chant as he keeps going and you feel your orgasm bubbling.

“You’re so fucking tight!” Jungkook bites out, his thrusts becoming deadly fast, as he too feels his orgasm ready to burst.

The animalistic growl that leaves his chest and rushes past his lips as he cums, is enough to set you off, and as the lightning strikes in the sky, lighting up the room, your orgasm hits your body with full force. Throwing your head back you, you let the feeling of your orgasm and Jungkook cumming inside you, take over your body.

You both out of breath by the time you have ridden out your orgasms, and Jungkook collapses over you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he sucks on the skin there.

“It might not have been shower sex, but I still got you wet.” Jungkook laughs against your neck, and even though your smack him on the back, you can’t help but laugh along with him.

If you liked this, don’t forget to like or reblog ❀ It really means the world, so thank you! ❀

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

Text

Cullavellan & FenHawke pirate AU: Stories

Chapter 28 of Where The Winds Of Fortune Take Me is up on AO3! In which Piper tells stories. Many stories. Of different kinds. (NSFW. bahahah.)

There are TWO sketches for this week too!! But the second one is saucy... go to the AO3 chapter to check it out!!

Read here on AO3 instead! ~6300 words.

- CULLEN -

Cullen smiled and sipped his beer as he listened to Merrill and Piper’s storytelling. He and a handful of the crew were in a haphazard circle on the deck and listening as Merrill and Piper took turns telling stories about the elven gods. The evening’s activities had begun as something of a lesson in elven history prior to the Lady Luck’s journey to the Arlathan Forest, but the gathering had become more and more informal as the inevitable drinks began to flow.

Merrill was giggling at some interjection Piper had made. She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye before continuing her tale. “As I was trying to say, Andruil turned Ghilan’nain into a beautiful halla – the very first halla. With her keen eyesight and her keen sense of direction, Ghilan’nain found her way home to her sisters, and there they lived happily together… until Fen’Harel found them.” The little cook’s smile grew mysterious. “But that’s another story.”

There was a murmur of interest from the crew, and Varric nodded approvingly. “Very nice cliffhanger, Daisy.” He turned to Hawke, who was sitting cross-legged beside him. “See, this is why she proofreads for me. Daisy’s got a knack for storytelling.”

Hawke sighed dramatically. “I understand, Varric. You need an ego boost, you come to me. You need an actual brain, you go to Merrill.”

Varric snorted in amusement. From across the informal circle, Anders called out to her. “Come on, Hawke, you have a brain. Maybe just not for proofreading.”

Hawke blew him a kiss, and Fenris shifted restlessly beside her. Then Cole spoke from his position perched on the taffrail near Piper and Merrill’s heads.

“If she was a deer, how did she sleep?” he asked.

Merrill blinked up at him. “What do you mean, Cole?”

Cole lifted his shoulders. “There are no holes for hooves in a bed. Did she stand?”

Merrill smiled. “Oh! Well, you see, Ghilan’nain was able to change from a halla to an elf and back again. And actually, that’s one of the things that drew the Dread Wolf to her. Or so the legends say,” she said enigmatically. Then she patted Piper’s shoulder. “But it’s the Captain’s turn for a story now.”

Anders groaned. “Not Piper’s turn again. Her stories are always an enormous joke.”

“Don’t forget a terrible exaggeration,” Dorian added. “Sometimes they’re a terrible exaggeration.”

Piper punched Anders in the arm. “Excuse all of you! What mutiny is this?”

Varric waved a hand. “Yeah, cut the Captain a break. Sometimes her stories are true. Like the time she outwitted a handful of qunari with a ball of twine, a handkerchief and a measuring stick.”

Cullen lowered his stein and looked at her in surprise. “Is that true?”

“Almost true,” Fenris said. “They were tal-vashoth, not qunari.”

Anders tutted. “Like that detail makes any difference to the story.”

Fenris shrugged carelessly and sipped from his bottle of wine, and Hawke waved her hands impatiently. “Come on, enough of this, I want to hear another Piper story.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I would as well.”

“Aren’t you both just adorable,” Piper purred. She winked at Cullen from across the circle, then clapped her hands once. “All right. Here’s another story of the Dread Wolf. Once upon a time, during a very hot summer, the Dread Wolf had been walking for a three whole days and three whole nights without a drop of water. Luckily, he came upon a tavern…”

Varric sighed playfully. “Here we go.”

Hawke poked his arm. “Hush!”

Piper winked at her and continued her tale. “... but the tavern didn’t allow wolves to come inside. The Dread Wolf was so desperately in need of a beer that he came up with a plan. He found a sapling and made a bow–”

Dorian interrupted. “I thought this creature was a wolf. How did he–?”

Hawke tutted and threw a cork at him. “It’s a metaphor, obviously,” she said loudly.

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Is it, though? That’s not what Merrill’s stories are implying.”

Everyone hushed him loudly, and Piper grinned. “Thank you. The Captain is speaking,” she announced. “Now, the Dread Wolf made a bow and an arrow, but he had no feathers for fletching. ‘That’s all right,’ he thought, ‘it will be a slow arrow instead.’ So he stood back and took a deep breath… and he shot the slow arrow right over the tavern.”

Cullen blinked. “Over the tavern?”

Piper smiled at him. “That’s right, Golden Boy: over the tavern. He shot the slow arrow, then settled down beside the tavern to wait. Later that night, a drunken man came out of the tavern with a full stein of ale in hand. He spotted the Dread Wolf, and for one single second, the wolf’s eyes met the man’s.” She paused and looked around at everyone suspensefully, and when her hazel eyes met Cullen’s, the tiniest hint of a smile lifted the corner of her scarred lips.

A little jolt of contentment squeezed his heart. Then Piper suddenly snapped her fingers. “And that’s when the slow arrow came down and struck the man dead,” she said. She folded her legs and rested her palms sagely on her knees. “The dead man’s stein of ale fell into the Dread Wolf’s lap without a single drop spilled. And that, boys and girls, is how the Dread Wolf got his drink.”

Anders clicked his tongue ruefully. “Brutal bastard, this Dread Wolf.”

Cole folded his legs up on the taffrail. “Waiting, wanting, wandering the world. Justice, not revenge, but the faces are close.”

Cullen frowned slightly at Cole’s perplexing comment, but Merrill smiled up at him. “I think I know what you mean, Cole. The Dread Wolf can be very patient when it suits him. But sometimes he just likes to do mischief for mischief’s sake.” She turned to Piper eagerly. “Is it my turn?”

“Absolutely, my lovely lethallan,” Piper said with a flourish.

Merrill beamed at everyone. “All right. Here’s another tale of the Dread Wolf’s mischief. There once was a farmer who wished to dam a river to irrigate the crops for his village. But in the next village over, there was a fisherman who wanted to divert the river to supply fish for his people…”

Cullen sipped his beer again as Merrill told her tale. He was listening to Merrill, truly he was, but he couldn’t help but gaze at Piper while he listened. The lanterns lit her complexion to an even warmer shade of its usual burnished bronze, and as he often did, Cullen marvelled at the contrast between her bight silvery hair and the deep sunkissed gold of her skin. Not to mention the fascinating pale patterns of the ink that decorated her entire back, from the dip at the base of her spine up to the delicate nape of her neck…

Hawke suddenly plopped herself down between him and Fenris, and he jolted in startlement.

“Cullen!” Hawke exclaimed. “Don’t you love–”

He held up one hand and darted a look at Merrill, who was still animatedly telling her story. “Quietly please, Hawke,” he murmured.

She winced. “Shit. You’re right. Sorry.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t you love it here on the Lady Luck?”

On Hawke’s other side, Fenris smirked, and Cullen forced himself not to laugh at her tipsiness. “Yes, I do,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling at home here, as well. I was concerned at first.”

She tilted her head. “Why? Because I’m the precious pampered Belle of Kirkwall?”

He blinked in startlement. It was still something of a shock at times to hear Hawke speaking in such a blunt manner. He was still far more accustomed to her immaculate manners than her brashness. “Yes, actually,” he admitted. “I had assumed it would be a difficult transition for you. Navy life was a difficult transition for me, and I was prepared for it.”

Hawke shrugged and stretched her legs out. “Not really. I love Merrill’s cooking, and the dried rations aren’t so bad. I love being Anders’ assistant, and the crew’s hammocks are quite comfortable! Though Fenris’s bed is even nicer.” She turned and winked at Fenris, who huffed in amusement and sipped from his bottle of wine before offering it to her.

She took the bottle and took a gulp, then turned back to Cullen once more. “Besides, desperate times call for desperate measures. If you get a chance to start a new life, you don’t turn that down. As you know,” she added with a friendly squeeze to his arm.

Cullen smiled. “That is true,” he said, with a fond glance at Piper.

Then he suddenly realized something odd. He turned back to Hawke with a small frown. “Hawke, it occurs to me that I never did learn why you left Kirkwall,” he said. He knew that her family was stained by a bit of scandal, what with Leandra Amell’s marriage to the lower-status Malcolm Hawke. But the Hawkes were one of the more well-off families in Hightown. Cullen had tried to avoid the petty gossip as much as possible, but he’d always been under the impression that the Hawke family was content. Or stable, at the very least.

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Oh Maker, I didn’t tell you, did I? Well, you certainly heard about my engagement to Duke Prosper.”

Fenris shifted slightly beside her, and Cullen glanced at him apprehensively before replying. “I was aware, yes,” he said. “It sounded like a prosperous match.” His eyes widened in horror as he realized what he’d said. “Er, no pun intended,” he said hastily.

She grinned. “Too bad. It would have been funnier if it was. But yes, the match would have been prosperous for my mother. Not for me, though.” She gave him an appraising look. “I don’t suppose you know of his reputation?”

Cullen frowned slightly. “Reputation?”

Hawke studied him for a moment longer, then folded her legs. “Duke Prosper has beaten and raped more than one of the female servants in his household,” she said baldly.

A jolt of horror stopped his breath for a moment. He stared at her flat expression in horror. “Maker’s breath,” he finally stammered. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Most men don’t,” she said quietly. “Most people didn’t, actually, unless they were servants as well. Carver didn’t know, for example. He was just as shocked as you when I told him.” She gave Cullen a kindly look. “It’s not your fault. The good Duke hides it well.”

Did your mother know? Cullen wondered. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but something about Hawke’s neutral expression – combined with the scowl on Fenris’s face – told him everything he needed to know.

He licked his lips nervously. “I understand why you wanted to leave,” he said carefully. “How did it come to pass? Your decision to, er…” He faltered as he tried to find the appropriate word. Before this, he would have said she had run away. But now, knowing the context…

“How did I escape?” she said. She chuckled. “Honestly, it was almost a whim. A heartfelt whim, but still a whim. I wrote a shameless letter to Piper asking for her help, and one of my friends – er, one of our servants – she took it to Lowtown for me. Then I just waited and hoped Piper would receive the letter and take pity on me before I was married off.”

Cullen nodded slowly. “Piper did mention that she helped you to… to escape.”

“She and Fenris, yes,” Hawke confirmed. She chuckled and shook her head. “It was madness on their part, really. They didn’t even know why I wanted to escape; I didn’t want to put it in the letter in case someone got snoopy and read it. And Piper had only met me… what, twice? But she and Fenris came anyway.” She smiled at Fenris.

Fenris shook his head. “Piper deserves the credit for your rescue, not I. She refused to leave without you. I–”

“Don’t,” Hawke said firmly, and she took his hand. “You helped me to escape. That’s what matters.”

Cullen, meanwhile, was preoccupied by Piper’s role in Hawke’s escape. At the time that Piper had gotten Hawke out of Kirkwall, her capture would have meant her death, and Cullen hadn’t been present in Kirkwall to prevent it. Piper had risked her life to help a woman she barely knew, even at a risk to her own safety.

But that was Piper. Her sense of right and wrong was very clear, as was her tendency to be both reckless and selfless in equal parts, and Cullen adored her for it, even as he worried about her.

He looked at her again from across the informal circle of crewmates. She was listening to Merrill’s story with a soft smile on her lips, and Cullen studied the scars on her face with a painful sort of fondness. There was the jagged slash that bisected her left eyebrow and ran just below her eye, and the scar on her left earlobe as well as the shallow slash that ran over her left hipbone: all testament to her haphazard weapons training and her tendency to ignore her left side, just as she tended to ignore the possible risks to her own life. She wouldn’t do anything to risk the lives of her crew without their wholehearted consent, but her own life…

“She is something, isn’t she?” Hawke said softly.

Cullen glanced at her distractedly. “Pardon me?”

“Piper,” Hawke said. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she? I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

Cullen swallowed hard. Hawke was wearing a knowing little smile, and he could feel his cheeks turning pink in response. “Neither have I,” he confessed. “Every pirate I had ever met before her was… a monster.”

Hawke’s eyebrows rose in sympathy, but Cullen shook his head. “It’s not worth speaking of,” he said. “Regardless, Piper was… from the moment we met, she was nothing like any pirate I had met before.” He rubbed his chin slowly. “I was unwilling to admit it to myself, but… I always knew she was more than just a pirate.” And now, more than a year after they had first met, Piper was still more than he’d ever imagined she would be. She was more than just a beautiful troublemaker who appeared once a month to give him hassles and stories. She was more than a mischievous criminal with a courageous heart.

She was the woman who offered him help with no expectation of anything in return. She was the woman that Cullen trusted with his history and his heart, and who gave him those parts of herself in turn. Piper was the best thing in his life, the catalyst who had led him from a static life of routine to a more chaotic but much more joy-filled life that he would never otherwise have seen.

Hawke was beaming at him wordlessly, and Cullen bashfully ducked his head. Neither he nor Hawke had spoken for a few long moments, but he couldn’t help but feel that she understood exactly what he felt.

She chuckled and stretched her legs out once more. “Who would have thought the Belle of Kirkwall and the Commander of the Kirkwall Navy would find love on a pirate ship of all places?”

Cullen smiled at her. “Who indeed?”

Hawke beamed at him, then nestled her head against Fenris’s shoulder. Then Piper’s loud voice pulled his attention.

“All right, one more,” she said. She was sitting up on her knees, and she had a very mischievous look on her face.

“Now this is a good one,” she said. “This is about a time that I faced the Dread Wolf myself.”

Cullen hid his smile in his stein,and Anders scoffed. “This ought to be good,” he said.

Piper grinned and punched him again. “Not only is it a good one, but it’s true. Just you wait.” She looked around at everyone. “One day when I was small, I was walking through the market when I felt a shadow following me.” Her face became serious as she continued her tale. “It was a large shadow with a very quiet whispering voice, but I couldn’t tell what the voice was saying. I turned around, but the shadow was gone.” She took a sip of beer, then continued in a low and somber voice. “This went on for two more days. The shadow would follow me with its silent steps, and every time I turned, it was gone. On the third day, however, I turned just in time to catch a glimpse of my shadow. It was a huge black wolf with glowing red eyes and slavering fangs.”

“The Dread Wolf!” Merrill exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Piper said. “The Dread Wolf had caught my scent. I knew right then and there that I had to make a trap to catch him. So I set up a crate propped up by a stick, and I caught a rat and roasted it, and I put the roasted rat in the trap and waited for the Dread Wolf to come.”

“Wait,” Anders protested. “Seriously? That’s what you used to lure the ancient elven god of mischief who kills men for beer and screws over entire villages? A roasted rat under a propped-up crate?”

Varric chuckled. “It’s so implausible, it must be true.”

Piper graced them all with an enigmatic smile. “Regardless of what our dear skeptical doctor thinks, that’s what I did. And sure enough, the Dread Wolf drew near.” She leaned forward and widened her eyes. “He was terrifying up close, let me tell you. His fur was dark and matted, and his eyes were bright with rage. He took one sniff of the perfectly roasted rat and stepped into the trap.” She clapped her hands sharply, making Hawke and Merrill jump in alarm. “The crate came down with a crash, and I had caught the Dread Wolf!”

Dorian raised his chalice of wine to her. “Benefaris. Well done, Captain.”

She held up a cautionary hand. “Hold on. The tale’s not yet done.” She leaned forward again and looked at them all with wide eyes. “I crept close to the trap and lifted the corner of the crate. The roasted rat was gone, and so was the Dread Wolf.”

Merrill shook her head wryly. “Oh, Piper. You should have known the Dread Wolf couldn’t be caught that easily.”

Piper shrugged and chuckled. “I know. I should have listened better to Deshanna’s stories. But sometimes, on very quiet nights when I close my eyes, I can still hear the Dread Wolf’s whispering voice.” She closed her eyes and held up a finger as thought she was listening to a voice that none of them could hear.

A tense moment later, Hawke leaned toward her. “What does he say?” she asked eagerly.

Piper was silent for another moment. Then she lowered her finger and opened her eyes. “He says…” She paused for a moment, then smiled. “‘I need a fucking stein of ale’.”

Everyone exploded into laughter and jeering, and Hawke and Dorian threw peanuts and corks at her. Piper laughed, then stood up and bowed. “All right, all right, don’t throw corks, just throw coin.”

Dorian and Anders playfully booed her, and she let out another lovely rolling laugh. “On this note, I’ll turn the storytelling over to our resident author,” she said, and she bowed ostentatiously to Varric.

Varric nodded graciously. “My pleasure, Captain. Now, I don’t have any ancient elf stories, but I’ve got an amusing story about this one over here.” He jerked a thumb at Hawke.

Hawke rested her fingers delicately on her chest and batted her eyelashes. “Who, me? Oh Varric, you shouldn’t tell a lady’s secret tales.”

Fenris snorted. “You aren’t a lady anymore. Your secret tales are fair game now.”

She laughed and draped her arms around his neck. “Right as always, Fenris. All right, Varric, slander away.”

Fenris smirked, and Varric launched into a story about Hawke hiding out in his book shop back before he had joined Piper’s crew. As Varric spoke, however, Piper was sidling around to Cullen’s side.

She held out one hand to him as he drew near. “Come on, Golden Boy,” she murmured. “I have a story just for you.”

He eagerly reached for her hand, but he couldn’t help but glance guiltily at the assembled crew as he rose to his feet. “You don’t think the others will mind?” he murmured.

“Not at all,” she said. “Come on.” She twined her fingers with his, and they began a leisurely stroll toward her quarters. “Remember how I told you I’d come up with a better story for you?”

He gently squeezed her hand. The ‘story’ she’d told him – of her father’s death – was still on his mind. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But you don’t owe me any stories, Piper. There is no obligation.”

She shrugged cheerfully. “I know. But this is a good one.”

He looked down at her. Her hazel eyes were twinkling, and her lips were curled with mischief once more.

Then she launched into her tale. “There once was an elven girl who was the captain of a ship. She had dirty feet and a back covered with tattoos, and instead of a brain, she had a huge pile of silver hair that threatened to swallow anyone who came too close.”

Cullen chuckled. “Now Piper, that’s hardly a fair description of yourself–”

“Hush now, the Captain is speaking,” she announced. She pushed open the door to her quarters and ushered Cullen inside.

He entered her cabin, and she continued her story as she closed the door. “One day, the elven captain came to Kirkwall for an errand with her dwarven quartermaster. While she was in Kirkwall, she decided to take a little stroll up to the Hightown market. And it turned out to be the best idea she ever had, because who did she meet in the Hightown market but the Kirkwall Navy’s most handsome commander?”

Cullen ruefully rubbed the back of his neck. He knew what she was telling now: the story of the first time they’d met.

“Maker have mercy on the commander,” he said jokingly.

She laughed and poked his chest. “Now, this handsome commander had a very stern frown on his face, and the elven captain almost had him pegged as another navy asshole.” He scoffed, and she grinned at him before going on. “But while she moved through the market, she watched him doing his patrol, and she noticed that he wasn’t hassling anyone. He wasn’t trying to provoke anyone to get them into trouble. He was just… observing. Just keeping an eye out to make sure everyone was safe.”

Cullen looked at her in surprise. He didn’t know that she’d noticed him before they’d actually met.

“You were watching me?” he asked.

Piper quirked an eyebrow as she approached him. “How could I – I mean, how could she not? The commander was so handsome, with a lovely strong chin and perfect hair that was more golden than the sun. But the longer she watched him, the more she noticed that he seemed to be not only a handsome human, but a fair one.” She reached up and stroked his cheek, then pushed him down to sit at the edge of the bed.

An instinctive jolt of interest stirred in his groin, but Piper turned away from him and started slowly pacing around the ornately carved meeting table. “So the elven captain started looking around at the fancy Hightown wares,” she said. “The shopkeepers sneered at her and ignored her, but this was what she wanted: when a greengrocer was busy ignoring her, she stole three sachets of almonds and a loaf of fresh bread from his stall.”

Cullen ruefully shook his head. He still remembered the ruckus that the greengrocer had made. He’d been so dramatic that Cullen had initially thought Piper had attacked him.

He gave Piper a chiding look. “It was a foolish move,” he said sternly.

She smirked, then continued to speak as she wandered around the meeting table. “The elven captain ran away with her almonds and bread, and the commander pursued her. But the commander had been doing quite a bit of desk duty–”

Cullen folded his arms. “I was not out of shape. You are very quick.”

She barked out a laugh. “All right, fine. The elven captain was so fast and clever that she got away from the commander for a little while. Once he caught up to her, though, he saw her giving the almonds and the bread to some dirty little elven kids who didn’t have any parents.” She came to a stop beside the table and met Cullen’s eyes, and the seriousness and warmth of her expression made his breath catch.

“She knew that the commander saw her,” Piper said softly. “But he let her give the children the stolen food, and he let the children run away. And he didn’t move to arrest the elven captain for theft.” She tilted her head.

Cullen swallowed hard. Her expression was very tender and curious, and Cullen wasn’t sure what to say. He still remembered his surprise and his uncertainty as he’d watched this wild-haired elven woman giving stolen food to a handful of orphans. He had genuinely never encountered anyone doing anything like this before – committing a risky crime for a selfless reason. He’d been so stunned that he’d simply watched as the children ran away.

He gazed wordlessly at Piper. A few heartbeats later, a slow smile lifted her lips.

She sauntered toward him. “The elven captain walked up to the commander, and saucy bitch that she was, she ran her finger down his chest.” Piper stopped in front of him, then trailed her finger along the length of his sternum.

A flush of warmth ran down his throat, and he swallowed hard. Then Piper sidled closer to him until she was standing between his legs. “The commander’s face turned red – yes, just like that.” She let out a throaty laugh as Cullen’s blasted cheeks started to warm. “And the elven captain said–”

“I remember what you said,” Cullen blurted.

She smiled at him. “Oh yes? What did I say?”

He took a deep breath. “You said, ‘you’ll remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Piper Lavellan.’”

Her smile widened. She slowly traced one finger along the line of his jaw. “And what did I call you?” she murmured.

“You…” He cleared his throat. “You called me Golden Boy.”

Piper studied him with that warm and enigmatic smile, and Cullen just stared at her. Her expression was so knowing and so sly, and the way she was watching him was making him feel… well, his heart was thrumming in his throat, and he couldn’t decide if he was excited or inexplicably nervous. Or some tantalizing combination of both.

She tilted his chin up. “And then you let me go,” she said thoughtfully.

“I… I did, yes,” he stammered.

“Why?”

He nervously licked his lips. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head curiously. “Why did you let me go? You had never let a criminal go before, had you?”

He shook his head. “No, I hadn’t.”

“So why me?” Her fingers left his jaw to slide along his temple through his hair, and he tried to ignore how good it felt as he scrambled for a reply.

“It… I was not certain how to define the nature of the crime, given the… intent,” he finally said.

Her hand returned to gently stroke his cheek. “And that’s how I knew you really were a Golden Boy,” she murmured.

He didn’t know what to say to that. His heart was pounding in his throat and his ears and – Maker save him, between his legs as well – and her sly and knowing smile was soft and tender now.

Then, to Cullen’s disappointment, she dropped her hand and stepped away from him.

She started to pace again in a slow and aimless way. “Now this is a part of the story you don’t know,” she said. “The elven captain ran off and left the Golden Boy behind, but he stayed on her mind when she returned to her ship – which, by the way, was the finest ship in all of Thedas.”

Cullen released a slow breath and smiled. “Of course.”

She shot him a quick grin. Then, as she continued talking, she started to untuck her loose linen shirt from her breeches.

Cullen‍ straightened with anticipation, but Piper was still talking in that low, calm, storytelling sort of voice. “The elven captain knew she should be doing work, like writing in the captain’s log or sparring with the crew or patching her clothes. But all she could think about was that handsome Golden Boy.” She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it on the table.

She slowly pushed her hair back, and Cullen stared gormlessly at her pert nipples and the tattoos that framed her breasts. Then she was sashaying slowly toward him, and her half-nude body was competing for his attention with her husky voice.

“She kept thinking about his lips,” Piper said. “How pouty they were while he was scowling, and how she’d like to lick the scar on his upper lip.”

Cullen’s eyes flew to her face. Her expression was one of unequivocal intent, and the excitement that was simmering low in his belly turned up to a boil.

“You – she – you did?” he said weakly.

She nodded as she came to stand between his legs once more. “She kept thinking about this scar right here.” She ran the tip of one slender finger over the scar that marred his upper lip, then met his eyes.

She raised her eyebrows, and Cullen nodded eagerly.

Piper tilted his chin up once more and traced the very tip of her tongue over his lower lip, and Cullen instinctively parted his lips. Her tongue danced along his upper lip and across his scar, and Cullen waited breathlessly for her kiss–

She nipped his lower lip, and he stopped breathing from sheer excitement. Then she released his chin and stepped away.

He leaned toward her, but she was already out of his reach. “Piper,” he begged.

She started speaking again as though she hadn’t heard him. “The elven captain also kept thinking about the Golden Boy’s body,” she said casually. “Now, she couldn’t really be sure what kind of body he had under his fancy navy uniform, but she liked to imagine that it was hard and muscled, with just the right amount of hair.” She was working the buttons of her breeches as she spoke, and Cullen stared stupidly at her slim and scarred hands for a moment before realizing that she watching him expectantly.

He swallowed hard, then followed her implicit demand: he pulled off his shirt and laid it on the bed, then met her eyes.

The corner of her lips quirked in approval. “Yes, that’s exactly what the elven captain was thinking about.” She pushed her breeches down, leaving her body completely bare.

His manhood pulsed with want, and he shifted restlessly on the bed, but Piper was talking once more. “Now this elven captain: she was a lusty lady, you see, so she was also imagining that Golden Boy’s cock, and how thick and hard it must be when he was ready to fuck.”

Maker’s breath. He wasn’t sure why, but every time Piper started up with these dirty words, it was like a part of his mind left him entirely, leaving him incapable of thinking about anything but the next naughty thing that might fall from her mischievous lips.

He stood up and untied his sash, and a few ragged breaths later, he was naked as well. Piper’s heated gaze slid slowly down his body, and Cullen almost shivered with desire: her attention and her intention were so patently clear, and when her eyes came to land on his manhood, he was so aroused that he didn’t even blush.

She bit her lip, then slowly raised her eyes back up to his face. “The elven captain was so turned on by the thought of this Golden Boy, with his handsome golden hair and his thick hard cock, and she wanted him lying back on her bed. She wanted to ride that handsome face of his while he licked her with his pretty mouth.” She raised one quizzical eyebrow.

His eyes dropped to the telltale sheen of moisture at her inner thighs, and he immediately sat on the bed. Before he was fully settled on his back, Piper was crawling over him. Her petite breasts skimmed over his swollen shaft, and Cullen gasped and jerked his hips.

She bit his nipple gently, making him gasp again. By the time she was straddling his face, his manhood was almost aching with want, and his mouth was watering for her.

She looked down at him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Lick me,” she purred. “Make me scream with that handsome mouth of yours.”

He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his hands around her thighs and pulled her hips closer to his mouth, then placed an open-mouthed kiss between her legs.

She gasped. “Yes,” she breathed, and then she was undulating toward him, pushing her warmth toward his willing mouth, and Cullen enjoyed the rolling of her hips as she coated his lips and tongue with her sweet-and-salty taste.

She moaned and rested her palms on the wall overhead, and Cullen’s manhood throbbed in response to her pleasured sounds. He lifted his hips by instinct, but Piper’s hips were still moving and pressing her swollen nub toward his tongue, and Cullen forced himself to focus on the sharpness of her breathing and her secret scent as she rocked herself toward his mouth.

She suddenly pounded the wall. “Fuck,” she gasped, and she threw her head back and let out a wild cry. The sound of it was guttural and uninhibited, sending a fresh thrill through his chest and straight down to his impatiently throbbing groin, and he clenched his fingers in her thighs as she rode his face to the end of her peak.

She slid her hand through his hair as she climbed off of him, then reached down and wrapped her fingers around his pulsing shaft. “Now,” she gasped, “what the elven captain really wanted was for the Golden Boy to fuck her exactly how he wanted her.” She squeezed his manhood, and Cullen blurted out the first thing on his mind.

“You on top,” he said. “Piper, please, I… I would like–”

“Whatever you want, Golden Boy,” she said, and she swiftly straddled his hips. “Take me how you want me.”

“Gladly,” he panted. He sat up and shuffled back so he was resting against the wall, then grabbed her hips and pulled her onto his desperate manhood.

Maker, she was so incredibly warm and wet. An unstoppable groan left his throat as he slipped inside of her, and a moment later, his palms were splayed on her luscious bottom as he pulled her against his body in a frenzy of want.

She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “You want me to fuck you hard?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he gasped.

She grinned, then thrust herself hard onto his lap, and he jerked and dropped his forehead against her shoulder. “Piper,” he begged.

She pressed her lips to his temple. “Again?” she breathed.

“Please,” he moaned.

She lifted herself once more and came down hard onto his lap, and Cullen pressed his gasping lips against the side of her throat. Then she was riding him fast and hard, and the tendon in her neck was salty and firm against his teeth, and his heartbeat was a frantic tattoo in his ears and her hair was a tangle of silver silk in his fingers–

He hit his peak in a sudden blinding rush, and Piper’s sharp cry of pleasure only made it better. By the time he could open his eyes once more, it was to discover that his hands were still twined in her long and wavy hair.

He released her hair and leaned away from her, and a prick of guilt pierced his contentment: he’d left a bitemark at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured. He winced and gingerly stroked the mark with his thumb. “I – forgive me, Piper, I…”

She laughed merrily. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry, not one bit.” She ran her hands through his dishevelled hair, and Cullen sheepishly admired her cocky little smile before she leaned in to kiss him.

Despite her playful mood, her kiss was sweet and soft, and he smile was just as soft when she pulled away. “Did you like my story?” she asked.

A shiver of residual pleasure ran down his spine at the memory of her carnal words, and he could feel his cheeks warming yet again. “I did,” he murmured. “I love all of your stories, Piper.”

Her smile widened. She kissed him once more, and Cullen happily savoured her lips. Piper’s stories weren’t always serious or grounded; they ranged from suspenseful to irreverent, breathtakingly adventurous to absurd, and Cullen loved the spirited retellings of her imagination come to life. But the stories he loved most were the ones that were the most mundane. In these stories of her life, Piper was giving him little veiled pieces of her long-guarded heart.

In telling him those stories, Piper was trusting him. And for that reason alone, Cullen would cherish every story she ever told.

(Check out the second sketch at the end of the chapter on AO3!)

#cullen rutherford #cullen smut #where the winds of fortune take me #pirate au #cullen/lavellan #cullavellan #cullen x lavellan #piperford #pikapeppa writes #schoute draws #pikascout #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne

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