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nereidprinc3ss · 1 day ago

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promiscuous

in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)

flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them

“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”

It’s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans.

“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”

“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile.

“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”

“You’re going on a date?”

You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache.

“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on.

“With who?”

You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”

“Dalton?”

Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong.

“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag.

“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”

“And if it’s not Dalton?”

“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”

“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive.

“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.

Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh.

“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”

“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”

“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”

“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”

The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows.

“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”

He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm.

“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”

The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty.

Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”

Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off.

“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”

You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”

“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”

You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”

God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long.

“Is he what you want?”

At least he has the bravery to ask.

You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow.

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos.

“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”

“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”

The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him.

“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”

“It’s not like that!” He splutters.

“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”

“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”

He’s turning increasingly pink.

“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”

And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys.

It’s just the wind.

Nothing else.

Maybe you’re simply not meant for love.

It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone.

Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?

Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything.

The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself.

It gets frustrating.

Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you.

Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction.

“What year are you on?”

You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check.

“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”

He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”

Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence.

Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering.

“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers.

“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”

“Did you say sulfuric acid?”

“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”

You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise.

“For what?”

“For—”

He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind.

“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”

“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost.

From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping.

You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place.

But it’s not anyone else.

“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”

He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.

Do you ask too much?

Do you offer enough in return?

Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files.

Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it.

“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”

A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on.

“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”

“Spencer, it’s fine.”

His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter.

“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”

Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat.

How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?

Spencer takes pity on you.

“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”

It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk.

You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown.

“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”

“91 18 00063 7.”

You hold the file up, eyes alight.

“I found it.”

Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief.

“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”

It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket.

“Will you tell that to Hotch?”

“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”

“There are people who will take care of that later.”

“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”

“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush.

You smile to yourself.

Still got it.

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds x you #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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koralcove · 2 days ago

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okay, but like... the thought of sylus and xavier of how they generally are in bed... like, i think some ppl get them swapped up, coz like...

everyone's saying that sylus is such a beast in bed and would absolutely demolish you until your legs feel like you'd need to go through physical therapy to walk again... and they're absolutely right.

BUT

i also hear those who say that sylus is an absolutely soft and sensual lover in bed, and honestly, that version speaks TRUTH. because, HAVE YOU SEEN THAT MAN WITH US?! the way his character progresses with becoming absolutely, indescribably, adoringly soft with us. the big bad, dark and mysterious, cold-blooded, ruthless leader of onychinus is willing to do things out of his element just because we think it's fun. you want matching cute onesies? he's already purchased a pair for us. you want to go take silly photos together and hang out in an amusement park where he could be publicly seen doing mundane and questionably harmless activities that personally don't look like it suits his style? if that's what you want, then he's not opposed to it.

that man is absolutely soft with us, and you can't tell me that he wouldn't prefer to make sweet, deep, lovin' with his darling. the way he'd want to be pressed impossibly close to you, your body so soft against him, taking every bit of effort to not rush into this intimate moment with you because he wants to feel every inch of your skin tracing on his fingertips. he wants to prolong the sensation of your warmth radiating to him, shushing your whines with his deep baritones of, "there there, sweetie. no need to rush, i'm not going anywhere," always with that teasing lilt in his voice, but it can't cover up the adoration spilling out of him.

and god, he'd be gentle with you. he knows you can take what he gives you, knows what you're capable of. but damn, he couldn't resist giving you all that gentle devotion because you're just so precious to him. and through all the rough edges of his living, he wants to give you something tender. wants to bare how putty you make him just from your presence alone. he doesn't think of it as a weakness. in fact, it fuels his fire of making sure to stake his claim on you properly by giving you all you deserve. and he always sets the pace. wants you to feel how absolutely weak-kneed you make him in an imitation of his light touches that set small sparks of desire on your skin, pressing searing kisses on you as an invisible brand until he finally gives in to the lust gnawing at him, but making sure to always, always, be careful with you.

and then, there's xavier...

xavier with his cherub-like features that you think can do no harm if you didn't know him well enough. with how he looks like a constantly clueless puppy that you can easily please with the temptation of a nap time, you'd think he'd be the type to go with some lazy, intimate love making with you while you're both half-awake... which is not wrong, really, but that's just the tip of the iceberg.

as someone who goes with the flow, xavier is not opposed to anything you would suggest, even if the idea itself seems outlandish, then that boy is down (just like how down bad he is for you). you wanna be on top? cool, no problem with him being the pillow princess. you want him to take you from behind? he'll give you an absolutely mind-blowing back shot. but the kicker with xavier is that he's an absolute FREAK (we talkin' abt neck-breaking freaky deaky shit), and i love how everyone collectively agrees on that. because there's just smth abt a man who appears so unbothered by a lot of things, always cool in faces of plight (and girl, his heartbeat is literally slow, does nothing ever faze him???) that the thought of him going wild is just a big ol' WOWZA. AND PAIRED WITH THAT INNOCENT LI'L PUPPY FACE OF HIS?! oh honey, i'm already unzipping your pants for you-

and honey, his strength... his stamina?! girl, he be the kind to go at it alllll night. "once isn't enough" ALREADY SAYS A LOT. and that man is not shy at all, because you can't tell me that he whispers absolute filth in your ear, catching you off guard at how uncharacteristic it seems of him, but it flows so smoothly through his tongue that you just have to wonder what kind of thoughts run through his head when he's with you, because rn, as he's pounding you silly against the mattress, hips pistoning into you at lightning speed, yet still hitting oh so deep into you, he's absolutely insatiable for you. and he would not hesitate to go all out on you as long as he knows you can handle it. because he knows it can be too much. but when he sees those tears streaming down your cheeks from how good his dick is at making you see stars, shaking under him as you grip onto his arm, he couldn't resist with bullying your poor overstimulated body and getting an orgasm out of you just one more time out of... maybe three? seven? he's lost count.

but don't get me wrong, xavier is still the type to be skin-achingly intimate with you. loves how you're pressed against him as you both lazily rock your hips against one another. but it just so happens that he's a absolutely ravenous with you as well, rutting into you like a bunny in heat.

with sylus, love making with him is tender, reverent, but never losing that intensity, while xavier is absolutely uninhibited and would even lose track of the amount of times you've already cummed for him.

#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #lads sylus #lads xavier #sylus smut #xavier smut #love and deepspace smut

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jezebelblues · 1 day ago

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in body and blood | h.s

pt. i

summary: over a century adrift in darkness, he found his sun—not in the dawn, but in the quiet fire of her love, a light fierce enough to bind even eternity.

cw: fem!reader, blood+blood drinking (bro is literally a vampire there's going to be blood) 1700s!harry, mentions of death

word count: approx 7.3k

I yall this excruciatingly long so i just figured it was better to split this into four parts. it starts off kinda slow i knowwww but i feel like it fits his character. anyway I hope u will like. mwah :* also YES his heart beats idk i took creative liberty in assuming the blood he drinks would give him some sort of circulation and YES i drew inspo from tvd i like their vamp lore the most ok bye

Fourth of November, 1701

The English flag thrashed wildly in the biting wind, its edges snapping above the clank of chains and the groan of wood as boats were fastened to the harbor. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone, mingling with the grumble of cart wheels as townsfolk hurried homeward, eager to escape the deepening chill of evening.

Winter crept in with an ill-fated air, a shadow over the town. The fishermen’s hauls dwindled to nearly nothing, their nets coming up bare. Squash and pumpkins, once abundant, softened and rotted on their vines before they could be harvested. Livestock, struck by a strange sickness, perished too soon, their spoiled meat no longer fit to eat. Lately the townsfolk scraped by on what little they could hunt—rabbits, mostly—a meager fare that barely stretched to sustain a family for more than a few days.

YN stood at the end of the dock, the sea’s bitter wind pulling at her hair. A basket woven by her mother dangled from her arm, half-covered by a cloth beneath which a few herbs and stunted vegetables peeked through. She waited for Niall, a fisherman she’d known since childhood, to come ashore. His face was grim, his knuckles pale as he secured his boat. “Any luck?” She asked over the wind, though she already knew the answer.

His mouth twisted into a scowl as he wiped his hands on his trousers and approached her. “Lucks got nothin’ to do with it. s’the new king, swear it. God turned his back on us ‘cause of him.”

She winced and swatted his arm lightly as they started toward the stone walls encircling the town. “Don’t say such things, not out loud.” She kept her voice low, though she too had her doubts about the new ruler. “Best not to tempt fate with those words.”

He rolled his eyes and took the basket from her arm, letting it hang from his own so she could tuck her hands into her sleeves. “You agree with such things. S’pose God does as well from the lack of bloody fish.”

They passed under the worn stone archway marking the entrance to town, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stones. Dover was nestled between the English Channel and rolling green hills, hemmed in by rocky shores and the stark rise of the cliffs, standing watch like grim sentinels over the troubled little town.

As YN and Niall made their way up the winding path from the square, the quiet crept in around them, settling like a thin mist. The evening was thick and gray, heavy clouds stretching over Dover and flattening the light into a cool, uneasy dusk.

Each face they passed, they recognized. it was impossible not to, in a town so small. There was old mrs. Harris, hunched beneath a weathered shawl, who gave them a knowing nod as they went by, as if she alone were privy to the day’s secrets. And mr. James, pulling his cart toward home, who offered a quick tip of his hat, but avoided meeting their eyes too long, as if a weight hung over all of them that no one cared to mention.

Niall, walking beside her, held his silence longer than usual, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he finally turned her way. “You’re still makin’ that stew, yeah?” He hummed, nodding toward the basket swinging lightly in his hand. His tone was casual, almost lazy, yet she sensed something else beneath it, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he couldn’t quite bring himself to start.

“Mum has already started it,” YN replied, keeping her voice as light as his. “Cabbage, onion, bit of thyme. barely a stew, more a broth.” She cast a sideways glance his way, catching the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“No doubt you’ll have your sister servin’ it, then?” He asked, as though it were an afterthought. “I hear she has a way of makin’ anything taste finer.”

YN’s lips twitched, a hint of humor flickering in her eyes. She knew well enough where this was going, but she didn’t indulge him outright. “Oh, she has her charms, but she’s picky ‘bout who gets to see ‘em.”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that seemed to carry on the breeze, soft and uncertain. “She's got the whole town near dreamin’ of her, from what I hear. never seen her eye stray toward anyone, though.”

YN glanced away, her gaze drifting over the clustered rooftops, the narrow chimneys stretching into the dimming sky like spindly fingers. “You’d need more than a bowl of stew to catch her fancy, Niall. You’d best hope for a rich merchant or a duke comin’ ashore.”

His chuckle died off, and for a few quiet moments, they simply walked, the soft scuff of their shoes blending with the distant murmur of the sea. Yet something hung between them, unspoken, like the faintest shadow shifting at the edges of their conversation.

It was Niall who broke the silence, his voice lower this time, his words careful. “Have you heard the talk? About the old watchtower?”

YN’s gaze drifted to the far side of town, where the dense stretch of forest gave way to a steep rise, the silhouette of the abandoned tower just barely visible through the trees. “Folk say all sorts of things,” She muttered, almost to herself. “Been empty as long as I can remember.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the darkening line of trees, his jaw set. “Empty, maybe, but someone’s taken to hauntin’ it now. The lads swear they’ve seen a figure up there at night, just a shadow movin’ about, like he’s watchin’ the town from that high window.”

She felt a faint chill that wasn’t from the cold, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “They say a lot of things,” she repeated, her tone steady but soft. “Could be nothin’ but the wind playin’ with shadows.”

He tilted his head, the edge of a smirk softening his face. “Aye, that’s what I'd think, too. But seems each person’s got a different tale to tell. Some say he’s a protector, sent to keep us safe.” He shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the distant woods. “Others say it’s somethin’ darker—maybe one of the king’s men, sent to spy on anyone who dares breathe a word against him.”

YN’s lips parted, but she hesitated, the words hanging unspoken as her gaze lingered on the watchtower. Her grandmother had told her stories of that tower once, years ago, when she was still young enough to believe in the old tales without question. But she’d since brushed them off as the ramblings of an old woman long passed. Now, though, the stories flickered back to her, sharp and vivid as they’d once been.

“I heard some folk say it’s not a man at all,” She murmured, so quietly that her voice nearly vanished into the chill air. “Gran said it’s a spirit—a demon.” she let out a breathy laugh, sending a glance his way. “You believe my ol’gran true?”

Niall made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a chuckle, though he didn’t argue with her. “You don’t seem the sort to believe in demons,YN.”

She didn’t answer him, and for a moment, they stood in the gathering dusk, looking out toward the distant, looming shape of the tower, as if something there had caught them both in its thrall. A strange, unsettling weight hung in the air, pressing down around them, and neither seemed willing to break it.

The faint toll of the chapel bell echoed across the town, marking the evening hour. The sound seemed hollow, almost mournful, as it resonated through the narrow streets, slipping into every crack and crevice, lingering like a warning in the growing dark.

The path wound through the clustered homes of their town, each one narrow and stacked close beside the other, the rooftops tilting like old friends leaning together to brace against the coming winter. Flickers of candlelight peeked through small, thick-paned windows, casting brief glows over doorsteps worn smooth by years of footsteps. Voices drifted out faintly as neighbors settled in for the night, the low buzz of comfort after a long day’s labor.

As they neared her door, YN glanced sideways at Niall, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, no use lettin’ the stew go to waste with just me. You might as well come in and help make somethin’ decent out of it. And,” she added, with a playful glint, “my sister will be there, too. Might be the only chance you get to impress her.”

Niall feigned indifference, though she caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks beneath the dimming light. “Well, if it’s to spare you from that sorry excuse of a stew, I s’pose I could lend a hand,” he said with mock reluctance, yet his steps quickened as they approached the small wooden door.

Inside, the house was simple and small, with a low ceiling that sloped slightly, forcing even YN to duck beneath the beams as she led him in. A narrow hearth crackled with a weak but steady fire, casting warm shadows across the modest room, which served as both kitchen and living space. The scent of herbs, drying in bunches along the walls, mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the hearth. A single table stood in the center, its edges worn smooth, surrounded by a handful of mismatched stools and chairs, each one slightly wobbly but bearing the marks of care and countless meals.

“Is that you, YN?” Her mother’s voice came from the corner, where she was bent over a pot, stirring with steady, practiced hands. She looked up with a gentle smile, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire. “And Niall too! Just in time. I was about to send Arthur to fetch you, but he’s off fiddlin’ with somethin’ in the corner.”

Ten-year-old Arthur looked up at the mention of his name, a wide grin splitting his face when he spotted the blonde. “Niall!” He called, scrambling to his feet and darting over, a wooden sword in hand. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

He placed the basket next to the older woman before he tousled the boy’s hair, giving a wink to YN. “That depends—will your sister cook, or will your ma have mercy on me?”

YN rolled her eyes as her mother chuckled, stirring the stew with a knowing look. “I'll make sure to keep it fit for eatin’. Now, why don’t you both make yourselves useful and set the table?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Niall replied with a quick bow, flashing his best charming smile, though his eyes lingered on the slender figure by the fire.

YN’s older sister, Ella, sat with her needlework in hand, her fingers nimble as she embroidered a delicate pattern into the edge of a linen cloth. She looked up as Niall approached, offering him a nod and a faint, polite smile, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.

“Ella,” Niall greeted, taking the opportunity to lean a bit too casually against the edge of the table. “Now there’s a sight finer than any supper, if I may say.”

“Oh, you may say.” Ella sighed, her tone as mild as her smile. “But sayin’ doesn’t make it so, does it?” Her eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, and she kept her gaze on her stitching as if he hadn’t said a word.

YN snorted, reaching past Niall to set the bowls on the table. “She’ll need more than empty flattery to be wooed, Niall. You’ll be talkin’ all night before she so much as bats an eye.”

“Empty flattery?” he echoed, feigning shock as he helped with the cups, placing them with exaggerated care. “This is pure honesty, YN. Your sister’s a vision, though I'm not sure she sees it herself.”

Ella finally looked up, one eyebrow arched. “Perhaps that’s ‘cause it’s hard to see with all the bluster in here. Is it flattery or just another of your tales, Ni?”

Arthur laughed as he climbed onto his chair, his wooden sword clattering to the floor. “Tell a tale, Niall!” He urged, his eyes bright.

He obliged with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, tales are easy to tell when the company’s fine.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to Ella, who only smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Enough of your foolishness, Horan.” YN’s mother cut in, though her tone was warm as she dished the stew into the bowls. “There'll be time for tales when your stomach’s full. Now, all of you—sit, before this stew turns cold.”

They settled around the table, the simple meal set before them steaming in the flickering firelight. YN ladled out servings, keeping her own expression solemn as she dished out the rather grayish stew. Niall took a tentative sip, raising his brows in mock surprise.

“Well, I'll be,” he declared, setting his bowl down as if astonished. “Tastes just like stew!”

YN kicked him under the table, rolling her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked, else we’ll make you eat the scraps.”

Ella, watching them from across the table, hid a smile behind her hand. “It's better than you deserve,” she teased, offering Niall a faintly teasing look that sent Arthur into a fit of giggles.

As they settled into their meal, the conversation turned to the familiar rhythms of the day—the fish hauls, the scarcities at the market, the latest mischief Arthur had managed, and the townsfolk they’d seen along the way. Laughter bubbled up around the table, filling the small room with warmth as the stew slowly disappeared, their bowls clinking softly with each spoonful.

It wasn't until they’d nearly finished eating that YN’s mother’s voice turned low, a faint shadow crossing her face as she glanced at arthur. “Arthur,” she said gently, “I don't want to hear any more of you playin’ outside the town walls.”

The boy frowned, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “But ma, I’m careful,” he protested, glancing between her and YN as if hoping for support.

“She's right,” Ella added, her voice calm but firm. “The woods aren’t safe, especially with winter comin’ on.”

He looked to Niall, his face a mask of confusion and a bit of defiance. “Niall plays near the woods, don’t you?”

He shifted in his seat, his smile fading just slightly as he glanced at YN. “Aye, lad, but it’s different. I'm older, and I keep my wits about me. Besides,” he added lightly, though his voice held a trace of something darker, “there’s been talk of someone wanderin’ near the old watchtower.”

YN’s mother sighed, folding her hands on the table. “Too much talk.” She said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window. “I don’t care if s’only lore, you’ll be safe rather than sorry.”

A hush fell over the table, and Arthur's wide eyes darted from face to face. “Who is it, then?” He whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “A man?”

Ella reached over to ruffle his hair, her voice soft. “No one knows. could be a man, could be no more than shadows. But some say it’s best not to linger too close to it, just in case.”

Niall, watching Arthur's reaction, leaned in with a grin. “There now, it’s probably nothin’ more than a lonely ol’ fox. But best stick close to home, eh? Can’t have you disappearin’ on us.”

YN tried to keep her voice light as she chimed in, though she felt the faintest prickling unease beneath the laughter. “You heard him, Arthur. best keep to the town, else you might end up a story yourself.”

The boy’s eyes grew even wider, and he gulped, glancing nervously toward the window as if expecting to see the mysterious figure standing just beyond. He fidgeted, his hand reaching instinctively for his wooden sword on the floor beside him.

With a faint, tired sigh, YN’s mother rose and began clearing the table, signaling the end of the meal. The warm glow of the evening seemed to have dimmed, and even Niall’s usual cheer was muted as he helped gather the bowls, his gaze drifting back to the light flickering along the walls.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows and rattling the latch ever so slightly, a whisper against the warmth of the firelight. The small house was silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought, each glancing occasionally toward the dark window where the night gathered, close and watchful.

Morning seeped slowly into Dover, pale and cool, bringing with it the damp scent of the sea and the faint call of gulls overhead. YN was awake early, as was her habit, slipping quietly out of bed while the house still lingered in the soft dimness of dawn. The fire in the hearth had died to embers, and a chill clung to the air, but she moved quickly, tucking a shawl around her shoulders as she crossed the small room.

Arthur, already up and dressed, was tugging at the latch on the back door, eager to start his morning chores. He looked back when he heard her steps, his face lighting up with a grin. “Thought you’d sleep through it, lazybones.” He teased, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

She snorted softly, pinching his cheek as she passed him. “Cheeky lad,” she muttered. “Come on, then. Let's get to it.”

They stepped out into the brisk morning, their breath puffing in the cold, and began making their way down the narrow stone path that wound through the small patch of yard behind their home. Frost clung to the grass, glinting in the pale light, and the chickens shuffled restlessly in their pen as Arthur went to check on them.

“Careful now.”

He bent down next to them to scatter their feed. The hens fluffed their feathers, clucking contentedly as they pecked at the ground, and Arthur kept one eye on the rooster, who strutted about with his chest puffed, keeping watch over his domain.

“Look at him,” he whispered, stifling a laugh as he threw a handful of seed. “Thinks he’s king of all creation, that one.”

She grinned, crouching beside him. “Well, he’s a rooster. not much else to do but look important, is there?”

The boy giggled, tossing a bit of feed toward the rooster, who eyed him warily before puffing up even further. YN kept watch as he finished the feeding, carefully securing the pen’s latch when he was done.

They moved on to check the small patch of herbs and vegetables that clung to life in the early cold, though the frost had already done its damage. The leaves hung limp and dark, and YN frowned, brushing a thin layer of frost from a withered cabbage leaf.

“S’not lookin’ good, is it?” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a murmur as he followed her gaze.

“No,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing over the leaves. “But we’ll manage. Always do.”

He gave her a solemn nod, but she could see the worry in his eyes, the way he seemed to glance toward the woods, as if he might glimpse the shadowed figure their mother had warned him about the night before. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, offering a smile.

“No need for lookin’ so glum, Arthur,” she said, keeping her tone light. “We've plenty to keep us busy, and I'll wager you’ll see that rooster crowned king before anything happens to us.”

He managed a faint smile, his spirits lifting just enough to reassure her. They finished up quickly, making their way back inside, where the warmth of the house greeted them. YN set about preparing a quick meal for Arthur and her mother, who was just beginning to stir, her tired eyes softening at the sight of her children.

Once breakfast was sorted, YN returned to her small room to ready herself for the day. She tugged off her worn nightdress, slipping into the fresh linen undergarments she’d set aside, and carefully pulled on a plain woolen dress that hung neatly from a peg beside her bed. It was a simple dress, but a neat one, its modest collar and long sleeves making it suitable for the chilly weather. she straightened the fabric, adjusting the waist so that it lay just right, and wrapped her shawl back over her shoulders, pinning it at the front with an old, weathered brooch that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She caught her reflection in the small, scratched mirror by the window—a young woman with steady eyes and a hint of determination in her gaze, her hair braided behind her, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. After a moment, she tucked a few stray wisps behind her ear and gave herself a brisk nod, turning to head out.

The streets were beginning to stir as she made her way down to the docks, the early morning light casting a soft, muted glow over the cobblestone. A few shopkeepers were already sweeping their doorsteps, preparing for the day’s trade, and a handful of townsfolk passed by, nodding their greetings as she walked.

When she reached the docks, she found Niall already there, standing by his boat, his hands working quickly to secure the ropes. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, and his hair was tousled from the morning breeze, but there was a contented look in his eyes as he glanced up and saw her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the cabbage patch,” he greeted her, a grin breaking across his face. “Come to see if I've hauled in a king’s feast for ye?”

YN rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she stopped a few feet away from him. “I wouldn't go that far. but I'll settle for a decent fish, if you’ve managed one.”

He laughed, giving the rope a final tug before stepping back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Oh, a decent fish, she says. Well, lucky for you, I've got just that.” He reached into a small wooden crate and held up a plump haddock, its scales glinting in the early light. “Not a king’s ransom, but it’ll do for stew, won’t it?”

She eyed the fish, unable to suppress a smile. “Aye, it’ll do. Might even save us from havin’ to wrangle another cabbage.”

Niall chuckled, tucking the fish back into the crate. “Couldn’t have that, now, could we? I’m doin’ my part to keep your cookin’ passable.”

“Passable?” She laughed, nudging him lightly as she stepped up beside him to peer into the crate. “You’re just glad to have an excuse to come round, steal our bread, and charm my sister.”

He gave her a mock-offended look, though his eyes glinted with humor. “Now, that’s hurtful, YN. I'm here for the food and the fine company, naturally. If your sister happens to be nearby, well, that’s not my fault, is it?”

She rolled her eyes, unable to help the small laugh that escaped. “Poor Ella’ll need more than a fish to be impressed. Best not get your hopes up too high.”

“Aye, she’s a hard one to please,” he admitted, a faint, wistful smile crossing his face. “But I'll manage somehow. or at least, I'll keep tryin’.”

They both fell silent, their gazes drifting out over the water, where a thin mist clung to the surface, casting an eerie calm over the harbor. The other boats rocked gently in the quiet, and the gulls called out above them, their cries echoing faintly across the empty stretch of sea. Together they turned back toward the town, the mist curling softly around them as they walked, side by side, in the quiet of the morning.

The midday lull brought a hush over the town, as folk took their brief respite between the day’s labors. The soft light of afternoon slipped over the rooftops, and YN found herself winding her way down one of the quieter streets toward Maura’s, a modest little cottage that doubled as the gathering place for the women in town. Here, around a crowded table of mismatched cups and chipped saucers, town gossip simmered as steadily as the tea.

Maura's door was open, the sound of voices spilling out into the cobbled lane, and YN slipped in quietly, greeting the women with a polite nod before finding a seat near the end of the table. The familiar faces of neighbors turned to greet her—Maura herself, with her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, mrs. Harris with her ever-watchful eyes, and a handful of others who paused only long enough to give YN a quick nod before returning to the subject that had clearly held their interest long before she arrived.

“I'm tellin’ you,” mrs. Harris was saying, her voice low and edged with certainty. “There's somethin’ in that tower. maybe it’s a spy, maybe it’s worse.”

Maura scoffed, shaking her head. “If it were a spy, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? why bother lurkin’ about if there’s nothin’ worth seein’ here?”

“There’s plenty to see, Maura,” the older woman sighed, leaning forward, her teacup nearly sloshing over the rim as she gestured toward the window. “Who’s to say he hasn’t been watchin’ us all along, takin’ note of who’s loyal to the new king and who’s not?”

Maura snorted, but one of the other women, Anna, leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “or worse—what if it’s no man at all?” Her gaze darted to the others, her eyes wide with a kind of fearful excitement. “There are tales, you know. Of things that wander the woods. Spirits that linger in dark places, things that only come out when the days grow short.”

Mrs. Harris crossed herself, nodding solemnly. “Aye. folk say it’s a night creature—a demon, even.“

YN listened quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup, but she held back a smile. as the women exchanged anxious looks, she leaned back, sipping her tea, the warmth of it calming her nerves. To her, the stories felt like little more than old wives’ tales—a way for folk to pass the time when the days grew cold and bleak. A lonely man, perhaps, who’d taken to the tower for solitude, a soul with nowhere else to go. Nothing so sinister as the women here believed.

“You've a skeptical look about you, dear” Maura said, catching her eye with a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you’d walk up to that tower yourself, would you?”

She met her gaze calmly, setting her cup down. “I'd sooner believe it’s a wanderer, Maura. Maybe one who wants peace more than anything else. Don’t see why we should fear him.”

“Peace, or no peace, he’s still up there, watchin’ us all.”

YN didn’t reply, only nodded politely as the conversation swirled on, the voices around her swelling in speculation and rumor. After a while, she quietly rose, setting her cup aside and offering Maura a grateful nod before slipping out the door and into the fresh air.

The chatter of the women faded behind her, and she took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs and clearing her thoughts. She knew she was unlikely to shake their unease or convince them of her view, but as she thought of the lonely figure up in the tower, something tugged at her—a kind of curiosity that gnawed gently at the back of her mind.

Without a second thought, she made her way home, moving quickly and quietly, her mind already set. She slipped through the door, pausing only to grab her small woven basket from its hook. Her mother glanced up, but YN offered her a calm smile, murmuring something vague about a quick errand before supper.

IN the small corner of their kitchen where they kept their stores, she selected a handful of berries from the last of their foraging, a few slightly bruised carrots, and a small bunch of herbs tied with a thin scrap of cloth. Modest offerings, but enough, she hoped, to serve as a token of peace, a sign that she meant no harm.

She took a deep breath and headed toward the edge of town, her footsteps light as she made her way past the familiar lanes and toward the narrow path that led up to the old watchtower.

The path leading to the watchtower was narrow, winding its way up the hillside in gentle, uneven curves. YN had walked these woods many times before, though never with the purpose she had now. Above her, the sky was beginning to darken, clouds gathering in ominous clumps, casting long shadows across the land as the sun slipped lower.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but from a strange mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The stories she’d heard that morning lingered in her mind like faint echoes, each warning a small reminder of the mystery ahead. But she felt something else too—a quiet resolve, an odd certainty that she had to see this figure, whoever he might be, with her own eyes.

The watchtower loomed before her, its crumbling stone walls climbing into the sky, weather-worn and scarred by time. She could see now why the townsfolk feared it; it looked like a relic from another era, half-hidden by the dense growth of ivy and the creeping fog that clung to the base of its walls. It was silent here, too silent, as if even the birds dared not sing in the shadow of the old tower.

Steeling herself, she moved forward, her footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The closer she got, the more the watchtower’s age showed itself in cracked stones and vines, a darkness that seemed to pool between the stones, deepening the gray of the twilight. At the base of the tower, a narrow door sat slightly ajar, barely wide enough for her to slip through. She paused there, glancing up, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness as her gaze drifted to the upper windows, dark and empty.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed the door open, stepping into the dim interior.

The inside of the tower was colder, the air thick and still. Faint light seeped through cracks in the walls, just enough to reveal the sparse furnishings—a wooden table, books, a chair beside the hearth, long since gone cold. Dust motes hung in the air, catching the dim light like fragments of stars, and a faint, earthy smell lingered in the space, as though the room hadn’t seen another soul in years.

Yet something else lingered too, something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle—a sense that she wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped forward from behind a wall, emerging so quietly she almost missed it. He was tall, with dark curls that tumbled around his face, shadows clinging to his features as though he belonged to the darkness itself. His eyes met hers, a piercing green that seemed to hold an entire century’s worth of secrets, and for a brief, unsettling moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her.

“What brings you here?” His voice was low, quiet, each word clipped and precise, yet holding a softness that surprised her.

YN swallowed, her hand instinctively tightening around the basket she held. “I–I thought you might be hungry,” she stammered, offering the basket forward with a hesitant smile. “Folk talk of you up here, you know. Thought it might be nice to see if you wanted some company.”

He raised a brow, a faint trace of amusement softening his gaze. He didn’t reach for the basket, but instead continued to watch her, as though trying to make sense of why she would come here, alone, to his solitary refuge.

Didn’t seem exactly the safest thing.

“People rarely visit me,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a murmur, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “Especially not with offerings.”

“Well, it’s no great feast,” she laughed breathily—nervous, setting the basket down on the table. “But it’s enough for a quiet meal.”

He looked down at the basket, his expression unreadable. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and for a brief moment, she wondered if he would turn her away. But then his gaze shifted back to her, gentle, as though something in her gesture had reached him in a way she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t need much,” he breathed, finally stepping closer, his movements careful, almost tentative. “But thank you.”

The silence stretched between them as Harry’s eyes lingered on her, his regard tracing every movement of her face, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together as if searching for words. He could feel it—her pulse thrumming in her neck, the warmth radiating from her skin, the soft, steady rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. It was maddening. The sound alone clawed at the quiet corners of his mind, stirring that old, cursed hunger he’d worked so hard to bury.

But he couldn’t let her see that. Couldn’t let even a flicker of it touch his face.

With a composed nod, he turned his attention to the basket, using the small action to steady himself, to pull his focus away from her and fix it on the modest offering she’d brought. Herbs and roots, earthy and clean, none of it touched by blood. He forced his breath to steady, aware of her watchful eyes on him as he sorted through the items, careful to keep his hands stable.

“Are you here… often?” She asked softly, breaking the silence in a voice that felt almost hesitant, as though unsure whether it was allowed. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the sparse surroundings, the thick shadows that crept into every corner.

Harry let his fingers linger on a sprig of thyme, keeping his voice level as he answered. “Yes,” he confided simply, his tone giving nothing away. “I find it… peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she echoed, a faint smile touching her lips as she looked back at him. “It doesn’t frighten you, being all alone up here?”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles—him—frightened? How sweetly ironic. “Sometimes solitude is easier than the alternative.”

She studied him, and he could feel the weight of her eyes, searching for something beneath his answer. Her heartbeat quickened just a bit, a small, steady thump that seemed to reach straight through him, its warmth coiling like a spark inside his chest. He could almost taste it—the sweet, heady pull of her pulse.

But he forced the thought down, burying it beneath years of restraint. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, redirecting the focus onto her. “And what about you?” he asked, his tone soft but steady. “Doesn’t it frighten you to come all this way, alone?”

She gave a small laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe it should. But I suppose I don’t scare easily.” She paused, her gaze slipping to the narrow window where the trees outside swayed gently in the wind. “It’s quiet here, almost like a different world. Sometimes it feels like our town is shrinking, like it’s closing in. Out here, it’s–it’s freer.”

Harry’s gaze softened, though he said nothing. There was something in her words he understood, something that echoed faintly in his own memories of why he’d chosen this place—this forgotten, lonely tower—to escape. A life he could no longer live, a curse he couldn’t risk unleashing.

She looked back at him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “People say you’ve been here a long time—I mean, they say the tower’s been abandoned forever. But you don’t seem…” She trailed off, biting her lip as though she didn’t quite know how to finish.

“Don’t seem what?” he asked, his voice low, inviting her to continue.

She waited, and he watched her carotid flicker in her throat as she searched for her words. “You don’t seem like someone who belongs in a place like this,” she murmured. “Like you’ve got more in you than—than just seclusion.”

He felt a tug deep in his chest at her words, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—a faint longing, a half-forgotten ache for a life he’d once dreamed of. But that life was gone. He’d buried it the night he’d been turned, when the world as he knew it had collapsed into a semblance of hell.

“It’s strange,” he replied carefully, his eyes drifting toward the flickering shadows on the wall. The hunger gnawed at him, unrelenting, every second reminding him of how close he was to her. She was standing barely a foot away, her warmth filling the small space, her heartbeat a steady, maddening drumbeat that drew him closer, closer…

He straightened slightly, pulling himself back. “Solitude,” he said quietly, almost as if reminding himself, “sometimes feels simpler.”

She nodded slowly, but her eyes stayed on him, and he could see the spark of curiosity still there, unquenched. She was brave, this girl. Far braver than most. And something about that bravery—the quiet way she stood her ground in the face of shadows and rumors, in the presence of a stranger—intrigued him. She wasn’t running away. And a part of him, despite everything, wanted her to stay.

“Thank you,” he mumbled—almost a dismissal, gesturing to the basket, his voice softened with a touch of genuine gratitude. “Not many would bring gifts to a stranger. Especially not one so isolated.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing faintly in the dim light. “Well, maybe I’ll bring something better next time,” she replied with a small laugh. “If you’d want that.”

He paused, her words lingering in the air between them. Next time. It felt dangerous, allowing the thought of it, letting her return. But as she looked at him, her smile warm and unguarded, he found himself nodding almost without thinking.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’d like that.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the old thirst stir beneath his words, a dark reminder that she was flesh and blood, and he was anything but.

Harry watched her retreating figure until the last of her shadow disappeared down the winding path. The silence settled thick around him once more, yet it felt different now, charged with the lingering warmth of her presence. The faint echo of her heartbeat still pulsed in his mind, like a phantom drum that refused to fade. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, pushing down the hunger that had clawed so violently to the surface, fighting a void that had nearly overpowered him the entire time she’d stood there.

He had always been a weak man for the living.

Turning back into the tower, he closed the door and leaned against it, his hand flexing as he grappled with that old, familiar agony, the ache that thrummed through his veins whenever he was near a human. After all these years, after countless nights spent mastering his restraint, he still struggled. The curse was unrelenting—an obstinate thirst that he could never truly silence, only suppress.

Memories rose in him unbidden, dark and sharp, clawing their way out of the places he kept them buried. He could still recall the crisp air of that autumn night in 1601, back when he was alive, when he’d believed his life was bound for something beautiful. He’d been a poet then, a young man enamored with language, eager to make something of himself. He’d had dreams of attending university, of pursuing a life dedicated to literature and ideas, a life where he could spend his days wrapped in thought and art.

But all of that had been shattered in a single night. He had been walking back from a small tavern in London, tipsy and laughing, still reciting lines of poetry in his head, the night air filling him with a light, exhilarating hope. He remembered it so clearly—the dimly lit street, the damp chill creeping into his coat, the rough hand that had seized him by the throat and dragged him into an alley. He’d thought it was a robber at first, maybe a cutthroat from the docks looking for a quick coin.

But then he’d seen his attacker’s face.

The man’s eyes were inhuman, glinting with a feral hunger, and his skin was pale, almost translucent in the moonlight. Harry had fought, struggling against the impossible strength of those arms, but it had been useless. The man had pinned him down with a brutal ease, baring his teeth—a flash of something razor-sharp, malevolent—before sinking them deep into Harry’s throat. The pain had been excruciating, and then everything had gone dark, his life draining away into a cold, endless void.

He hadn’t known what had happened to him for days afterward. He’d awoken alone, hidden in the dark recesses of a forgotten basement, his body shuddering with an unholy thirst that tore through him like wildfire. The transformation had left him a half-mad, hollow shell, consumed by an insatiable need he didn’t understand. He’d stumbled through the streets, eyes wild, hunting without even knowing what he was hunting for. And when he’d finally cornered a man in the dead of night, tearing into his throat with a frenzy he could barely comprehend, he’d learned what he had become.

The first months were a blur of blood and horror, a nightmare he hadn’t known how to escape. He had been controlled by an ache, a greed—enslaved by it, a wretched creature lost to bloodlust. He’d fought it as best he could, but each time he tried to resist, the thirst only grew stronger, until he was reduced to a brutal, savage need that erased everything else.

It had been a year later, in 1602, when he encountered another vampire. His name was Thomas, a wily, unrepentant creature who fed freely and without remorse. Thomas had found Harry alone and ravenous, nearly mad from weeks of starvation in an attempt to restrain himself. He’d taken Harry under his wing, teaching him how to survive in this new, cursed life, how to hunt, how to kill cleanly. But while Harry had been grateful for the guidance, he quickly saw that Thomas reveled in the whispers of the devil, that he viewed humanity as little more than prey. He was malignant.

His own heart was too soft for such cruelty. He’d hated the feel of human flesh beneath his hands, the way his victims’ eyes widened in terror as he held them down, the way their life drained away in his grasp. He hadn’t wanted this life. But the need was too powerful, too all-consuming, and he had been too weak to fight it.

And then, in 1643, came the night that shattered him completely.

Her name had been Beatrice—a young woman from Manchester, one of the few souls who’d looked past his oddity, his quiet reserve, and seen something in him worth knowing. She’d been kind, curious, always showing up at his door with a warm smile, her laughter lighting up his otherwise bleak existence. For months, she’d been a balm to him, her presence a brief reprieve from the loneliness that gnawed at him. He’d been so careful around her, so painfully restrained, never allowing himself to get too close. But one night, after days of starvation, he had faltered. She’d come to visit him, concern etched on her face, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek.

And in that moment, he’d lost himself.

The memory of that night was burned into him like a scar, the scent of her blood, the warmth of it cascading from his lips and developing him whole— the sound of her heart slowing as he drank from her—all of it haunted him, even now, decades later. He had tried to pull away, tried to stop himself, but the hunger had overpowered him, consuming her life, taking everything she had. When he finally came to his senses, she lay cold and pale in his arms, her eyes staring up at him, empty and accusing.

After that, he’d fled, haunted by the horror of what he’d done, determined never to let it happen again. He’d hidden himself away in this tower, learning to feed from the animals that roamed the forest, forcing himself to endure the hunger rather than inflict his curse on another innocent soul. He would never again allow himself to feel that agony, that terrible loss.

And yet tonight, with her presence in his small, empty world, something had stirred in him, a strange, aching reminder of what it meant to be human, to crave connection, companionship. It was dangerous, foolish to even entertain such thoughts, yet he couldn’t deny the faint spark she had left behind.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, steadying the wild, restless energy that surged in him. She couldn’t come back. He couldn’t risk it. He would have to find a way to make her think the tower was haunted, or evil—something to scare her off for good. Because he knew himself, knew that he was a creature of hunger, bound to a curse he couldn’t escape.

And if she returned—he wasn’t sure how long he could resist.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #vampire!harry #vamprry #kinktober #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles drabble #harry styles x you #niall horan

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quitealotofsodapop · 2 days ago

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Peaches Soup, except Wukong never got souped. It's just that he was so injured from his fight with the Thrall he ended up collapsing on the side of the road, and Pigsy happened to find him. Seeing he's so badly hurt, he brings him back to the Noodle Shop since A) he has a baby and B) the last thing Wukong coherently said before passing out on Pigsy was no hospitals. Wukong wakes up in the spare room of the shop approximately three days later, confused as to how he got there and panicked because his last memory was Xiaotian and him being attacked

That could be very much be the "#marbled stone egg au"!

For those unaware; Wukong in the au has a Stone Egg (basically his body doing rock-mitosis) and is struggling to take care of himself + baby MK.

I can see a situation occurring in the AU; where The Thrall still steals the Stone Egg/baby MK, and Wukong goes berserk mother-monkey on him, only to get severely injured in the process.

Pigsy finds an injured, pregnant monkey on the side of the road clutching a crying newborn, and wonders if this is one of those "what you do in the dark?" situations.

Mystery Monkey, defeated: "No hospitals, please." (*passes out clutching the newborn*)

Pigsy panics, thinking this is someone who just gave birth and is running from a disapproving/abusive home life. Gathering all his pig-dad strength, he lifts the unconscious monkey and newborn into the van.

Pigsy isn't a doctor, but he's patched up Sandy enough back in their military days to treat most wounds. The (still) pregnant monkey heals quickly, almost meditating in their sleep as the newborn rests beside them.

Tang is called in a panic. He knows about monkey demons, right? Any idea whats going on here?

After the initial shock of learning his best friend is hosting an undocumented injured demon, Tang is quick to find sources that can help (he aint a snitch). Namely what they can feed the baby monkey (which Tang melts at the cuteness of), and how to tend to it's unconscious parent.

They're thankful that the baby monkey only requires formula and a few diaper changes before it's parent awakens.

Wukong, jolting awake: "Xiaotian! Where is my Little Heaven?!" Baby!MK, besides him in a baby basket: (*grumpy squeak at being woken up!*) Wukong, overjoyed, pulls baby into arms: "Oh Buddha is gracious! You're safe! Are you ok? I'm sorry I was too weak to get us home." Baby!MK: (*happy chirpy noises at hearing it's parent's voice again! Reaches chubby little hands out to them*) Pigsy, sigh of relief: "Whew. Thank the gods you're ok." Wukong: (*turns and looks at his saviour with shock*) Wukong: "Piglet?" Pigsy, light-hearted laugh: "Heh, close enough. It's Pigsy. I found you and the little guy hurt on the side of the road. You said no hospitals so I brought you back here. Not exactly a surgeon, but I think I did ok." Wukong: (*looks at injuries and sees that they've healed well enough. Better than he would have thought given his Egg zapping his powers*) "Thank you. If there is anything I can do to repay you-" Pigsy, waves him off: "Nah, I'm good. You and the kid rest up here as long as you want. Tang's got an old phone if you need to call anyone. I'm making soup dumplings if you're up for eating." Wukong: (*completely in shock. Was genuinely not expecting this level of selflessness from a complete stranger. Eyes fixate on Xiaotian once more, the newborn sucking idly on a store-bought pacifier. Wukong finds himself smiling again for the first time in ages.*)

Although the mystery monkey "Qi Shihou" isn't likely to stay above Pigsy's for long (he has Stalwarts and an island to get back to), he never forgets the kindness Bajie's descendant showed him.

A teenager wearing skates frequently appears in the years following that encounter, picking up the exact same soup dumplings he fed the mystery monkey that night.

And if Pigsy opens an unmarked letter stuffed with yuan and literal chunks of gold from the strange monkey, then he ain't saying nothing.

Until they reunite accidentally through Xiaotian's noodle-loving tutor that is.

#peach soup au #marbled stone egg au #pregnancy mention tw #stone egg tw #sun wukong #dad sun wukong #lmk mk #qi xiaotian #lmk pigsy #lmk dadsy #lmk tang #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid

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cvrnelians · 1 day ago

Text

birds of a feather

dark!Wade Wilson x reader: Wade does his best to protect you, in his own way.

Content warnings: stalking, obsessive behavior, violence. This blog is 18+ only, minors do not interact.

Shit was getting weird.

Like, freaky deaky weird.

Wade hadn’t meant for things to go this far. He never intended to follow you, he never planned on breaking into your place, and he certainly never meant to scare you, for goddesses sake.

And yet, here he was. Doing any and every and all of those things.

You managed to piece things together fairly quickly. Of course you did, you smart cookie. You knew you were being followed—just not by who. Or whom. Whatever.

You didn’t know Wade. Not yet. One day you would, but for now, you simply knew him as some creep in a fugly jacket trailing behind you on your journeys to and from work. And the grocery store. And the mall. And your weekly therapy appointments, which were probably very necessary at this point.

Sadly, your awareness of his sparkling presence in your life made things ten times weirder than they already were. Because now that you caught him in the act, it meant things were actually real. Wade’s actions were having a serious effect on someone, a serious effect on you. And you were terrified. Obviously. Who wouldn’t be?

Ugh.

It was a massive bummer. He didn’t want to freak you out—not like this, anyway. If you just got to know him, you’d realize definitively that there was nothing to be afraid of. And you were so much alike! You loved all the same things—pizza, fancy cocktails, joyrides, Wham! And you were kind. And sweet. And beautiful.

Right before he had the chance to finally come forward—to gracefully saunter out from the shadows and come into the light—to finally tell you who he was and how he felt...

He got sick. Really, really sick. And he sought help. And then he got burned. Literally.

How on this god’s green fucking earth were you going to love him now?

💌

It all came to a stop.

The loud footsteps behind you, the odd noise here or there in your apartment, the creepy letters (with the horrifically messy penmanship) left in your mailbox. All of it just…stopped. It was over. After months of sleepless nights and anxiety-ridden days, it was finally over.

The man was tall and lean, with dark eyes and dark hair. That was all you could remember from the night you caught him sneaking out of your apartment. He didn’t look familiar. You weren’t sure how he found you or why he was so fixated on you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You just wanted him gone.

And gone he was. For about six months now, your stalker had all but disappeared.

You wondered if he had lost interest. You wondered if he felt guilty. You wondered if he had died.

“Hiya.”

The man’s voice startled you. More startling was the red and black…leotard? Suit? And even more startling was the action movie-worthy fight scene going down right in front of you.

One second, the man in the red suit was standing in your way, smiling—at least, he sounded like he was smiling—and waving at you cheerfully. In the next second, his fist was plunging into the face of a man standing right behind you. You ducked down and stumbled away as they continued their squabble. You wanted to run, but it was as if you were frozen. You stood in horrified awe as leotard man kicked the absolute shit out of the other one. The fight was over in less than a minute, with a very clear winner.

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” you yelled, watching as the man in normal clothes rolled over in a crumpled, bloody heap. He groaned loudly, coughing.

The man in the red suit bowed proudly. “Thank you, thank you.”

You leaned over the beaten man, surveying his injuries.

“I wouldn’t get any closer if I were you. Our friend here was following you. I don’t know what he planned on doing, but I do know body language. Dude was up to no good.”

Your eyes widened and you backed away slowly. You looked at the man on the ground once more. Tall and lean, with dark hair and dark eyes. Was that….? It had to have been. Who else would be following you so closely like that?

And then, you stepped forward.

You abruptly threw yourself at the man in the red suit, wrapping your arms around him as you sobbed. He stiffened up in surprise, slowly wrapping his arms around you in return.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice muffled in the crook of his neck.

The man cleared his throat, leaning closer. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, no. Don’t mention it.”

💌

Wade smiled to himself.

He was melting. Absolutely, positively melting.

#dark!deadpool #yandere Deadpool #dark!deadpool x reader #yandere Deadpool x reader #dark!Wade Wilson x reader #dark!wade Wilson #yandere Wade Wilson x reader #yandere Wade Wilson #Deadpool x reader #Wade Wilson x reader #dark!marvel #dark marvel #yandere marvel

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fandomfluffandfuck · 2 days ago

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S...... you asked for this. Literally.

But also I am asking you for this - please pretty please can you Evanstan-ify Chris saying a lot of good thing happened to him at age 24 for us??? 🙏🏻🙏🏻 Really intrigued by this and I'd love to find out what thoughts your brilliant mind is thinking about this scenario... Sending lots of love and hugs to you! 💗💗

Literally, I did ask for it, and I asked because...

gif by @/forassgard

Look at this fucking guy

His pretty, pretty princess lashes, his lips, and that wistful look on his face...

How could I not spend hours thinking about him? 😮‍💨😮‍💨

I'm thinking about how when Chris was 24, it would've been 2005, and so he hadn't met Seb yet by that point, but all roads lead to Sebastian, so, when he does meet Sebastian and they've been together for a while, somehow this interview clip comes up.

I don't have a set idea of how it surfaces--maybe someone (probably Mackie, lmao, trolling him because it's fun and because he knows first hand how competitive Sebastian can be when you push his buttons) sends him the clip saying he should if 24 is still his favorite age or not, maybe Sebastian stumbles across it on his own on YouTube and gets curious, or maybe he's missing Chris and rewatching old clips of him when they're in different cities for different projects which Chris finds out about, asking him how he's doing and receiving nothing but a blush, and then Seb gives him lip back for how he looked in those days, handsome yes, but the fashion, Chris, the fashion is... something. Whatever the reason, yes, that clip.

That clip needs a modern explanation.

And Chris, for all his dark eyes, confident smirks, and cocksure manhandling of Sebastian when he's feeling frisky, when something is suddenly sprung on him, he can get quite shy. It's adorable for such a muscle-bound, virile guy if you ask Sebastian. It's too innocent, almost. The way just the right, perfectly-timed out-of-the-blue innuendo, abrupt wink, or slap on the ass, and he's blushing.

The soft embarrassment almost doesn't fit on his large, broad frame, yet it's there. It's there and it's fucking vivid--spread like hot, liquid butter melted into golden toast from one cheek over the bridge of his handsome nose to the other, shaded by his glasses and thick beard. He can't hide behind any of it, though, not his beard, his glasses, or the sweeping wings of his grown-out hair shading his forehead, curling around his ears.

God, Sebastian wants to plaster himself to Chris, tip to tail, he could swoon and press into him so hard right now.

Chris blushing and stuttering--stumbling over his words and his own limbs in the suddenness of Sebastian's filthiness--is almost always accompanied by a narrowing of his eyes and a tilt of his head.

Sebastian is nothing if not the sweetest menace.

So.

Before I get more distracted by more gifs of Seb looking so bratty, Sebastian brings the clip up to Chris, asking a seemingly innocent question that he knows has some undertone to it. He can see the dazed, satisfied look beneath Chris' put-on cool. He knows there's a story there, one he wouldn't tell, couldn't tell, and he intends to find out what, even if he has to pull it out of his man sputtered, pink-cheeked word by sputtered, pink-cheeked word.

Chris tumbles through his answer with his voice stuck in that low, rough register that Seb has become so fucking intimately familiar with, reacting to it like a dog hearing the word "dinner." He could drool. And speaking of drooling and mouths and appetites... Chris' plush lips just get redder and wetter until they're glistening and swollen from all the biting and licking he does as he retells the story. Sebastian doesn't think he knows he's doing it. If he does know, then he's a bastard, a fucking cocktease, but--

That look on his face?

Nah.

He's not teasing.

Really, he's caught up in a heated, sticky whirlwind in his mind, sweeping him off his feet and carrying him into the thick of the tempest deep inside his body. A core of pure want.

As he's thrown roughly about by the winds, feeling the pull of old eroticisms, sparks reignited, he doesn't spare a detail. It might take gentle, urging encouragement from Seb at first, verifying sincerely that he does want to know, and it's not making him jealous to know, quite the opposite--as he listens intently, hanging off the edge of every detail with his fingernails dug in, Seb finds that he has to involuntarily shift in his seat, half-shivering, letting his knees fall wide open as his blood starts to heat and thicken, redirecting to his knotted gut.

Seb thickly swallows the excess spit pooling in his mouth. Inhale, exhale; he has to remember how to breathe. He can't help but imagine every fucking word he manages to pull out from his lover's oh-so alluring mouth.

In the same way that Chris fidgets by sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and licking it lavishly, his eyes move and change; they flit back and forth like a flame pushed by a howling wind. He's staring between Sebastian's eyes--their gazes meeting and all but crackling with the intensity--and some middle distance that Seb can't see but knows holds all of Chris' visceral memories. Memories that wash over him in sticky, hot waves, lapping at his skin in phantom flames, pushing up against him as hot, humid summer breezes.

Chris' skin, normally pale, tints more and more pink the deeper he dives into his tale.

He usually talks with his hands, but as he goes on and on and on... he doesn't.

Rather than making gestures to add emphasis intentionally, he's obscenely absently rubbing his big, heavy palms up and down, up and down, up and down, the length of his muscular thighs. It almost looks like he's soothing himself against the onslaught of intensity; it almost looks like he's groping himself against the onslaught of the intensity. Either way, he can't help but touch.

Touch himself.

Every now and again, though, Chris suddenly realizes what he's doing, his hands creeping inappropriately high on his own body, and he shoves his hands back under his thighs, sitting on them. But. They just keep coming out to play the deeper into his story he gets. He can't help it.

Every new detail is more alluring than the last.

Sebastian hoards every piece of them, stowing them away like something gleaming and precious. They are. The way he's describing it, god, it is precious in the most perverse way--trusting her completely, feeling so vulnerable and exposed to her, all but on his knees at her mercy while certainly not literally, physically being on his knees, just emotionally, gutting, so gutting, his eyes rolling for it, his mouth gasping uncontrollably, no, moaning uncontrollably while the rest of his body shook, boneless and limp at the same time that he wanted to writhe, maybe he was writhing, squirming, fisting the sheets, arching his back to get more without stopping to think of if he should or not, fuck, whether or not he was squirming for it, he definitely was crying during it, his first time crying from the intensity of the physical sensations, he's cried during sex before for emotional, connecting reasons, he had never been so fucking turned on like that before that he couldn't help it, the tears just came out, falling, spilling over, running down his cheeks, smeared into the pillows, so fucking insane, so good it was shocking, nails digging crescents into his lean hips, embarrassing, but not, impossible almost, the way it felt, stretched, raw, full, too much, and, just, too much--swearing after the fact that he couldn't fuckin' have that all the time of he'd go crazy.

Too good.

Chris got pegged.

Chris Evans got fucking pegged in 2005 and it was too good.

Having all that spilled out in front of him in a beautiful, messy masterpiece, Sebastian honestly fucking wants to shove his hand into his pants right here and now. Fuck getting into his own pants, though, he could just sliiiide his hand down over the front of his pants and cum in his pants like an overexcited teenager, panting, whining, picturing his biggest crush on the backs of his eyelids in varying positions, all these possibilities, not really knowing, but wanting to know so fucking bad it hurts. He is so fucking turned on. He's a goddamn glowing neon sign, lit with bright, obvious red arousal.

Jesus Christ.

But, Chris keeps going and the hot-shower thick, foggy air dulls slightly. His voice takes on something gentler and softer. As good as that was, it just happened a few times, maybe not even a few? Kinda hard to exactly remember. Maybe just twice? Three times? Four... nah, not actually four. Less. It had to be less. There's no way it was that much. They broke up eventually--obviously, for him to get to Sebastian. He'd much, much rather be with Seb, of course, he fucking loves him and they work great and it's so. good.

However, continuing down the path, investigating more and digging deeper, hoping to hit that deep, raspy register again like you hope to hit water when digging a well, Sebastian pushes him a little more, a spark of hope (or something else, something more inappropriate) within him--did he seek it out more, then? It couldn't've just been that one woman, right!? Just with her? And not even a decent number with her. Just a rarity? If it really was all that, wouldn't've it have been more!? Sebastian just fucking can't get that image out of his head: Chris, big, muscular, masculine, so gutting-ly masculine, and, ugh, just manly, yet bent over some plush bed, ripping through the pile of pillows crowding his red-hot face, the sheets and bedding all fucked up around his thrumming body, sweating so badly he glistens temptingly, moaning so loudly as he takes some brightly colored strap up the ass for the first time, and uncomprehending of how good it feels to be fucked. Unable to deal with it. He'd be totally consumed in the pleasure the lucky lady is giving him--fucking him. And if he's not grasping at the sheets then he'd be touching himself, gripping his own body bruisingly, trying to ground himself, trying to deal with the exquisite pleasure and failing, failing so hard with, shit, maybe some lipstick or makeup from earlier making out smeared over his gaped mouth, smeared into his bearded jaw, and smudged down his thick throat--

But, no.

Chris explains that at first, he was too tender to think of it for a while--no matter how mindblowing it was--then when he was recovered enough to wonder about it... he trails off. He doesn't know. He doesn't know why, really.

Out loud, Chris wonders if maybe he just doesn't attract those kinds of women? Girls that would be into that, though--he laughs--he can't imagine there are many women totally fucking put off by the thought. But, he's aware of how he looks, and with a casual, all-too-smooth, stretch-and-rest, he sprawls an arm out to cover Sebastian's shoulders, his hand scruffing the back of his neck meaningful look, he knows what Seb's preference with him is. It's fine. He likes that, too. A lot! He likes it a lot--getting rough and throwing him around, giving him orders, folding him up into a ball, and fucking him until he cries. Yet, at Sebastian's prompting, he finishes with how it just never came up. So he didn't do it again. Just that time.

A few times.

Seb needs a m i n u t e to catch up.

He needs to get a handle on himself.

He's not sure if he'll be able to deal with the knowledge of 24-year-old, in 2005, Chris letting a woman put something up his ass. That was not cool then. And Seb'd, just, kind of assumed based on their fucking around that Chris hadn't done anything like that (Sebastian thought he was the kinky, experienced one between the two of them but maybe that needs to be teased out of Chris, too (that is SO a pet project for another day)) and, honestly, Seb doesn't know if he should be jealous of her for being his first or if he should demand to be given her phone number so he can call her up and thank her, maybe he'll send her fucking flowers, for Christ's sake. That mental image is delicious.

Thank you.

Of course, though, he's sensitive to Chris' big heart. He can understand that waiting while still heartsore completely. And, yes, he shivers continually from Chris' hand, still heavy and big on the back of his neck, making everything around him shine just a little brighter, feeling a little dreamier. But, he is nothing if not constantly on edge because of Chris, anyone would be, he's a walking wet dream, at any given time, Sebastian's mind is half-full of dirty fantasies, so he can't really be blamed for it when he just blurts that shit out--

"I could fuck you, you know."

Chris' mouth opens and shuts. Multiple times. He's gaping like a fish out of water, no oxygen to be found. But he can't seem to help it. Some wordless sound that is supposed to be communication but isn't comes out of his open-shut-open mouth.

"Chris, babe," Seb jokingly pleads with him, leaning in, hand on his thigh, "did I break your brain? Are you okay?"

His mouth moves more as if trying to say that his brain isn't, no, it's--it's fine, he's fine, he... Chris apparently gives up as quickly as he starts to defend himself, stumbling through, "you know, I, uh, um," he shifts in his seat, "don't laugh, okay?"

"Okay," Seb agrees immediately.

"I-I didn't think of that," Chris mumbles in his general direction.

Seb slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle what is, certainly, a laugh despite what he just said.

Chris glares, "Seeeeeeb," he drags out, whining in that Boston-boy way he has sometimes. Nothing but a big, jovial kid at heart.

"I think I should feel insulted," Seb recovers, choking back one last humourous bark, but before Chris can protest to his words, he continues, "I don't." He clarifies. "I don't feel insulted. And don't look at me like that, I'm pretty sure I know what you mean, anyway, you don't have to say it. Y'know? Yeah, like, yeah," he agrees with himself, "we started hooking up but you didn't have experience while I just wanted it bad," he bites his lip, shooting Chris a hopefully killer, dark glance before carrying on, "so there was one way that was easy. Big deal," he shrugs, "we got into the habit of doing it one way," again, he shrugs, this time with one shoulder instead of two, "I should've asked. I just assumed."

"I should've asked," Chris emphasizes, then under his breath, he adds, "I should've thought about it."

"Well," Sebastian's hand lands back on his knee, dragging itself, fingertips teasing and light, up the length of his thigh towards his crotch, "you're thinking about it now, right?" He's looking up at Chris through his lashes, knowing (because Chris has confessed as much to him) that he looks deceptively sweet and coltish for someone who damn well knows how to get into trouble--especially with that mouth of his.

When he expectantly sucks on his bottom lip, waiting for an answer, Chris' eyes fall there.

Predictable.

He gets lost. It's easy to see--to hear, even with the catch of his breath.

So, to help him out, because he's nice like that, Seb tilts his head to the side and clears his throat at the same time. He could just giggle with the apologetic look that graces Chris face, acting like a good, respectful man caught staring at someone's boobs on accident. As if he hasn't done worse to Seb. As if Seb doesn't want him to do worse.

"Yeah..." Chris finds his voice. Eventually. First, his eyes get that same foggy glaze as they have in the video, right fucking in front of him this time, better than any camera could ever capture. He's thinking about it. Fuck, he's probably overlaying that past pleasure with his ex and every wicked, filthy thing Sebastian's already done to him and new possibilities. New delights and overwhelming pleasures that Seb could show him, threatened with a good time. More than good. Seb is gonna ensure that it's better than good. Chris' impossible eyelashes flutter, "yeah, I am. I'm thinking about it."

"Good," Seb whispers back, a smirk sharp on his lips. He folds himself into Chris' lap, following the line of his arm back towards its owner, taking it and curling it around his waist.

Instinctively, those lovely fucking hands find their way beneath Sebastian's shirt. Skin to skin. His heart races.

"I could fuck you," Seb breathes, repeating himself nonsensically.

"Yeah," Chris agrees, blinking up at him from where he's perched in his lap.

A bolt of arousal stabs through Sebastian's chest suddenly, all but making his bones fucking rattle, god, he cards his hands through Chris' hair, sliding through his grown-out locks like silk, and manages to catch at the end, tilting his head back so he's really fucking looking up at him, "tell me you want it," he hushes, their lips just barely brushing.

Chris' paws harder at his waist, squeezing him, "I want it," he groans. Arching his neck, he fights to connect their lips for real, he just wants a kiss, but Seb deftly evades him. He lets his hands fall from his luscious hair and instead holds his head, his jaw, in his hands, feeling that thick fucking beard and reveling in it. He's gonna have this fucking beard between his legs again. Soon. He has to. He will. Yes. "I want it," Chris repeats.

"What?" Seb asks, letting his thumb rest on the pillow of Chris' bottom lip.

"I want you to fuck me," he shuts his eyes against the sheer tidal wave of lust carried in his proclamation, the words punched out of his chest in a breathy moan, gently biting at his thumb, kissing the tip.

Fuck.

Sebastian rips his thumb out of that lush mouth with a distinct 'pop' and smashes their lips together instead. Immediately it's fucking hot and heavy and a little wet and--

God.

Sebastian wants to fucking eat him.

He doesn't give a shit about Chris' glasses pressing against his face a little too sharply. He isn't thinking about how normally he wants to be the one torn apart and swallowed. He can't give any more fucks than the one he's gonna fucking give this man. He's gonna fuck him hard. He's, he's--

He's thinking about nothing but the exotic, erotic way Chris is opening his mouth to him and letting him have. Seb is ravenous to devour and Chris has tilted his neck back beneath the weight, letting Seb lick into his mouth. Seb makes something of a purr that he can't really help, it just happens. Kissing. They're kissing so much, lips locking, and it's as fucking toe-curling-ly good as it always is just a little different. Different, novel, but they still fit together like they were meant to be. It's hot. Intense. Flush against each other. Chest to chest. In lap. Rocking, grinding. Kissing.

Making-the-fuck-out.

Usually, Chris is the one running his mouth with dirty talk between filthy hot kisses while Seb humidifies the scant inch (if that) of atmosphere between their bodies with moans, whimpers, and other wordless, involuntary cries of pleasure that he can't hold in. But, in this moment, thrillingly perilous, Seb can't keep up with the words spilling out of him. There's nothing that can dam the flood. Lust all-expansive inside him, no more room. He's gonna fuck Chris. He's gonna fuck him good. He's gonna fucking fuck the shit out of him until he cums his brains out.

He wants to see Chris broken in the best way--broken open with his fists curled so tight that his blunt nails dig into his strong palms. He's gonna dick him until he's dumb, mouth wide open, hanging open, making garbled, needy sounds with red, red, red lips, but blushing redder. Hotter.

Good.

Seb wants to fuck him good, he wants to slide inside him, tight, tight, tighter than anything as he clenches down on his dick. He wants Chris' eyes to roll back as he feels what it's like to have a blood-hot, throbbing cock in his ass. He wants him to choke, feeling it in his throat. He wants to reduce his confident, cocky man into a pile of mush. He wants to hear him swear like a sailor, speared on his cock, as Seb laughs weakly, shaky, in over his head with how it feels to fuck him, pressed up against him, chest to back, balls deep in that fucking ass (oh my god, don't even get him started on that shapely ass), lost in it just as much as he is.

Christ.

They're gonna be a hot mess.

Chris has ruined Sebastian for everyone else. He's that good. The best he's ever had. So, it's time to return the favor again. He already has, he knows he has, but there's always room for improvement, yeah? He wants to make it good for him, he will make it good for him, and he'll be good for him--gonna blow his mind with his dick. Fuck yes.

I could go on forever with this, really, I could. If only I had the time. I would fucking love to write Chris' shock and dirty thrill at being opened up, feeling the tip of Sebastian's cock pushing into him for the first time, audibly letting go of every half-coherent thought he has, biting off, "Seb! Seb! Ah! God! Seb, Sebb, Seb, it, fuck, it feels s'good, you're so thick, oh my god, ohmygod, it's so hot, s'thick, fuck, how do you take it, how--how do you take me, mmngh, its so much, ah!"

Bonus:

I keep thinking about this Chris, too, like 🥴🥴

gif by @/b-n-a-o

#asks #fandomfluffandfuck #musette22 #chris evans #sebastian stan #evanstan #rpf #real person fanfiction #bottom chris #top sebastian

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